1912


Harry Longfellow strode up to one of McSorley's barmen, Fast Carl, and ordered four pitchers of their best beer. The top of the bar was sticky with spilt liquor, causing Harry to wipe his hands on the long apron he wore tied around his waist as he peered round. The place was busier than usual. Being Christmas Eve he thought he'd never seen so many men in this popular night spot before. Every table was occupied. Thank God, he thought, it was nearing six o'clock, the hour the boss had announced that morning everyone could go home and spend time with their families. As Fast Carl filled and set the pitchers on the bar, Harry said, "Seen Max yet?"


Fast Carl, a stocky guy at five feet six inches, paused, shook his fat round face and ran a hand through his short red hair."Ain't seen him since he left at two."


Harry picked up the pitchers, two at a time, said, "Not like Max to miss work. Better get another round ready for table seven." He brought the heavy pitchers to table one, where six men sat drinking in a large booth against a long dark wall.


One of the men, fat jowls working, looked up as Harry set two of the pitchers on their table. "What's happened to Max? We miss his jokes. Said he was coming right back."


With his free hand Harry grabbed one of the pitchers he still possessed and shouted over the din of talk and laughter.

"Don't know. Need anything else?"

"Nah. Just a good joke or two."

"Sorry," Harry said and left their table to deposit the other two pitchers on table three. He stopped on the way, when he heard his name shouted. Turning, he saw Fast Carl motioning to come back to the bar. After dropping off the remaining beer pitchers on table three, Harry wiped his hands on the damp apron while retracing his steps. "What is it?" he asked Fast Carl.

"Take the phone. Something about Max."

Harry picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

It was Milly Sugarman's voice, Max's wife. "Harry, can you come here before you go home? Max wants to talk to you."

"What's it about? Wife's expecting me to bring home some groceries."

"He won't tell me. Sits in his chair and stares out the window. Please come. He don't look too good."

Harry scowled, trying to think of a good refusal. None came. He owed a lot to Max, for reasons he thought were important. "OK. I'll let Susan know. Should be there right after six."

"Thanks, Harry." She hung up.

In deep thought Harry stared at the receiver as he returned it to the cradle. Then the noise of a group of men, singing Jingle Bells, brought him back to McSorley's Bar. It seemed he had been working there forever. He remembered the first day on the job, the day he had met Max. "Max Sugarman is the name. Ask me again and I'll tell you the same," he said.

"I've got a million jokes to tell, and I can do them all very well." Harry liked him right away. Everyone liked him, Harry mused, and his million jokes.

At exactly one minute past six, the apron gone now from his waist, Harry pulled his wool overcoat tighter around his body as he stepped out from McSorley's Bar. It was a bitter thirty-one degrees, according to the outdoor thermometer hanging next to the entrance. Night had already blanketed the city, and the arc of the street lamps flared the snow flakes trickling down in front of him, as he made tracks toward Max's apartment.

The rattling sound of a car turned his head. He saw it coming toward him, one of them noisy Ford Tin Lizzie's. He hated the damn things. But for some reason this one appeared to be without a driver, because the car veered off its track suddenly and bumped to a halt against the curb. The engine kept exploding, but no attempt by the driver to back off made Harry stop in his tracks. He couldn't see through the windshield because of snow buildup. For a full minute nothing happened.

The motor chugged and vibrated the whole frame of the car. Curious, Harry approached the driver's side window, brushed the snow aside on the glass, and peeped inside. An old man with long gray hair lay slumped against the wheel, mouth open, dentures partly exposed.

Harry opened the door and spoke to the old man without success. When he touched the old man's shoulder, the body slid off the wheel and flopped onto the long, flat seat. After Harry turned off the engine, he could hear the snowflakes pat-pat-pat against the glass windows. Without any further hesitation Harry left the car and entered McSorley's Bar through the side entrance and picked up the telephone behind the counter.

But before he spoke to the operator, Fast Carl, who was still cleaning up the bar area, said, "Thought you left, Harry."

Harry lowered the receiver. "Car nearly ran me down on the sidewalk. I think the old guy driving is either drunk or dead. He won't be opening presents tomorrow."

Fast Carl shrugged his shoulders. "Life in the big city." He grabbed a short handled broom and began to sweep on either side of the raised wooden platform.

By the time Harry notified the proper authorities and ran back outside to stand near the Tin Lizzie to wave the ambulance over, the temperature had dropped another two degrees. The falling snow had ceased by the time he heard the siren.

