Save the Last Laugh for Me

Mortie was so small. In his cabin photographs taken at Camp Shulman, he was always a head shorter and looked minute kneeling next to the other kids, except for one other. There was always one other, who inevitably considered Mortie his best friend — or at least he told Mortie so.

At camp last Summer his name had been Warren Kohn and at home in Lafayette his name was J.K. Bledsoe. But how could they be his best friends when so often they were pushing and shoving him and daring him to fight? It would confuse him. His face would flush and he wouldn't know what to do; he would become paralyzed, stock still, because he just wouldn't know what to do.

If J.K. was his best friend, why was he doing this? And the tears would start and stop inside of him, filling his head and making his face red and hot, glazing his eyes.

When J.K. saw the glaze wetting Mortie's eyes, then he would stop pushing and threatening him, and he would say, I'm sorry, Mortie, and put his arm around him, and tell him that really he was his best friend. He would say, Can you meet me at Grandmomma's Saturday morning? We can walk down to Long's Drug Store and get a Coke and read comics. Or he might say, Would you like to come with us tomorrow? Dick and Paul and Butch and I, we're going to ride our bikes down by the sea wall; it'll be fun.

And Mortie would feel warm and grateful and tell J.K. that he, too, was his best friend, and he would say yes and his Mother would say yes and, excited, he would run back to J.K. and agree to meet down by the sea wall.

But then something else would happen to confuse Mortie. Riding their bikes down by the sea wall, J.K. would give a sidelong glance to the bigger boys and say, Why don't you ride closer to the sea wall, Mortie? Come on, Mortie, why don't you ride closer to the sea wall?

The big boys would snicker; J.K. would wink at them. Mortie, why don't you ride closer to the sea wall?

And Mortie would feel that same nervous paralysis as when J.K. dared him to fight.

But he would smile enthusiastically and move closer to the edge. The river, looming, would seem to rise up toward him, and almost nauseous, he would have to turn his head away and then his bike, quivering on the egde of the sea wall.

Then they might nudge him with their bikes, the river on one side rising, overwhelming, bicycle spokes on the other, grating, impatiently churning, threatening to catch his leg and pull him in and churn him and churn him and churn him until he was all at one with the spokes and they churned together smoothly and efficiently.

Come on, Mortie, why don't you ride closer to the edge?

Mortie would tense even more and grip his handlebars, still trying to smile with his friends. Afterwards, J.K. would always be the first to say, Mortie, you're all right, you're a good fellow. And Paul might say, You're all right, Mortie, you can take a lot more than I can.

And Mortie would smile, feeling warm and grateful for their friendship and say, Boy, that was something. I almost went over the edge. That was fun, wasn't it?

Later in the afternoon on the river bank, after they'd eaten the lunches their mothers had packed, two of the bigger boys would kneel on either side of him and punch him, giving him frogs and rabbits until his arms hung sore and dead fro his shoulders. He might wince, as if he were in the doctor's office, and grab his arm but he would always laugh with then as they were doing it, and he'd never get mad.

But why would J.K. encourage them to taunt and hit him and to snicker at him — and then want to be his best friend? It left Mortie very confused. He didn't know what to do. But he was glad J.K. was his friend, and when they were alone, he felt warm with him.

At Camp Shulman there was no river, but there was a lake, clear and cold with gleaming silver canoes, and a mountain behind it. Before leaving home Mortie ordered a jujitsu pamphlet and studied diligently in his room, practicing holds with imaginary opponents and falling on the bed. At camp he allowed the book to protrude from his cubby, and when asked by the bigger boys, he nodded his head that, Yes, he indeed knew some jujitsu.

And for a while they did not pick on him. But Warren Kohn knew better; he was also small.

One rainy afternoon when there was nothing to do and everyone was lounging in the cabin, Warren Kohn walked up to Mortie and said, You don't know any jujitsu. If you knew any, why don't you try it on me. And he wrestled Mortie down to the floor and was on his back and had him in a hammerlock, smmiling over at his cabinmates.

Mortie lay on the floor, simply waiting for a release he knew would eventually come.

