The Christmas Kid by Pete Hamill Read Free Book Online

Fourth Avenue, waited for the light to change, and then hurried across the street to get on a bus. And then Hugo knew that it was Daria Stark. This lumpy middle-aged woman. It was her. And suddenly he was up, rushing to the corner, seeing the bus wheeze into the distance, heading uptown for Grand Central. He jumped into traffic, and a cab stopped with a squeal of brakes, and a cop turned to face him from the opposite corner, and a truck pulled around him, and Hugo began to run. Uptown. Calling her name. Through traffic. And never saw the taxi running the red light on 20th Street.
    When I went to see him at Bellevue, his voice was an injured croak. His left leg was broken, his pelvis smashed, his skull fractured; there were tubes in his arms.
    “I saw her,” he whispered. And started to cry. “She’s old. Like me.…”
    The pelvis healed, and the leg, and the skull, but Hugo didn’t. He left Bellevue, but he couldn’t learn again how to live in the world. He gazed out windows; he avoided the bars, and the company of men. He couldn’t walk and didn’t eat. The cops found him one afternoon, standing alone on a subway platform in Brooklyn, watching D trains arrive and depart. Someone reported him as a possible degenerate. The cops were gentle and took him to a hospital. His condition was simple; he was inconsolable. He likes it where he is now.
    “There’s trees,” he said one day. “And feather grass, blinding and irresistible, like the steppes…”

Good-bye
    MITCHELL SAT IN THE corner of the old couch, fingering the worn armrest, looking out past the metal window gate at the gray winter sky. He heard his wife, Sybil, stacking the dishes beside the sink, and soon she came to join him, sitting heavily in her favorite armchair. They were separated by the round mahogany table they’d bought the day they moved in, back in 1946. There was a lamp on the table, and a bottle of wine, and two glasses, and a dish with some pills.
    “It’ll be dark soon,” she said.
    “Yes, it will,” Mitchell said. “But tonight we don’t have to worry anymore. Ever.”
    “We’ll be safe, won’t we, Mitch?”
    “Yes,” he said, pouring the wine into the glasses. “We’ll be safe.”
    He always loved this time of the New York day, when the sun faded and the light turned a warm gray, softening the hard edges of the world. It reminded him of the old Warner Bros. movies they’d seen together before the war; the blacks were really black in those movies, the grays all silvery. They’d held hands in the dark, in the Sanders, in the RKO Prospect, in Loew’s Metropolitan, in the RKO Albee. Held hands, with the future spread out before them. Safe. In Europe, darkness had fallen; Hitler was killing Jews, but he and Sybil were together in the safe darkness of movie theaters. Back then. It would be a long time before fear entered his heart to stay.
    “You mailed the letters?” Mitchell said.
    “Yes, dear,” she said. “They should have them Monday.”
    Mitchell sipped the wine. “You think they’ll get them at the same time? I mean, one goes to Florida and one to California. I wouldn’t want one of the kids to get one before the other.”
    “They go on airplanes, dear. They’ll be there the same day.”
    She was quiet for a long time, then sipped her wine, and gazed at the crowded bookcase beside the window. It even held textbooks she’d used at Columbia Teachers College, before the war, when Mitchell was at CCNY. It held everything else she’d ever cared for: Chekhov and Turgenev, Tolstoy and Gogol, all of Dickens, all of Stevenson. They’d come through life together, she and those books; they were her treasures. Now the girl would have them; the boy never did care for reading.
    “Do you think they’ll be upset?” Sybil said.
    “Of course,” Mitchell said. “But the girl will come. She’s always been responsible.”
    “He was, too,” she said. “But he always had these other things to live for. His job, his