Dave at Night Read Online Free

was, it would be an improvement.
    The suitcase was Papa’s banged-up big one, which he’d brought with him to this country. If I’d owned anything heavy, it would have gone right through the worn fiberboard covering.
    Ida snapped the suitcase shut. “I’m sorry, Dave,” she said, straightening up, “but I can’t buy food and pay the rent by myself. If I don’t have you, I can be a boarder somewhere.”
    I nodded.
    â€œAbe would understand.”
    He would never understand. But I did. She was a louse. And Gideon was a louse. And Uncle Jack and my other relatives were lice.
    â€œYou’ll have enough to eat at the Home.”
    Home? The Home? She meant—
    â€œLet’s go. The orphanage is . . .”
    I was a fool never to have thought of it before. I never even thought of myself as an orphan, but what else was I?
    An orphanage. Papa would die all over again if he knew.
    But maybe it would be better to be an orphan in an orphanage than an orphan living with Ida.
    Maybe not.
    The orphanage was way uptown. We had to take the subway, thirteen blocks away on Lafayette Street. As we walked, I said good-bye to the neighborhood. In my mind, not out loud, I said good-bye to Ike, the produce peddler who was hollering about his juicy lemons. Good-bye to the Turkish candy peddler and his delicious halvah. Good-bye to the horse, stamping its feet in front of the dry-goods cart. Good-bye to the laundry hanging out a million windows. To the roasted-corn man, and the sweet smell of his corn. To the cobblestones I was walking on. To the street cleaner’s wooden wagon. To the train roaring above us on Allen Street. To the peddler who tugged at Ida’s sleeve, trying to get her to buy a scrub brush. Good-bye to the pickle store, to the sour pickles my friend Ben had taught me to love. Good-bye to Ben too.
    We came to the Bowery, the end of our neighborhood. On the other side of the avenue, things were the same but different, and I stopped saying good-bye. The streets were just as crowded and noisy, but lots of the signs were in Italian, and most of the shouting was too. We passed a peddler selling clams and one selling roasted chickpeas, which you never saw near us.
    It took us three trains to get uptown. During the ride I had only one thought: I wouldn’t stay at the Home if I didn’t like it.
    We got off the subway at 137th Street, and Ida clamped her hand on my arm. We climbed up the subway stairs and the Home was the first thing I saw, the biggest thing around, made of red bricks that went on forever.
    Broadway was quieter than the streets in my old neighborhood. There were stores, but only one peddler’s wagon, and a tenth as many people.
    There was no entrance to the orphanage on Broadway. We walked next to it along 136th Street. The building, surrounded by a high iron fence, stretched all the way to the next avenue, which was Amsterdam. The handle of my suitcase was loose, and the suitcase banged into my knee whenever I took a step. Ida offered to carry it, but I didn’t want any favors from her.
    It was chilly, and I wished I’d worn my coat. We turned the corner, and I saw the front of the asylum. My eyes traveled up to where a pointy tower rose, like a witch’s hat, three stories above the entrance. Below the tower was a clock, and on each side of the clock was a smaller pointy tower. The whole building was only four stories high in the highest part, the middle section. The rest was just three, but each story was very tall. The building wasn’t made for people. It was made for witches, with plenty of room for their hats.
    If I didn’t know better, it would have been the last place I’d have guessed was a Home, the last place for kids to live.
    We reached the gate. A sign, black letters on white metal, was attached to it. The Hebrew Home for Boys. Ida pushed the gate open just as the clock struck ten. We trudged along a brick path to steps