The Children by Howard Fast Page A

eyes.
    â€œHey, Ishky!”
    â€œHullo, Shomake.”
    â€œHullo.”
    Shomake sat down between Ishky and Thomas Edison. First he tightened the laces on his shoes. Then he stared straight ahead of him.
    â€œIshky?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYuh still saw at me?”
    â€œNaw—I ain’ saw. I wasn’t never saw atcha, Shomake.”
    â€œI thought yuh was.”
    â€œNaw—”
    They sat in silence again, three small figures, hunched over, wise and young and old as the world. They sat, while the sun sank behind the houses, to bring evening again. The heat was passing. From either end of the block, cool breezes stole. Voices, one by one, broke into, the night, but the small figures paid no attention.
    â€œDuh fiddle’s gone,” Shomake said finally.
    Ishky looked at him. Thomas Edison said, “Whyya cryin’, Shomake?”
    â€œI ain’.”
    â€œGeesus,” Ishky whispered.
    Shomake got to his feet. He looked at Ishky and then he looked at Thomas Edison, and then he stared down at his feet.
    â€œWell …” he began.
    â€œListen, Shomake,” Ishky said eagerly, “we gotta gang, Ollie an’ Kipleg an’ me. If y’wanna, yuh c’n git intuh it. I’ll fix it.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œSure—an’ dat’ll be a lotta fun.”
    â€œYeah?” Sure.
    â€œAwright.” He turned hesitantly, and it seemed to Ishky then that he was afraid to go back to the store. Very slowly, Shomake walked to the curb.
    â€œWell—so long, Ishky—”
    â€œSo long, Shomake.”
    â€œSeeya tumarra.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œS’long.”
    â€œSo long.”
    Shomake faded into the night, strange Shomake—
    â€œHey, Ishky,” Thomas Edison said.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œC’n I git intuh duh gang?”
    â€œYeah—I guess.”
    â€œGeesus—”
    They sat a while longer. A yellow cat came up to them, mewing, and it leaped into Thomas Edison’s arms. He held it close to him, stroking it, whispering to it. Then he dropped it to the sidewalk, and it darted away.
    â€œWell …”
    Ishky turned around to look at Thomas Edison, who was standing now, his head drooping forward farther than ever.
    â€œGoin’ home?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWell—s’long.”
    â€œSo long.”
    A ND I AM alone again now. My mother calls, “Ishky! Ishky! Ishky! Come opstes!”
    â€œAwright!”
    If she knew, she would leave me alone. I have done an awful thing, and I don’t know why. Oh, if there were some reason, any reason, it would not be the way it is. But there is no reason. I took the fiddle, and I destroyed it.
    If there is a God in heaven, what will he do to me? Or is this only the beginning? What is happening to me, Ishky?
    I want to cry, the way Shomake was crying, but I can’t. No, I can’t cry.
    I get up, and go into the hall. How dark—and dreary—and gloomy. Am I afraid of a dark hall now? Step by step, I go up. When I open the door, my mother folds her arms around me.
    But no rest in that.

TWENTY-ONE

    M ORNING COMES, AND ALL THINGS ARE FORGOTTEN—AT least for the time. I stretch, yawn, and wonder about the day, about yesterday. All things happened yesterday, the gang, the garden, and the fiddle. Then I turn over, burying my face in the covers. Why must the fiddle come back to me? I want to forget, but what will Shomake say to me?
    â€œIshky—Ishky!”
    Out of bed. I pull my clothes on, glancing anxiously about the room. Small and dirty, but through the window, the sun is shining in. So that makes up for other things.
    I guess that I am a fool. Otherwise would I have destroyed Shomake’s fiddle? And now, this morning, I want to find Shomake. I don’t know what I want to say to him, but I want to talk to him, and maybe that will make it better.
    â€œIshky!”
    â€œAwright, mama.”
    I lace