I
In November of 1949, when Hesh was working out his schedule for next term—his final semester at Long Island City High School—he learned to his crushing discomfort every section of shop was oversubscribed and he’d have to take home economics.
You can’t make me do it, he said to the Vice Principal, Mr. Norman.
It is unusual, Mr. Marx. But you need the credits to graduate.
Was he getting fucked over on purpose? It was tempting to think so. But Mr. Norman was a straight shooter. He was famously the first Negro high school administrator in New York State, and unlike other authority figures he’d never made Hesh feel weird about being a Jew. So he had to suck it up: instead of rebuilding an engine block, he’d be cooking and sewing. He didn’t tell anybody, especially not his father, who had narrow ideas about manhood.
Somebody blabbed though. Tuffy Zwieback said on the lunch line, I hear you’re taking home ec. You queer?
Hesh said, I heard you redid the ninth grade. You stupid?
Oh, oh, the kids said, which shut Tuffy’s mouth—a relief because queer was a fighting word and Tuffy had thirty pounds on him. Although as Hesh sat down with his Salisbury steak, he felt conflicted, because the only relative who gave a rat’s ass about him was his Uncle Stan, who lived in Greenwich Village.
Stan was slim and handsome, always in a crisp white shirt and pressed slacks. He ran the accounting department for a big department store, so he had money too. The girls were crazy about him, staring open-mouthed when he walked by. As for Stan, he had lady friends, and that was all they were. Not that Hesh was privy to the details. Once in a while he met some other slim handsome guy whom Hesh suspected was a boyfriend, although the word wasn’t used. In Stan’s world, discretion was advisable, or you got your teeth kicked in.
Hesh lived with his father, his stepmother, and his half-brother above their sign painting shop off Queens Plaza. Hesh’s father disapproved of Stan, but Gus, the guy who ran the corner store, was a live-and-let-live sort. Hesh would pop in for a Coke and Gus would say, Accounts Payable called for you. Hesh would then use the payphone to make arrangements, most recently a couple days after Mr. Norman broke the news.
He met his uncle downtown at a fancy Italian joint with white tablecloths, flared Chianti bottles in straw baskets, the waiters sullen old men in bow ties. Stan poured wine while they waited for the entrées. He said, Home ec will be awkward for you. On the other hand, you’ll be the only boy.
The idea was a revelation for Hesh, who thought about girls every waking moment, and many sleeping moments too.
Actually, let’s talk about girls, Stan said.
Hesh was a little tight from the wine. He said, Girls? I’m eighteen already, Uncle Stan. And no offense, but what do you know about girls?
I keep my eyes open. But yes, I should have brought it up years ago, I’m sure your father is useless on the subject.
All he says is I should use a rubber.
He’s right for once. Have you had sex?
A few times, yeah.
Herschel.
Okay, fine. I’ve fooled around but I haven’t gone all the way.
Stan nodded, lit a Chesterfield. Lesson one, he said. Young men are taught that young women are like fragile birds in need of protection. In fact it’s the opposite. Oh, they like chivalry, holding the door, lighting their cigarettes, et cetera. But believe me, you will get much further if you treat a girl like a grownup. If you want her to like you, ask her what she thinks, and this is crucial Herschel, when she answers you listen.
Okay, Hesh said. I’ll listen.
Lesson two, avoid prostitutes.
Hesh nearly spat a mouthful of bread on the tablecloth.
Who said anything about prostitutes?
It will come up. Your friends will want to visit a cathouse, or you’ll come across them in the Army.
Uncle Stan, the war ended four years ago.
They have a way of starting new ones, said Stan, who had done something hush-hush for the Signal Corp. Listen, Herschel, he said. God knows I’m no saint and I don’t know everything. I do know that with patience and kindness you’ll get what you want without feeling like a heel.
Hesh felt kind of embarrassed but mostly delighted his uncle was talking to him like this. He had one question though.
What do you think I want, Uncle Stan?
You want sex, of course, which is only natural. But what you really want, Herschel, is love. Stan stubbed out his cigarette. Look out, kiddo, here’s the veal.
II
Hesh’s friendship with his uncle was a secret. Another secret: he liked home economics. He was indeed the only boy among fifteen girls. Although they were standoffish at first, they got used to him. Mrs. Nash acted like it was no big deal, which helped. And the girls were so calm and cooperative—it was a relief having a class without boys and their attention-seeking, their inability to stop jabbering or keep still.
