The Collected Stories by Grace Paley Page B

probably,” Mrs. Graham said. “Please, Alvin.”
    â€œO.K., O.K.,” he said. “You go up too, Ellie. Go on, don’t argue. Go on up and go to sleep. I want to talk to Mr. What’s-His-Name for a couple of minutes. Go on now, Ellie, before I get sore.
    â€œNow, you!” he said, turning to me. “Let’s go into my den.” He pointed to it with a meaty shoulder. I went before him.
    I could not really see him through the 4 a.m. haze, but I got the outlines. He was a big guy with a few years on me, a little more money, status, and enough community standing to freeze him where he stood. All he could do was bellow like a bull in his own parlor, crinolines cracking all around him.
    â€œYou know, sonny,” he said, leaning forward in a friendly way, “if you don’t keep away from my kid—in fact, if I ever see you with her again—I’m gonna bring this knee right up”—pointing to it—”and let you have it.”
    â€œWhat did
I
do?”
    â€œYou didn’t do anything and you’re not going to. Stay away … Listen,” he said intimately, man to man. “What good is she? She’s only a kid. She isn’t even sure which end is up.”
    I looked to see if he really believed that. From the relaxed condition of his face and the sincere look in his eyes, I had to say to myself, yes, that’s what he believes.
    â€œMr. Graham,” I said, “I called for Cindy at her own door. Your wife met me. I did not come sneaking around.”
    â€œDon’t give me any crap,” he said.
    â€œWell, all right, Mr. Graham,” I said. “I’m the last guy to create a situation. What do you want me to do?”
    â€œI don’t want you near this place.”
    I pretended to give it some thought. But my course was clear. I had to sleep two hours before morning at least. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Graham. I’m the last guy to create a situation. I just won’t see Cindy anymore. But there’s something we ought to do—from her point of view. The hell with me …”
    â€œThe hell with you is right,” he said. “What?”
    â€œI think a little note’s in order, a little letter explaining about all this. I don’t want her to think I hate her. You got to watch out with kids that age. They’re sensitive. I’d like to write to her.”
    â€œO.K.,” he said. “That’s a good idea, Charley. You do that little thing, and as far as I’m concerned we can call it square. I know how it is in the outfield, boy. Cold. I don’t blame you for trying. But this kid’s got a family to watch out for her. And I’ll tell you another thing. I’m the kind of father. I’m not ashamed to beat the shit out of her if I have to, and the
Ladies’ Home Journal
can cry in their soda pop, for all I care. O.K.?” he asked, standing up to conclude. “Everything O.K.?
    â€œI’m dying on my dogs,” he said in a kindlier tone. Then in a last snarl at the passing stranger he said, “But you better not try this neighborhood again.”
    â€œWell, so long,” I said, hopefully passing out of his life. “Don’t take any woolen condoms.” But when he cantered out to look for me, I was gone.
    Two days later I was sitting peacefully in my little office, which is shaded by a dying sycamore. I had three signed-for, cash-on-delivery jobs ahead of me, and if I weren’t a relaxed guy I would have been out cramming my just rewards. I was reading a little book called
Medieval People
, which I enjoyed because I am interested in man as a person. It’s a hobby. (I should have been a psychologist. I have an ear.) I was eating a hero sandwich. Above my head was a sign in gold which declared AERI AIR CONDITIONERS. Up the Aeri Mountain, Down the Rushing Glen, Aeri Goes Wherever, Man Builds Homes for Men.
    The telephone gave its