The Assistant by Bernard Malamud Read Free Book Online Page B

he was dead. I was raised in an orphans’ home and when I was eight they farmed me out to a tough family. I ran away ten times, also from the next people I lived with.
I think about my life a lot. I say to myself, ‘What do you expect to happen after all of that?’ Of course, every now and again, you understand, I hit some nice good spots in between, but they are few and far, and usually I end up like I started out, with nothing.”
    The grocer was moved. Poor boy.
    â€œI’ve often tried to change the way things work out for me but I don’t know how, even when I think I do. I have it in my heart to do more than I can remember.” He paused, cleared his throat and said, “That makes me sound stupid but it’s not as easy as that. What I mean to say is that when I need it most something is missing in me, in me or on account of me. I always have this dream where I want to tell somebody something on the telephone so bad it hurts, but then when I am in the booth, instead of a phone being there, a bunch of bananas is hanging on a hook.”
    He gazed at the grocer then at the floor. “All my life I wanted to accomplish something worthwhile—a thing people will say took a little doing, but I don’t. I am too restless—six months in any one place is too much for me. Also I grab at everything too quick—too impatient. I don’t do what I have to—that’s what I mean. The result is I move into a place with nothing, and I move out with nothing. You understand me?”
    â€œYes,” said Morris.
    Frank fell into silence. After a while he said, “I don’t understand myself. I don’t really know what I’m saying to you or why I am saying it.”
    â€œRest yourself,” said Morris.
    â€œWhat kind of a life is that for a man my age?”
    He waited for the grocer to reply—to tell him how to live his life, but Morris was thinking, I am sixty and he talks like me.
    â€œTake some more coffee,” he said.
    â€œNo, thanks.” Frank lit another cigarette and smoked it to the tip. He seemed eased yet not eased, as though he had
accomplished something (What? wondered the grocer) yet had not. His face was relaxed, almost sleepy, but he cracked the knuckles of both hands and silently sighed.
    Why don’t he go home? the grocer thought. I am a working man.
    â€œI’m going.” Frank got up but stayed.
    â€œWhat happened to your head?” he asked again.
    Morris felt the bandage. “This Friday before last I had here a holdup.”
    â€œYou mean they slugged you?”
    The grocer nodded.
    â€œBastards like that ought to die.” Frank spoke vehemently.
    Morris stared at him.
    Frank brushed his sleeve. “You people are Jews, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes,” said the grocer, still watching him.
    â€œI always liked Jews.” His eyes were downcast.
    Morris did not speak.
    â€œI suppose you have some kids?” Frank asked.
    â€œMe?”
    â€œExcuse me for being curious.”
    â€œA girl.” Morris sighed. “I had once a wonderful boy but he died from an ear sickness that they had in those days.”
    â€œToo bad.” Frank blew his nose.
    A gentleman, Morris thought with a watery eye.
    â€œIs the girl the one that was here behind the counter a couple of nights last week?”
    â€œYes,” the grocer replied, a little uneasily.
    â€œWell, thanks for all the coffee.”
    â€œLet me make you a sandwich. Maybe you’ll be hungry later.”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    The Jew insisted, but Frank felt he had all he wanted from him at the moment.
    Left alone, Morris began to worry about his health. He felt dizzy at times, often headachy. Murderers, he thought.
Standing before the cracked and faded mirror at the sink he unwound the bandage from his head. He wanted to leave it off but the scar was still ugly, not nice for the customers, so he tied a fresh bandage around his