Afterwards, the other boys began wrestling with him again, and Warren frequently pushed and threatened him. Afterwards, Warren did not ask him to go down to the river, since there wasn't one, or even to the lake. He asked him if he wanted to go to the Clay Shop.

Grateful, Mortie always went, and they always enjoyed themselves, often talking about the bigger boys, about what a good basketball player Howard was and Do you think Gilbert likes Nancy as much as Nancy likes Gilbert?

In the evenings when the counselors left, the bigger boys would climb up into the rafters where they kept trunks and suitcases. They said they were playing cards, and they probably were. But the cards had naked women on them, and the way they would giggle — Mortie could hear them, lying in the dark in his lower bunk — there was something else.

When they came down smiling, they might look at him, smiling gently, and say, You're too young, Mortie. And he would return the smile, nervous.

Actually, he wasn't young. He was just little. He was no younger than they were, and he felt nervous when they giggled up in the rafters and when they came down and smiled at him on the way to their bunks.

His mother had sent him to Camp Shulman to make Jewish friends and to meet Jewish girls. In a small southern town in South Carolina, you just didn't get a chance to be with your own.

These people are nice, but you need to be with your own.

Mortie was about the only southern Jew up there; all the rest were from Miami. His mother was extra nice to Warren when Mortie brought him home for the weekend. She called Warren's parents beforehand to assure them proper arrangements were made and afterward to say what nice boy their son was.

After camp that Summer, she said she was waiting for the day Mortie would bring home a Jewish girl for the weekend. That would be her day, she said.

He couldn't say anything to his Momma about J.K. and Warren and the bigger boys picking on him because he bathed in her pride that he had friends. She had wanted him so badly to have friends. He's got friends, she would brag to his father. Look, he's got friends. And she would smile down at him and softly caress the back of his neck. He was glad that he pleased her and he smiled at her. She loved him.

For a while he lost himself listening to Beethoven and Liszt and reading Jane Eyre and Dickens, but he soon drifted away from this. No man is an island, his mother said. You can't get along in this world without contacts. You need to meet people.

So she drove him down to the Little League field, and Mortie tried to be excited so she would be proud of him: I've got to hurry and finish my cereal so I won't be late for practice. Coach is probably going to let me play shortstop today. And he would pound his glove with his fist to demostrate his eagerness.

After his mother dropped him off and the bend hid her automobile, he walked over to the dugout and the coach said, Frank, throw to him. Take him over there, put him against the backstop and throw to him.

Mortie was afraid of the ball. Frank was a bigger boy with slick black hari and oily brown skin and a birthmark that looked like blood dripping out the side of his mouth where someone had hit him. He was mean and he was the town hood and he smoked and drank beer in the pool hall and fought with knives under the bleachers at football games and he would rather be doing something else than dipshit baseball, but his daddy was making him play to keep him out of trouble.

Frank pitched like he wanted to live: mean and fast and wild.

Every day Mortie stood in front of the backstop with a catch in his throat and eyes wide with dread and fear that said Please, Frank, please.

And Frank looked down from the makeshift mound at Mortie with the same smile he wore at recess while preparing to fight. And he wound up slowly and deliberately, causing Mortie's arms, his hands, his whole body to quake as the white ball came at him out of what seemed an evil and contorted darkness.

One hour every day this was his practice. The other hour he got to practice with the team, substituting in right field.

And afterward he would say, Momma, can I get a milkshake today? If the other boys practice well, their Mommas buy them a milkshake. I had a good practice today, he would say, and thought the fear and the dread remained he would feel good in the eyes of his mother. Coach says I'll probably start at shortstop. I'm sure I will. That's where I've been playing during practice.

The day of the first game Mortie did not tell his parents that everyone got a uniform and his father said, Good boy Mortie. Mattie, it looks like we've got a baseball player in the family. And his mother said, This calls for a celebration. he told them again that he was pretty sure he'd start, that coach had already told him, that he'd play shortstop or second base.

His Father and Mother shrugged and smiled and said, Well, whatever, that's not important. What's important is that you're out there. But he was so caught up in himself that he didn't hear that, and before they went out for steaks and a milkshake with him in his uniform, he stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom and saw Frank with the mean deliberate smile winding up behind him and his hands covered his eyes and he saw black as the ball shattered the mirror.

