Sink or Swim, Brooklyn

By Ron Kemper

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781649219534

Book preview

PLAYING WITH A CHEATER

The next day Stevie puts on his bathroom and slippers and paddles the length of the flat to Grandma Sarah’s bedroom. Sitting on the old couch with squeaky springs he looks out the front window and tries naming the make of the passing cars. Occasionally he spots a familiar face walking by. He’s always at his post at exactly 3:00 p.m. to watch the kids coming back from school. In nice weather he cranes his neck to see the boys playing punch ball down the block. If he cracks open the window, he can hear them chattering, arguing, laughing. Closing his eyes, he inhales the warm fresh air and pretends he’s playing with them.

When Grandma comes back from grocery shopping, he says, Let’s play cards. Sarah sits next to him and starts shuffling the deck. He tightens his bathrobe as a shiver passes through his body.

What do you want to play, Stevila? she asks.

Grandma has taught him every card game he knows. They started with solitaire then progressed to Go Fish, Pisha Pasha, War and finally Casino. If they are close to the end of a Casino game Grandma allows Stevie to hunt through the deck to find the right card to complete a row. It’s better to win by cheating, just a bit, than letting a game drag on forever.

War is his favorite game. When they both throw out the same card Stevie cries, War. They both put three cards face down on top of the exposed card. Before they turn up the fourth one, they halt. He takes a deep breath and looks at her to make sure they turn over a card simultaneously. If he turns over the highest card, he wins the war. He can’t wait to flip over the three cards he’s won to see what treasure he’s captured. He whoops! That’s the most fun part of War.

You’re getting too excited, Grandma says. Maybe tomorrow, if you’re feeling better, we’ll continue this game.

One more round, he begs.

But it’s time for Sarah to start cooking dinner and she leaves for the kitchen. He’s restless.

It’s late afternoon. Stevie keeps glancing out the front window hoping that Grandpa will be home soon. As soon as Joe starts climbing the steps Stevie rushes to the apartment door. When Joe reaches the top step Stevie jumps on him and says, Let’s shoot marbles. Joe collects his breath, smiles and nods.

Grandfather and grandson are on their hands and knees on the living room floor. Stevie has six white marbles. Joe, six black ones. Stevie clusters all twelve within a circle surrounded by makeshift shoelaces. He puts a colored home marble between his thumb and forefinger, flicks it into the pile scattering the marbles. Stevie quickly knocks out four black marbles, losing only two white ones.

As Grandpa lines up his next shot he looks up and points to the wall. What’s that? he says. Stevie looks up, quickly turns back, and catches Joe flicking a white marble out of the circle with his thumb.

Cheater, he cries. I saw that! You cheated.

What? Joe says, grinning as he raises both arms in the air palms out.

You didn’t do it right. You didn’t use the home marble.

Who, me? He looks unconvincingly innocent and says, Okay. Okay. You win. He puts the white marble back in the circle.

They play two more rounds with Stevie watching Joe intently. But Stevie, after fighting the urge to pee for as long as he can, has got to go. As he gets up Stevie points a stern finger at his Grandpa. Don’t do anything funny when I’m gone.

When Stevie returns and counts the white marbles in the circle there are only three. He’s done it again! Stevie jumps on Joe and they start rolling on the floor. Joe tickles his grandson and they both start giggling until they run out of breath.

Let’s play hide and seek, Grandpa says.

Meshugana, Grandma shouts from the kitchen. What are you doing? Stevie is sick. You’ll wear him out.

Ah, don’t worry, Joe calls back waving a dismissive arm. It will do him good.

The seeker has only five minutes to find the hider. They haggle over what’s in and out of bounds. Steve goes to his bedroom, leans his head against the closet door, closes his eyes and counts to twenty-five slowly. He glides out of the bedroom, careful not to run. Mrs. Finestone, their landlady, will knock on her ceiling with a broom handle if he runs. She says Stevie sounds like a herd of wild elephants when he runs through the house.

He searches the usual hiding places – under the kitchen table, behind the living room couch, in every closet in the apartment, including the skinny pantry closet. Where else to look? He pirouettes, heads to the bathroom and cautiously pulls back the bathtub curtain. Grandpa is lying serenely in the tub, hands folded across his chest. Stevie exults, Tag, you’re it!

They keep trading places. The third time Stevie’s it, he searches to no avail. He pulls up bed covers, opens doors and looks under tables in every room. Grandpa is tricky. More than once he’s hidden under a bed with the covers draped to the floor. When Stevie got wise to that one, he got on an unmade bed and piled sheets, bedding and pillows on top of himself and held his breath until Stevie passed by. This time he’s nowhere to be found. Time runs out.

