The Horse is Dead Page 2

  "How come I have ten Jews?" Nemiroff asked.

  Uncle Bernie stared at Nemiroff. "How come you what?"

  "My group," Nemiroff explained, "they're all Jewish."

  "So?" He stared blankly.

  "Well, couldn't I have some of the others?" Nemiroff went on. "You know, kind of mix 'em up."

  "I would prefer," Uncle Bernie explained patiently, "to leave things as they are. Their parents like to know they'll make the right friends."

  "What about me?" Nemiroff asked.

  "You don't have to be their friend. You just have to take care of them," Uncle Bernie said. "That's why they're with you. A Jewish counselor."

  "Damn," Nemiroff hissed.

  "What's wrong?" Uncle Bernie asked, his patience obviously tiring.

  "It's just that... well, they seem so ... unathletic. How are we supposed to compete with the other groups?"

  "I think it's your imagination." He pointed to them. "Look at them. Besides, it's your job to make men out of them."

  Nemiroff glanced at the ten little Jewish boys. "I'll make men out of them even if I have to cut their balls off."

  Nemiroff's group hated the baseball game. Ever since the first game of the summer, when they had lost to Marshall Pace's group, Marshall Pace, the good-looking gentile with the ten gentile, athletic boys, Nemiroff had sworn to himself that his group would never win a baseball game. They didn't deserve it.

  Nemiroff's group knew they weren't the hottest baseball team in camp, but they also knew that they couldn't possibly be as bad as Nemiroff made them out to be. Now they had the reputation of being the absolute worst team that ever existed, and it was all Nemiroff's fault. Nemiroff was always the umpire, and he would never let his team win. Nemiroff made them lose day after humiliating day. At first it bothered them, but after losing forty-seven games in a row they gave up caring whether they won or not. Now they just wanted to get that son of a bitch behind the plate.

  The first batter stepped up to the box. Nemiroff watched as the first pitch came sailing over the plate. It was a perfect strike.

  "Ball one," Nemiroff shouted. The rocks came raining in. It was going to be another miserable day of baseball for Nemiroff's group.

  The second pitch came to the plate and the batter swung mightily at it and missed.

  "Ball two," announced Nemiroff, and then to stop any arguments, added, "He didn't break his wrists."

  The next pitch came over the plate and the batter hit a soft pop fly to the third baseman. He got under it and made an easy catch.

  "Doesn't count," Nemiroff said. "Today third pitches don't count."

  By the time Nemiroff's group got to bat the score was twenty-six to nothing.

  Mr. Robinson was the counselor of the group that was playing Nemiroff's team today. He waited until the teams were changing sides before walking over to Nemiroff.

  "How come?" Mr. Robinson asked.

  "Fuck off," Nemiroff said.

  "They're going to get you, you know that, don't you?" Mr. Robinson went on.

  "Not if I get them first"

  "What are you doing it for?" Mr. Robinson ducked to get out of the way of a few rocks that were being thrown at Nemiroff. He winced as one of the larger rocks caught Nemiroff in the side of the face. Mr. Robinson didn't bother to wait for an answer. He turned and ran like hell.

  "All right, who is up first?" Nobody moved from the bench. "Somebody better get up here or I'll break your heads."

  One of the boys reluctantly got off the bench. He picked up one of the bats and started swinging it He walked over to the plate.

  "C'mon, get up to the plate," Nemiroff ordered. The pitcher wound up and hurled the ball about ten feet over the batter's head.

  "Strike one," Nemiroff said. It was raining rocks. Nemiroff signaled to the pitcher to continue.

  This time the pitch was so low it didn't even reach the plate. The batter watched it roll by his feet.

  "Strike two." Nemiroff didn't see the brick and it caught him on the left foot. He picked up the brick and casually heaved it in the direction of the bench. He watched as the kids fell all over each other trying to get out of its way. The brick hit one of the kids in the head and he fell off the bench. "Pick him up," Nemiroff ordered, "he's up next."

  The next pitch was thrown and the batter connected with a real shot over the center fielder's head. The batter started to run, but not before throwing the bat at Nemiroff and hitting him squarely in the groin. Nemiroff fell to the ground biting his lips.

