I sit down on the couch and dust shoots up. No morning stomachache. It's the best sleep I've had in my life, and I decide to say thank you by making breakfast.
In a box on the kitchen counter I find whole wheat bread and I toast four slices. There's a coffee machine, but I don't know how to use it, so I just pour milk and orange juice into glasses and set them out on the table, along with paper napkins, forks, spoons, knives. In the refrigerator are fruits and vegetables, butter, some sour cream, eggs, and a big jar of something silvery-looking, like out of a science lab. Pickled herring. I take out the eggs, hoping Sam likes them scrambled.
They're frying up when I hear him coughing. He comes in, wearing this light blue bathrobe, rubs his eyes, and pushes at his teeth. “Thought I heard something- what, you're a gourmet?”
“Is scrambled okay?”
He turns his back on me, puts his hand to his mouth, and coughs some more. “Excuse me. Yeah, scrambled is great. Usually I don't cook Saturday- it's my Sabbath. I'm not that religious, but I usually don't cook. Maybe 'cause my mother never did.”
“Sorry-”
“No, no, this is good, why should it apply to you?” He comes closer, looks into the pan. “Smells good. I could use something hot- you know how to make coffee?”
“No.”
He explains how to use the machine and leaves. When he comes back, the coffee's poured and he's dressed in a tan suit and a white shirt with the collar open; his hair's brushed and he's shaved. By now, the eggs are pretty cold.
“Okay, let's chow down,” he says, unfolding his napkin and putting it on his lap. “Bon appétit- that means ‘eat up' in French.” He tastes the eggs. “Very good. Very gentlemanly of you to do this, Bill. Maybe there's hope for the younger generation.”
He finishes everything on his plate, has two cups of coffee, and lets out a big sigh. “Okay, here's my schedule: I go to the shul for Saturday services, should be back around eleven, eleven-thirty, noon at the latest. You want to leave the house, I'll keep the alarm off.”
“No, I'll stay here.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes.” Suddenly my voice is tight. “I'll read.”
“Read what?”
“You've got a lot of books.”
He looks over at the living room. “You like to read, huh?”
“Very much.”
“You work and you read… I'm a reader, too, Bill. Once upon a time I wanted to be a lawyer. Back in Europe. No one in my family was a professional. We were farmers, miners, laborers. My father knew the Bible by heart, but they wouldn't let us get an education. I was determined to get one, but the war interrupted- enjoy the books. There's nothing in there a guy your age shouldn't see.”
He wipes his hands, carries his plate to the sink, and checks himself in a little mirror over the faucet. “Sure you want me to leave the alarm on?”
“Yes.”
“I just didn't want you to feel like you were in prison.” He touches his shirt collar, smooths it out, pats his hair. “Here I go, ready for God. Hope He's ready for me. If you get hungry, eat. I'll bring something back, too. See you eleven, eleven-thirty.”
He's back at 11:27, pulling the Lincoln behind the house and getting out in a hurry, carrying something wrapped in aluminum foil. He opens the passenger door and a skinny old woman with red hair gets out. The two of them talk for a while and then they disappear.
He comes through the front door fifteen minutes later. “Escorted a friend home.” He puts the foil thing on the table and unwraps it. Cookies with colored sprinkles on them. “Here you go.”
I nibble one. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome- listen, I appreciate manners, but you don't have to thank me for every little thing. Otherwise we'll be standing around here like Alphonse and Gaston- two very polite French guys.” He puts one hand behind his back, the other over his stomach, and bows. “You first- no, you first. It's an old joke- they're so polite, they stand there all day, never cross the street.”
I smile.
He says, “So what'd you end up reading?”
“Magazines.”
Most of his books turned out to be fiction; the real stuff I found was mostly catalogs of sinks and toilets. The magazines were interesting, though- really old, from the fifties and sixties. Life, Look, Saturday Evening Post, Time, Popular Mechanics. Presidents back to Eisenhower, stories about the Korean War, movie stars, animals in the zoo, families looking happy, weird ads.
“You hungry?”
“No thanks.”
“What'd you eat?”
“The cookie.”
“Don't be a wise guy.”
“I had some milk.”
“That's it?” He goes to the refrigerator and takes out the jar of herring. Pieces of fish are swimming around in this cloudy-looking juice. “This is protein, Bill.”
I shake my head.
“It's fish. Don't like fish?”
“Not very much.”
He opens the jar, takes out a piece, eats it, opens the refrigerator again, and looks inside. “How about some salad?”
“I'm fine, Mr. Ganzer. Really.”
He puts the herring back and takes off his jacket. “I'll go out later, get us a couple of steaks- you're not one of those vegetarians, are you?”
“Meat's fine.”
“What an agreeable fellow- you play chess?”
“No.”
“So learn.”
It's basically war, and I like it. After six games I beat him, and he says, “Very good,” but I'm not sure he's happy.
“Another one, Mr. Ganzer?”
“No, I'm gonna take a nap.” He reaches out to touch my head but stops himself. “You've got a good brain, Bill.”
I read while he sleeps, getting comfortable on the dusty couch with the knitted blanket over my legs. A few times I get up, look outside, see a beautiful sky. But I don't mind being inside.
He wakes up at 6:15 P.M., takes a shower. When he comes out of his bedroom, he's wearing another suit, brown, a blue shirt, tan shoes.
“I'll go get the steaks,” he says. “No, wait a second-” Opening the freezer compartment above the fridge, he pulls out a package of chicken. “This okay?”
“It's fine, Mr. Ganzer, but I'm not really hungry.”
“How could you not be hungry?”
“I'm just not.”
“You don't usually eat much, do you?”
“I do fine.”
“How long you been on your own?”
“A while.”
“Okay, okay, I won't pry- I'll defrost it and broil it, it's healthy that way.”
By 7:20 the chicken's done, and I'm eating more than I thought I would. Then I notice Sam has barely touched the drumstick he put on his plate.
“You need protein, Mr. Ganzer.”
“Very funny,” he says. But he smiles. “I'm taken care of in the cuisine department. Got an appointment tonight for dinner- you going to be okay alone here?”
“Sure. I'm used to it.”
He frowns, puts the drumstick on my plate, gets up. “I don't know when I'll be back. Probably ten, ten-thirty. Normally, I might entertain here, but I didn't figure you'd want to meet anyone. Right?”
“It's your house. I could stay in the bedroom.”
“What? Hide like some… no, I'll go over there. If you need me, it's six houses down, the white house with the blue trim. The party's name is Kleinman. Mrs. Kleinman.”
“Have a nice time,” I say.
He turns pink. “Yeah… listen, Bill, I been thinking. That twenty-five thousand. If it's rightfully yours, you should claim it. That's a lot of money for anyone. I could make sure no one swindles it from under you- there's a fellow across the street, used to be a lawyer. A Communist, but smart, knows the angles. He wouldn't take a penny from you, could make sure you're protected-”