He liked the work too, sewing, ironing shirts and trousers, things his stepmother never did for him. He wasn’t great at baking—it allowed no room for improvisation or error—but he was okay at cooking vegetables, different cuts of meat. In the mornings, instead of shoving down a roll, he had scrambled eggs and toast, eating slowly, as Mrs. Nash recommended for digestion. His father looking at him, like, Who the fuck is this kid?
The class also had interesting lessons on what Mrs. Nash called household inefficiencies: for an assignment, he measured and diagrammed the kitchen, noting that the distance between the refrigerator and the range created thousands of wasted steps per year for his stepmother, or would have if she ever cooked.
And the girls! Outside of school, he found ways of cadging a date. In school, however, he was isolated due to religion and temperament. Now suddenly he was on friendly terms with luscious Bunny Falcone and Vicki Michaels, whose perfect features resembled Gene Tierney’s. They’d never go out with him, of course, but when they smiled at him in the lunchroom, he felt like a million bucks.
Also: Agnes Martinez.
In those days, a few Puerto Rican families had settled in Long Island City. They did not have an easy time finding a job or a place to live. But once in a while they bucked the odds, like the Martinez family, who lived in a neat frame house on the north side of Queens Plaza. The father did something in the front office for the Swingline factory. The brothers kept to themselves, even on the ball courts. Regardless, Hesh found the sister undeniably pretty, with her black hair and blue eyes. Still, every time he saw her, he had to look again, as if needing reassurance of his opinion. At the same time she did seem prim, too quiet—until the time-budget assignment.
It was springtime in Long Island City, weeds sprouting up through the cracks in the pavement. In home ec, Mrs. Nash opened the windows, saying fresh air was salubrious. (Hesh had to look that one up.) She passed out mimeographed sheets, each showing a clock face without the hands. She said to pencil in an average day’s activities and how long they took to make a pie chart: so many hours for class, studying, sleeping, working, recreation, and so on. They had five minutes to make the chart, and then they’d be paired up with a partner. Help each other improve your time budgets, she said. Find the inefficiencies.
There was a general clattering in the classroom as everybody found their partner.
Hi, Agnes said.
Hi.
They exchanged papers. It felt weirdly intimate, knowing when this girl slept, ate, studied. If it was weird for her, she didn’t show it. She had on a white blouse with little ruffles at the neck, a tan pleated skirt. Her hair was straight, not curled at the bottom like other girls.
You have great penmanship, she said.
Thanks, he said. My family has a sign painting business.
I know, on Crescent Street. Is that an interesting trade?
Sure. I did a job last week for a diner? The manager insisted burger was spelled b-e-r-g-e-r. I offered to show him a dictionary, nothing doing.
Oh my gosh, she said. What did you do?
I wrote the sign. He called up two days later to chew me out for not knowing how to spell.
She was laughing. I’d say that’s interesting. You put down two hours for exercise.
I train at a boxing gym twice a week.
My brother does too. Or he did before he enlisted. No afterschool activities?
No time, Hesh said. Tuesdays and Thursdays I train, then I do my homework. The other days I work with my dad, then I do my homework. I sound like a drip.
No, I’m impressed, she said. You have discipline. I have only one suggestion, you make time for recreation. You know, fun.
I’m sorry, fun? I don’t know that word.
Ha ha. Seriously, what do you do to relax?
I like listening to music, he said. Not adding he loved race records, rhythm and blues, which he couldn’t listen to when his father was around.
Agnes said, You should make time for it.
I will. Thanks. He looked at her paper again. You didn’t put anything for school activities either.
I went to a yearbook meeting at the beginning of the term. They weren’t exactly welcoming if you know what I mean.
Hesh nodded. He knew what she meant.
I’d get a part-time job, she said, but my parents are strict. My father says, You want to work, help your mother in the kitchen. So I study after school or I go to the library for an exciting change of pace. Actually I don’t know why I’m being sarcastic, I love the library.
But you have two hours a day for recreation.
I listen to Spanish radio so I don’t lose the language. Growing up, my father insisted we speak English. I put it as recreation because it’s a nice thing to do with my mother and the programs are good. Really my absolute favorite thing is reading. Right now it’s Middlemarch, by George Eliot. Have you read her books?
No. I did know she was a lady because I heard it on a quiz show.
That’s more than most. So what should I change on my time budget?
Honestly, nothing. What should I tell you, don’t read so much? A person should follow her interests.
Her smile was like the sun coming out.
Thank you, she said.
