Berkshire Bright Focus...

From The International Thesaurus of Quotations:

"Reputation: When we are dead we are praised by those who

survive us, though we frequently have no other merit

than that of being no longer alive."

           I came home from Elaine’s funeral, Lainie’s funeral, and found Tooie sitting alone in a dark room in our apartment. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, but I didn’t need to ask the question because I already knew the answer. I stood there for a moment, watching her in the dark, light from the street playing delicately across her pudgy features, and thought about our years together, our losses and our gains. I wasn’t in a mood for balance sheets just then. I couldn’t handle numbers or statistics or even theories. My mind was on the woman in the box, my eyes on the woman in the dark and my heart tugged and strained by the boy in the grips of the woman with Lainie’s looks. That boy. I had never seen a boy with such sadness in his face. And I had seen lots of sad, little boys.

          Half of my working life I had commuted to Wall Street, to the brokerage firm that employed me, where I’d spend the day with numbers and with telephones and log books. I worked without contact with people directly. I watched trends and I counted dollars rather than relationships. There were no friends, companions or cohorts with whom I could convene after work. I had clients, but they were voices whose personalities were contained in signed checks. I did this through half of my married years and Tooie, who was the center of my life, was the only source I had for contacts with living people. Everyone else was a compound fraction, a percentage point and a dollared return on an investment.

          It was July 12, the day I passed the orphanage, just off of Great Jones Street in Greenwich Village, that changed all of this for me. I had taken to walking up town after work, just to avoid the crush of angered humanity that plunged into the confines of the sewer-like subway. It was a pleasant way to end a day. From 8 in the morning until 4:30 in the afternoon my world consisted of the phone, the notebooks, a small window that looked out on other small windows, and, of course, a personal collection of finely sharpened pencils. So, walking up the broad highway of Broadway to West Broadway gave me a chance to breathe real air, clear my head of the dust of numbers and see faces. There weren’t many faces that inspired me to chat with any of the. Once or twice I thought about it, but I am not gregarious. I don’t make first moves easily. And, anyway, Tooie was already supplying me with strangers for my physical communications.

          Imagine my surprise, then, when the two boys grabbed me by the ankles and tussled me to the ground. I hadn’t even noticed them; children had never made much of an impression on me. They ran out of a building, just ahead of me, and as I passed they lunged, tackled me with one on each leg and knocked me over. I fell over the one to my left and felt the one to my right reach up for my coat, stick his hand inside, brushing it along my chest and extending into my breast pocket where he came into contact with my wallet. I tried to snatch it back from him but I was so off-balance, and the other one had such a grip on my arm now, that I couldn’t make the move quickly or definitely enough. I rolled, they ran and I was instantly up on my feet.

          I could see them ahead of me on the crowded pavement and I took off after them like a shot. I am long-legged and a good runner - winner of several high school trophies actually - so I was soon up alongside them.

          "Stop where you are, boys," I shouted, "or you will regret your actions."

          "Keep off it, long and lanky," one of them screamed in my direction. "Pervert! Help! Pervert!"

          The other one took up the cry and though they continued running, and calling me names, creating me a public nuiscance for the gathering public, I kept up with them. ‘No, you don’t,’ I thought to myself and I added a cry of my own to their loud, soprano voices.

          "Stop thieves," I cried. "Help me, someone, catch them. Thieves."

          The joint vociferations of "thief" and "pervert" attracted quite a crowd. Within seconds there was a circle around us and the boys had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

          "Hit him, somebody," one of the boys shouted with pain in his voice. "He’ll hurt me."

          "Just give me back my pocketbook," I said loudly enough for everyone in the crowd to hear. "They shanghaied me and stole my wallet!" I added so my listeners would understand the situation. "Knocked me right over and snatched and ran." One sympathetic woman patted me on the arm. The man who stood closest to the boy who had stolen my wallet reached out instantly and grasped the youngster on his shoulder. The other boy, seeing his friend nabbed tried to push through the crowd, but New Yorkers know how to stand fast and hold a position and they didn’t let him through.

          "Which one, Mister?" someone shouted. "Which one done it?"

