1957
Back at the great house, the beautiful man was gazing with wild eyes at the flamboyantly dressed Jew.
"Jerry! I haven't seen you since . . ." He began, voice trembling with bitter anger disguised as surprise.
"Yes. It has been a long time." Jerry finished, and if the other man hadn't been in his right mind, he might have thought it was said rather guiltily.
"What are you- what are you doing here?" He asked Jerry, smoothing out his suit nervously.
"The same as you, most likely." Both men settled into silence, feeling as if there was nothing else to be said between them.
Never had someone seen two people stare at each other with such pure loathing, with each man viewing himself as the complete victim in the situation when neither of them was, in fact, justified.
People were rarely only victims or only perpetrators, yet not many ever embraced themselves as perpetrators. Being the victim, of course, was much easier than being the perpetrator, for there was no blame associated with one who had been hurt. And of course, reputation- even just to one's self- was of supreme importance.
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1936
"Mr. Malter, I need to see you after class is over." The sharp, demanding tone of Mrs. Barton sent giggles cascading through the classroom like a wave rushing to the shore. The rest of the kids knew what that was about, and Jerry knew they did as he slouched in his chair, popping his collar to hide the reddening of his face.
He couldn't help blushing; he also couldn't help the useless tears that rose behind his eyes. He was known as a silly, reckless kid with a lot of chutzpah. But yet he could be brought to tears with one embarrassment- or someone yelling at him.. But he'd gotten better, much better, at hiding it with his so-called antics.
And for some reason these sorts of things didn't embarrass him so much as long as the other kids liked him for it. He remembered just last week when he had brought a few kids from his class to the bus stop, and told them to just watch and learn. The sleek, smooth-paneled bus came rolling up a minute later, and the doors swung open for him. Barely concealing a mischievous grin, Jerry lifted a foot onto the platform and bent over to tie his shoe. Then, with a laughing glance back to his friends, Jerry walked away. He could feel the drivers' annoyed stare at the back of his head, but as he heard the nervously awed laughs from his new friends, he didn't care.
The bell rang intrusively, jerking him from his thoughts, and he stayed motionlessly in his chair as the rest of the class filed out eagerly, none of them wanting to stick around for whatever Mrs. Barton had to say to Jerry.
Finally they were all alone, and Mrs. Barton's steel gray eyes flicked from him and back to her desk authoritatively. He obeyed reluctantly and stood in front of her, swallowing his fear.
"Jerry, how do you think you're doing in my class? In school?"
"Not too bad, but not too good, either." He shrugged.
"Unfortunately, Jerry . . . " She looked down at her papers with a slight frown, "It doesn't look as if you're going to pass onto the eleventh grade." His heart dropped, and beads of sweat broke onto his temple. He covered up his panic with indignation, retorting, "Okay, well what am I supposed to do about it?"
"Nothing short of summer school, I'm afraid."
"Can I go now?"
"Alright, then, I suppose so." She sighed, rubbing her forehead as Jerry stalked out of the classroom, fuming. Summer school?! Not only did he have to go to this rotten place nine months a year, but now he had to go during the summer? What a trip for biscuits.
Jerry drew in a sharp breath when he stepped outside, the frigid air reaching right through his slacks and shirt as if he was wearing nothing at all.
He quickly slipped on his coat and buttoned it with numb fingers as he walked along the street away from the school. He reckoned he was walking in the direction of where he lived, but he didn't think he was going to go home this time.
He knew he didn't want to go to school- certainly not no summer school- but he didn't want to go home. Come to think of it, he didn't even have a home.
The evening sun cut orange gashes along the sidewalk he trudged heavily along, and he let out an inaudible sigh.
He took a side road made of fine dirt and large, smooth rocks, finally sure he didn't want to go home, and found himself at a rusted, padlocked fence separating him from a ramshackle hovel that had been burned almost to its foundations. Charred planks that had started to flake lay on top of rusted steel beams, and among them Jerry caught sight of a gray cat lurking along the weeded ground like a common racoon.
The metal security screen door was hanging precariously from the blackened door frame, streaked black and orange from fire and neglect.
Jerry had the sudden urge to explore it with the zeal of a five-year-old playing cowboys and Indians. But that desire was easily and quickly quelled by the intangible discomfort that raised the hairs at the back of his neck when he caught sight of more cats; they were peeking out at him from behind mounds of gravel, staring at him from the shadows beneath parked cars, eyes glittering mysteriously. He felt disconcerted as they seemed to appear from thin air around him; it was like he was wandering upon a secret society he had no idea about.
The gravel crackled beneath his shoes like pop rocks he got at the drug store and the sun made them shimmer like glass- Newark was too cheap for diamonds. He stopped at the base of the railroad tracks, sitting on a foundation of jaggedly cut stones that, when looked at from far away, seemed like a sandy shore.
When he climbed up to the rails, they seemed bigger than he had thought they'd be- that never changed no matter how many times he saw them.
Stepping over the metal, he started alongside them as they reached to the cloudy horizon. They seemed empowering to him somehow, he felt as if he was going to fly along with them into that distance shrouded city.
"Don't wanna go home, kid?" The man's voice made him start, and he turned to find a tall, lanky man in his thirties behind him, wearing grease-covered overalls and with a cigarette between his teeth.
"Yeah, how'd ya know?" Jerry shoved his hands in his pockets and sniffed, instinctively putting on airs like a defense.
"I been there, myself. My pops was a mean sonofabitch. What about you?"
"My parents are never home, that's all." He shrugged. "I think maybe I'll leave."
The man studied him in open curiosity. "Where are you gonna go?"
"Around. Maybe find a job." Jerry was surprised at how natural the answer sounded- he hadn't really considered it before. But now that he said it, he realized he did want to go.
The man exhaled smoke through his nostrils and rubbed his chin in contemplation, leaving black marks. "Well . . . if you're really serious about wanting to get a job, I know where you can find one for sure . . . but it's not going to be easy to get to."
"Well? Go on!"
"It's at the railroad in Chicago. If you can get there, you can have the job."
"Thanks, mack. I think I will take you up on that." Jerry pursed his lips. What was he going to do? He wanted to get that job- he needed that job if he was going to survive on his own- but he didn't have the money to get to Chicago!
The man guessed what the problem was and flicked away his cigarette, moving to leave before adding, "Some people . . . if they don't exactly have the dough, ride the rails. It can be dangerous, but it'll get you there. Good luck, kid."
Jerry watched the man stride away as excitement grew within him, until he felt like shouting out into the crisp air.
Finally he was going to have a chance to get away from it all. Start anew.
He practically sprinted all the way home, and to his dual disappointment and relief, no one was home.
Going straight to his room, Jerry started emptying his drawers into his duffel bag with fingers trembling from excitement. It seemed like a dream that he was actually going to do this. A wonderful, but scary, dream.
His bag wasn't even bursting at the seams when he was done with his clothes and precious few keepsakes- a picture of his mother and a switchblade he had nabbed off someone at school- so he headed to the kitchen to have at least a little food just in case things got dicey. He managed to pack an old box of saltines, three cans of tomatoes, and two bananas.
When he had zipped up his bag with some effort, Jerry stood very still in the middle of the kitchen, hearing only the blood pounding in his ears. He imagined his mother's reaction when she found him gone- rather hopefully he imagined her falling to the floor, sobs racking her body; clutching onto father for dear life.
He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and grabbed the notepad sitting beside the phone.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I'm leaving to get a job. I can't tell you where because you'll just try to find me. I'll phone you when I can.
Bye. I love you.
Jerry