I'd like to read you now a story titled "Uncle Hirsch."
"Uncle Hersch."
That spring, the then Congressman, Devorski,
invited my parents and me to his son's circumcision.
I was home from college for vacation
and had never seen one.
Now, I'm in Senator Devorski's family
and can get favors from federal agencies.
But forget the favors, Devorski's place
on Long Island Sound was carefully big enough
and plush enough without being, what people who aren't wealthy
call, a mansion, jammed, which I hated
at that age and full of smoke.
There was a slim girl with oversized horn rimmed glasses
and her hair back tight in a barrette, Devorski's niece,
looking out the window at a big Labrador on the beach.
He's mine, she told me.
Her voice was quiet and cautious as though she
thought I might disagree.
I wanted to tell jokes or bring her
a glass of cold orange juice.
Somebody called and all the men went into another room
where we pressed together, and something
happened in the middle that I couldn't see,
and a baby screamed.
We drifted back and had our drinks freshened at the bar.
Did you see that butcher?
A short, hunched man with wild hair kept asking.
He seemed enraged.
He wandered around the living room.
His bulging eyes flashing from face to face.
I never saw such blood.
Listen to that, kid.
Shush, a woman said.
He shouted, shush after what I saw.
The woman turned away.
He came to the window, grabbed me by the biceps.
I didn't see it, I apologized.
He stared up at me.
His eyebrows working.
There were tiny burst blood vessels
in the whites of his eyes.
Uncle Hersch, did he do it wrong?
Asked the cautious girl.
He made a skewering gesture.
Should we do something?
She said.
He shrugged.
Try and tell them.
The kid's bleeding like a stuck pig.
Janet and her sisters had been orphans.
And their uncle, Burt, had been able to take two with Janet
left over for uncle Hirsch.
Now, uncle Burt was Congressman Devorski.
And uncle Hirsch was an executive.
They called him Harry at Pepperidge Farm, some big deal.
Just because he is sick a lot they won't promote him,
Janet said.
She lived next door with uncle Hirsch
and aunt Florence in a small house
that uncle Burt rented to them cheap.
They don't appreciate uncle Hersch, said Janet.
He does such careful work.
He cares about the tiniest detail.
He was back.
The ice cubes jingling aggressively in his glass.
His forehead laced with sweat.
No one can say we weren't here, he told Janet.
Let's take a walk.
Beautiful, she said.
He told me, I take a walk every day,
sometimes twice, otherwise my guts don't work.
I introduced myself.
Come for a walk as far as the lobster house, he urged.
Let's see what they're doing on a Sunday afternoon.
We walked along the shore road, the Labrador
prancing around us, and trying to poke
his nose into our crotches.
I said, I went to school in New Jersey.
Uncle Hersch said he had been born there
and still went back to visit his parents graves.
How do you drive?
He asked.
Take the GW bridge?
Tappan Zee, I said.
He nodded.
Then shoot across the cross Westchester Expressway
to the turnpike, I said.
Beats the Parkway, he said approvingly.
When we reached the lobster house,
he counted the cars in the parking lot.
It's not the season and look at that, he said.
I bet they've opened the upstairs.
Uncle Hirsch had a chance to buy in, Janet explained.
16-years-ago, he said.
But lobsters, you eat lobsters?
Never, I admitted.
He looked up at me fiercely, tossing the hair back
from his big gleaming eyes.
Then he shuddered, just the thought of eating a lobster
makes me sick, he said.
That summer was the summer of the beach.
Janet browned to the shade of pancakes.
And I thought about rubbing butter on her.
[LAUGHTER]
Aunt Florence believed we were sleeping together.
Sometimes bicycling into their driveway on a still morning,
I could hear Janet and her aunt trying to shout in whispers.
They didn't want to bother uncle Hersch, who
was sick most of that summer.
What a shrew she can be, said Janet.
But when she was calmer, she tried
to explain on Florence to me.
She's an adventurous and talented woman, Janet said.
And she married a man who just fusses.
The summer passed, the spot where Janet's glasses
dug into the bridge of her nose didn't darken properly.
And I wanted to protect it with my fingertips.
In the early evenings, we walked to the lobster house.
The parking lot was always jammed
and the line of summer residents waiting to be seated
reached to the front steps.
