as Aunt May’s Victory Pudding, which was made with molasses and evaporated milk.
“These the ones?” Even the bare-lipped salesman sounded doubtful.
But by that time my throat was so closed up, I could only nod.
He slipped the shoes over my socks, and I walked around on the thick Thom McAn carpet. The shoes were stiff and rubbed against my heels.
“How do they feel?”
“Fine,” I croaked.
• • •
When I got home, I left the shoes in my room, buried beneath the folded layers of tissue paper. Then I turned on the radio and tried filling my head with cowboys and flying men in capes. But I couldn’t picture anything except myself sitting in the front row of a sixth-grade classroom wearing the tan-colored Thom McAns, squinting at the blackboard as a version of Miss Steinhardt chalked down facts about the Emancipation Proclamation, while finally—finally!—a Nazi spy slipped into the Automat for a piece of cream pie, or a Nazi saboteur hurried across Grand Central Station on his way to Croton to poison the water supply.
I pushed around the food Aunt May left us—Boiled Tongue with Horseradish Sauce—and then threw myself in front of the Silvertone again, radio serials unspooling from the speakers beside my head, unable to conjure up a picture of anything except me, trapped inside P.S. 52 as the Nazis I’d been searching for all summer strolled by the windows.
Around nine o’clock, somebody knocked on our door.
It was Harry Jupiter, wearing a rumpled jacket and a hat that looked as if he’d sat on it. I hadn’t seen Harry Jupiter since my father’s wake, since he’d stumbled around our apartment looking as if it was only his glass of rye whiskey keeping him upright.
I asked him if he wanted to come in, but he shook his jowls like he was afraid there might still be an empty coffin in our living room.
“I have something for you.”
He dug around in both pockets of his rumpled jacket until he came up with a photograph.
“I’m sorry it took me so long.”
He passed it over to me.
I pushed my glasses onto the top of my head and brought the photograph close to my face. It was the picture of me standing on the roof with nothing but the wide, blue sky behind me.
“I found it when I got around to printing the Silverman twins.”
It had been a long time since I’d seen my entire face without glasses. Every now and then I tried to see it, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with the glasses in my hand. But to see anything clear without glasses, I had to put my face so close to the glass, I could only catch pieces of myself.
Yet here in this photograph was my whole face—without glasses.
I pushed the glasses back onto my face and looked up at Harry Jupiter. His blue eyes were watery.
“Thanks,” I told him.
He nodded, and began to shuffle down the dim hallway.
“Why now?” I said to his back.
He turned.
“Why did you finally get around to printing the Silverman twins now?”
Harry Jupiter shrugged. “I came across the note from your father asking me about the darkroom. Must have been buried under the negatives on my desk.”
I looked down at the photograph in my hand. The photograph delivered by Harry Jupiter, who had not been up here in all the weeks since we’d waked my father with an empty coffin. Harry Jupiter, who never came across anything buried under the negatives on his desk.
I shut the door. This photograph was a message.
My father
knew
.
Likely he’d followed me. Perhaps watched me in the cold brightness of the Automat eating a slice of coconut custard pie in small bites, or sat in the next subway car as I rode the train to Flushing, where the two of us had gone to shake Superman’s hand. It would only have taken one time. One time for my father—who could read strangers, after all—to understand what I’d been doing all summer, and why.
And once I’d deciphered this part of my father’s message, I knew why he’d left the note that sent Harry
“These the ones?” Even the bare-lipped salesman sounded doubtful.
But by that time my throat was so closed up, I could only nod.
He slipped the shoes over my socks, and I walked around on the thick Thom McAn carpet. The shoes were stiff and rubbed against my heels.
“How do they feel?”
“Fine,” I croaked.
• • •
When I got home, I left the shoes in my room, buried beneath the folded layers of tissue paper. Then I turned on the radio and tried filling my head with cowboys and flying men in capes. But I couldn’t picture anything except myself sitting in the front row of a sixth-grade classroom wearing the tan-colored Thom McAns, squinting at the blackboard as a version of Miss Steinhardt chalked down facts about the Emancipation Proclamation, while finally—finally!—a Nazi spy slipped into the Automat for a piece of cream pie, or a Nazi saboteur hurried across Grand Central Station on his way to Croton to poison the water supply.
I pushed around the food Aunt May left us—Boiled Tongue with Horseradish Sauce—and then threw myself in front of the Silvertone again, radio serials unspooling from the speakers beside my head, unable to conjure up a picture of anything except me, trapped inside P.S. 52 as the Nazis I’d been searching for all summer strolled by the windows.
Around nine o’clock, somebody knocked on our door.
It was Harry Jupiter, wearing a rumpled jacket and a hat that looked as if he’d sat on it. I hadn’t seen Harry Jupiter since my father’s wake, since he’d stumbled around our apartment looking as if it was only his glass of rye whiskey keeping him upright.
I asked him if he wanted to come in, but he shook his jowls like he was afraid there might still be an empty coffin in our living room.
“I have something for you.”
He dug around in both pockets of his rumpled jacket until he came up with a photograph.
“I’m sorry it took me so long.”
He passed it over to me.
I pushed my glasses onto the top of my head and brought the photograph close to my face. It was the picture of me standing on the roof with nothing but the wide, blue sky behind me.
“I found it when I got around to printing the Silverman twins.”
It had been a long time since I’d seen my entire face without glasses. Every now and then I tried to see it, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with the glasses in my hand. But to see anything clear without glasses, I had to put my face so close to the glass, I could only catch pieces of myself.
Yet here in this photograph was my whole face—without glasses.
I pushed the glasses back onto my face and looked up at Harry Jupiter. His blue eyes were watery.
“Thanks,” I told him.
He nodded, and began to shuffle down the dim hallway.
“Why now?” I said to his back.
He turned.
“Why did you finally get around to printing the Silverman twins now?”
Harry Jupiter shrugged. “I came across the note from your father asking me about the darkroom. Must have been buried under the negatives on my desk.”
I looked down at the photograph in my hand. The photograph delivered by Harry Jupiter, who had not been up here in all the weeks since we’d waked my father with an empty coffin. Harry Jupiter, who never came across anything buried under the negatives on his desk.
I shut the door. This photograph was a message.
My father
knew
.
Likely he’d followed me. Perhaps watched me in the cold brightness of the Automat eating a slice of coconut custard pie in small bites, or sat in the next subway car as I rode the train to Flushing, where the two of us had gone to shake Superman’s hand. It would only have taken one time. One time for my father—who could read strangers, after all—to understand what I’d been doing all summer, and why.
And once I’d deciphered this part of my father’s message, I knew why he’d left the note that sent Harry
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