Ebenezer
One lonely man picks his way across the pavement to reach the other side, rubbing his hands together against the cold and the light snow. His eyes are pale, pale gray, and sometimes bright—when he is jostled by an innocent passer-by, they gleam and his mouth twists into a scowl. He grips his scarf and yanks it further up his neck, trying to cover his chapped red nose. His shoes, which are a little too big, flop against the pavement while he walks.
He looks almost like he is going to pass the toy store again tonight. At the last moment he stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk and stares into the display window, artfully sprayed with mistletoe and white curlicues. A stout woman with a cherry face and an enormous woolen coat runs into him, grimaces, and turns herself sideways to pass him. He glances after her. Maybe he should keep going. People are having to split around him now to get by. Maybe he should follow them; maybe he should take their momentum home.
Instead he scoots crabwise to the door and shakes himself off inside. Little flakes of snow and dandruff litter the floor next to the hat-stand. In here, it is almost as cold as outside, but tasteful: the rug looks new, decorated by tigers and elephants. The furniture is sparse but polished, and nothing looks too new, nothing looks too worn. Well-stuffed teddy bears watch Ebenezer with beady black eyes almost obscured by giant velvet bows twined around their necks.
The shop is lit by two bare bulbs emitting poisonous yellow light, leaving the cashier's stand in deep shadow. Someone sits there, smoking a pipe with his arm across his chest, a man a little older than Ebenezer with a choleric nose and gray-shot red hair.
Ebenezer ignores the hat stand and heads straight to the desk, where the shopkeeper slowly takes the pipe from his mouth.
"Mr. Franklin."
It's a statement, but Ebenezer answers it anyway. "Charles."
The two men eye each other with distaste. Mr. Hamilton closes one eye and rolls the other down Ebenezer's tatty yellow coat, matted with chalk dust, his one blue sock and one white, his too-big shoes and his fingerless gloves, his navy uniform and worn red scarf. Mr. Franklin folds his broad arms and takes in the broken veins in Mr. Hamilton's discolored nose, and the broad belly that nearly bursts the buttons of his vest. The whites of the shopkeeper's eyes have become yellow with age, the pupils faded to a diluted blue. They remain like this for a full minute, before Charles stands up.
"Well, what do you want?" he asks, taking a pocket watch from his jacket. It's gold, a real gold pocket watch. "I'm supposed to close in five minutes."
Ebenezer's jaw clenches because he knows that the Hamilton Toy Depot never closes before nine thirty. It's seven twenty. Instead of answering, he turns and glances at the display case.
They're glorious. The wheels are made of some sort of steel, and the scarlet laces are drawn up tight, tied in a perfect bow over the tongue. There are lightning bolts etched on the wheels, in the pattern of the laces, on the heels, on the top of the tongue, and if Ebenezer were to stretch out his arm and knock them to the floor, he'd see this pattern on the soles. His lips part a little as he considers them from this side of the glass. A very old longing fills his eyes, some echo of a different uniform, tight shoes, school books, treks home. Unconsciously he rubs his hands again.
"I want them roller skates," he says, without looking back at Charles. "If you please."
Mr. Hamilton raises his eyebrow, lifts the pipe to his mouth. He puffs on it thoughtfully.
"It's a fine pair," he admits, looking at them with him. Maybe they think of moldy-smelling classrooms, maybe the crisp taste of apples, maybe skinned knees. Their bodies, now old, sag under the weight of thoughts.
Ebenezer's gaze shifts to Charles briefly. "I know."
The toy store manager seems to collect himself. He blows out smoke, pats his stomach, clears his throat.
"Well, Mr. Franklin, these are very new." He pauses; Ebenezer does not take his eyes from the display case. "Very expensive."
"I got enough."
"I rather doubt that, Mr. Franklin."
Ebenezer finally turns to Charles. "If I say I got enough, I got enough. You calling me a liar?"
Mr. Hamilton adjusts his tie. He sets down his pipe with a small sigh. "I won't sell them to you on credit, Mr. Franklin."
"I'm not asking for them roller skates on credit. I tell you I got the cash on hand."
Charles frowns, considers sitting down again. Ebenezer is starting to get agitated, shoving his hands in his pockets. He leaves them stuck in there, his shoulders hunched, face hard and miserable. He scuffs his foot on the floor and circles the toe once.
Mr. Hamilton's face softens. He's not a hard man, for all his dislike of Ebenezer. He can even be jovial with the customers sometimes.
Gently: "Alright then, Mr. Franklin, let's see it."
Ebenezer looks up at him slowly, then withdraws one hand from his pocket. Tightly clenched in his fist is a fifty-dollar bill. He sticks his hand out and lets it fall in a crumpled wad onto the desk. Mr. Hamilton has to put down his pipe and run his hand across his chin.
"Where did you get this?"
It's a painful question. It means: did you steal it? I know you don't make this much sweeping floors at P.S. 8. Ebenezer turns his head away and nearly does not answer.
"It's my severance pay," he says stiffly. And then he shuts his mouth tightly, lips curled inward, an awkward waiting-face. His feet are still now.
The apology freezes on Mr. Hamilton's tongue. Mr. Franklin will never accept it, anyway. If Charles extends his condolences now, Ebenezer will snatch up the bill and walk straight into the night. It is the kind of men they are.
Charles takes the fifty and tilts the register for change. He looks Ebenezer deliberately in the face and lets a twenty and three ones float from hand to desk. Then, he pushes past him and takes the skates from the display window, yanks on the rolls of gift-wrap. Mr. Franklin watches him silently, not moving for his change.
"What the hell you going to use these skates for, anyway?" Mr. Hamilton grumbles, breaking decorum for the first time.
Ebenezer visibly relaxes. "Jimmy. Jimmy'll learn how to skate in these."
Mr. Hamilton frowns as he wraps, ripping away pieces of tape from the roll. "Jimmy…doesn't skate."
"He'll learn."
"He walking without the crutches now?"
No pause: "He will." He takes the skates wordlessly, rolls the package in his hands, examining the wrapping intricately decorated with sleighs and candy canes. The paper crackles as he tucks it under his arm. He turns and leaves, letting the door bang closed behind him. Without a word.
Mr. Hamilton runs his hand through his hair, reaches for his pipe. Ebenezer's change is still on the table. He scoops up the bills in one dry hand. They stick together: fresh new dollars new from the mint.
He goes to the display window and peers into the night. It's getting darker and the streetlamps are slowly brightening. Ebenezer is crossing the street, roller skates under one arm, trying to pull his scarf above his nose as the snow turns sleet. He stumbles on the icy sidewalk, rights himself, and glances over his shoulder. His eyes gleam even from this far away. Noticing Mr. Hamilton's stare, he gives him a jaunty wave, something reminiscent of kickball and long new pencils and chalk slates. Despite himself Charles finds himself raising two fingers in reply.
At nine thirty, on the dot, the curtains are shut and sign turned to let the empty street know they are closed for the night. Mr. Hamilton tucks things into his briefcase: a pocket-watch, some tools, the day's profits. He shuffles himself out the door, pulls latches, turns locks. The road is quiet and vacant and the streetlights cast a milky glow on the drying pavement. Snow melts in gutters and drips, glittering in pools on the sidewalk, draining into evenly scattered grills.
Mr. Hamilton rubs his hands together as he leans over one of these, and carefully stuffs the bills into one of the slots. After some shoving they flutter down to the stream and, already damp, sink to the bottom. They roll with the current, letting the momentum carry them away…
ns 15.158.61.41da2