  By the time Nemiroff stumbled up to one knee, the batter was rounding second and heading for third. Nemiroff forced himself to stand up, strange animal sounds coming from between his teeth. Nemiroff waited until the kid was halfway between third base and home plate before he lunged after him. He tackled him roughly around the knees, throwing the kid to the ground and falling on top of him.

  "Hurry up with the ball," Nemiroff groaned. He pushed the kid's face into the dirt. The center fielder had retrieved the ball and was running frantically toward Nemiroff. Nemiroff took the ball and raised it over his head. With his last ounce of strength he brought the ball crashing into the kid's head. "You're out," Nemiroff shouted in his ear.

  Nemiroff rolled off the kid and stared at the red welt left where the ball had smashed into his head. He pulled himself to his feet, the pain returning to his crotch as the sensation of grinding the baseball into the kid's head was leaving.

  "Take him back to the locker," Nemiroff said, "the game is over for today." Nemiroff staggered off the playing field and headed in the general direction of the infirmary. The front of his T-shirt was soaked with blood, and he found it rather difficult trying to walk in a straight line with both hands cupped between his legs. Nemiroff cursed himself for letting the little bastard get a clear shot at him. What could he have been thinking about? Where could his mind have been?

  Nurse Goodenow was sitting behind her desk, her legs propped up, revealing some of the ugliest meat Nemiroff had ever seen. He stared at her. Nurse Goodenow felt the eyes staring at her and peeped over the magazine she was reading. She saw Nemiroff bent over, leaning against the doorway, the blood trickling onto the floor. "Another baseball game?" she asked. Nemiroff nodded weakly and fainted on the floor.

  When Nurse Goodenow finished reading the article she had been engrossed in before Nemiroff arrived, she went over to where he was lying. "Nemiroff," she whispered, "you're a stupid son of a bitch." Nurse Goodenow waved the smelling salts under Nemiroff s nose. Nemiroff weakly raised his head. She saw the cut over his eye. "Wait a minute, I'll get the salt."

  Nemiroff tried to get to his feet. "Not the salt," he yelled. "Where the hell did you do your nursing?"

  Nurse Goodenow paid no attention to him. She came back carrying a salt shaker. She leaned over Nemiroff to sprinkle some on his cuts.

  "Get the hell away from me," he shouted.

  "Shut up and pull down your pants."

  "My pants?" He was sure he was dreaming.

  "You came in here holding your crotch, right?"

  "So what?" Nemiroff raised himself to a position that he could better defend himself from.

  "I'll put some salt on it, it'll feel better right away."

  She reached for his belt. "Listen, Nemiroff, nobody dares come in here except you. I've put salt on your cuts, iodine, everything I could think of. I don't like anyone busting in here on me when I'm reading. Take my advice."

  Nemiroff looked up at her with pain in his eyes. "I didn't come in here for advice," he said. "Are you going to fix me or not?"

  Nemiroff knew the answer to the question before he ever asked it. Nurse Goodenow never fixed anybody.

  "I'm going to let you in on a little secret," she said, "only I don't want you to ever tell anybody."

  Nemiroff fainted on the floor again. Nurse Goodenow put the smelling salts under his nose again. Nemiroff slowly opened his eyes.

  Nurse Goodenow continued. "I'm going to tell you this for your own good, bef
ore you really hurt yourself and expect me to do something about it." She wiped some of the blood off Nemiroff's forehead. "I'm not really a nurse," she said.

  Nemiroff's eyes opened wide. "You're not really a what?"

  "A nurse."

  "But what about your uniform?"

  "I bought it in a second-hand store."

  "But your title ... it says nurse."

  Nemiroff was trying to struggle to his feet. She kept knocking him down.

  "I know," she said calmly, "but that's my name. Nurse."

  "Your mother named you Nurse?" Nemiroff couldn't believe it

  "Yes, she wanted all of her children to be professionals." She couldn't understand Nemiroff's concern. "I got a brother in Toledo, Dr. Goodenow. My mother named him Dr."

  "I don't believe you," Nemiroff shouted.

  "Why not?" She was hurt. "He's got a hell of a practice. Had one for the past seventeen years."

  "And nobody suspects?"

  "No, he's a specialist His patients come to see him and he asks what's wrong with them." She stopped.