When he opened his eyes again and saw himself in the mirror, he knew the tears were for the upcoming practices in which he would stand in front of that backstop hopelessly and silently weeping, gaurding against and awkwardly lunging for a mean fast ball that suddenly might curve or hop or spin away, a white bullet that delighted in both hitting and eluding him.

Watching his parents out of the corner of his eye from the dugout that night, he propped up his leg and made a great motion of rubbing and massaging his ankle; and after the game, the front seat of the car with his parents, he looked at them with eyes that pleaded and he said, I didn't get to play. It was because of my ankle. I hurt it during warm-ups so coach said I shouldn't play.

And sitting between them in the front seat, he rubbed and massaged his ankle.

And he didn't hear them again, he couldn't, when they said, That's not important. We don't care about that. What we're proud of is that you're out there.

Late that night, hours after they had said their goodnights from their bedrooms, hours after Mortie had repeated it more than the usual once or twice, and hours after he had lain feverish in his bed from shame, he stole out of his bed and down the hall in the dark and knocked on the door of his parents' bedroom.

He knocked on the door, and his Dad, waking up, said, Come in, son. And his parents smiled when he came in.

Whenver he came into his parents' bedroom late at night, they always woke up smiling, as they did now. If he was frightened, they made room for him and patted the bed, and he crept in between them and they all went to sleep.

Momma, he said, Momma. It wasn't because of my hurt ankle. And his heart was tender and vulnerable as the tears welled around his eyes. I just wasn't good enough.

That's okay, son, his Father smiled at him. That's fine. And his mother patted the bed, and Mortie crept in beside them and his mother caressed his head and asked him if he felt better and he went to sleep.

After Little League there was Mrs. Hryharrow's ballroom dancing. All his friends were there and the more popular girls in the seventh grade: Karen and Joy and Mary Beth — that group. Dancing class was every Wednesday evening, and crepe paper decorated the rafters. The boys stood on one side and the girls on the other as Mrs. Hryharrow, tall and dark in black silk, swept flamboyantly through the middle in a grand display of the fox-trot.

Sometimes the girls would ask the boys to dance, and sometimes the boys would ask the girls, depending on Hryharrow's instructions. When she instructed the girls to select a partner, Mortie, waiting, wouldn't know where to look; but his eyes, following his heart, would say, Karen or Mary Beth, as the girl moved across the room toward the boys.

If she saw him, he might catch her eyes and look hopeful for an instant, but as she turned away he would again not know where to look, and he would turn his eyes inward so no one could see them begging.

He felt the same way as when his classmates were choosing sides for softball at recess, and he would be the last one picked. It was all so familiar: the knowledge that he was going to be last, the waiting with his classmates' eyes on him, their knowing. But at recess he tried to shut out the eyes of those around him with the certainty that he would be on a team in just a minute, in just a minute.

In dancing class, however, there was one more boy than girl so he wasnot chosen at all, and he stood there all alone against the wall while everyone else moved onto the dance floor and began dancing. And he felt like he did after J.K. and Warren had pushed and shoved him. He just didn't know what to do.

He avoided everyone's eyes, and the dance hall became a blur of dancers and colors and crepe paper and Karen's blonde hair and pretty face and Mary Beth's blue eyes and the rustle of Elaine's skirt as Paul held her hand high and twirled her around. He was so confused. Should he sit? He could hear himself breathing, and he filled with dread that others might also hear.

It wasn't that he wasn't being asked to dance — it was that everyone could see. If he could only disappear and come back as Paul and hold Elaine's hand high and have her smile at him and hear her skirt rustle as he twirled her around.

One evening after several classes, he was shocked to find tall Mrs. Hryharrow with the dark hair and the ludicrous, flamboyant eyes (which suggested something Mortie couldn't think of) bending down toward his face like a stooping giraffe, her hands tucked between her thighs.

How would you like to dance with me? she grinned.

Terrified, he nodded eagerly, and she proceeded to escort Mortie onto the dance floor, and, showing him how to dance, she placed his right arm about her waist, which was about chin level to Mortie, and her right hand on his shoulder, and awkwardly she swept him across the dance floor, giving him instructions which he painfully and awkwardly tried to follow.