Two young men jumped out of the ambulance parked now near the Ford car. The tallest of the two ambled past Harry and checked the old man's pulse. He shook his head while crawling out of the car and said to his partner, "He's dead, all right,

Pete. Poor old gent. On Christmas Eve. What a shame." Then he turned to Harry. "You can go now. We'll handle it real good. Thanks for calling it in."

Harry nodded, waved, and trudged in rapid steps toward Max's apartment. The door opened and Milly Sugarman's face looked angry.

Harry tried his best to apologize. "Sorry, Milly. Got involved with a car accident."

Her anger seemed to subside as she opened the door wider. "Come in. You look frozen. Got some hot coffee on the stove."

He hesitated. "Where's Max?"

"Left about ten minutes ago. Please come in. You're letting all the cold air into the flat."

He stepped inside the short hallway and heard the door close. The warmth of the gas heater spread rapidly around him.

Her voice sounded almost too friendly behind his shoulders as he slipped off his overcoat.

"Go on, grab a seat in the living room. I'll bring the coffee."

The couch looked comfortable, so he sat down on the soft cushions and draped his overcoat on the arm to his right. His gaze took in the opposite two arm chairs beneath the street window. The light from the street lamps highlighted the white covered electrical and telephone wires strung from pole to pole and the rest of the snowy street scene. A cheap print of the Mona Lisa hung on the wall to the right of the window. Her delicate smile always disturbed him. What was her secret?

Milly was humming a Christmas song as she brought in a tray stacked with coffee pot, cups and saucers, silverware, condiments, fudge, and fruit cake. She set the tray on the coffee table in front of Harry. "I forgot how you like it."

"Black. A smidgen of sugar, please. When will Max be back?"

"Shortly, I guess. He went to get me some smokes." She poured coffee into the two cups and dumped a half teaspoon of sugar in the steaming liquid. "You happen to have any cigarettes with you? I'm dying for a smoke."

"Don't use them. I prefer cigarillos."

"Those the long, thin kind?"

He nodded.

"Can I have one, please?" she said with a hungry look as Harry took the offered cup and saucer in one swift movement.

He reached his free hand into the inside coat pocket of his suit coat, pulled out a silver case, handed it to her, and added the lighter from his shirt pocket. He watched her light the cigarillo and pull a long drag into her lungs.

She placed the case and the lighter on the table, sat down on one of the wing chairs, and held the cigarillo between her first and second finger, the fired end pointing at the ceiling, elbow on the arm of the chair. She smiled as the smoke curled upwards. "How's Susan?"

Harry swallowed the good taste of the coffee. "Anxious. She's not liking the ninth month of pregnancy. Awkward. Hard to get up after sitting down in a low couch."

"Never got that far. Had a miscarriage during the fourth month."

"When was that?"

"Before we met you. Four or five years ago."

"Max never said anything about your loss."

"He wouldn't. Most times he keeps things bottled up inside." She took another drag on the cigarillo. White smoke spilled out of Milly's mouth and nose as she said, "He was more devastated than I was. Especially when the doctor told us I wouldn't be able to bear children any longer. Max sure counted on me having kids."

"Surely, you talked about adoption?"

"Yeah, we considered it," she said, brushing off a tobacco fiber on her lip with a finger of her free hand. "But Max is still dead set against raising any kid not his own."

"Too bad."

"Life goes on," she said and shifted in the chair, stubbing out the cigarillo in the ashtray on the coffee table. "He should have been back by now."

Harry set his cup and saucer on the coffee table and stood up. He picked up a piece of fruit cake. "Look, I really should go. Maybe I can talk to him on the way home. Where did he go?"

Milly stood up as Harry started to slip on his overcoat. "It's a little store a block up from here. Turn left when you leave.
Tell him to hurry it up."

"Sure, Milly," he said, and after saying good-bye and Merry Christmas, he turned left on the sidewalk, hoping to see Max walking from the store. He was alone and it was so quiet that he could hear his shoes crunch on the hardening snow. A block up, across the side street, he saw the little corner store, its two big windows brightly glowing from the ceiling lights.

He entered. A little bell jangled as he opened and shut the door. Max was nowhere to be seen among the aisles of food stuffs. A fat man with a handlebar mustache, bald head, and porky build came around from behind the cash register. His round face looked worried as he approached Harry, who was thinking of turning around to leave.

"You don't happen to be a doctor, by chance?"