Later, with his half-brother asleep in the top bunk, Hesh put the Charles Brown Trio on the phonograph at the lowest volume: Some day darlin’, I won’t be trouble no more. As he listened he was bothered by two questions: first, why am I still in a fucking bunk bed? And second, how do I get Agnes Martinez to go out with me?
III
First period, last day of April 1950, there was a disturbance in the high school. Hesh was in English class, Mr. Peterson explaining A Tale of Two Cities, the British were terrified at the prospect of violent revolution and so on, when hollering echoed in from the halls. Some kid opened the door, his face shining: They canceled the extracurriculars! We’re marching on City Hall!
The class was stunned. The teachers citywide had been pushing for a raise and threatened to boycott afterschool activities unless they got it. The students in turn had threatened a walkout. It had been the subject of fevered discussion. Not having a dog in the fight, Hesh had stayed out of it.
Dougie Caputo stood, his chair scraping.
Mr. Peterson said, Come now, Mr. Caputo, let’s not do this.
You don’t want the extra money, Mr. P.?
Well, it’s not extra to be precise, it’s pay for work we do, but I don’t support the idea of students missing class.
I’m sorry, Mr. P. What’s right is right.
Dougie grabbed his jacket and left, followed by his best friend, Damon White. Then Margaret Jackson walked out and others with a lot of noise and movement. Soon there was nobody left except Hesh and Patricia Cannondale, a cross-eyed girl who wrote poetry.
Hesh stood and slung his satchel.
Et tu, Mr. Marx?
I’m heading home, Mr. P. I’m not the protesting type.
Mr. Peterson nodded, his shoulders slumped, the poor guy obviously feeling like a schmuck. Hesh considered sticking around, maybe help tidy up the classroom. Then he remembered Mr. Peterson making him read Shakespeare’s hath not a Jew eyes speech while the class snickered.
And he did intend to go home, until he saw Agnes among a hundred kids headed for the IRT, a barrette pulling one side of her hair across her face, a small change that rendered him breathless. He let himself get carried along into the train car, some guy singing wah wah wah wah in a falsetto like the Fats Domino song, the working stiffs puzzled or angry at the disturbance. Changing trains in Manhattan, Hesh kept an eye out for her, but he didn’t recognize anybody—he’d gotten separated from his classmates.
He said to a guy, Where you from?
Washington Heights. You?
Long Island City.
The guy gave him a blank look.
Hesh said, It’s Queens, by the 59th Street Bridge.
Oh, right. He smiled. We’re gonna show that a-hole mayor.
Damn right, Hesh said, thinking, Show him what, exactly?
On the street by City Hall, thousands of kids were on the sidewalks and in the roadway, more stepping off buses and trolleys, blocking traffic, cabbies and truck drivers honking, shaking their fists. Mounted police blocked the entrances to City Hall Park, while street cops funneled the protestors up Park Row, saying cop things: Move along, break it up. Hesh was feeling saturated by the crowds and the noise, the dizzying spire of the Woolworth Building, the sturdy giant columns of the Municipal Building.
Other things were less impressive. Some kid with a Young Progressives of America button on his plaid jacket pressed a mimeographed sheet into Hesh’s hand. It bore the faint marks and smudges of hasty typing: Dear Mr. Mayor. We want a decent pay raise for our teachers. Well, duh. Also unimpressive were the cardboard signs written in marker or lipstick: Give teachers their money. On strike for senior activities. Hesh knew what they didn’t: the quality of your lettering mattered if you wanted to be taken seriously.
The protestors headed undaunted up Centre Street chanting, We-Want-Wil-lie, meaning Mayor O’Dwyer. In Foley Square, kids hung from the lamp posts and scampered up the trees. Across the street there were two oversized courthouses with young people all over the broad steps, and Hesh had a painful memory of another courthouse and his parents’ divorce proceedings, something he’d rather not think about. What he wanted to think about was leaving, because the day was getting out of hand—kids were pushing a Dodge onto its side and chucking things at mounted policemen, sandwiches and milk cartons, snapping bottle caps at the flinching horses.
A tall kid with blond hair and a turtleneck under his jacket launched an apple that arced to smack a mounted cop in the small of his back. The cop searched the crowd with angry eyes.
You shouldn’t do that, a boy said. His hair was floppy in front and he wore a striped sweater and high-waisted trousers.
The tall kid said, Why not?
Somebody could get hurt.
You got that right.
