He stopped talking for a moment, and when he continued his voice was shaking like a ham actor's. “Daisy was going to be seventeen on August twenty-fifth. I was nineteen and that summer I got an offer to play semipro ball up in Canada. It looked like my big chance. In July—July eighth in fact; 111 never forget that date—my father wrote that I should consider Daisy dead—they had kicked her out of the house. I left the team and rushed home. She was a month pregnant with you. Some louse had fed her a few drinks, raped her. She had been ashamed to even go to the police. We were married that same day, and came east. I promised her I would raise you like my own son. Bucky, you know I've kept my word. I intend to help you through college, keep on being your best friend and—”
“Best friend—you are my father!” I was talking in a daze.
“No, I'm not. A fact is a fact.”
“But you've been a father to me for almost eighteen years. Why didn't you... don't you... at least adopt me?”
“I can't do that, kid.”
“Why?”
“Well—I just can't. You're better off with a name like Perm. A good American name that—”
“Nate, Nate, don't bull me! Why can't you give me your name?”
“What's in a name?” he asked, then turned away and added—almost painfully, “Bucky, don't ask me why.”
I spun him around. “But I'm asking!”
“Look... I never told you this, of course, but—I'm wanted by the police.”
“Since when? What for?”
“I don't want to talk about it. But it's true.”
“I don't believe it. Why, you're so honest you wouldn't keep the three bucks in that purse you once found! What—”
Nate was suddenly full of cheer. “Still time to make a late show downtown, kid. Come on. What difference does it make if you're called Smith, Brown, or anything else? A handle is merely a label and I've raised you to be a fine young fellow. We'll take in a show and forget it.”
“Sure, just forget a trifle like finding out I'm a bastard!” I screamed, running out of the apartment.
I had the check with me and managed to cash it. Then I did a real dumb thing: I got crocked in the neighborhood. Being a pug and a football player, I was sort of a big deal around the block, and plenty of the better-looking babes kept asking me to take them out. Elma wasn't one of them. She was a big plump girl of about eighteen and her claim to fame was her constant use of a four-letter word. Okay, it may sound jerky now, but then it was kicks to hear a girl talk like that. Guys took Elma out to hear her dirty jokes, and when she got mad Elma would repeat that four-letter word over and over, so the fellows would try to get her boiling. That wasn't so simple, for Elma was very easygoing. Don't get me wrong; I knew she never went all the way. But several times she let me run my hands over her. Elma never made any bones about it: She went for me in a big way. All I remember about that drunken night was me telling everybody my name wasn't Laspiza, like a fool, and Elma hanging on to me, saying, “Penn is a nice name, Bucky. Why, maybe you're descended from the famous William Penn. Jeez, you got an arm like a rock. Make a muscle for me, Bucky.”
Nate finally found me around two in the morning, took me home. For the first time in his life he took off a few days from his job, stayed with me. The crazy thing is I might have got over the shock if I hadn't stupidly broadcast the fact I was a bastard. It was a bit of choice gossip. I knew guys were snickering behind my back, and the girls avoided me. But Elma was with me as much as possible.
It got so I couldn't stand the damn block and one day I went off and enlisted in the Army. This was about a year before Korea. Nate was heartbroken—which gave me a kind of dumb satisfaction. He told me, “You've made a bad mistake, Bucky. You should have gone to college. A man isn't anything today without a college degree. If I'd gone to college do you think I'd have ended behind a reception desk, grinning like a dressmakers' dummy? I been with the company for over fifteen years and every time there was an opening, a chance, they passed me by for a college kid.”
“So what? I would have been drafted in a few months anyway.”
“I suppose so. Take care of yourself in the Army, come out with a clean record. This might work out for the best, maybe you can still go to college, on the G. I. Bill when you get out. It will be good for you to get away—this Elma isn't for you, Bucky. She's older and a—”
“Nate, you were about twenty-seven when World War II was going. I guess having me around kept you 4F.”
“A busted eardrum kept me out.”
“I bet you told them I was your real son then. I bet!” I said, leaving the house for a last date with Elma.
I breezed through basic in a southern infantry camp. Nate wrote me regularly, sent me shaving kits and all the dopey things you send a soldier, but I never answered him. Whenever I got a leave I spent it drinking and fighting bootleg pro bouts in a nearby big city. I was stationed in Texas when Korea broke and we were sure to be sent over. I got a two-week leave and a plane ride back home. I really didn't go “home,” I took a room downtown. The first thing I did was insist upon Elma spending the night with me. The deal with me was, I couldn't think of anything but Nate not being my old man. I guess it became an obsession with me. I thought about it all the time, in camp, in the ring, even sleeping with Elma. The thought kept rattling around in my head. When I could look at it calmly, I knew he had done the right thing by Daisy. Most guys wouldn't have. What it must have meant to Nate to give up pro ball, his big chance. And to leave his family. But what kept eating at me was, why hadn't he adopted me? It didn't make sense. I'd think back to all he'd done for me, all the attention and care, and yet he wouldn't give me his name. Why?
I was liquored up most of the time, not much of a feat as I'm hardly a drinker; a few shots does it far me. When I had three days left of my leave, I went up to the apartment late one afternoon, knowing Nate would be home from work by then.
When I opened the door he was making supper, wearing an old smoking jacket. Nate never slopped around the house in his undershirt. He said, “Hello, Bucky. I heard you were in town. Looks like you've put on muscle. Soldiering must agree with you.”
“I can take it or leave it. I... uh... meant to come by sooner but I had a few stops.”
“I can smell them. Want supper?”
“No.” I staggered a bit trying to make the table. “I want something else, Nate.”
“Broke? I can let you have—”