Sometimes we walked there along the beach,
pooling our ankles in the low tide.
The wall of the lobster house facing the sound
was mostly glass.
We could see the people inside eating and drinking.
When it got dark, the waiters lit candles.
Behind us the sound was sighing.
I was 20.
The sky, the stars, please.
When we got back, uncle Hersch sometimes
asked how full the parking lot was.
Then he grimaced and said he was through caring about anything.
Savagely with the edge of his hand
he chopped the cushion of the sofa where he was lying.
Be meticulous, work like a dog, sacrifice yourself.
Uncle Hirsch types all his own correspondents, Janet said.
I won't sign a sloppy letter, no typos, not one.
Secretaries can't meet those standards,
you're imposing on them.
He had a rheumatic heart, he told me.
I risk my life for Pepperidge Farm every day.
You think I'm a stockholder?
From now on, I let it slide, all of it.
Like an elephant flies, said on Florence.
Uncle Hersch tossed his head wildly and chopped at the sofa
again.
Dust flew up and he coughed.
The labrador lying beside him barked once and thumped
its tail on the floor.
Janet went for water.
You can't trust anybody, uncle Hersch said.
Anything you want done right, do it yourself.
He reached up to grab me by the biceps, but his grip slipped.
I'll tell you something, Janet trusts everyone.
You watch her.
Janets an adult, said aunt Florence.
She doesn't count her change.
People usually give you too much, not too little,
said Janet.
Coming back with the water.
He grabbed the glass fiercely, but drank only a sip.
I won't leave a toll booth until I count every nickel.
July 4th, and Congressman Devorski guy rode through town
in a motorcade.
Later, he borrowed uncle Hersch's outdoor grill
and posed for photographs in a chef's hat.
That evening, aunt Florence, and Janet, and I sat on the beach
and watched the fireworks.
Uncle Hersch narrowed his eyes scornfully, and said,
incredible.
But later, I saw him at a window.
August came and he was back at work,
furious at how things had been handled in his absence.
August ended.
Driving back to Jersey, he asked, I hated it, but I was.
We talked highways for a while because I
knew how much he enjoyed that.
Aunt Florence hugged me, relieved that I was going,
but feeling guilty over it and liking me, I could tell.
Janet and I took a long drive.
When we got back, the house was dark.
There was no sign of life, but the sleepy labrador,
which rose from the lawn to lick our hands.
That fall, we wrote letters.
I was in New Jersey.
She was in Ohio.
You leave a place, and you begin to question
what happened there.
It was Thanksgiving before we were together again at Uncle
Hersch's.
There was no question after all.
We became engaged.
But it seemed easier not to tell anyone until we had more time.
At Christmas, we decided.
Uncle Hersch looked well and almost happy.
At dinner, he hunched low, shoveling it in,
his chin almost on his plate, his big prominent eyes flashing
up at me again and again.
He quizzed me about every course, every teacher.
Where I lived?
How much rent I paid?
What I ate, and didn't it clog my guts?
What octane gas I used, and what way oil?
I mentioned that this time I had taken the George Washington
Bridge, and the Cross Bronx Expressway,
and the Hutchinson River Parkway,
and the New England turnpike.
The fastest, right?
He said, I'd like to see you try that on a holiday weekend
before they finished the Bruckner interchange?
[LAUGHTER]
After dinner, Janet, and uncle Hirsch, and I took a walk.
Aunt Florence said it was too cold and made him wear a scarf.
But when we got outdoors, he ripped it off
and threw it at the labrador.
We walked past uncle Bert's house, which was dark.
To keep the reporters away, uncle Hersch said,
this was the year that questions were
being asked about Congressman Devorski's tax returns.
Janet said she was sure he had cheated.
If I had his money, said uncle Hersch, I'd do the same thing.
It's disgusting, though.
Just thinking about it makes me sick.
I might do that, I said, but not you.
I've done plenty, he said angrily.
And thumped himself on the chest.
Years back, I had a belly full.
I couldn't take it that's what's wrong with me.
Now, Burt, it's his kind that runs the world.
You'd be a better Congressman, said Janet.
He stopped on the sidewalk and threw both arms into the air.
Typing my own letters, you know what
it takes to be a Congressman, sloppiness, the willingness
to be sloppy, letting other people do things any way
they want, that's the secret.
