Not much of a witness. Should he just let it ride? Live with the uncertainty?

He considered it for a long time. The idea bothered him. Big loose end.

He could at least check it out. He thought a long time about how to do it without putting himself in danger, finally came up with the plan.

Perfect. And ironic. The hardest thing to pull off, irony, according to the bullshit-artist acting coaches.

What's my motivation?

Self-preservation.

67

Sam's house has a living room, a kitchen, two bed- rooms with a bathroom in between. I got a real bed. The sheets felt new. Sam slept in the other room, and I could hear him snoring through the wall.

It's only a few blocks from the shul, on what Sam calls a walk street. Instead of a road to drive through, there's a sidewalk, maybe twice as wide as a regular one.

“I should walk,” said Sam, driving there. “But at night there are too many nuts out.” He parks in an alley around the back.

He's got an alarm with panels on the front door and the door to the kitchen. I looked the other way while he punched the code, so he wouldn't think I was up to something. He said, “I'm ready to hit the hay,” and showed me my room. On the bed were a new toothbrush and toothpaste and a glass.

“No pajamas, Bill. Didn't know your size.” He looked embarrassed, standing in the doorway, not coming in.

I said, “Thanks. This is great. I mean it.”

He clicked his teeth together, like his false teeth didn't fit. “Listen, I want you to know I don't usually have guests- never did before.”

I didn't know what to say.

“What I'm getting at, Bill, is you don't have to worry about something funny going on. I like women. Stick around long enough and you'll see that.”

“I believe you,” I said.

“Okay… better get some sleep.”

The bedroom is painted light green and has old, dark furniture, a gray carpet, and two pictures on the wall hanging crooked. One's a black-and-white photograph of a woman with her hair tied up and a guy with a long black beard. The other one's a painting of some trees that looks like it was cut out of a magazine. The room has that old-guy smell and it's a little hot.

I brush my teeth and look in the mirror. The scratches on my face aren't too bad, but my chest hurts, my eyes are pink, and my hair looks nasty.

I strip down to my underpants, get under the covers, and close my eyes. At first it's quiet, then I hear music from Sam's room. Like a guitar, but higher. A mandolin. A bluegrass band at the Sunnyside had one of those.

He plays the same song over and over; it sounds sad and old.

Then he stops and the snoring begins. I think of Mom. That's all I remember till morning.

Now it's Saturday, and I wake up before he does and go into the living room. The curtains are closed and the house is dark. I pull a living room curtain aside and see a couple of metal chairs on Sam's front porch, then a low wall, houses across the walk street. The sky is getting blue and some gulls are flying. It's weird, but I swear I can smell the salt through the windows.

The living room has more books than any place I've seen except a library. Three walls are covered with bookshelves, and you can barely walk 'cause of all the magazines on the floor. In one corner's a couch with a knitted blanket thrown over it, a TV, and a music stand holding a song by some guy named Smetana.

I sit down on the couch and dust shoots up. No morning stomachache. It's the best sleep I've had in my life, and I decide to say thank you by making breakfast.

In a box on the kitchen counter I find whole wheat bread and I toast four slices. There's a coffee machine, but I don't know how to use it, so I just pour milk and orange juice into glasses and set them out on the table, along with paper napkins, forks, spoons, knives. In the refrigerator are fruits and vegetables, butter, some sour cream, eggs, and a big jar of something silvery-looking, like out of a science lab. Pickled herring. I take out the eggs, hoping Sam likes them scrambled.

They're frying up when I hear him coughing. He comes in, wearing this light blue bathrobe, rubs his eyes, and pushes at his teeth. “Thought I heard something- what, you're a gourmet?”

“Is scrambled okay?”

He turns his back on me, puts his hand to his mouth, and coughs some more. “Excuse me. Yeah, scrambled is great. Usually I don't cook Saturday- it's my Sabbath. I'm not that religious, but I usually don't cook. Maybe 'cause my mother never did.”

“Sorry-”

“No, no, this is good, why should it apply to you?” He comes closer, looks into the pan. “Smells good. I could use something hot- you know how to make coffee?”

“No.”

He explains how to use the machine and leaves. When he comes back, the coffee's poured and he's dressed in a tan suit and a white shirt with the collar open; his hair's brushed and he's shaved. By now, the eggs are pretty cold.

“Okay, let's chow down,” he says, unfolding his napkin and putting it on his lap. “Bon appétit- that means ‘eat up' in French.” He tastes the eggs. “Very good. Very gentlemanly of you to do this, Bill. Maybe there's hope for the younger generation.”

He finishes everything on his plate, has two cups of coffee, and lets out a big sigh. “Okay, here's my schedule: I go to the shul for Saturday services, should be back around eleven, eleven-thirty, noon at the latest. You want to leave the house, I'll keep the alarm off.”

“No, I'll stay here.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.” Suddenly my voice is tight. “I'll read.”

“Read what?”

“You've got a lot of books.”

He looks over at the living room. “You like to read, huh?”

“Very much.”

“You work and you read… I'm a reader, too, Bill. Once upon a time I wanted to be a lawyer. Back in Europe. No one in my family was a professional. We were farmers, miners, laborers. My father knew the Bible by heart, but they wouldn't let us get an education. I was determined to get one, but the war interrupted- enjoy the books. There's nothing in there a guy your age shouldn't see.”

He wipes his hands, carries his plate to the sink, and checks himself in a little mirror over the faucet. “Sure you want me to leave the alarm on?”

“Yes.”

“I just didn't want you to feel like you were in prison.” He touches his shirt collar, smooths it out, pats his hair. “Here I go, ready for God. Hope He's ready for me. If you get hungry, eat. I'll bring something back, too. See you eleven, eleven-thirty.”

He's back at 11:27, pulling the Lincoln behind the house and getting out in a hurry, carrying something wrapped in aluminum foil. He opens the passenger door and a skinny old woman with red hair gets out. The two of them talk for a while and then they disappear.

He comes through the front door fifteen minutes later. “Escorted a friend home.” He puts the foil thing on the table and unwraps it. Cookies with colored sprinkles on them. “Here you go.”

I nibble one. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome- listen, I appreciate manners, but you don't have to thank me for every little thing. Otherwise we'll be standing around here like Alphonse and Gaston- two very polite French guys.” He puts one hand behind his back, the other over his stomach, and bows. “You first- no, you first. It's an old joke- they're so polite, they stand there all day, never cross the street.”

I smile.

He says, “So what'd you end up reading?”

“Magazines.”

Most of his books turned out to be fiction; the real stuff I found was mostly catalogs of sinks and toilets. The magazines were interesting, though- really old, from the fifties and sixties. Life, Look, Saturday Evening Post, Time, Popular Mechanics. Presidents back to Eisenhower, stories about the Korean War, movie stars, animals in the zoo, families looking happy, weird ads.