“The only thing I can think of is the Dodgers against Boston. But it must be about the fifth inning by now. I’m not afraid to speak up.”
“Good. We’ll get the ball game another time. When you’ve got something on your mind, I want you to tell me. Meanwhile let’s have a bite.”
The restaurant they went into was an immense place, choked with people. There were several lines before each counter. Leventhal sent Philip to buy soft drinks; he himself went for sandwiches. They found a table and Leventhal began to eat, but Philip went in search of a mustard jar. Leventhal sat sipping out of his bottle. Suddenly there was a stir in the crowd at the front of the restaurant; voices rose sharply. Several people stood up on chairs to see what was happening. Leventhal, too, lifted himself up and looked around for Philip, frowning, beginning to feel troubled. He entered the crowd and pushed forward.
“Here’s my uncle. Uncle!” shouted Philip, catching sight of him. His arm was held by a man whose back was turned but whose blond head and cotton jacket Leventhal immediately recognized.
“What are you doing?” he said. In his astonishment he spoke neither to Philip nor to Allbee, but, as it were, to them both.
“I took the mustard from the table and this man grabbed me,” Philip cried.
“That’s right, I did. You put it back.”
Leventhal flushed and pulled Philip away from Allbee.
“Oh, so this is your uncle?” Allbee smiled, but his eyes did not rest long on Leventhal. He was playing to the crowd and, standing there, his head hung awkwardly forward, he could hardly keep from laughing at the sensation he was making. And yet there was the usual false note, the note of impersona-tion in what he did.
“I asked if I could have the mustard. I asked a lady and she said it was all right,” said Philip. “Where is she?”
“That’s right, mister.” Leventhal met the distressed eyes of a young girl. White-faced, she pressed her pocketbook to her breast.
“What did I tell you?”
“You sneaked the mustard jar away. It doesn’t belong to this young woman. It belongs to the table.”
“I didn’t see you at the table,” she cried.
“You keep on following me around,” said Leventhal in a low voice, tensely, “you keep it up and see what happens. I’ll get out a warrant. I’m not joking.”
“Oh, I could get a warrant out for you on a battery charge. Very easily. There was a witness.”
“I should have broken your neck,” Leventhal muttered. His large head twitched. Because of the boy he dissembled his anger.
“Oh, you should have. I wish it was broken.” Allbee moistened his lips and stared at him.
“Come on, Phil.” Leventhal led him out of the crowd.
“Who is he?” asked Philip.
“He’s a nuisance. I used to know him years ago. Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s just a nuisance.”
They sat down. Philip smeared mustard on his sandwich and looked silently at his uncle.
“It didn’t upset you, did it?”
“Well, I jumped when he grabbed me, but I wasn’t afraid of him.”
“He’s nothing to be afraid of.” He pushed his plate across the table. “Here, eat this half of mine, Phil.” His heart was pounding. He gazed at the entrance. Allbee was out of sight for the moment.
“I won’t stand it,” he thought. “He’d better stay away from me.”
9
IN the thronged zoo, Leventhal kept an eye out for Allbee. Defiant and alert at first, he soon became depressed. For if Allbee wanted to trail him how could he prevent it? Among so many people he could come close without being seen. Frequently Leventhal felt that he was watched and he endured it passively. Half out of fear of being mistaken, he made no effort to catch Allbee. He tried to put him out of his thoughts and give all his attention to Philip, forcing himself to behave naturally. But now and then, moving from cage to cage, gazing at the animals, Leventhal, in speaking to Philip, or smoking, or smiling, was so conscious of Allbee, so certain he was being scrutinized, that he was able to see himself as if through a strange pair of eyes: the side of his face, the palpitation in his throat, the seams of his skin, the shape of his body and of his feet in their white shoes. Changed in this way into his own observer, he was able to see Allbee, too, and imagined himself standing so near behind him that he could see the weave of his coat, his raggedly overgrown neck, the bulge of his cheek, the color of the blood in his ear; he could even evoke the odor of his hair and skin. The acuteness and intimacy of it astounded him, oppressed and intoxicated him. The heat was climbing again, and the pungency of the animals and the dry hay, dust, and manure filled his head; the sun, overflowing above the topmost twigs and bent back from bars and cages, white and glowing in long shapes, deprived him for a moment of his sense of the usual look of things, and he was afraid, too, that his strength was leaving him. But he felt normal again when he forced himself to walk on.
Leaving the zoo, he and Philip went into the park. Philip wanted to rest and went toward a bench. But Leventhal said, “We’ll find a place with more shade,” because this was at a crossing of two paths and exposed to all directions. They sat down on a slope where no one could approach unseen. At the crossing, about fifty yards distant, there was a knot of people, one of whom might have been Allbee. Evening was coming on, and a new tide of heat with it, thickening the air, sinking grass and bushes under its weight. Leventhal watched. He even thought of turning the tables on Allbee, lying in wait for him somewhere. But what if he did trap him, what use was it? Would he embarrass him? He was beyond being embarrassed. Beat him? With pleasure. But he felt that he ought to beware, for his own sake, of countering absurdity with absurdity and madness with madness. And of course he did not want to make another scene while Philip was with him. He did not know what effect Allbee had had on him in the restaurant. He believed that Philip realized how much the incident had disconcerted him and therefore tactfully hid his feelings. He had a mind to talk to him about it. But he did not want to betray his anxiety; furthermore, he was afraid to begin a conversation without knowing in advance where it would lead. And maybe he was giving the boy credit for too much discernment. But the mood of the outing had changed. Philip looked pensive; he had nothing to say; and it would have been natural for him to mention the incident once, at least. Certainly he hadn’t forgotten it.
“What’s up, Phil,” he said.
“Nothing. My feet are tired,” he answered, and Leventhal remained in the dark as to what Philip really felt.
He decided to take a taxi to the ferry and he stood up, saying, “Let’s go, Phil. Time to get you back.” He set a rapid pace toward Fifth Avenue. Philip appeared to be somewhat puzzled by his haste but he enjoyed the ride in the open-roofed cab. Leventhal accompanied him to Staten Island and put him on the bus. Then he returned to Manhattan.
About nine o’clock, after a seafood dinner he barely tasted, he was on his way home without a thought of going elsewhere. He wandered into a cigar store, glanced round at the shelves beyond the flame on the counter, and bought a package of cigarettes. He took the change absent-mindedly, but, instead of putting it in his pocket, he began to look through it to find a nickel with which to phone Williston. For all at once he had a consuming need to get an explanation from him, tonight, immediately. He could not understand why he had put it off all week. He leafed through the directory quickly, copied the number out, and went into the booth.
Phoebe Williston answered, and the sound of her voice gave him an unexpected stab; he was reminded of the many times he had called to ask a favor of Williston, to get advice from him, or an introduction. The Willistons had been patient with him, usually, and he had often rather helplessly and dumbly put his difficulties in their hands and waited, sat in their parlor or hung on the telephone, waiting while his problems were weighed, conscious that he was contributing nothing to their solution, wishing he could withdraw them but powerless to do so. Inevitably there had been times when his calls were unwelcome and the Willistons’ patience overdrawn. Whenever he rang their bell, or dropped a nickel in the slot and heard the dial tone, the question in his heart was, “How will it be this time?” And now, too, it was present, despite the fact that the circumstances were altogether different.