I give up, Stevie calls. After a few seconds he hears footsteps coming up the front steps. He rushes to the apartment door, flings it open to see Joe climbing up.

Out of bounds, Stevie screams. You cheated again. You can’t hide in the stairwell. That’s outside of the apartment. You’re out of bounds.

Who said it’s out of bounds? Show me the rules, Grandpa says deadpan.

Stevie lunges at him. Grandpa picks him up laughing and carries him into the living room. He whirls Stevie around until they both get dizzy and flop on the living room rug.

Thud, thud, thud comes banging up from below. They freeze. Mrs. Finestone is wielding her broomstick. They’re giving her another headache.

Grandpa picks himself up muttering, Dragon Lady. He walks to the kitchen and returns holding the mop handle upside down. At the spot where the banging happened, he thumps the mop handle on the floor three times, pauses and says, What the hell, and gives it one more good thump. Stevie goes back to his bedroom, hops on his bed, opens his shoebox and starts arranging his baseball cards feeling pretty good.

AN ODD COUPLE

Rachael is obviously Joe’s daughter. Both have high cheekbones, a Mediterranean complexion, luminous black eyes, a sturdy body and a shared sense of humor. They laugh at each other’s sillinesses and tease each other good-naturedly. When she was a child there was always laughter in their tiny apartment, especially after Sonny, her younger brother, was born. When Papa returned from work the three of them would often roll around on the living room rug giggling.

By her thirteenth birthday, Rachael reached her full 5’8 height. She was the tallest in her class and feared becoming an overgrown ugly duckling. By seventeen she had morphed into a strikingly attractive and vivacious young lady. People said she looked exotic, Indian or Mon- golian, even colored. Several friends said she resembled the famous jazz singer Lena Horne. There must be black blood in our family," she said smiling.

Her father instilled a love of music and literature in her. When she was twelve, Papa bought a second-hand piano and found the money to pay for her piano lessons. Playing the piano became her passion. She’d rush through her homework then practice the piano for hours. Her fingers became long, elegant and powerful. By the time she graduated from high school, she was performing in local concerts and earning extra money giving piano lessons to neighborhood kids. She graduated high school with a straight A average. She applied and was accepted at City College and Brooklyn College.

You will be the first in the family to go to college, Joe said with pride.

She envisioned her future as a college graduate and professional pianist. The year was 1929.

Ben’s skin was so fair that even as a child if he stayed in the sun too long, he would burn. Not that that there was much sun to be had in the squalid tenement on the Lower East Side where he grew up. He was the oldest of six children. The other five were all girls. From an early age Ben assumed the role of a second parent. His parents, Isador and Ida, were Eastern European immigrants, un-educated and barely able to keep their large family fed and clothed. Isador, no one called him Izzy, was a plumber / handyman who worked long hours whenever he landed a job. Laughter was a rare commodity in Isador’s household. Isador was a hard, dour man who meted out justice with a strap and did not tolerate any disobedience from his children.

Ben was a model child, conscientious and obedient. Unlike his sisters, he was a good student who loved to read. By the age of twelve he had skipped a grade. Ben knew that his father had lofty expectations for his only son, his shining star. Ben was determined to be a college graduate.

The family moved to Brooklyn when Ben was thirteen. He graduated from high school in 1927 with honors and was accepted to Fordham University. He worked three part-time jobs to pay his college tuition. The subway trip from his house to the campus in the Bronx took one and a half hours by bus and subway. He got up at 5:00 a.m. to get to his first class by 8:00. By the time he returned home from one of his jobs he was exhausted. But he never failed to study late into the night.

After four months of searching, Rachael found a part-time job as a dental assistant to a young dentist trying to build a practice. It didn’t take him long to recognize her competency. Soon she was working full time managing the books, being the receptionist and the office manager for eighteen dollars a week.

She worked six days a week, getting up at 5:30 a.m. to catch two trolley cars to get to work by 7:30 a.m. She was proud to be making a significant contribution to the household. Joe’s painting jobs dwindled as the Depression continued. For months Rachael was the family’s sole breadwinner.

During the summer lull she relished joining her girlfriends at Coney Island or Rockaway Beach. On a hot July day in1930, a group of young men started a conversation with the girls. From then until Labor Day weekend they met up with the same group of boys and shared blankets, food and soft drinks.

One young man in particular sought her out, Ben. He was three years older than Rachael, had recently graduated from college with a pharmacy degree and was searching for a job. He was barely her height, with reddish brown hair and mustache. Behind his glasses he had sparkling brown eyes. He always wore a wide-brimmed hat, a long-sleeved shirt and placed a towel over his bare legs at the beach. He was a serious, meticulous young man, precise in appearance and speech. He rarely laughed but when he smiled, he had an attractive dimple.