But he did dance with here, she nodding and grinning and remarking to other pupils as they moved about the floor. And even though he felt queer and uneasy with her, as he did when he heard the boys laughing up in the rafters at Shulman, he thought that this was supposed to be fun so he showed enthusiasm, nodding eagerly as they dancing, saying Yes, Ma'am a lot.

One evening as Mortie was standing alone by the wall, he saw Karen move through the girls, past the other boys, walking towards him. And he stood there, immobile, afraid of more than a slight hope, until she was before him. Then he looked up questioningly at her blonde hair, blue eyes, her pretty face. And when other couple grinned over at her, she kept saying, I'm dancing with Mortie, throwing back her head in feigned huffiness. I'm dancing with Mortie, Mortie's my boyfriend, and she winked at him, Aren't you, Mortie? Aren't you my boyfriend?

And Mortie just smiled, feeling very nice inside.

The next time the boys lined up on one side and the girls on the other, Mortie was anxious for Mrs. Hryharrow to turn on the record player and to direct the boys to select a partner. When she did, eh moved through the group toward Karen. But he saw her standing with Mary Beth, slightly turning toward Paul who took both her hands in his, then led her to the dance floor.

So Mortie sat back against the wall and waited. And the next time Mrs. Hryharrow said to the boys, Select a partner, he caught Karen's eye, as he moved toward her, but she quickly turned toward another boy, managing a quick smile toward Mortie, as the bigger boy led her out to the dance floor.

What was she doing? Had he done something wrong. He was confused.

The next time he moved doubtfully and only halfway toward her, and she did not look his way at all. Then someone else led her onto the dance floor. And it was all very confusing because once she was dancing, she might look over at him and smile or wink. And he would return the smile, anxiously and gratefully, but he would not know what to do.

And even though she danced with him once or twice more over the year, as he approached her she looked only in the direction of the other boys, and he retreated before venturing halfway across the room. It was not long before he did not move out from the wall at all, though still he smiled gratefully at her when she smiled at him.

And one evening standing nervously against the wall, he understood that it was because he was so small, and he began to wonder, Who will dance with me?

The ballroom dancing lessons were to culminate in a Final Dance. The boys were to wear coats and ties and the girls semi-formals, and each boy was expected to ask a girl.

After a lesson one evening, Butch and Paul and J.K. and Mortie were hanging around outside waiting for their mothers to pick them up, and they were talking about who they were going to ask to the Final Dance.

Who you takin'? J.K. asked Paul. Karen, man. With a cocky smile he threw a pebble sidearmed at the telephone pole. Who you think I'm takin', man. Karen's my true love. Didn't you know that? You gon' take Mary Beth?

Prettiest blue eyes this side of Savannah, J.K. answered. I'm gon' ask her. I don't know whether she'll go, but I'll sure as heck ask her. Everyone knew who Butch was takin', and he just smiled.

And nobody said it, but who was Mortie takin'?

Sudden anxiety weakened his stomach; his face muscles involuntarily moved, grasping for something, as his eyes looked everywhere but at the group; his face flushed. He couldn't think of anything to say.

Everyone was thinking the same thing. Who you takin', Mortie? Paul looked at him with a condescending smile. But before anybody could say anything, Mortie did.

I'm taking Mrs. Hryharrow.

Everyone laughed; at first Mortie was as stunned as they were, shocked. Where had that come from? But now they were beside themselves with laughter, genuine, authentic laughter, and Mortie experienced in that moment such a feeling of acceptance, of closeness, of friendship as he had never felt before, he was surprised and thrilled at a certain degree of triumph he felt, at the control, in this moment, he had over them. He didn't know what to think, but he felt this new, different power. They were now saying things to him. Mortie, that's the craziest thing I ever heard. They were looking to him now, to say something. What a feeling! How important he felt!

He smiled, wondering what, if anything, would come next.

There was an image: he was dancing with Mrs. Hryharrow, chin-level to her waist. We just found we had something in common, he said. Size!

Again there was laughter. They wanted more. Mortie felt powerful, because he knew instinctively that there was more, a lot more, that there would be a lot more, and he felt like an adult must feel when he learns that he is to receive a great fortune.