They're right and I'm wrong.
A car, bright with chrome, raced by with a roar.
Slow down, he screamed after it.
He walked on and we followed him.
Soon we came to the lobster house
where a sign suggested reservations
for Thanksgiving dinner.
The parking lot was almost empty,
but uncle Hirsch hardly looked at it.
I tell you, though, he said, sometimes I
want to line them all up against that wall.
He pointed to the lobster house and take a Tommy gun.
His body jerked as he fired it.
We turned to walk back.
Something bad happened then.
The labrador was killed.
The car with all the chrome came racing back
with mufflers roaring.
The labrador danced into the road and was crushed.
Look at that, said uncle Hersch.
Then the Labrador raised its head and made a sound.
Uncle Hersch said, you got a jackknife.
I didn't.
He found a rock and went up to the dog.
When he came back, he was coughing.
The car had skidded, and slowed, and stopped.
Now it turned around and came back.
The driver was no high school kid, but a big greaseball
in denim.
Uncle Hersch was holding Janet.
I had gone to look at the dog and came back
as the guy walked up.
Jesus, he said.
I'm sorry.
You're drunk, uncle Hersch said.
He had stopped coughing, but was still breathing hard.
No man.
Let's see your license.
You ain't a cop.
Listen, I'll pay for the dog, you name it.
I don't want your money, said uncle Hersch.
He walked very closed, head cocked
back, his chin was practically in the guy's chest
as he painted and stared up at him.
I want your license.
I want you off the road.
The greaseball looked at his car and you
could see that driving it meant everything to him.
He walked back to it and uncle Hirsch followed him.
You don't want money, that's it, he said.
I offered, you refused, finito.
Uncle Hersch laid down in the road
and stuck both legs under the car.
Get the plate number and call the cops, he told me.
He runs over dogs, but he won't break a man's legs.
The big guy grabbed uncle Hersch under the arms,
but couldn't budge him.
I've gotten my feet hooked around your muffler,
uncle Hersch said.
[LAUGHTER]
In a minute you'll be holding a stiff.
I have a heart condition.
I ran back to the lobster house and made the phone call.
A newspaper photographer came with the police.
Uncle Hersch, half under the car, folded his arms
and glared at the camera.
Congressman Devorski made a phone call that night.
And the picture was never published.
That winter, back at college, Janet wrote that for two years
she had a love affair with one of her professors.
She wouldn't have told me.
But if we got married, it would be something her friends knew.
And she was afraid I would hear about it.
She thought I should know before Christmas when we planned
to announce our engagement.
She had put off telling me as long as she could.
When I read that letter, it made me
feel a way I hated as though she had poison ivy or something
and wanted to borrow some lotion,
and I didn't want to give it to her.
Then I did something stupid.
I visited a prostitute.
Don't ask me why.
After that, I wanted to see Janet very much.
And wrote her that I was glad she told me
and that I would like it if we didn't ever
have to talk about it again.
When we met at home during Christmas vacation,
I thought she looked beautiful.
We decided to wait until summer to announce our engagement.
For one thing, uncle Hersch wasn't feeling well again.
And aunt Florence was worried about him.
It would be better to tell them when everybody was relaxed.
Uncle Hersch was still working, but seemed
to have more shortness of breath than I'd noticed before.
His eyes looked brighter and more bulging than ever.
At dinner, he ate less, and his gestures were subdued,
and sometimes I saw sweat running down his forehead
when I didn't feel hot at all.
New Year's Eve came, and Congressman Devorski
was having a party too big for his home.
He had rented the whole upstairs of the lobster house.
Uncle Hersch bared his teeth at that
and grabbed his chest with both hands rocking back and forth.
We'll stay here, said aunt Florence.
I have sherry and cheese.
But uncle Hersch felt well all day,
better and better throughout the evening.
I'm going over and see the circus,
he insisted with a sneer, close to midnight.
So we all went.
It was snowing, and this time he kept his scarf on.
Nevertheless, he was wheezing when we got there.
The upstairs of the lobster house
was loud with music, and full of smoke,
and jammed with the congressman's friends.
I didn't know anyone.
And Janet knew very few.
We four stayed together like explorers in a hostile country.