They shared a love of books and poetry, especially Walt Whitman and Thoreau. Both were staunch unionist, Eugene Debs supporters and stalwart Democrats. They went to the movies, usually Dutch treat, when they found the time and money. During the winter their dating became more serious. By the following spring they were going steady.

IT HAPPENED SO QUICKLY

Rachael’s bubbly sister-in-law, Minnie, drops by to give her a boost. Minnie and Sonny have been married for almost three years.

I don’t know how you do it, Rach, Minnie says as they sit together on the living room sofa. With the Stevie, the store, the pressure…, She takes Rachael’s hand as her narrative trails off. I know it’s not Stevie’s fault. He’s suffering so, poor thing.

Rachael sits, cigarette in hand and nods.

I’ll never forget that time with the stroller, she says. Rachael doesn’t want to interrupt knowing how much Minnie loves repeating this story.

I was walking to your house. Stevie was still in a baby carriage. Rachael nods again. As I approached, I see this old woman pushing a baby carriage. When I got closer, I see it’s you. You looked so worn. You’d lost twenty pounds at least. You looked like you hadn’t slept in a month.

Rachael bites her lip not wanting to overreact. Instead she says, That’s not much of an exaggeration, hoping Minnie will wrap up the story quickly.

Anyway, you kept walking the little darling around the block hoping that he’d nap.

Stevie was going through a difficult period, Rachael adds.

We started talking and you kept rocking the carriage, Minnie continues. When we turned to go back to the house, the carriage wouldn’t move. You were straining to push the damn thing, so I said, ‘What’s wrong?’ You said, ‘I don’t know. I’ve had trouble pushing it for a while.’ Then I see little Stevie’s leg on the side of the carriage with his foot on the brake. Minnie laughs exuberantly. Such a little devil.

Thank you for spotting it. Rachael says with a wane chuckle.

It took the whole family, Minnie says, taking turns, rocking him, walking him, day after day, summer and winter. What a little bundle of joy! She sighs. But you look so much better now, Minnie squeezes Rachael’s shoulder. "Stevie is getting better."

After Minnie leaves, Rachael goes into her bedroom and examines her face in the vanity mirror. At thirty-six, her thick, jet-black hair has wisps of grey. Touching her hair lightly with her fingertips she wonders, How did it happen so quickly?

She reaches into the vanity drawer and picks up a photo of herself in her early twenties at Rockaway Beach. She’s wearing her favorite two-piece bathing suit, reclining her elbows on a blanket, eyes closed, face tilted up to the welcoming sun. Many days at the beach had darkened her skin to a vibrant olive accentuating the whiteness of her teeth. She loved to smile and show off her sparkling teeth. She can almost feel the vitality she had during those days.

Rachael gets up, walks into the living room and pulls the sleeves of the sweater around her wrists, walks to the radiator and puts her hand on top of it. Ice cold. She checks each radiator in the apartment with the same results.

Five minutes later Joe repeats the same exercise. Getting the Finestones to pump heat into the apartment is a perennial problem. When a bit of steam occasionally trickles through the pipes, it’s still too cold to go without a sweater. Rachael and Joe take turns banging on a radiator to let the landlords know there’s no heat. Midmorning she walks downstairs and rings the Finestones’ doorbell.

Mrs. Finestone answers, dressed in a skirt and a short-sleeve blouse. She’s chubby with thick arms, a large mole on her right cheek and frizzy grey hair. She is always ‘surprised’ when Rachael comes to complain. Mr. Finestone never answers their doorbell. Rachael suspects Mr. Finestone, a timid man, is hiding somewhere in the apartment.

We have no heat upstairs, Rachael says as unemotionally as possible.

Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what could be the matter. There must be a problem with the furnace. I’ll have Mr. Finestone check it.

Standing in the cold doorway, Rachael feels the warmth coming from the Finestones’ apartment. Stepping closer to her, Rachael speaks slowly but emphatically. "I have a sick child upstairs, Mrs. Finestone. Please send up some heat soon." She turns away without waiting for a response.

This pattern of surprise and apology is a game Mrs. Finestone plays. After calling the city’s Building Inspector’s Office numerous times Ben trekked downtown to the Borough Hall headquarters twice this year and filed a formal complaint. The Finestones were fined five dollars for the first offense. Mrs. Finestone sent her husband downtown for the second hearing. Leonard Finestone seemed embarrassed when he told the administrative law judge, Fuel is expensive, your honor.

The judge fined him twenty dollars and warned him not to withhold heat again. Mrs. Finestone must have figured that the fines were less expensive than consistently sending heat upstairs. The Alperts continue to bang on the pipes and the relationship between the Finestones and their tenants gets frostier.