The tall kid hit the boy with a right cross and the boy staggered backward and fell on his ass. Then the tall kid and his two friends were kicking the floppy-haired boy, who was bawling for help but nobody did anything, some were actually laughing at him. Hesh’s mouth was dry and he was thinking, Zip it, Herschel, this is none of your business.
Instead he said, The cops are coming.
Nobody looked at him.
He said it louder: The cops are coming!
The tall kid was squaring off like a placekicker.
The cops? Where?
Hesh pointed randomly: There!
The tall kid and his friends took off. Hesh helped the boy to his feet.
I don’t understand why they did that, the boy said. His teeth were filmed with blood. Why’d they do that?
Hesh guided the kid by the elbow through the crowd until he found a cop at the corner of Centre and Worth, an old-timer with his back against the iron fence.
What happened, the cop said, practically yelling over the noise.
I didn’t see it, Hesh yelled back.
Sure you didn’t. All right, son. We’ll get you to a doctor.
I still don’t understand why they did that, the boy said.
I don’t know, Hesh said. Good luck.
He turned and was face to face with a girl. With a sudden contraction of the heart he realized it was Agnes.
Hi, he said stupidly.
Inches away people were screaming: We want Wil-lie. We want Wil-lie.
Agnes took his arm. She said, Let’s get out of here.
They found a coffee shop over on Broadway where the protest had thinned out. It was quiet inside save for the radio playing a schmaltzy oompah number, “Cruising Down the River.” Hesh ordered a tuna sandwich and a side of fries, Agnes a BLT and a Coke.
She seemed disheveled, out of sorts. The barrette from earlier was gone, her hair instead in a loose ponytail. She had on a dark blue dress and a cardigan. He was conscious of his scuffed chinos and worn canvas jacket. His satchel on the seat beside him, paint under his fingernails.
She excused herself, an opportunity for him to suck down a glass of water. With a spasm of fear he thought about money, pulled out his wallet and with relief saw four bucks.
Agnes returned, her ponytail neatened.
Hi again, she said.
Hi.
Her presence had him vibrating like a tuning fork. He thought: Calm yourself. Somebody had switched the radio to a news report: eight thousand students by City Hall.
What I don’t get, he said, is what they think they’re going to accomplish.
Exactly, Agnes said. Look, it’s bad about the extracurriculars. But it’s like they’re expecting the mayor to say, You are so right. Here is the money.
Sure, Hesh said. Handing it over in big sacks with dollar signs on them.
On behalf of the city, I extend my sincerest apologies. The ironic look left her face. Who hurt that boy? The one you were helping?
Some jerks. They were throwing things at the cops, he told them not to. I told them the police were coming and they took off.
I see, she said. That was smart, Herschel. And brave.
Nah, he said, blushing, thanking God she had witnessed a rare thing, that of Herschel Marx performing an unselfish act.
The waitress brought their plates and Agnes tucked in. Hesh liked that. It bugged him when girls acted like they weren’t hungry. Hesh himself was hungry day and night. You’re eating me out of house and home, his father said. Although he never complained about his half-brother and the kid was starting to resemble a zeppelin.
Agnes sipped from her straw, her blue eyes on him.
So, she said. It seems like you’re enjoying home ec.
I am. I like the cooking and sewing. It’s useful.
I’ve never heard a boy say he likes cooking and sewing.
Hesh shrugged. He was chewing on his sandwich, trying to come up with some clever response. He heard Uncle Stan’s voice in his head: Herschel, ask her something and then listen.
What are you doing after graduation?
I’m not sure. I want to go to college, but my father is against it.
Saying it like it contained a world of disappointment.
What’s he got against college?
If you’re a boy, nothing. If you’re a girl it’s a waste of time.
That’s rough. I’m sorry.
Thank you, she said. What about you?
I’ll work for my dad. Which is fine, it’s a good trade. But I’d like to get out from under him.
She looked at him like, Say more.
He’s just…tough. Meanwhile I’m sharing a room with my half-brother and his model planes and my stepmother acts like I’m part of the furniture.
What does your mother think about all this?
She took off when I was in middle school. I haven’t heard from her since.
Oh boy, she said. I’m sorry.
Yeah, he said. He wanted to change the subject. It was hard to handle the compassion in her eyes. He said, What would you study at college?
Literature. But it would be so fun to explore: history, biology, maybe learn a third language, like French or Italian.
A third language, he said. You’re really smart, aren’t you?
Now it was her turn to blush.
I think so, she said.
He said, Would you like to go out with me some time?
You dope, she said. Of course I would.
