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Thinking it would scare him away, speaking from between clenched teeth, “If you don’t get the hell out of here right now…” Moving the apron aside, the man exposed the wood grain handle of a snub nosed .38 caliber pistol that was tucked beneath his belt. But the threat remained unfinished because…
Shoving again, the derelict pushed the man backwards, where, tripping on the mop handle, off balance, the man stumbled between the stools and…
As he stumbled, jerking the pistol from the man’s belt…
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Peoria, Illinois
July 14, 1959:
7:22 a.m.
“Hello.”
“Mitch, it’s Roger.”
Pouring a cup of coffee, “Hi!” putting the pot on the stove, glancing at the clock, “what’s up?”
Speaking in a strangely flat voice, “Is my sister,”—which, for conversations he’d had with Roger, did not sound all that strange—“uh, is Marsha around?”
“Yeah, hold on.” Having a long cord, the one phone in the house was on the dining room side of the adjoining wall. Inadvertently glancing at his son, who was sitting on the floor watching television, then at the stairway. “Guess she’s still in the bathroom.” Never getting a phone call from his brother-in-law, let alone one at 7:22 a.m., “Is something wrong?”
The line silent a number of seconds, “Yeah,” Roger finally said. “Tell my sister that dad had a, uh, accident and that you guys should come on home.”
“An accident? Yeah, sure, Roge. How is he? A car accident?”
The line silent again… “No… he got shot.”
“Shot?”
“Yeah, look…” Obviously not wanting to talk of this, hesitating again, “I can’t talk anymore. You guys just come home as soon as you can! Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. We’ll be there at about,” looking at the clock, judging how long it will take them to get ready to leave, “twelve, twelve thirty, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, okay. See you then,” Roger said, then hung up.
Putting the phone on the cradle, trying to think how to tell Marsha. As he walked to the stairs, she was coming down.
“Who was that? Who’d call at this time?” Marsha asked. “A customer?”
“No, your brother, and he…”
“My brother called?”
“Yeah, And he said that we should come there now because…”
“Now? He wants us to come to Chicago, now? Why?”
“He said there was some kind of an accident, and…”
“An accident?”
“Yes.” Thinking if he remained calm, hopefully she would too. “He said that…”
“What kind of accident? Who…”
“I don’t know how it happened, Marcie, but…”
“Mitchell, an accident with who? Who got hurt?”
“Marcie, it was your dad. He…”
All vestige of calmness gone, “Daddy!” Her voice catching, “What happened to daddy?”
“Your brother… Roger said that… That your dad, uh…”
Rushing to the phone, about to grab it, it rang. “Yes!”
“Marsha…”
“Aunt Ida, what’s wrong?”
“We didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but thinking about it we thought it best to let you know because…”
In panic, “Let me know what?”
“We didn’t want the three of you rushing home and getting into an accident yourselves, but…”
Her voice rising, “Aunt Ida, please! What happened to daddy?”
“This morning, before he opened, some bum, some dirty, goddamned nigger bum came into the store, and… The bastard shot your father!”
“Daddy? Shot?” Not allowing herself to think it, “How… How is he?”
Struggling to find words, the line was silent a moment. “That’s why there’s no need to rush here,” Ida said. “Marcie, Eli… Your father’s dead.”
July 24, 1959
How could it be?
How could this day possibly be such a beautiful day?
In surrealistic contrast to this beautiful summer day the mood within the car was drearily gray, and the silence oppressive.
Emotionally drained from the horror of last week’s endless drive from Peoria to Chicago, and the funeral, then the Shiva—the seven days of mourning for the dead, beginning immediately after the funeral in the home of the deceased—since leaving the home of, now, only her mother, though he had made an attempt at small talk, Marsha, with Michael cradled in her arms, asleep, had not responded and, receiving no response, Mitchell, too, had lapsed into a depressed silence.
****
Breaking the silence, “You know,” Marsha said softly, “they say only the good die young.” Adding sarcastically, “Guess that means mother will live forever.”
Relieved at hearing her voice, glancing at her, not thinking she expected an answer, placing his hand on Marsha’s knee, Mitchell brought his attention back to the ribbon of highway before him.
“You do know they liked him! The cops really liked daddy and they always told him: ‘Eli, don’t threaten those bastards! Just kill ’em, then give us a call and we’ll send a wagon and cart ’em away with no questions asked.’”
He’d heard someone at the funeral or Shiva say that, possibly even one of the many policemen that had come to offer their condolences.
“Poor Roger.”
Never having heard Marsha say anything nice about her brother, he glanced at her again.
“Having to identify the b… uh, daddy.”
He didn’t remember who told him, but Mitchell had heard this before, too, but thought it best to let her talk.
“To be called there! To find daddy sitting on the floor between those two stools with his eyes open, smiling… Oh, God!” Shuddering, shaking her head from side to side as though attempting to rid herself of the sight. “At first he thought daddy was okay, then Roger saw the hole in his forehead and that he wasn’t moving.” Hugging her son, “Oh, God!”
Wanting to offer solace. Desperately wanting to say something, anything to console her, but not knowing what to say, he squeezed her knee.
“And they let him go!” Now railing against the police, “The goddamned cops find the son of a bitch running around waving a gun saying, ‘I just shot a man!’ And because the goddamned Urban League (the forerunner of the N.A.A.C.P.) said it wasn’t his gun, and that he shot daddy in self-defence they let him go! God-damn-it!”
Attempting to give comfort, of sorts, “Marcie, you know what that one cop told you.”
“Yeah, that one day they’ll find that nigger dead in an alley.”
“Marcie…”
“No! Don’t say it! Ruby’s a mench, but the bastard that killed my father is a nigger!” Silent a moment, then, “I want a baby!”
“Huh?” So far out of context, “What did you say?”
“I want to give daddy a name! I want to become pregnant!”
Knowing he could barely afford the family he had. Also knowing that in the Jewish religion the soul of a departed person cannot rest—so he’d been told—until that person is “given a name.” And because Mitchell was well aware of Marsha’s love of her father, and well aware of her stubborn determination, also because he truly liked his father-in-law—and, because of the reason Marsha had for wanting to become pregnant at this time, it was but a fleeting thought: because it was so much fun trying—“Sure, honey,” he said. “If that’s what you want, it’s fine with me.”