Rachael sinks slowly into a kitchen chair. She lights a Camel, arches her back, inhales deeply, then leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. Joe sits across from her, sips his tea and patiently waits for her to talk.

Pa, I can’t take this much longer. She inhales. It’s always cold and he’s not getting better. Joe remains silent. Every time Dr. Kahn comes he gives Stevie more medicines or a shot. He’s better for a few days then his nose starts to run again. He gets flushed. The fever returns and he’s back in bed. The cycle is endless. Holding the cigarette in her left hand, she bites the cuticle on her right thumb.

Maybe you should cut back your store hours, he says.

I wish, she says shrugging.

Joe gets up, goes to the stove, pours hot water into a cup of Sanka grounds and hands her the cup. Dr. Kahn will be back tomorrow, he says. Let’s see what he has to say. They sit together in silence.

THE DIRTIEST KID IN BROOKLYN

The family sits in their ‘assigned’ places around the kitchen table listening to Dr. Kahn. Stevie’s immune system is compromised by allergies that makes him susceptible to every germ floating around. If we can find and eliminate those irritants, Stevie will feel better. As he gets older, I believe, he’ll likely outgrow his allergies.

After Dr. Kahn leaves, the family mulls over their options. Dr. Khan has been treating Stevie since he was an infant, Ben says. He knows Stevie and Kahn knows his stuff. Okay, allergies are the underlying culprit. Let’s tackle them one by one.

That starts an allergy search-and-destroy mission. Bathing him is a nightmare, Rachael says. Every time I put him in the bathtub he jumps out of his skin. I need help to hold him down. He can go a week without a bath. He is the dirtiest kid in Brooklyn.

They determine he’s allergic to soap. Rachael experiments with several varieties until she magically stumbles on one that works. The bathing dilemma vanishes.

His winter clothes become the next suspect. When Stevie puts on a woolen garment, he begins to itch, and then nasty red blotches appear where the fabric has touched his skin. Putting a layer of cotton clothes between him and a wool garment solves that problem.

Determining why he has trouble sleeping is another challenge. As soon as he’s told it’s time for bed he starts to cry. When his head hits the pillow, his eyes water and he starts to sneeze. Once they replace the down pillows with foam he goes to bed without a fuss.

Tackling food allergies is more perplexing. By observing how he reacts to what he eats, they gradually realize that Stevie breaks out in splotches on his face and arms whenever he drinks milk or eats cream cheese or sour cream. Dairy products are the culprit!

But the family members are dairy-product junkies. They pour milk on hot and cold cereals, into coffee or tea. Milk with cookies, cake or a snack morning, noon and night, a warm glass of milk before bed soothes the nerves. It helps settle Sarah’s queasy stomach. They automatically slather cream cheese and/or butter on bread. A fruit cup with plenty of sour cream and pot cheese is a favorite. When Sarah makes her savory cheese blintzes, half a dozen disappear as they cool on the stovetop.

Sacrificing for Stevie, the family reduces their dairy intake over the next few months. Stevie is barred from having any dairy products. Goat’s milk is substituted for cow’s milk. Though less frequent, he still suffers sneezing and coughing attacks. Even after the winter flu season ends his breathing problems continue into the spring. It usually starts with a runny nose, watery eyes, sneezing and then difficulty breathing.

It’s asthma, says Dr. Kahn. I recommend that Stevie stay inside and avoid doing any strenuous activity. But Steve’s symptoms get worse when he stays in the house.

One day Joe says, seemingly out of nowhere, Dust. It might be dust. Rachael and Sarah start cleaning, polishing and dusting everywhere. Still his eyes water and his nose runs; he sneezes and wheezes. They fit him with a surgical mask. After weeks of laboriously trying to keep everything spotless Rachael gives up and lets him go outside. In the fresh air Stevie’s symptoms disappears almost immediately. So much for that theory. Dr. Kahn isn’t always right.

Stevie eavesdrops on the conversations his parents and grandparents have when they think he’s out of hearing range. The most positive thing they can say about his health is, Thank God, no polio. Rachael’s fear about Stevie contracting childhood polio (infantile paralysis) is shared by parents everywhere. The newspapers are full of articles and photos of kids on crutches, in wheelchairs or in the dreaded iron lung. Polio is so feared that parents often whisper the word.

Parents who can afford it send their children to the country, to the Catskills or the Adirondack Mountains, for the summer. Brownsville kids stay put unless they have a relative somewhere else. In this part of Brooklyn parents can only pray their kid makes it to the next school year unscathed. Stevie’s parents worry it’s only a matter of time before polio – like every other disease, infection and malady – will find him.

Rachael often says, "Stevie’s