A Song for Mary Read Online Free
into the church I am in the back of the church and have to walk all the way down the center aisle if I want to be in the front of the church again. So I guess there are two fronts of the church, but only one back.
Chapter Five
C ’mon already,” Abbie is saying, “there are things to do instead of waiting for you to make up your mind. What’s your name?”
“Moniker,” I say, because I might be seven but I know it means a different name. My Uncle Tracy always says that his name is Tracy, but his moniker is Your Lord Worship Tracy.
“Monica is a girl’s name,” Abbie says. “What’s your name?”
Abbie is always rushing you. If you have the nickel for an egg cream, he stands in front of you until you drink it, saying, “C’mon already.” And he always asks your name, so that if he catches you stealing, he can tell the cops if you squirm out of his grip. A lot of the guys in the neighborhood steal every time they go into Abbie’s.
“Just an old Jew,” the guys say, “that gots lots of dough. He’ll never miss a little candy.”
I guess everybody thinks that stealing candy from Abbie is like stealing a pair of leather gloves from Bloomingdale’s or a million dollars from the Rockefellers. There is a lot more where it came from, money and stuff, or Abbie’s candy, and it will never be missed.
So it’s probably a venial sin, and you’ll get a few Hail Marys in confession, and it will be over.
But if you steal a nickel from an old widow woman that’s on pension, you are sure to go to hell. Because that kind of sin is worse. No one ever said why.
Mommy says that if you steal from somebody one day, the next day you’ll lie to somebody else, and your life will be worth nothing, because nobody loves a liar. If you’re a liar, you’ll never have a true friend, and what’s the point of being alive if you don’t have true friends?
I have red wagon wheels in one pocket, and licorice in the other, and a bagful of Good & Plenty. It is like a miracle what a few beer bottles will do. Abbie is now helping someone who wants an egg cream, and I could put a hundred wagon wheels in my pocket. But I guess Abbie paid for that candy, and if everyone stole some, Abbie would wonder what he paid for when he looks at the empty tray.
Kips Bay Boys Club is just around the corner on 52nd Street, and I am going there to have a game of Ping-Pong, and maybe pool if the big boys ever left a table free. Near the corner, I see Peter Shalleski and his brother Harry, who is my brother Billy’s age. I know that I should put my Good & Plenty in a pocket as soon as I see Shalleski, but he is on me before I can take another step, punching like he was wound by a twisted rubber band. The bag of miniature white and pink logs goes out of my hand, and the candy spills everywhere, across the sidewalk, into the gutter, all over First Avenue. I am so mad that Shalleski does this. I want to fight back, but Shalleski has me by my shirt collar, screaming about his twisted ear, and how I got him into trouble with Sister Maureen.
What is the matter with me? I am frozen with something. I am not afraid. It’s a kind of mixed-up feeling. I’m getting smashed and I can’t help thinking that Shalleski shouldn’t be doing this. Why does Shalleski have to punch and knuckle people all the time?
Shalleski is just a little bigger than me, not much. I could dodge him, and floor him with a roundhouse on the blind side, like I heard on the radio at the Joe Louis fight. Why don’t I know how to hit him, instead of just putting my hands up to protect myself?
Shalleski is yelling with every punch. “Take that, you sonofabitch,” he is saying.
Stop, stop, stop, I am thinking as I press my arms into my face.
Finally, Shalleski stops, I guess because I am not fighting back.
No one says anything, not another word. The two brothers just walk away, and I look at my candy all over the ground.
Could I kiss it up to God? Is there any of it that isn’t
Chapter Five
C ’mon already,” Abbie is saying, “there are things to do instead of waiting for you to make up your mind. What’s your name?”
“Moniker,” I say, because I might be seven but I know it means a different name. My Uncle Tracy always says that his name is Tracy, but his moniker is Your Lord Worship Tracy.
“Monica is a girl’s name,” Abbie says. “What’s your name?”
Abbie is always rushing you. If you have the nickel for an egg cream, he stands in front of you until you drink it, saying, “C’mon already.” And he always asks your name, so that if he catches you stealing, he can tell the cops if you squirm out of his grip. A lot of the guys in the neighborhood steal every time they go into Abbie’s.
“Just an old Jew,” the guys say, “that gots lots of dough. He’ll never miss a little candy.”
I guess everybody thinks that stealing candy from Abbie is like stealing a pair of leather gloves from Bloomingdale’s or a million dollars from the Rockefellers. There is a lot more where it came from, money and stuff, or Abbie’s candy, and it will never be missed.
So it’s probably a venial sin, and you’ll get a few Hail Marys in confession, and it will be over.
But if you steal a nickel from an old widow woman that’s on pension, you are sure to go to hell. Because that kind of sin is worse. No one ever said why.
Mommy says that if you steal from somebody one day, the next day you’ll lie to somebody else, and your life will be worth nothing, because nobody loves a liar. If you’re a liar, you’ll never have a true friend, and what’s the point of being alive if you don’t have true friends?
I have red wagon wheels in one pocket, and licorice in the other, and a bagful of Good & Plenty. It is like a miracle what a few beer bottles will do. Abbie is now helping someone who wants an egg cream, and I could put a hundred wagon wheels in my pocket. But I guess Abbie paid for that candy, and if everyone stole some, Abbie would wonder what he paid for when he looks at the empty tray.
Kips Bay Boys Club is just around the corner on 52nd Street, and I am going there to have a game of Ping-Pong, and maybe pool if the big boys ever left a table free. Near the corner, I see Peter Shalleski and his brother Harry, who is my brother Billy’s age. I know that I should put my Good & Plenty in a pocket as soon as I see Shalleski, but he is on me before I can take another step, punching like he was wound by a twisted rubber band. The bag of miniature white and pink logs goes out of my hand, and the candy spills everywhere, across the sidewalk, into the gutter, all over First Avenue. I am so mad that Shalleski does this. I want to fight back, but Shalleski has me by my shirt collar, screaming about his twisted ear, and how I got him into trouble with Sister Maureen.
What is the matter with me? I am frozen with something. I am not afraid. It’s a kind of mixed-up feeling. I’m getting smashed and I can’t help thinking that Shalleski shouldn’t be doing this. Why does Shalleski have to punch and knuckle people all the time?
Shalleski is just a little bigger than me, not much. I could dodge him, and floor him with a roundhouse on the blind side, like I heard on the radio at the Joe Louis fight. Why don’t I know how to hit him, instead of just putting my hands up to protect myself?
Shalleski is yelling with every punch. “Take that, you sonofabitch,” he is saying.
Stop, stop, stop, I am thinking as I press my arms into my face.
Finally, Shalleski stops, I guess because I am not fighting back.
No one says anything, not another word. The two brothers just walk away, and I look at my candy all over the ground.
Could I kiss it up to God? Is there any of it that isn’t
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