Intrigued, Harry said, his hand flexed on the door knob. "No. What's the trouble?"

"Got a customer in back. He's awake but can't move."

Harry instinctually knew it had to be Max. "I may know him."

"This way," the grocer said, and he turned round and walked through a narrow curtain behind the counter.

On the floor of the stock room, Harry saw Max in a half sitting position, his head propped by a small pillow against a stack of boxes. The familiar large eyes were half open and blinked with recognition when they fell upon Harry. A carton of cigarettes was still held in his beefy hand. His voice, a near whisper, said, "Hello, Harry. Can't seem to find my legs. The floor's moving like the deck of a ship riding a wild sea."

The grocer rubbed his hands nervously. "The ambulance should be here soon. I don't know what else to do for him."

Harry knelt down by his friend. "Has this happened before, Max?"

Max moved his hand and stared at a point behind Harry's shoulder. "Maybe a year ago, maybe more. I can't remember.

Vertigo, the doc said. Could happen again any time, anywhere."

"Want me to call Milly?"

"Not now. Wait until we know which hospital they're going to take me."

The front door bell jangled. "Customer," came quickly out of the grocer's mouth. "I've got to leave, sorry."

Harry nodded without turning around.

Max closed his eyes and opened them wider as if trying to get better oriented. "It's getting worse, Harry. Stomach's rumbling. Wish they'd hurry."

Harry, feeling helpless and sad for his friend, said, "Would you like some water?"

Max nodded.

Harry looked around the room and saw a sink on the back wall. He rose to his feet and found some paper cups on the small drain board to the right of the sink. After filling one of the cups he returned to Max's side and watched his friend drain the contents and lower the cup to his stomach.

"Thanks, I really needed that."

"Can you handle a touch question, Max?"

"I think so."

"Why did you want me over?"

Max shifted his gaze and stared hard at Harry. He crumpled the paper cup inside his huge fist and let the wad of paper drop to the floor. "I'm thinking about quitting McSorley's."

"What for? You're treated right there."

"There's something going on you don't know about."

"Like what?"

Max swallowed. His eyes seemed to glaze over. "Milly and I are...having difficulties."

"What kind of difficulties?"

"She doesn't want to live in the big city any longer. Wants to regain her roots. The country scene: open land, woods, lakes, rivers, rolling hills dotted with farms and fields planted with things people buy in the stores. No rushing from here to there. Life without agony."

"And you? What are you going to do out in the wide open spaces?"

"That's the difficult part. The part I wanted to talk to you about. But can it wait? I'm not in the mood right now. The floor's still spinning around and around."

The front door bell jangled again. The grocer entered the stock room and stood by Harry's kneeling figure. "I called the hospital again. The ambulance got delayed. It's on its way now."

Harry rose to his feet and faced the grocer. "Which hospital?"

"St. John's."

"Can I use your telephone?"

"Sure. It's under the cash register."

Harry picked up the candlestick telephone and set the unit on the counter next to the cash register. He lifted the receiver from the cradle and talked to the operator. Milly answered after two rings.

"Hello?"

"It's Harry Longfellow. I'm here with Max, at the corner store."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't think it's anything serious. We're waiting for the ambulance. He's having one of his vertigo attacks."

"I'll be right there."

She hung up before he could say another word. Harry sauntered back into the stock room. Max was drinking another cup of water; he looked up when Harry knelt down again.

"Milly's on her way, Max. Feeling better?"

"It lingers around," Max said, "a long time before it levels out."

They all heard the siren and listened to it as if it were an angel coming from heaven.

Milly rushed in with the two ambulance men, who were carrying a stretcher. Harry stood silently aside as the two young men transferred Max from the floor onto the stretcher. He recognized them as the same two who had taken the old man out of the Tin Lizzie. They carried Max out of the stock room, Milly following close behind the stretcher, and loaded him
into the back of the ambulance. She jumped in, sat down next to Max, and grabbed his hand. Then the doors shut and the ambulance screamed off from the curb. It was snowing hard again.

At the cash register Harry pulled out a piece of paper, studied the scribbled words for a moment, and then looked up at the grocer. "Do I have time to get a few things?"

"Sure. I'm not closing until nine o'clock. Christmas Eve and all."

Harry started down one of the aisles looking for baking soda, wondering if Max was going to be able to put his world back in order.

Charles Trent Alling has published four short stories and one history book. He is now working on a fictional biography of President Abraham Lincoln while the Lincoln's lived in the White House during the American Civil War.