“I don’t know yet. I don’t know.”
19
For three straight nights, Michael dreamed of rooms that were both strange and familiar, full of many beds, with brown covers and blue pillows, and chairs draped with sheets. Above the beds there were frames without pictures. The beds were very short, then very long, so that there was no clear path from room to room, and when he came to the end of the rooms, the apartment did not end: other rooms opened, new and strange, filling him with dread. Dogs barked, but he could not see them. Then he was outside and saw white horses on the factory roof. In the dark doorway of Slowacki’s candy store, a man with a sallow face and a toothy grin tipped his bowler hat and the top of his head was made of raw hamburger. Then Michael was alone in his own apartment, with his father’s picture on the wall, and someone was shuffling through the darkness, heavy feet dragging, and his mother wasn’t there and his father wasn’t there and he ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, listening to the shuffling, and turned on the hot-water tap and red snow came from the tap and rose like tiny flowers into the air.
Each night, he woke up sweating and trembling and afraid of falling back into the dream. He could not call his mother. I’m not some little kid, he thought. This is a dream. That’s all. It’s not real. This room is real. That window. This bed. My clothes and my comics. Dreams are dreams. And then he’d drift off and the images would return, sometimes shifting their order: the white horses first, and then the man with hamburger for hair, and then the endless empty rooms.
He thought about asking for help from Mrs. Griffin on the second floor. She had a worn pamphlet called Madame Zadora’s Dream Book, and Michael wondered if it would explain his dreams. She used the dream book to help her pick horses, or The Number. Kate Devlin didn’t gamble; she said she worked too hard for her money; so Michael wasn’t sure what was meant by The Number. But Mrs. Griffin went every morning to Casement’s Bar to give Brendan the bookmaker her choice of numbers for the day, and it was said that back in 1945 she had won two hundred dollars. Maybe she would know.
One afternoon, he knocked at her door. Mrs. Griffin, small, wiry, and dressed in a quilted pink housecoat, smiled at the sight of him. She asked him in and started boiling water for tea. She did all this with a Pall Mall burning in her fingers.
“I’ve been having these terrible dreams, Mrs. Griffin,” Michael explained. “I thought maybe your book would figure them out.”
She looked wary. “What’s your mother say about them?”
“She doesn’t talk about dreams,” he said. “And, I dunno, it’s hard to talk to her about some things. Like dreams.”
She took a drag on the cigarette, then tamped it out in a saucer.
“What kind of dreams?”
He told her. As she listened, horror spread across her face like a stain. “Oh boy,” she said breathlessly. And listened more. “Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy oh boy.”
Then they sat there for a long, silent moment. She peered at him.
“You’re in trouble, Michael,” she said. Her voice was burry from cigarettes.
“Maybe.”
She popped a Pall Mall from her pack and lit it with a wooden match. Her eyes glistened.
“But it’s not trouble you caused, right?”
“Right.”
“You’re worried about somebody with a broken head, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s the hamburger head. And you’re trying to make sense of something, like, you know, putting a picture in a picture frame.”
This hadn’t occurred to him, but he thought about Jackie Robinson’s skin, and nodded.
“In a way.”
“You’re thinking of some other place, not yours, the furniture all covered up and stuff.”
Michael thought: The synagogue? Prague? Rabbi Loew’s study? The attic where they keep the Golem’s dust?
“Sometimes.”
“And you’re thinking of moving away. Like getting on a white horse and riding off into the sunset like Gene Autry or something.”
Michael laughed. She served tea, still smoking.
“From time to time,” he said.
She went into another room and came back with Madame Zadora’s Dream Book. It had a red-and-black cover with a drawing of a woman in a gown covered with symbols, caressing a crystal ball. The symbols made him think of alchemists.
“Well, we figured out some of it,” Mrs. Griffin said. “But I’ll be goddamned if I can make any sense of the bowler hat or the red snow coming out of the water tap.”
She paused, squinting at a page. Michael sipped his tea, but it had a metallic taste and he wished he could have a cup of Rabbi Hirsch’s brew.
“Let’s see. Washing yourself with snow, that means pain will go away. Eating snow, that’s you’re leaving home. But — was it the hot-water tap?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“That’s good, maybe. Snow in a warm climate means good luck. But that’s not the same as a hot-water tap. Still, it’s close.”
She turned to another page.
“The bowler hat, the bowler hat. Let’s see… a man’s hat, that usually means, uh, emotional sorrow,” she said. “Losing your hat, that means watch out for false friends. A new hat is a sign of wealth. A big hat means joy and prosperity. But a bowler hat? Jeez, I dunno. Even Madame Zadora doesn’t get into bowler hats. You know anyone that owns one?”
“No. I’ve seen them in the movies, but never in real life.”
She looked hard at him now.
“You got a lot of things on your mind, don’t you, kid?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t blame you,” she said. “Everybody knows what happened to Mister G.” She sipped her tea. “And everybody knows Frankie McCarthy did it and could go up the river for a long stretch. Especially if you turned rat. So you’re worried about that, which it’s natural. And that’s in all the dreams, I guess, that worry. And the ghost walking through the rooms? That’s your father, Michael, God rest his soul. You wish he was here. You wish he could go with you and beat the crap out of that Frankie McCarthy.” She put out the cigarette. Michael counted six butts in the saucer. “But he’s not here. And you can’t run away.”
“So what do I do?”
“Pray,” she said. “And keep the faith. You believe hard enough things’ll work out, they will. Mark my words.”
That night, he didn’t dream. Each morning now, he prayed. He stayed alert to danger. And on the streets, nothing happened.
Michael was careful leaving the house. He watched the rooftops, fearful of falling bricks or garbage cans. He made certain the doors to the flat were always locked. He got permission from his mother to increase the wattage of the bulbs in the hallways. He took different routes through the parish on his journeys to see Rabbi Hirsch or to serve mass at Sacred Heart. Going to mass was always the easiest; Frankie McCarthy and the Falcons didn’t get up until noon.
Sonny tried to keep the three of them calm. From his aunt’s house next door to the Venus, he could see into the poolroom. Frankie was there, all right. Hour after hour. Smoking. Playing pool. Laughing with his boys. But Sonny never saw him go out on a patrol. Never saw him act as if he was looking for anyone.
“Maybe he figured out it’s not us,” Michael said.
“Nah,” Sonny said. “He’s a crafty prick. Like a snake. He knows if anything happens to us, the bulls will drop a fuckin’ subway car on him.” He chewed the inside of his mouth. “He’ll wait. He won’t forget.”
The boys waited too. They went to school. They played in the street. Michael stopped in the synagogue to learn new words and phrases. He added fressing to his vocabulary, meaning eating like a slob. A momser was a bastard, a son of a bitch. Latkes were potato pancakes, and the word for dirt was shmootz. But Frankie remained a presence in his mind, like a bad tooth in a jaw. Even when life seemed normal.