  "Then what?" Nemiroff had to hear the end of this.

  "Well, if the patient has a heart condition, my brother recommends him to a heart specialist"

  "What if they have a stomachache?"

  "Then he sends them to a stomach specialist. He has a very big practice." She got up and let Nemiroff's head slam to the floor.

  "So please, Nemiroff, don't get yourself hurt I can't do a damn thing for you if you do."

  Nurse Goodenow went back to her magazine.

  Nemiroff looked at her for a few moments and then slowly crawled out of the office.

  Nemiroff's home life left a lot to be desired. It w*s Nemiroff's parents that afforded him any kind of distinction. They were Jewish and they hated their son. That was fine with Nemiroff. The more his parents hated him, the less Jewish he had to be. He had dropped out of Hebrew school a few days after his fight with the ugly tough kid. His parents couldn't understand it, and eventually they gave up trying.

  He would only rarely bring friends home for fear of being embarrassed by his parents' Jewishness. Only Jewish fathers kissed their sons on the lips.

  "Why do you say those things, Mrs. Nemiroff?" he asked.

  "Why? Why you ask me." She was pouring another cup of coffee. "I'll tell you why. Because you hurt people." She poured the coffee into Nemiroff s waiting lap.

  Nemiroff got up and wiped the coffee away. "I just want to tell you something," he said, walking out the door. "You make lousy coffee."

  Nemiroff was waiting for breakfast when he saw his mother approaching the table with a cup of steaming coffee. He quickly dropped his fork and reached down to cover his crotch, but it was too late. Every morning since he quit Hebrew school Nemiroff's mother spilled a hot cup of coffee on his crotch. She said she did it to teach him a lesson, but Nemiroff could never figure out what the lesson was supposed to be.

  "Mrs. Nemiroff," he said, drying off his pants, "I'm going to be late for work."

  Nemiroff s mother never let him call her Mom or Mother since he stopped being Jewish. "If you were Jewish, you'd be a part of this family," she'd tell him. "But since you think you're a gentile, then you certainly couldn't belong to the two Jewish people who live in this house."

  "I'm going to be late," Nemiroff repeated.

  "You'll be late?" she said. "The best thing you could do is kill yourself on the way to work. Give everyone a break."

  Nemiroff arrived at camp just a few minutes before the first period began. He parked his car and remembered how surprised he had been when he was accepted as a counselor. His mother had called the owner of Camp Winituck several times, warning him not to hire Nemiroff. She really wanted to see him drafted. "They'll either make something out of you, or kill you. I don't have that choice," she had said.

  After filling in the rest of the schedule, Nemiroff lined up his group and marched them over to the corral. Nemiroff walked twenty feet behind them, keeping a sharp lookout. He had stopped walking in front of them ever since the day he almost had his left ear pierced by a pitchfork.

  Nemiroff took his time walking over to his group's lockers. Mr. Hartley was taking care of Nemiroff's group when he finally arrived. Mr. Hartley was glad to have something to do. Ever since the first day of camp, Mr. Hartley had been unable to locate the group that had been assigned to him. Rumors had it that the entire group had defected to another nearby day camp, where they were busy plotting a coup to take over Camp Winituck with the intention of killing Mr. Hartley the minute they were in command. It was supposed to be a mercy killing. A few of the parents had started to complain about Mr. Hartley's losing their children, but none of them insisted on an investigation right away. They did not want to risk finding their kids until the summer was over.

  Nemiroff walked over to the daily bulletin board, where his group's activities were scheduled for the day. Nemiroff noted that the first period would be spent horseback riding, followed by swimming, arts and crafts, and volley ball. He saw that the dreaded daily baseball game wasn't scheduled until the last period of the day. Thank God, thought Nemiroff, this will give me time to find some more broken glass.

  The corral at Camp Winituck contained five animals. Somebody had once called them horses, but you couldn't find anyone to swear to it. Above each horse hovered a small cloud of flies. As the days had passed, the cloud of flies had gotten smaller and smaller, and it was obvious to everyone that even the flies couldn't stand to be around those horses. The riding instructor did nothing to help his cause, insisting that the flies kept the horses on their toes.

