the war effort, but only Yossel hadn’t carted his junk to Debrofsky’s yard on St. Dominique, selling it there. No sir, that fink was no war-profiteer, he actually turned in his take at school. And now, Joshua could see, Yossel was still a collector. From salvage he had graduated to art. Canadiana. A Pellan hung on one wall, a William Ronald on another.
Cole (or Kugelman) acknowledged Joshua’s sly grin of recognition with an awkward offering of pleasantries. But Joshua wasn’t listening. He was trying to remember if Yossel had been the one to turn up at Bea Rosen’s sweet-sixteen wearing a fedora, when he was suddenly startled by a direct question. “Has she any reason to resent you?” Yossel inquired in a soothing voice.
Affronted, Joshua snapped back. “I leave a rim round the bathtub. No matter how hard I wipe, there are stains on my underwear.”
Yossel, obviously unshockable, continued, “Now tell me, what was your sex life like before –”
“None of your fucking business, Kugelman.”
Yossel flung his pen on the desk. “You’re not taking this seriously. I’m trying to help.”
“You’re full of shit, you always were. You turned up at Bea Rosen’s sweet-sixteen wearing a fedora. Ha, ha. Prick.”
Yossel sighed wearily, slicked back his hair with a plump hand, and asked Joshua what his feelings were about electric shock treatment.
Lunging, Joshua grabbed him by his tie, yanking hard. “You just come near her with those electrodes, you even think of it, and I’ll kill you.”
Breaking free, his face stinging red, Yossel demanded, “Are you crazy?”
“What’s crazy these days? You tell me, Dr.
Cole.”
“It wasn’t me who changed the name. It was my mother. My son has reverted to Kugelman.”
“He has?”
“He’s studying piano. He’s at Juilliard. And while we’re at it, it wasn’t me with the fedora at Bea’s sweet-sixteen. It was Izzy.”
Izzy Singer, who was then already into the stock market, using his war savings certificates as collateral.
“And please,” Yossel continued, “if we are going to get anywhere here, you must stop being so hostile.”
Joshua thought he could explain. “I saw you once at the airport,” he said. “Waiting by the carousel. When your suitcase came, it had little wheels underneath and a handle. You pulled it like a wagon.”
“So what?” Yossel asked, baffled.
“So you’re a twit.”
“I’ve got a bad back,” he protested. “I mustn’t carry.”
“Look here, Yossel, I want my wife back. I want her well. I don’t want any electrodes or primal scream therapy or any other shit you fakers are into. And you can take her off those drugs starting right now.”
“I tell you what. We’ll put her on yogurt every morning. You think that will do the trick?”
“You sure it was Izzy with the fedora?”
“Yes, I’m sure. And did you know that Bea Rosen’s dead?”
No, he didn’t.
“Cancer of the uterus. Last May. She left three children. The youngest’s autistic.”
“Hey, Yossel, you’re a real barrel of fun, aren’t you? How old are you now?”
“Forty-seven. Same as you.”
“What’s wrong with your back?”
“Nothing. A disc.”
“I’ve got stretch marks on my ass now. I thought that only happened to women.”
“Oy vey, Joshua, what a wreck you are. Do you always drink like this?”
“We’ve got to start taking care, Yossel. These are dangerous times for our old bunch. Forty-seven. Shit. I don’t care for what’s happening to us.”
A perplexed Yossel suddenly regarded Joshua with something like real alarm. “
What did he tell you, that blabbermouth?”
“Who?”
“Moish.”
Moish had to be Morty Zipper, who had sat two rows away from him in Room 42 and was now his physician. “I didn’t even know you were one of his patients.”
Yossel rubbed his tired eyes.
“I thought you said it was only a disc.”
Sighing, he allowed, “Recently I also suffer from shortness of breath after I have
Cole (or Kugelman) acknowledged Joshua’s sly grin of recognition with an awkward offering of pleasantries. But Joshua wasn’t listening. He was trying to remember if Yossel had been the one to turn up at Bea Rosen’s sweet-sixteen wearing a fedora, when he was suddenly startled by a direct question. “Has she any reason to resent you?” Yossel inquired in a soothing voice.
Affronted, Joshua snapped back. “I leave a rim round the bathtub. No matter how hard I wipe, there are stains on my underwear.”
Yossel, obviously unshockable, continued, “Now tell me, what was your sex life like before –”
“None of your fucking business, Kugelman.”
Yossel flung his pen on the desk. “You’re not taking this seriously. I’m trying to help.”
“You’re full of shit, you always were. You turned up at Bea Rosen’s sweet-sixteen wearing a fedora. Ha, ha. Prick.”
Yossel sighed wearily, slicked back his hair with a plump hand, and asked Joshua what his feelings were about electric shock treatment.
Lunging, Joshua grabbed him by his tie, yanking hard. “You just come near her with those electrodes, you even think of it, and I’ll kill you.”
Breaking free, his face stinging red, Yossel demanded, “Are you crazy?”
“What’s crazy these days? You tell me, Dr.
Cole.”
“It wasn’t me who changed the name. It was my mother. My son has reverted to Kugelman.”
“He has?”
“He’s studying piano. He’s at Juilliard. And while we’re at it, it wasn’t me with the fedora at Bea’s sweet-sixteen. It was Izzy.”
Izzy Singer, who was then already into the stock market, using his war savings certificates as collateral.
“And please,” Yossel continued, “if we are going to get anywhere here, you must stop being so hostile.”
Joshua thought he could explain. “I saw you once at the airport,” he said. “Waiting by the carousel. When your suitcase came, it had little wheels underneath and a handle. You pulled it like a wagon.”
“So what?” Yossel asked, baffled.
“So you’re a twit.”
“I’ve got a bad back,” he protested. “I mustn’t carry.”
“Look here, Yossel, I want my wife back. I want her well. I don’t want any electrodes or primal scream therapy or any other shit you fakers are into. And you can take her off those drugs starting right now.”
“I tell you what. We’ll put her on yogurt every morning. You think that will do the trick?”
“You sure it was Izzy with the fedora?”
“Yes, I’m sure. And did you know that Bea Rosen’s dead?”
No, he didn’t.
“Cancer of the uterus. Last May. She left three children. The youngest’s autistic.”
“Hey, Yossel, you’re a real barrel of fun, aren’t you? How old are you now?”
“Forty-seven. Same as you.”
“What’s wrong with your back?”
“Nothing. A disc.”
“I’ve got stretch marks on my ass now. I thought that only happened to women.”
“Oy vey, Joshua, what a wreck you are. Do you always drink like this?”
“We’ve got to start taking care, Yossel. These are dangerous times for our old bunch. Forty-seven. Shit. I don’t care for what’s happening to us.”
A perplexed Yossel suddenly regarded Joshua with something like real alarm. “
What did he tell you, that blabbermouth?”
“Who?”
“Moish.”
Moish had to be Morty Zipper, who had sat two rows away from him in Room 42 and was now his physician. “I didn’t even know you were one of his patients.”
Yossel rubbed his tired eyes.
“I thought you said it was only a disc.”
Sighing, he allowed, “Recently I also suffer from shortness of breath after I have
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