Чарли Андерс - Nebula Awards Showcase 2018

“You stay out here,” her father finally said. “This is not a place for little girls.” He took a breath and pushed the door open. A tiny bell tinkled as he stepped through; Malka, too curious to obey, quietly went in after him and stood by the door, trying to make herself as small as possible.

The store looked as unfriendly inside as it did out. A long counter, which had obviously once been used to serve sodas and ice cream, ran along the right wall of the store; it was empty and streaked with dust, and the shelves behind it were bare except for a few glasses. At the back of the store, there was a display case in which a few cans and dry-looking cakes sat.

The rest of the small space was taken up by several round tables. Only one was occupied, and it was partially obscured by a haze of cigarette smoke. Malka squinted: Three men sat there, playing cards. One was short and fat, with the darkest skin Malka had ever seen; he scowled at the cards while a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. A second, much younger and slimmer, was carefully dressed in a brown suit with a red tie; he had a thin mustache, and his hair was slicked back so that it looked, Malka thought, like it was always wet.

The third man, she decided, must be David’s father. He had David’s long, thin face and slight build, but the humor that was always dancing in David’s wide eyes had long ago disappeared from his. A long, pale scar ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, intensifying his look of a man who wasn’t to be trifled with. As she watched, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flask. He took a pull and replaced it without taking his eyes off his cards.

Malka’s father waited for a minute or two, and then cleared his throat.

None of the three looked up. “I think you’re in the wrong store, white man,” the fat man said.

Malka’s father put his hands in his pockets. “I was told that I could purchase a bottle or two of wine here.”

“You a Fed?” asked the man with slicked-back hair. “Only a Fed would be stupid enough to walk in here by himself.”

“Ain’t no Fed,” the fat man said. “Listen to him. He’s a Jew. Ain’t no Fed Jews.”

“There’s Izzy Einstein,” said the man with the hair. “He arrested three guys in Coney just yesterday. I read it in the paper.”

“Too skinny to be Izzy Einstein,” said the fat man. “Nah, he’s just your everyday, ordinary white man who’s looking for some cheap booze.”

“I was told I could buy wine here,” repeated Malka’s father calmly, although Malka could see that his hands, which he kept in his pockets, were trembling. “I was told you had kosher wine.”

The man with the scar stood and came over as the other two watched. Now Malka could see that his suit was worn and not as clean as it could be; he walked slowly, carefully, as though he knew he wasn’t sober and didn’t want to give it away. When he reached Malka’s father, he stopped and waited. He didn’t acknowledge the boy who followed him solicitously, as though ready to catch his father should he fall.

Malka grinned and waved. “Hi, David,” she said, and then, aware that she might be calling attention to herself, whispered, “I didn’t see you before.”

David put his finger to his lips and shook his head. “So?” Malka’s father asked. “You have wine for sale?”

“My landlord is a Jew,” said David’s father, challenging.

“So’s mine. And I’ll bet they’re both sons of bitches.”

There was a moment of silence. Malka held her breath. And then one corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe we can do business.” His two colleagues relaxed; the man with the hair swept up the cards and began shuffling them. “Where did you hear about me?”

“Your son David, here,” said Malka’s father. “He suggested I contact you.”

“My son David told you,” the man repeated, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” Malka’s father said, sounding puzzled. “Earlier today. Is there a problem?”

There was a pause, and then the man shook his head. “No, no problem. Yeah, I’ve got some of that kosher wine you were talking about. I can give you two bottles for three dollars each.”

Malka’s father took a breath. “That’s expensive.”

“Those are the prices.” The man shrugged. “Hard to get specialized product these days.”

David stood on his toes and whispered up at his father. The man didn’t look down at the boy, but bit his lip, then said, “Okay. I can give you the two bottles for five dollars. And that’s because you come with a—a family recommendation.”

“Done,” said Malka’s father. He put out a hand. “Abe Hirsch.”

David’s father took his hand. “Sam Richards,” he said. “You want to pick your merchandise up in the morning?”

Abe shook his head. “I’ve got to work early,” he said. “Can I pick it up after work?”

“Done,” Sam said.

Malka’s father turned and walked toward the door, then turned back. “I apologize,” he said, shaking his head. “I am an idiot. David, your son, has been invited to my house for dinner tomorrow night, and I have not asked his father’s permission. And of course, you are also invited as well.”

Sam stared at him. “You invited my son to your house for dinner?”

Abe shrugged.

“Hey, Sam,” called the well-dressed man, “you can’t go nowhere tomorrow night. We’ve got some business to take care of uptown at the Sugar Cane.”

Sam ignored his friend and looked at Malka, who stood next to her father, scratching an itch on her leg and grinning at the success of her plan. “This your little girl?”

It was Abe’s turn to stare. He looked down at Malka, who was nodding wildly, delighted at the idea of another guest at their Sabbath meal. He then looked back at Sam.

“Okay,” said Sam. “What time?”

“Around five p.m.,” Abe said, and gave the address.

“We don’t have to be uptown until nine,” Sam said to his friend. “Plenty of time.”

He turned back to Malka’s father. “Okay. I’ll bring the wine with me. But you make sure you have the money. Just because you’re feeding me—us—dinner don’t mean the drinks come free.”

“Of course,” said Abe.

At five p.m. the next evening, everything was ready. The table had been pulled away from the window and decorated with a white tablecloth (from the same woman who’d sold Abe a boiled chicken and a carrot tsimmes), settings for four, two extra chairs (borrowed from the carpenter who lived across the hall), two candles, and, at Abe’s place, his father’s old prayer book.

Abe, wearing his good jacket despite the heat, and with a borrowed yarmulke perched on his head, surveyed the scene. “Well, Malka?” he asked. “How does that look?”

“It’s perfect!” said Malka, running from one end of the room to the other to admire the table from different perspectives.

Almost on cue, somebody knocked on the door. “It’s David!” Malka yelled. “David, just a minute!”

“I’m sure he heard you,” said Abe, smiling. “The super in the basement probably heard you.” He walked over and opened the door.

Sam stood there, a small suitcase in his hand. He had obviously made some efforts toward improving his personal appearance: he was freshly shaven, wore a clean shirt, and had a spit-polish on his shoes.

David dashed out from behind his father. “You see!” he told Malka. “Everything worked out. My daddy brought the wine like he said, and I made him dress up, because I said it was going to be religious, and Mama wouldn’t have let him come to church all messed up. Right, Daddy?”

“You sure did, David,” said Sam, smiling. “Even made me wash behind my ears.” He then raised his eyes and looked hard at Abe, as if waiting to be challenged.