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Show Anting Alone Page 269 Maybe it was a depressive phase coming on, but Sam's bad feelings had gained such urgency inside of him that he was almost running by the time he got to Dr. Abraham's block, loose newspapers flocking around his legs in the wind. Sam expected such a fond welcome from his first publisher and editor that he simply kicked open the white picket gate and, uninvited, half-swaggered, half-sprinted up the Abrahams' garden path. He took the time to pull the sample film review from his sweatshirt pocket and smooth it out, yet pumped his soft, crackling knees as never before in his recent life to make it to the doorknob before a tornado or a nuclear attack could come. He opened the door, not bothering to knock, as though he owned, or had appropriated the place for the Czar or the Rothschilds. He wore a big grin, doom welling up in equal parts from the puddle of joy inside him. He shut up as soon as he got a glance around the living room. There were many Jews all drooped among the furniture with cuts in their sleeves, some of them staring impassively up at the big orange intruder. They seemed to have been listening to someone reading something weepy in Hebrew. There was a candle burning among the oriental picture books on the coffee table, and the hall mirror was covered. Someone Sam's age, resembling the old professor, was mumbling something that Sam was hip enough to recognize immediately as Kaddish. Before he could simper or apologize or run away, Sam heard a withering scream and got hit square in the remains of his nose with a huge, flying, blood-red alabaster ashtray. "A black consumption on you, Edwine, and a barren wife!" came the shriek. "You encouraged those fascists, you gave them identity! |
