around the food in his mouth. “Jack Moriarty was his name. He was a bully, the kind of bully who used to beat up on kids for no reason. He just liked to hurt you. If you fought back he hurt you worse. Of course, he would never mess with me if I was with Aaron. But if he caught me alone on the street, he would either pinch my nipples or knuckle-punch me in the small of the back. I hated that boy,” Burk’s father said sharply. “I used to pray every night that he would die.”
Nathan Burk paused for a moment and let his eyes travel around the restaurant. His narrow lips were working silently, and Burk could see a tiny speck of mustard in the corner of his mouth.
“One Saturday morning,” he went on, pushing aside his plate and shifting his attention back to his son, “I was sitting in the subway station waiting for the train up to the Polo Grounds. I was on my way to see the Dodgers play the Giants. When I heard the subway I stood up, and that’s when Moriarty grabbed me from behind in a bear hug. ‘Look what I got,’ he yelled. ‘I got Big Nose Burk, the Jewish Jerk.’ Then he began to laugh like a madman while he carried me over to the tracks. I screamed for help, but everyone ignored us or figured we were just a couple of kids horsing around. I’m absolutely certain he would’ve thrown me in front of the train if Aaron hadn’t shown up right at that very moment. A split-second later, and I would’ve been dead.”
Burk’s father stopped speaking and glanced at his reflection in the delicatessen window. Outside, a gray-bearded man dressed in a hooded black robe walked up the sidewalk, carrying a white owl in a cage. Across Vine Street, movie producer Max Rheingold was standing in front of the Brown Derby smoking a long black cigar. With him was a woman wearing skin-tight red toreador pants and six-inch red spiked heels. A large red leather purse hung from her shoulder, and when she stepped to the curb and ducked inside the waiting limousine, Nathan Burk realized it was the aging ingenue who regularly came by his newsstand each week to pick up her hometown newspaper, the Buchanan (Michigan) Bugle. Her name was Grace Elliot, and he first saw her one evening in the spring of 1942.
She was remarkably fresh and innocent looking then, her face round and glass-smooth, and her long, very auburn hair was tied behind her head in a ponytail. But now her once-clear face had a roughand unfinished look, and there was purplish eye shadow on her eyelids and carmine lipstick slashed across her shapely mouth.
“What happened, Dad?”
Burk’s father turned away from the window and stared at his son, puzzled. “Where?”
“At the subway station. What happened at the subway station with the bully?”
“Oh, there,” Burk’s father said, closing his eyes, straining to bring that part of the past back into focus. “Well,” he said, “Aaron was going to the ball game that day too. And he brought along his favorite bat, figuring that afterwards, if he was lucky, he would get one of the Giants to sign it. But when he got to the subway station and he saw what was going on, he—”
“Aaron let that kid have it,” Burk said, sitting up straight. “He smashed him with his bat. Right?”
“That’s right,” Burk’s father said. “But once Moriarty let me go, Aaron dropped his bat and used his fists to sock him in the jaw. He went down real hard, but he got back up with a big smile plastered on his face. He said, ‘Try to hit me again, sheeny,’ but when Aaron cocked his right hand, Moriarty laughed and said, ‘Screw you, Jew,’ and he turned around and jumped in front of the train.”
Burk was silent. He looked stunned. Finally, he said, “You mean he committed suicide?”
“Yes, he did,” Burk’s father said, and he signaled the waitress for the bill. “And that, my son, is the end of the story.”
Ten years later, on the Saturday afternoon that Burk’s older brother Gene was scheduled to fight
Nathan Burk paused for a moment and let his eyes travel around the restaurant. His narrow lips were working silently, and Burk could see a tiny speck of mustard in the corner of his mouth.
“One Saturday morning,” he went on, pushing aside his plate and shifting his attention back to his son, “I was sitting in the subway station waiting for the train up to the Polo Grounds. I was on my way to see the Dodgers play the Giants. When I heard the subway I stood up, and that’s when Moriarty grabbed me from behind in a bear hug. ‘Look what I got,’ he yelled. ‘I got Big Nose Burk, the Jewish Jerk.’ Then he began to laugh like a madman while he carried me over to the tracks. I screamed for help, but everyone ignored us or figured we were just a couple of kids horsing around. I’m absolutely certain he would’ve thrown me in front of the train if Aaron hadn’t shown up right at that very moment. A split-second later, and I would’ve been dead.”
Burk’s father stopped speaking and glanced at his reflection in the delicatessen window. Outside, a gray-bearded man dressed in a hooded black robe walked up the sidewalk, carrying a white owl in a cage. Across Vine Street, movie producer Max Rheingold was standing in front of the Brown Derby smoking a long black cigar. With him was a woman wearing skin-tight red toreador pants and six-inch red spiked heels. A large red leather purse hung from her shoulder, and when she stepped to the curb and ducked inside the waiting limousine, Nathan Burk realized it was the aging ingenue who regularly came by his newsstand each week to pick up her hometown newspaper, the Buchanan (Michigan) Bugle. Her name was Grace Elliot, and he first saw her one evening in the spring of 1942.
She was remarkably fresh and innocent looking then, her face round and glass-smooth, and her long, very auburn hair was tied behind her head in a ponytail. But now her once-clear face had a roughand unfinished look, and there was purplish eye shadow on her eyelids and carmine lipstick slashed across her shapely mouth.
“What happened, Dad?”
Burk’s father turned away from the window and stared at his son, puzzled. “Where?”
“At the subway station. What happened at the subway station with the bully?”
“Oh, there,” Burk’s father said, closing his eyes, straining to bring that part of the past back into focus. “Well,” he said, “Aaron was going to the ball game that day too. And he brought along his favorite bat, figuring that afterwards, if he was lucky, he would get one of the Giants to sign it. But when he got to the subway station and he saw what was going on, he—”
“Aaron let that kid have it,” Burk said, sitting up straight. “He smashed him with his bat. Right?”
“That’s right,” Burk’s father said. “But once Moriarty let me go, Aaron dropped his bat and used his fists to sock him in the jaw. He went down real hard, but he got back up with a big smile plastered on his face. He said, ‘Try to hit me again, sheeny,’ but when Aaron cocked his right hand, Moriarty laughed and said, ‘Screw you, Jew,’ and he turned around and jumped in front of the train.”
Burk was silent. He looked stunned. Finally, he said, “You mean he committed suicide?”
“Yes, he did,” Burk’s father said, and he signaled the waitress for the bill. “And that, my son, is the end of the story.”
Ten years later, on the Saturday afternoon that Burk’s older brother Gene was scheduled to fight
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