Tabatchnick's, catering to the Sunday morning smoked-fish trade, the corner candy stores that were selling the Sunday papers, and the bakery, selling coffee cake and bagels for Sunday breakfast. In his twelve years, Alan would have been out on this street a thousand times, heading back and forth to school and to the playground, going out to get something for his mother, meeting his friends at Halem's, walking all the way up and all the way down the hill to Weequahic Park to go fishing and
ice-skating and rowing on the lake. Now he was riding down Chancellor Avenue for the last time, at the head of a funeral cortege and inside that box. If this car is an oven, Mr. Cantor thought, imagine the inside of that box.
Everyone in the car had been silent until they nearly reached the crest of the hill and were passing Syd's hot dog joint.
"Why did he have to eat in that filthy hole?" Mrs. Beckerman said. "Why couldn't he wait to get home and take something from the Frigidaire? Why do they allow that place to remain open across from a school? In summertime, no less."
"Edith," Mr. Beckerman said, "calm down."
"Ma," Alan's cousin Meryl said, "all the kids eat there. It's a hangout."
"It's a cesspool," Mrs. Beckerman said. "In polio season, for a boy with Alan's brains to go into a place like that, in this heat—"
"Enough, Edith. It's hot. We all know it's hot."
"There's his school," Mrs. Beckerman said as they reached the top of the hill and were passing the pale stone façade of the grade school where Mr. Cantor taught. "How many children love school
the way Alan did? From the day he started, he loved it."
Perhaps the observation was being addressed to him, as a representative of the school. Mr. Cantor said, "He was an outstanding student."
"And there's Weequahic. He would have been an honor student at Weequahic. He was already planning to take Latin. Latin! I had a nickname for him. I called him Brilliant."
"That he was," Mr. Cantor said, thinking of Alan's father at the house and his uncle at the synagogue and now his aunt in the car—all of them gushing for the same good reason: because Alan deserved no less. They will lament to their graves losing this marvelous boy.
"In college," Mrs. Beckerman said, "he planned to study science. He wanted to be a scientist and cure disease. He read a book about Louis Pasteur and knew everything about how Louis Pasteur discovered that germs are invisible. He wanted to be another Louis Pasteur," she said, mapping out the whole of a future that was never to be. "Instead," she concluded, "he had to go to eat in a place
crawling
with germs."
"Edith, that's enough," Mr. Beckerman said. "We don't know how he got sick or where. Polio is all over the city. There's an epidemic. It's every place you look. He got a bad case and he died. That's all we know. Everything else is talk that gets you nowhere. We don't know what his future would have been."
"We do!" she said angrily. "That child could have been anything!"
"Okay, you're right. I'm not arguing. Let's just get to the cemetery and give him a proper burial. That's all we can do for him now."
"And the two other boys," Mrs. Beckerman said. "God forbid anything should happen to them."
"They made it this far," Mr. Beckerman said, "they'll make it the rest of the way. The war will soon be over and Larry and Lenny will be safely home."
"And they'll never see their baby brother again. Alan will still be gone," she said. "There's no bringing him back."
"Edith," he said, "we
know
that. Edith, you're talking and you're not saying anything that everybody doesn't know."
"Let her speak, Daddy," Meryl said.
"But what good does it do," Mr. Beckerman asked, "going on and on?"
"It does good," the girl said. "It does her good."
"Thank you, darling," Mrs. Beckerman said.
All the windows were rolled down, but Mr. Cantor felt as though he were wrapped not in a suit but a blanket. The cortege had reached the park and turned right onto Elizabeth Avenue
ice-skating and rowing on the lake. Now he was riding down Chancellor Avenue for the last time, at the head of a funeral cortege and inside that box. If this car is an oven, Mr. Cantor thought, imagine the inside of that box.
Everyone in the car had been silent until they nearly reached the crest of the hill and were passing Syd's hot dog joint.
"Why did he have to eat in that filthy hole?" Mrs. Beckerman said. "Why couldn't he wait to get home and take something from the Frigidaire? Why do they allow that place to remain open across from a school? In summertime, no less."
"Edith," Mr. Beckerman said, "calm down."
"Ma," Alan's cousin Meryl said, "all the kids eat there. It's a hangout."
"It's a cesspool," Mrs. Beckerman said. "In polio season, for a boy with Alan's brains to go into a place like that, in this heat—"
"Enough, Edith. It's hot. We all know it's hot."
"There's his school," Mrs. Beckerman said as they reached the top of the hill and were passing the pale stone façade of the grade school where Mr. Cantor taught. "How many children love school
the way Alan did? From the day he started, he loved it."
Perhaps the observation was being addressed to him, as a representative of the school. Mr. Cantor said, "He was an outstanding student."
"And there's Weequahic. He would have been an honor student at Weequahic. He was already planning to take Latin. Latin! I had a nickname for him. I called him Brilliant."
"That he was," Mr. Cantor said, thinking of Alan's father at the house and his uncle at the synagogue and now his aunt in the car—all of them gushing for the same good reason: because Alan deserved no less. They will lament to their graves losing this marvelous boy.
"In college," Mrs. Beckerman said, "he planned to study science. He wanted to be a scientist and cure disease. He read a book about Louis Pasteur and knew everything about how Louis Pasteur discovered that germs are invisible. He wanted to be another Louis Pasteur," she said, mapping out the whole of a future that was never to be. "Instead," she concluded, "he had to go to eat in a place
crawling
with germs."
"Edith, that's enough," Mr. Beckerman said. "We don't know how he got sick or where. Polio is all over the city. There's an epidemic. It's every place you look. He got a bad case and he died. That's all we know. Everything else is talk that gets you nowhere. We don't know what his future would have been."
"We do!" she said angrily. "That child could have been anything!"
"Okay, you're right. I'm not arguing. Let's just get to the cemetery and give him a proper burial. That's all we can do for him now."
"And the two other boys," Mrs. Beckerman said. "God forbid anything should happen to them."
"They made it this far," Mr. Beckerman said, "they'll make it the rest of the way. The war will soon be over and Larry and Lenny will be safely home."
"And they'll never see their baby brother again. Alan will still be gone," she said. "There's no bringing him back."
"Edith," he said, "we
know
that. Edith, you're talking and you're not saying anything that everybody doesn't know."
"Let her speak, Daddy," Meryl said.
"But what good does it do," Mr. Beckerman asked, "going on and on?"
"It does good," the girl said. "It does her good."
"Thank you, darling," Mrs. Beckerman said.
All the windows were rolled down, but Mr. Cantor felt as though he were wrapped not in a suit but a blanket. The cortege had reached the park and turned right onto Elizabeth Avenue
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