The Street by Mordecai Richler Read Free Book Online Page A

give us a charge to watch that crafty little Jew, one of ours, running around out there with all those tall dumb southern crackers. “Hey, Kitman,” we would yell, “Hey, shmo-head, if your father knew you played ball on
shabus –
” Kitman, alas, was all field and no hit. He never made the majors. “There goes Kermit Kitman,” we would holler, after he had gone down swinging again, “the first Jewish strike-out king of the International League.” This we promptly followed up by bellowing choice imprecations in Yiddish.
    It was after one of these games, on a Friday afternoon, that I came home to find a crowd gathered in front of our house.
    “That’s the grandson,” somebody said.
    A knot of old people stood staring at our front door from across the street. A taxi pulled up and my aunt hurried out, hiding her face in her hands.
    “After so many years,” a woman said.
    “And probably next year they’ll discover a cure. Isn’t that always the case?”
    The flat was clotted. Uncles and aunts from my father’s side of the family, strangers, Dr. Katzman, neighbours, were all milling around and talking in hushed voices. My father was in the kitchen, getting out the apricot brandy. “Your grandmother’s dead,” he said.
    “Where’s Maw?”
    “In the bedroom with … You’d better not go in.”
    “I want to see her.”
    My mother wore a black shawl and glared down at a knot of handkerchief clutched in a fist that had been cracked by washing soda. “Don’t come in here,” she said.
    Several bearded round-shouldered men in shiny black coats surrounded the bed. I couldn’t see my grandmother.
    “Your grandmother’s dead.”
    “Daddy told me.”
    “Go wash your face and comb your hair.”
    “Yes.”
    “You’ll have to get your own supper.”
    “Sure.”
    “One minute. The
baba
left some jewellery. The necklace is for Rifka and the ring is for your wife.”
    “Who’s getting married?”
    “Better go and wash your face. Remember behind the ears, please.”
    Telegrams were sent, the obligatory long distance calls were made, and all through the evening relatives and neighboursand old followers of the Zaddik poured into the house. Finally, the man from the funeral parlour arrived.
    “There goes the only Jewish businessman in town,” Segal said, “who wishes all his customers were German.”
    “This is no time for jokes.”
    “Listen, life goes on.”
    My Cousin Jerry had begun to affect a cigarette holder. “Soon the religious mumbo-jumbo starts,” he said to me.
    “Wha’?”
    “Everybody is going to be sickeningly sentimental.”
    The next day was the sabbath and so, according to law, my grandmother couldn’t be buried until Sunday. She would have to lie on the floor all night. Two grizzly women in white came to move and wash the body and a professional mourner arrived to sit up and pray for her. “I don’t trust his face,” my mother said. “He’ll fall asleep.”
    “He won’t fall asleep.”
    “You watch him, Sam.”
    “A fat lot of good prayers will do her now. Alright! Okay! I’ll watch him.”
    My father was in a fury with Segal.
    “The way he goes after the apricot brandy you’d think he never saw a bottle in his life before.”
    Rifka and I were sent to bed, but we couldn’t sleep. My aunt was sobbing over the body in the living room; there was the old man praying, coughing and spitting into his handkerchief whenever he woke; and the hushed voices and whimpering from the kitchen, where my father and mother sat. Rifka allowed me a few drags off her cigarette.
    “Well,
pisherke
, this is our last night together. Tomorrow you can take over the back room.”
    “Are you crazy?”
    “You always wanted it for yourself, didn’t you?”
    “She died in there, but.”
    “So?”
    “I couldn’t sleep in there now.”
    “Good night and happy dreams.”
    “Hey, let’s talk some more.”
    “Did you know,” Rifka said, “that when they hang a man the last thing that