IV
They had to meet on the sly. His father would hit the roof if he found out Hesh was dating a Puerto Rican girl, and she wasn’t allowed to date, period. So they compared schedules, Agnes imitating Mrs. Nash: Herschel, we must search our time budgets for inefficiencies. After school most days, they stole an hour in the park by the river, holding hands on a bench by the bridge. He remembered again his uncle’s advice about listening, but it wasn’t hard work, hearing about her brothers, two at City College and one in the Army, the jobs she’d go for after graduation if her parents allowed, at a bookstore or in her more optimistic moments at a magazine or newspaper. He admired that while her life was more restricted than his, her imagination was bigger—he was just looking forward to his union card.
Weekends they went to the movies. He liked Westerns, while she’d want to see some highbrow foreign picture. Hesh usually relented because in the end it didn’t matter: the second the lights went down she kissed him like the meaning of life was hidden behind his tonsils. He’d have to lock himself in the bathroom when he got home.
He was okay with it. In Hesh’s experience, you went with girls for a sweet form of torture, not relief. Anyway, he liked her so much he could deal with the blue balls and sneaking around. As May turned to June, he felt lighter in an entirely new way. Usually when he looked in the mirror, he saw a guy of average height and below-average looks. Now he thought maybe he wasn’t so bad after all, with his clear brown eyes and muscles tight from the gym. No, he wasn’t bad at all, if he was good enough for Agnes.
A couple weeks after the protest, the teachers got their raise. Hesh passed Agnes a note in class: I guess we were wrong. Should we go to the prom?
He watched her smile and then write something.
You know I can’t. But it’s nice of you to ask. Xxxooo.
He was relieved actually: he had zero interest in the prom. He’d skip graduation too. What was the point, with nobody to cheer him on? Still, he got a boost when Mr. Norman sought him out to shake his hand: Mr. Marx, about home economics. Mrs. Nash tells me you made the absolute best of an awkward situation and I’m proud of you. You have so much potential and one day I hope you recognize it.
The conversation was flattering of course, but it left him with a question. He chewed on it until Memorial Day weekend, when they were in his kitchen, Sarah Vaughn on the record player, his family upstate with relatives. He’d made supper, veal chops and a salad, the recipes from the textbook, Foods for Home and School. A bowl of ice set before the fan to keep the room cool.
I agree with Mr. Norman, Agnes said. Most boys in your situation would have made a fuss. You just put your head down and did the work.
A fuss wouldn’t have changed anything, he said. What I’m wondering is what he thinks I have potential for.
Well, that’s the sixty-four-dollar question, Agnes said. And it’s something only you can figure out.
Saying it with kindness, but also with the idea it was something he should figure out. For the moment, though, as she helped him clear the table, he was distracted by the heavy fact of their privacy. They’d been alone before, but always in public. This was the first time they were alone alone. Incredibly, after the dishes were all put away—according to Mrs. Nash, housework multiplied when you ignored it—they went straight to his room, where things started slowly, nicely, until they got all worked up and at long last he had occasion to fumble around his portable sign painting kit for the missing condom.
They weren’t at it for long before she made him stop—it was too painful.
I’m sorry, he said, mortified. Did I do something wrong?
I don’t think so, no. It just hurt more than I thought.
I’m sorry, he repeated. We don’t have to do it again.
She touched his arm. We’ll see what happens okay?
After she went home, he made up the bed, buried the rubber in the trash. While showering, he realized he needed help digesting the enormity of the experience. If he were a normal kid he could talk to his father. He got dressed again, palmed a couple of nickels, walked to the payphone on the corner.
Wow, Uncle Stan said. How do you feel?
Okay, I guess.
How does she feel?
She seemed all right.
You may want to dig a little deeper, kiddo. But if you’re okay and she’s okay, I’d call it a win. And don’t worry, it’s like baseball or whatever sport you like these days, you get better with practice. Just keep it under your hat, all right? Don’t go bragging.
Why would I do that?
It was like he could hear his uncle smiling.
I don’t know how it happened, he said. But you’re a mensch, Herschel Marx.
V
North Korea invaded South Korea, June 25th, 1950. It was on the front page of all the papers and suddenly everybody was an expert on foreign policy. For Hesh though, it was like a nationwide version of the student walkout—a big deal for others, not so much him. It was hot that week, Hesh soggy after dropping off price cards at the grocer’s, the thermometer outside Gus’s in the mid-nineties. The air was full of grit from truck exhaust and the elevated subway screeching. Hesh was happy regardless—tomorrow was Saturday, when he’d be in air-conditioned movie theater with Agnes.