          "This one robbed me," I said indicating the boy on my right, "but they both had a hand in it. This one knocked me down."

          "I never..." the youngster started to say, his defense not possible as the crowd shouted mean things in his direction.

          "You did, though," I reminded him. There were cries of "show us the wallet," and "give us your proof" from different ends of the gathering. The first boy just laughed at the catcalls and his laughter seemed to say, "I don’t have it. Prove your case, Mister," as it flashed in my direction.

          "Here it is, Mister," a policeman spoke out from the far reaches of the throng. He pushed his way through and came abreast of me. "Your name, please."

          "Vincent Compton." He opened the wallet that I knew was mine and looked into it, searching for an identification card. He found one quickly.

          "That’s the name, all right, sir. You’re lucky. Spotted it about half a block back."

          "He must have tossed it when I gave chase, then," I said.

          "He’s a liar. I never did. He’s just after me, that’s all. Pervert."

          "Officer, don’t listen to this. They knocked me over, tackled me, and stole that wallet from coat pocket."

          "Thank you, sir. I’ll take it from here. We know young Cassius here. Know him well, don’t we Cass?"

          "How do, Officer Murphy?"

          "I’ll how do you, Cassius. That I will, and your little accomplice too."

          Just then a woman pushed through from the far side of the crowd. She was pretty, about 25 years old with pale orange hair and a freckled complexion, grey eyes and soft red lips. She was wearing a plain brown dress with pockets.

          "Officer Murphy, please don’t," she said in a sweet, pleading voice.

          "Miss Levy, you know I have to write this up. You know it."

          "For the sake of the orphanage, I beg you not to. I’m sure this nice man won’t press charges now that he has his wallet back." She flashed a smile at me. "You will be kind to the children, won’t you?"

          I didn’t mean to answer her, but I found myself nodding, making a visual promise that my lips couldn’t speak.

          "Thank you, sir. The children at St. Jason’s thank you also."

          "I’m not sure...."

          "And on their patron saint’s feast day, too. Thank you so much." She had both boys by the hands now. "St. Jason’s is not a wealthy place and a fine would break us right now, so I thank you much.

          I was compelled by this creature. She was so straightforward and so easy with me and with the police officer. "St. Jason’s?" I said. "I’m not aware of it Miss...?"

          "Arlene Levy," she said. "I’d shake your hand but I dare not let go of either boy just yet."

          "Yes, of course, I understand....?"

          "I’m headmistress this week," she said. "That is until the new head is picked and I go back to cleaning and cooking and such."

          "But you’re so good with them. You should always be surrounded by children."

          "Now, don’t get me started on that subject," she said. She nearly swung her small charges around as she turned away from me and headed for home. I wanted to stop her going, talk to her a while, but I found myself both tongue-tied and unable to think of anything to say. I followed them down the block and waited while they mounted the steps of a large, double-width brownstone, an old building on an older street, just off the Bowery. It was imposing and grand, once a fine home I could see, and still decent, at least in its facade. Once she had made it up the nine steps to the large, glass double doors she turned to look at me on the sidewalk.

          "You might as well come in, Mr. Compton," she said. "You look almost as lost as the rest of these children." I followed her in. Nothing was ever the same for me after that. There were the children and Arlene Levy and still there was Tooie at home. And I finally had a calling, a life-work, something to inspire and tire me. Surrounded by children, boys, I have spent the rest of my time in life raising money to keep St. Jason’s Home alive. To finally put my best tools to work for something less than selfish was what I needed. It was what I found.

          Max had reminded me of Lainie even more than his mother did when I saw her. Max, with Lainie’s eyes and mouth, Lainie’s way of moving her head to one side when she spoke or when she was seriously watching me. Max reminded of John Jack, and Louis and Robert John, Robert Joseph and Robert Paul. He put me in mind of so many of the boys at St. Jason’s. Jason, the Saint, aided his cousin Paul and was himself the Bishop of Tarsus. We aid the boys at the home established in his name and I wanted nothing more than to come to the aid of this boy, Max, grandson of Lainie, St. Lainie, my Lainie.