pointed to his now-smoldering jacket. He placed blame for the incident on the Italians or the Negroes. The men then summoned him inside. While the women tended to his jacket Constantine took out his wares, and before he left Bucktown that hot, humid evening he had made over a weekâs worth of sales.
Bobbi liked the story because in it her father was such a wonderful liar. Only a Lithuanian gentleman could lie so boldly and get away with it, she thought. She didnât realize the patent medicine her father sold for nearly half his life was so worthless that men would try to kill him out of anger for having bought it, for their families having used it. Bobbiâs mother agreed that it was a fine story. She said it showed how clever Constantine wasâhe could turn tragedy into successâand how quickly he had learned to do whatever was necessary to get ahead and make a profit in America.
The newspaper clippings described a
dark deranged foreigner
on the downtown Washington Street subway platform
waving his arms and suitcase
and
causing a general disturbance.
The police were promptly called. There was
shoving
and
a great deal of noise and confusion.
The man
appeared to have been drinking
and
did not speak in English. It happened quickly,
one witness said.
The foreigner struck a policeman. Sergeant F. Mahoney, on the side of the head with a suitcase full of bottles, and then, when a second officer withdrew his revolver, the foreigner screamed and leaped onto the tracks directly into the path of a southbound Elevated âBâ train. The conductor, Calvin Jefferson, testified he could not stop his train in time. The police have launched a complete investigation. The body was later identified.
This occurred in 1957, in September, when Bobbi was four years old.
IV
There was barely time to hesitateâit was happening too quicklyâthere was barely time in which to think, but Bobbi realized that she was falling. She broke her fall with her left arm. Then she was on the rug, beneath the dark table, trying to make her escape. Around her was the thick clutter of chair and table legs. Tom was holding her, his arms circling her bare thighs. She tried to kick loose. She was afraid, yet curiously aware that in this time when she should have been terrified she was still thinking coolly, rationally; and as the hands pulled her back she felt strangely proud. She was still in control of the situation. She wasnât crying. She wasnât hysterical. She was still able to function and to think. With these abilities she could handle this boy and his suddenly rude hands, this Tom, her Tom, quiet Tom, Catholic Tom, stupid clean-cut Tom. He would stop if she wanted him to, she thought. He wasnât asbad as the city animals she went to school with. Why, all she would have to do would be to say
stop.
So this was a game like all the other games, all the at-the-movies games and in-the-front-hallway games and oh-just-let-me-touch-you-for-a-moment tricks and twists. Bobbi thought about the ways she could get boys to notice her at a dance, the ways the boys fumbled in their pockets for a match to light her cigarette, the way they cleared their throats before they tried to speak, the way they pressed against her, trying always trying to get a little further, a little closer, somewhere they had never gotten to before, when all she had to do was to change the way she smiled, to push a hand against a shoulder, to yawn into an eager pimpled face. Oh how they stopped. Cold. Flat. Bobbi knew boys, how they stopped: deflated, tumbled, put down, down, down. Oh, how the boys would tumble. Boys were such silly prissy pampered things, and just as long as she stayed away from the gutter types she could control them, tease them, wind them clear around her little finger, and they loved it. They always came back to her for more because they truly loved it.
How she hated them. Boys were so weak and easy, and finally so boring; how easy it
Bobbi liked the story because in it her father was such a wonderful liar. Only a Lithuanian gentleman could lie so boldly and get away with it, she thought. She didnât realize the patent medicine her father sold for nearly half his life was so worthless that men would try to kill him out of anger for having bought it, for their families having used it. Bobbiâs mother agreed that it was a fine story. She said it showed how clever Constantine wasâhe could turn tragedy into successâand how quickly he had learned to do whatever was necessary to get ahead and make a profit in America.
The newspaper clippings described a
dark deranged foreigner
on the downtown Washington Street subway platform
waving his arms and suitcase
and
causing a general disturbance.
The police were promptly called. There was
shoving
and
a great deal of noise and confusion.
The man
appeared to have been drinking
and
did not speak in English. It happened quickly,
one witness said.
The foreigner struck a policeman. Sergeant F. Mahoney, on the side of the head with a suitcase full of bottles, and then, when a second officer withdrew his revolver, the foreigner screamed and leaped onto the tracks directly into the path of a southbound Elevated âBâ train. The conductor, Calvin Jefferson, testified he could not stop his train in time. The police have launched a complete investigation. The body was later identified.
This occurred in 1957, in September, when Bobbi was four years old.
IV
There was barely time to hesitateâit was happening too quicklyâthere was barely time in which to think, but Bobbi realized that she was falling. She broke her fall with her left arm. Then she was on the rug, beneath the dark table, trying to make her escape. Around her was the thick clutter of chair and table legs. Tom was holding her, his arms circling her bare thighs. She tried to kick loose. She was afraid, yet curiously aware that in this time when she should have been terrified she was still thinking coolly, rationally; and as the hands pulled her back she felt strangely proud. She was still in control of the situation. She wasnât crying. She wasnât hysterical. She was still able to function and to think. With these abilities she could handle this boy and his suddenly rude hands, this Tom, her Tom, quiet Tom, Catholic Tom, stupid clean-cut Tom. He would stop if she wanted him to, she thought. He wasnât asbad as the city animals she went to school with. Why, all she would have to do would be to say
stop.
So this was a game like all the other games, all the at-the-movies games and in-the-front-hallway games and oh-just-let-me-touch-you-for-a-moment tricks and twists. Bobbi thought about the ways she could get boys to notice her at a dance, the ways the boys fumbled in their pockets for a match to light her cigarette, the way they cleared their throats before they tried to speak, the way they pressed against her, trying always trying to get a little further, a little closer, somewhere they had never gotten to before, when all she had to do was to change the way she smiled, to push a hand against a shoulder, to yawn into an eager pimpled face. Oh how they stopped. Cold. Flat. Bobbi knew boys, how they stopped: deflated, tumbled, put down, down, down. Oh, how the boys would tumble. Boys were such silly prissy pampered things, and just as long as she stayed away from the gutter types she could control them, tease them, wind them clear around her little finger, and they loved it. They always came back to her for more because they truly loved it.
How she hated them. Boys were so weak and easy, and finally so boring; how easy it
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