He’d seen her twice since the big night. As Stan had suggested, they’d gotten through the initial awkwardness by talking about it. A lot. The conclusion: everything was fine, they just needed to slow down, and Agnes imposed new limits to the duration and intensity of their make-out sessions. Hesh could live with it—and with the new understanding that some conversations weren’t easy or quick when you cared about somebody. Patience and kindness, he reminded himself, and you won’t feel like a heel.
Rounding the corner, he saw three guys waiting for him, one in an Army uniform. Oh Christ, the soldier and the two college boys, alert, ready for anything. Hesh was afraid and at the same time relieved. They could stop sneaking around at least.
The soldier said, Are you Herschel?
Yeah, that’s me.
Stay away from our sister.
That’s not up to you.
What the fuck did you say?
You heard me. He took a breath. You gotta understand, we have a good thing.
The soldier said, My sister and a Jew? That’s a good thing?
Hesh said, So that’s the problem?
One brother said, That’s not the problem. She’s not supposed to date.
Hesh said, She’s eighteen.
The soldier said, Let’s keep it simple. Keep your Jew hands off my sister.
Hesh was calmer now, assessing: the college boys weren’t looking for trouble but the soldier, breathing hard, he wanted a fight. The smart choice would be to get the fuck out of here. Which is what he decided to do—walk away, run if necessary. Instead, he set his feet and hit the Jew-baiting son of a bitch with his right. The surprise on his face was beautiful. Until he came back with a left-right like two bricks. Within thirty seconds Hesh had the sickening knowledge he was overmatched. The brothers broke it up when Hesh was on the ground, his face stopping the soldier’s fist.
When he stumbled in, torn and bloodied, his father looked up from the drafting table: What the fuck happened to you?
I was jumped, Hesh said, splashing water on his face at the sink.
Did they get any money?
He put the cash from the grocer on the table.
Phew, his father said.
He stayed in bed for two days, leaving his room only for a fresh ice bag or a can of soup. His brother made himself scarce so he could seethe in privacy, wondering who blabbed and why. He let it go because what difference did it make? Just like with home ec, he’d been a schmuck to think it would stay a secret.
Then he worried about Agnes.
On the third day, one eye still looked like an eggplant but he wanted fresh air or what passed for it in Long Island City. It would help him clear his head so he could figure out his next move, find out if Agnes was okay and what she wanted.
The shoeshine boy who worked the corner beneath the subway platform gaped, his rag limp in one hand, as Hesh passed. A lady leaving Gus’s store did a double take as he held the door. Hesh thinking he should make a sandwich board: Yes, I got the shit kicked out of me.
Gus looked up from the racing form.
Oh boy. I heard you got worked over. I’m sorry, kid.
Thanks, Hesh said. He put down a nickel for a Coke.
Gus said, Keep your nickel. Hey, I almost forgot. Yesterday a girl left a note for you. I says, his house is right over there. She says, If you don’t mind I’d rather leave it here. Nice-looking kid. Where the fuck did I put it?
Hesh watched Gus pat his pockets, search beneath the counter, the shelves behind him. He had to stop himself from grabbing the man by the collar and shouting, Where’s the goddamn letter? Finally Gus handed him an envelope. He tore it open.
There’s no good way to say this so I’m going to keep it short. I am so sorry my brothers hurt you. You didn’t deserve it and you didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t do anything wrong. My father says if I stop seeing you I can register for college.
Kid, you all right?
Yeah.
Hesh shoved the letter into his pocket. He left Gus’s and stood in the sunlight, squinting at trucks and pedestrians. He’d forgotten his Coke, but he didn’t have the energy to go back for it, because in the end he did feel like a heel. Not out of doing anything wrong but because there was something she wanted more than she wanted him. And who could blame her?
In July, his union card came in the mail. Two days later, his draft notice. By August he was on the Pusan Perimeter fighting the North Koreans who blew piercing bugles before an attack, putting the fear of God into you. He learned not to dwell over home because it was a distraction, and distractions got you killed. Still, you couldn’t help it sometimes. Whenever his buddies ran off to some hoochie, Hesh remembered Uncle Stan’s advice and stayed behind, even though they razzed him for it. And when the corporal was killed and Hesh got his job, as he sat shirtless, sewing the two stripes onto his own sleeves with neat, practiced stitches, he thought of Agnes.