At midnight, aunt Florence gave me a warm kiss.
And Janet gave me a soft kiss.
Uncle Hersch drank much too much.
In another hour, the crowd had thinned.
The snow was heavy now.
And some were worried about getting home.
That was a polite excuse, said the Congressman looking around.
Most of them were going on to other parties.
But uncle Hersch wasn't ready to go.
He got me off to the side.
The Parkway will be closed, he said.
They'll be able to keep the turnpike open.
One lane anyway, I agreed.
I'd hate to be on the cross County tonight.
Or the Hutch, he said.
God there are a lot of roads.
I was trying to count up.
Coming from Jersey, you could take the Henry Hudson
past the Cloisters, cut over to the Deegan, New York State
Thruway to Hearts Dale, then the Expressway over
to the turnpike, or cut through the Bronx,
Grand Concourse the Mosholu Parkway, and Gun Hill Road,
then out the Post Road.
Too many lights, I said.
He shook himself all over, tossed his hair,
pampered up at me.
You wouldn't, but you could.
That's what gets me.
Right this minute there are people driving
on every one of those roads.
I nodded quickly.
Where are they all going?
I think about that all the time.
Uncle Hirsch stamped his foot in rage
and slapped his drink on both of us.
No, he shouted.
That's not my point.
Then what is your point?
I shouted back wounded.
He grabbed my jacket, pulled me very close,
his big eyes were like searchlights on my face.
How do you know?
He said, knocking his fist against my chest
with every word.
How do you choose which road you want?
What difference does it make?
That's my point.
You get me now?
I nodded uncertainly.
He let go in disgust and pushed me away.
Congressman Devorski walked up and said everyone was leaving.
He was driving back and had room for us in his car.
In the parking lot, we crowded into the big sedan.
The Congressman in front with his family.
Uncle Hersch, and Janet and aunt Florence, and I in back.
The car's windows were covered with snow.
Give me the scraper, said uncle Hersch.
I'll go around.
His brother turned on the wipers.
And in a minute you could see out the front, though poorly.
It's not far, he said.
The scraper, uncle Hersch insisted.
You'll run someone over.
He got out of the car and walked around to the front.
Your headlights are covered up.
Use your undershirt, said the Congressman.
The scraper, Bert, give it to me.
Get back in the car, the Congressman
yelled, everybody's freezing.
In the blurred beam of the headlights,
we could all see uncle Hirsch shake his fist.
Then he kicked the front bumper.
The scraper, he yelled furiously,
throwing his arms into the air.
His breath was visible in the cold
and you could tell from the puffs that he was panting.
Get back in the car, shouted the Congressman.
Then he leaned on the horn.
Uncle Hersch pulled off his top coat
and threw it down in the snow.
He tore open his jacket.
He grabbed his shirt and pulled.
And you could see the buttons popping.
He grabbed his undershirt at the neckline and yanked downward.
And in a minute he was stamping around the car
with the shredded undershirt in his hand.
He wiped off the headlights, the tail lights, all the windows.
Then he picked up his top coat and walked home.
Walking in the road the whole way.
He wouldn't get in the car.
And he wouldn't let the car pass.
[LAUGHTER]
We followed him through the snow.
And nobody said a word.
He didn't die from that especially,
but it wasn't many months more.
We brought him to the cemetery in New Jersey
where his parents are buried.
New England turnpike, Cross Bronx Expressway,
George Washington Bridge, the fastest.
Aunt Florence lives in Mexico City now.
She has good friends and good health.
She sends us gifts of leather, and silver, and jade.
Always nice, though inexpensive.
Senator, formerly Congressman Devorski is in his second term.
There's talk that he may go higher still.
The first Jewish vise president.
We're on his Christmas card list.
And we both get cards on our birthdays.
He'd do us favors, but forget the favors.
Janet and I are married.
We cheat very little on our tax returns.
We're still trying to have a child.
Sometimes she dreams about Uncle Hersch.
In the morning, she tells me, he was here for dinner.
He said he'd been away in a sanatorium,
but now he's all right.
He looked the same.
Then she screws up her eyes and forehead,
something she does too much.
I want to see her lying on the beach, stretched
out and relaxed, turning brown in the sun.
But these days, we live hundreds of miles from the water.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]