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can that is blocking the road.
    â€œI stop to see what damage there is and the policeman runs up to me and shouts, ‘What’s wrong with you buddy? If you would have killed me, I would have beat the hell out of you.’”
    Harry and his father laughed, rolling their eyes at each other to visually Ping-Pong the punch line and keep the moment going.
    â€œJokes, always jokes,” his mother said.
    â€œVelia,” his father said, “we must—”
    She cut him off.
    â€œWe must, we must, we must do this and we must do that. So do it! No,
we must
means me, while you sit on East Broadway with the rest of the geniuses and say
we must.
”
    â€œNow, Leah …”
    â€œThe name is Velia.”
    â€œSo. And what am I today, still Maurice or maybe we are back to Mike?”
    She offered him a derisive smile.
    â€œThe Mikes of this country make a living.”
    His father feigned adjusting a monocle. He picked up a napkin and read:
    â€œMike Catzker, American tycoon, also odd jobs.”
    â€œA regular Eddie Cantor, without his fortune.”
    â€œAh, Eddie does not know the nobility of failure. I have observed the heavy burden a successful father places on the life of his children. I am making sure that this does not happen to Heshele.”
    â€œWell, we must …” his mother said, shrugging her shoulders to indicate helplessness, “we must get going. We are meeting them for brunch before the theater. Harry, you will clean up.”
    After washing the cups and saucers, he sat on the couch in the living room and covered his face with an open volume of Freud. As his parents entered, he lowered the book slowly, revealing awestruck eyes. His father laughed. His mother sighed and adjusted a black seal fur hat, then smoothed the collar of a matching coat. His father’s gray slouch hat was circled by a blue band that held a small red feather, The brim was snapped down, front and back. Under a tweed overcoat, a red wool tie lay on a gray corduroy shirt. She chose his clothes.
    Harry walked toward them. His mother turned her cheek toward his lips, retrieving it at first touch. His father lightly scratched Harry’s scalp.
    â€œSee you, Heshele,” he said.
    It might be as long as a week before Harry saw either of them, unless he got up before seven when his mother left for work or his father awakened before Harry left for school at eight-thirty. His parents spent their nights at the Cafe Royal on Second Avenue in Manhattan, where Yiddish writers and actors ate and argued. For Harry, there were notes and coins.
    â€œâ€™Bye,” Harry said.
    His father snapped his fingers.
    â€œI almost forgot. Your friend Aba is coming back tomorrow from his great triumph in Philadelphia where he read his poetry to more people than greeted Charles Lindbergh in Paris.”
    They turned and walked to the door. She, unsteady on three-inch heels, slid her arm under his and said:
    â€œAlways jokes … what’s so funny?”

CHAPTER
5
    A FTER SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY , H ARRY TURNED DOWN F RED K RAUSE’S offer of joint Joe Baker stalking. Fred was Harry’s only regular friend at school and that was less friendship than a shared interest in the mystery of Joe Baker.
    Joe was the most amazing human machine in the penny arcade. He could add, divide or multiply any amount of numbers as quickly as they were thrown at him. Once Harry, answer in hand, had fired at Joe fifty numbers ranging from billions to fractions. The correct answer immediately had tumbled out of Joe’s almost toothless mouth. Since then, Harry had conceded that Joe was never wrong and had been content to fill the void between Joe’s gums with spur-of-the-moment random numbers.
    When not mashing numbers, Joe spoke scatology, parroting for the most part statements taught him by the whores at Rosie’s. He introduced himself to all passersby with never-varying words:
    â€œMy name is Joe Baker.