Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

“It’s killing you, sitting here with your mama, isn’t it?”

“No. I just—”

She laughed. “It’s all right. Go on.”

“Thanks.” He drained his tea then gave her another peck on the cheek and headed for the door.

Outside, the morning air was warm, but from the weight of it, he could tell the afternoon was going to be steamy. At least for now it was pleasant. As he passed Palermo’s, he popped inside to say hello to Molly, but when he asked if she was around, Mr. Palermo shook his head then apologized, saying he was too busy to talk. Since he and Max were the only two in the store, it seemed odd, but a lot of things were odd these days. Max wished him a good day and left, almost bumping into Richie outside the hardware store next door.

“Hey, Richie. I was hoping to run into you sometime.”

“Max.” Richie gave a sheepish half grin. “I heard you were back.”

There were so many things Max wanted to say, but he didn’t know where to start. He nodded toward the store. “You on a break?”

“Yep,” Richie replied, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets.

Max wasn’t used to the strained pauses between them. “I missed you at the game.”

“I haven’t played in a while. Not much time for it. And the fellas don’t play, so, you know.”

“The fellas?”

“I don’t think you’d know them.”

“Oh.” The seconds ticked past. “Sorry to hear that. It’s not the same without you.”

“Yeah, well. Things change,” he said. “You weren’t here. I did other stuff.”

Max felt a familiar pang of guilt at the reminder. During the last year of high school, whenever Richie had come to the Dreyfus house, Max had his head buried in his books. He still felt bad for having to turn his friend away so often.

“I needed to study. I needed to get the marks for the scholarship.”

Richie hesitated. “You know you’re the guy who could get everything right without even trying, yeah?”

“It’s not like that.”

Richie had no idea how hard Max studied. Still, Max knew he had it pretty easy in comparison. Unlike the Ryans, his family didn’t need him to work, so he’d been able to put everything into winning the scholarship.

“Can I ask a question?”

It struck Max that the old Richie would have just gone ahead and said what was on his mind. “Sure.”

“Why did you go to McMaster in Hamilton instead of the University of Toronto?”

Max’s mouth went dry, and he struggled to think of a believable excuse. There was no way he was going to tell Richie the real reason.

“There was… I wanted to study under a specific professor at Mac.”

At the time, the truth had been devastating. Now it was just embarrassing. Deep down, Max understood the University of Toronto’s quota for Jewish students wasn’t his fault, but he still felt humiliated over their rejection. It also made him angry every time he thought about it. Practically anyone else could march right into the university, but even if he’d gotten full marks on every subject, Max wouldn’t have been permitted into the hallowed halls.

Richie nodded slowly. “I see.” He looked like he was going to ask something more, and Max braced to tell another lie, then Richie’s attention shifted past him. “I gotta get back to work. I’ll see you.”

Max checked up the street, wondering what had prompted Richie to leave so abruptly, and spotted a group of four boys walking his way. He recognized one of them, Phil Burke, from elementary school, though he’d never known him well. Phil’s bleached white polo shirt was buttoned to the top, and a cigarette was propped behind one ear. Max watched him run a hand through his slicked blond hair then lean toward the other boys, saying something Max couldn’t hear. All their eyes slid to Max, and anger stirred in his gut. He’d seen this too often at McMaster. As they passed, all four glared as if they each had a personal score to settle with him, but Max stood his ground. Didn’t matter how many knuckles Phil cracked, Max refused to be intimidated.

By the time he arrived at his father’s warehouse on Spadina Avenue, some of his fury had faded, and he tried to push the rest away. It was midmorning, and there were two delivery trucks parked outside. A small crowd of people moved in and out of the building, their arms full, and Max remembered that Fridays were delivery days, sending stock to stores. As he approached, a tall, bearded man in a white shirt stepped outside, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Papa!” Max said.

His father turned, arms open. “Max, my boy. You’re here to help?”

“Of course. In exchange for lunch?”

“I will gladly buy you lunch if you help with all this.”

For the next two hours, Max and the others worked through the rising heat of the day, loading boxes of brand-new dresses, trousers, and coats while his father checked and double-checked inventory lists. When they were finally done, sweat rolled down Max’s face, and some of the workers’ shirts were drenched through. His father caught his eye and tipped his head toward the deli up the street.

“Let’s go see Harry Shopsowitz. He’s been asking about you lately.”

Max had forgotten how quickly his father walked. He had always taken long strides, his hands folded behind his back as if he was thinking hard. As a boy, Max had taken great pride in being able to match the speed of those steps. Now he was as tall as his father, but he still had to make an effort to keep up.

“It’s good to see steady business, considering the times,” Max said.

His father shook his head. “Two trucks, and they weren’t even full. Before, it was four or five. But I have to remember to be thankful for what we still have. Saul Rubenstein, you remember him? With the leather coats?”

“Of course.” Saul had been his father’s best friend for years,