  "O.K., who wants to ride first?" Nemiroff asked. There were no volunteers.

  Mr. Curtis, the riding instructor, wandered over toward the group. He was about five feet seven and weighed a good three hundred pounds. The horse he rode was permanently maimed with a severe sway-back. In fact, the horse's belly drooped on the ground. Mr. Curtis led the horse over. "C'mon now, everybody's got to ride," he said. The horse bumped into him. The horse was as blind as a bat and everybody knew it. Nobody wanted to ride him because the horse would get going full steam and run right into a pole. "All right, tell you what I'll do." Mr. Curtis walked over to one of the other horses and led him over. The body was too long for the front legs, and too short for the back legs. The horse could barely stand up.

  "A real treat," Mr. Curtis went on. "Who wants to ride old Flash?"

  "Wait a minute," Nemiroff interrupted. "Let me talk to them. You have to be gentle." He turned to the kids. "Now look, you're scheduled to ride this period. Your parents are paying for you to ride. And if five of you don't get on those horses right now, I'll kill you." Five of them climbed into the corral.

  "O.K., that's settled. Mount up," cried Mr. Curtis. He handed the reins to the riders. "Take 'em around the corral a few times." The horses started out in a snakelike procession around the corral. One of the horses did not follow the others.

  "Give him a few kicks," ordered Mr. Curtis. The boy kicked the horse. "C'mon, get him moving." The boy kicked the horse harder. He didn't budge. "C'mon, what the hell's the matter?"

  The kid looked around helplessly. "He won't move. I think he's dead."

  "What are you talking about? Kick him, he'll move." He started to walk over to the horse."

  "I've been kicking him," the boy said. "The horse is dead."

  The riding instructor came over for a closer look.

  He put his hand on the horse's chest and looked into his eyes. "Y'know something? I think you're right. The horse is dead. Tell you what, just sit on him and jump up and down. It'll be the same as riding."

  The boy sat there and kicked the horse and jumped up and down on him.

  While the riding instructor was occupied with the dead horse, Nemiroff had snuck into the corral. He tore off his shirt and ran in front of the horses, yelling and waving the shirt. The horses panicked. Flash fell down. The other kids were soon thrown off and trying to crawl out of the corra
l. "Jump on their heads." Nemiroff was screaming like a madman. "Step on the little bastards." He ran around the corral, pointing out the kids to the horses. "Here. Here's one." He ran to another one. "He's gonna get out Get him."

  The kids managed to scramble outside of the corral. Nemiroff fell on the ground, exhausted with pleasure. Jewish kids weren't supposed to ride horses. Jewish kids should ride Lincolns or something. He was so delighted with himself he didn't hear the horses coming until the first hoof was firmly planted in his head. As the horses thundered over him, Nemiroff wished he had never promised not to go back to the infirmary.

  One thing that really bugged Nemiroff was Marshall Pace. He had a whole group of athletic gentiles. They won at everything. Nemiroff spent a lot of time talking to Marshall at camp, and they would usually meet at night before going out on their separate dates. Nemiroff figured if he hung around Marshall enough, a little gentleness might rub off.

  Nemiroff was to meet Marshall at the local saloon before Nemiroff's date with Lynn that evening. Marshall had been out with her before. Marshall had been out with everyone before. He and Nemiroff spent hours talking about the women Marshall had been out with. It drove Nemiroff crazy.

  "Hello, Marshall," Nemiroff said, walking up to the bar.

  "Hi, buddy," Marshall answered. "Boy, did I have a piece last night"

  "Shut your fucking mouth. I don't want to hear about it" Nemiroff got up on the stool. "What happened?"

  "Well," Marshall began, "I wasn't really sure anything was going to happen."

  Nemiroff clenched his fists. Marshall's stories drove him crazy. Why the hell should he get all the ass? Nemiroff didn't want to hear any more. "C'mon, get to the point," Nemiroff snapped.

  "Well, we went down to the bay, you know, and she says let's take a walk."

  He was going to drag it out again. Nemiroff wanted to punch him in the nose. He knew Marshall was dragging it out on purpose. Nemiroff told himself to get up and walk away. What in hell did he need with this nonsense anyway? "Get to the good part," Nemiroff yelled, grabbing Marshall by the collar.