Free Stealing Home by Ellen Schwartz Page B

the store. Joey glanced from left to right, seeing if anyone was looking, and reached his hand out. But his hand stopped in midair as he realized he didn’t need to steal. There was plenty at home. Strangely, he felt relieved.
    While Zeyde picked out a dark brown pumpernickel studded with caraway seeds, a man with a kind-looking plump face and wearing a white apron came out from behind the counter and shook his hand. “How are you, Sam?”
    “All right, Irving, how are you?”
    “Can’t complain. Though I do anyway.” He laughed and his stomach shook. He turned to Bobbie. “Hello, Roberta.”
    “Hi, Mr. Cohen.”
    He smiled at Joey. “And who’s this?”
    “My cousin, Joey.”
    The man looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. “Oh, you must be Rebecca’s boy.” He put his hand on Zeyde’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I just heard the other day. A terrible loss.”
    Zeyde stiffened. It wasn’t anything you could see, but Joey could feel it. “Thank you, Irving,” he said curtly.
    “And are you living with your grandpa now?” Mr. Cohen said kindly to Joey.
    Joey nodded.
    “That’s good.” He smiled at Zeyde. “A blessing to have another grandchild in the house, eh, Sam?”
    For a long moment Zeyde didn’t answer. Then he inclined his head. It wasn’t a yes and it wasn’t a no.
    Joey’s heart sank. But what, he asked himself, pushing away a sudden slash of disappointment, had he expected?
    Next stop was Stein’s Hardware. A tall, balding, dour-looking man with a beaky nose and sunken cheeks said a gloomy hello to Zeyde. He was wearing a canvas apron with many pockets, a ruler poking up from one, a tape measure bulging in another, and a hammer dangling from a loop on the side. He weighed out a bag of nails for Zeyde, took Zeyde’s money, and handed Zeyde the bag, all without smiling or saying a word to Bobbie or Joey.
    As they were leaving, Joey heard the man say in a low voice to a customer, “So
that’s
the boy.”
    “How can Sam parade him around?” the customer whispered.
    “Doesn’t look too happy about it,” Mr. Stein replied.
    “Well, honestly, can you blame him?”
    Zeyde was already out the door, so Joey couldn’t tell whether he’d heard. He longed to turn around and yell at the men, but forced himself to keep walking.
    “Don’t pay any mind, Joey,” Bobbie whispered. “Mr. Stein’s an old meanie. He’s miserable to everybody.” She gave him a smile, but Joey knew it was one of those smiles that was trying too hard. He didn’t smile back.
    Then they went to Kaplan’s Produce. Mr. Kaplan, a bear of a man with thick, curly black hair, asked Bobbie who her friend was. When she told him, he said, “Pleased to meet you, Joey,” and shook his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then, while Zeyde picked out salad greens, Mr. Kaplan winked at Bobbie and Joey and slipped them each a fat, juicy peach. Joey rubbed the fuzz on his shorts and bit in. Juice dripped down his chin and neck, tickling and feeling sticky at the same time. Licking the nectar off his fingers, he forgot all about Zeyde’s stiffness and Mr. Stein’s rudeness, the whispers and raised eyebrows.
    They turned the corner and entered a large store with a green-and-white striped awning. YANOFSKY’S DELI spelled gold letters on the window. Joey breathed deeply. Tangy pickles … sauerkraut… smoked herring …
    Then he remembered. It was in one of Mama’s good times, when she’d had some money, and they’d splurged by going out to lunch at a deli on Bergen Avenue. Joey couldn’t remember the name of the deli, but he remembered the sandwich. Layer on layer of smoky pastrami between thick slices of rye bread, with spicy mustard and juicy tomato and lettuce. The sandwich was so fat he’d had to stretch his jaw to get his mouth around it, and Mama said he looked like a crocodile eating a big fat toad. He’d finished every bite. And then he’d eaten five whole pickles, one after the