Newspaper Page Text
Reuni
.... b e h in
..the
poignant . . ..
...moment..
SHORT STORY
Union Station in Chicago is an
institution. Most people can point
out similarities with stations in
other large cities. The physical
features of the stations are pretty
much the same; the people are
pretty much alike. The same
derelicts sitting in out of the
weather, watching the clock, pre
tending they are meeting some
one. The same family groups
dragging overloaded valises from
ticket agent to waiting room and
from waiting room to platform.
on
But that is all superficial. To me
the Chicago Union Station has
drama.
I looked around the pillared
cavern trying to decide where to
wait. The marble floor was cov
ered with hieroglyphics of slush.
The December light filtered weak
ly through the soot-encrusted
skylights, giving the dirty ochre
walls a mildewed appearance. The
plain wooden benches were peace
ful islands around which eddied
a sea of people.
Not far from me I saw an
empty bench. The mahogany
wood had darkened with the
years to a maroonish black. The
seat had been polished and buf
fed to a high gloss by a million
restless buttocks.
1 sat down and unfolded my
newspaper, but I couldn’t read.
I didn’t really care what Kennedy
said to Khrushchev or what
Khrushchev said to Kennedy.
Fourteen years is such a long
time, I thought. Fourteen years
since I had last seen my kid bro
ther. I wondered what he looked
like. How had he changed 0 Would
he think I had changed? How do
you greet a brother you haven’t
seen in fourteen years, I asked
myself. Do we shake hands or do
we hug and kiss each other?
On the bench in front of me
sat a tired-looking young woman
with her two sons. One boy was
about ten and his brother was
about two years younger. The
boys would sit still for a moment
and then begin their teasing and
fidgeting anew. “Now, behave
yourselves, boys,” their mother
said. The older boy stood up.
“I’m going to the bathroom,
Mother,” he said.
"Take your brother with you,”
she answered.
"Aw. do I have to drag him
by BEN LITMAN
along wherever I go?” he whined,
obediently taking his brother’s
hand.
I smiled.
"Aw, do I have to drag him
along wherever I go?” had been
my cry during my early teens.
I could see our apartment on In
dependence Boulevard. It was
called a railroad flat because the
rooms were laid out one behind
the other like a string of rail
road cars. To go from the living
room in the front to the kitchen
in the back you had to walk
through every room. The second
flat was considered the most de
sirable because it was above
street level for privacy but below
the top-floor flat which bore the
brunt of the summer heat from
the sun-scorched roof. Mama was
a terrific cook and a very effi
cient housekeeper. Of ' all our
friends, our flat was the clean
est and was furnished according
to the latest lower middle-class
style. The door to the hallway
was in the kitchen where Mama
spent most of her time. So she
always checked our coming and
going.
My brother was the introvert
of the family. I was the extrovert.
He didn't have many friends.
while I couldn’t keep track of all
the activities of my crowd.
We played ball, we hung around
the corner, we kidded the girls,
we were always doing something.
Usually mischievous, we were
never really bad boys. My bro
ther stayed at home, but when
ever I wanted to go anywhere
with the boys, or go to a party,
A1 would ask to be taken along.
If I refused; he would whine
and tell Mama. He always wanted
to go with us older boys. Invari
ably I didn’t want him tagging
along; invariably it led to an
argument; invariably Mama sided
with him.
"Take him with you, Max,”
she pleaded. “You have so many
friends and he sits home alone
all the time. What kind of com
pany for a young boy is an old
woman like tne? You’re going to
a party with so many boys and
girls he’ll get lost in the crowd.
He won’t be in your way.”
One night, when A1 was thir
teen, I had a date with Helen. I
was fifteen. This was to be the
big night. I planned to take her
to a movie. I wanted to find out
if what my friends said was true.
Helen wasn't much to look at, but
she had a figure that would give
Jean Harlow an inferiority com
plex. I wanted to find out about
this firsthand. I tried to sneak
out of the house after supper but
A1 caught me at the door. We
had the inevitable argument and
A1 went whining to Mama.
Mama’s intuition must have
been working real good that
night. She must have "Sensed that
I wasn’t going out for a game of
stickball or anything like that.
She was especially persuasive in
her plea.
“Muttele,” she said, “I’m a good
mother to you, no?”. I nodded.
“No matter what you ask I do,
no?” Again I nodded. “Now do
something for me.”
"Whadda ya wan’?” I mum
bled, scuffing my shoetip on the
linoleum. I was afraid Mama
could read my thoughts just then.
I stared at the floor and blushed.
“Do me a favor, mein kind.
Take Abie with you. He’s not a
baby. You can take him with
you. He’ll behave. He won’t be
any trouble to you at all. And
it’s important he should learn
from you how to get along with
people. You’re his older brother
and it’s your responsibilty to
show him how to grow up to be
a nice American boy. Your father
and me, we're immigrants. We’re
not so used to American ways and
we really don’t know what to
teach him. So, do me a favor,
Max. Introduce him to somebody
so he’ll be busy and you won’t
even know he’s with you. He’s a
grown boy already, and you’re a
grown boy, you’re a man al
most . . .”
"Aw, Ma,” I cried, “do I have
to drag him along wherever I go’
I’ve got a date with a girl tonight
(Please turn to page 37)
The Southern Israelite
11