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"You'd think I would," he began. "You would think I'd be able to."
More than anything else, he wanted to be able to do something for Sammy. It shocked him to see just how beaten, how unhappy Sam had become. What a feat it would be, to reach into the dark sleeve of his past and pull out something that completely altered Sammy's condition; something that saved him, freed him, returned him to life. With a stroke of the pen, he would be able to hand Sammy, according to the ancient mysteries of the League, a golden key, to pass along the gift of liberation that he had received and that had, until now, gone unpaid.
"I know that I should," Joe continued. His voice thickened as he spoke, and his cheeks burned. He was crying; he had no idea why. "Oh, I should just get rid of it all."
"No, Joe." Now it was Sammy's turn to put his arm around Joe. "I understand you don't want to touch that money. I mean, I think I understand. I get that it… well, that it represents something to you that you don't want to ever forget."
"I forget every day," Joe said. He tried to smile. "You know? Days go by, and I don't remember not to forget."
"You just keep your money," Sammy said gently. "I don't need to own Empire Comics. That's the last thing I need."
"I… I couldn't. Sammy, I wish that I could, but I couldn't."
"I get it, Joe," Sammy said. "You just hold on to your money."
15
The day after the Escapist, Master of Elusion, whom no chains could hold nor walls imprison, was ruled out of existence by the New York State Court of Appeals, a white delivery van of modest dimensions pulled up in front of 127 Lavoisier Drive. On its panels, blue script like the writing on a beer bottle said bachelor button drayage inc. new york, arched over a painted nosegay of petite blue flowers. It was getting on toward five o'clock of a dull April afternoon, and though there was still plenty of daylight, the van's lights were turned on, as if for a funeral procession. It had been raining in fits all day, and with the approach of dusk, the heavy sky itself seemed to be settling, like a blanket, over Bloomtown, in gray folds and plaits among the houses. The slender trunks of the young maples, sycamores, and pin oaks on the neighbors' lawns looked white, almost phosphorescent, against the darker gray stuff of the afternoon.
The driver cut his engine, switched off the lights, and climbed down from the cab. He cranked the heavy latch at the back of the van, slid the bar to one side, and threw open the doors with a steely creak of hinges. He was an improbably diminutive man for his trade, thickset and bowlegged, in a bright blue coverall. As Rosa watched him through the front windows of the house, she saw him stare in at his payload with what appeared to be a puzzled expression. She supposed, given Sammy's description, that the hundred and two boxes of comic books and other junk that Joe had accumulated must make a strong impression even on a veteran mover. But perhaps the guy was only trying to decide how in the hell he was going to get all those boxes into the house by himself.
"What's he doing?" Tommy said. He stood beside her at the living-room window. He had just eaten three bowls of rice pudding, and he had a milky baby smell.
"Probably wondering how we're ever going to fit all of that crap into this shoe box," Rosa said. "I can't believe Joe contrived not to be here for this."
"You said 'crap.' "
"Sorry."
"Can I say 'crap'?"
"No." Rosa was wearing a sauce-spattered apron, and held a wooden spoon bloodied in the same red sauce. "I can't believe it all fits inside that one little truck."
"Ma, when is Joe coming back?"
"I'm sure he'll be back any minute." This was probably the fourth time she had said this since Tommy had come home from school. "I'm making chile con carne and rice pudding. He won't want to miss that."
"He really likes your cooking."
"He always did."
"He said if he never sees another pork chop again, it will be too soon."
"I would never cook a pork chop."
"Bacon is pork, and we eat bacon."
"Bacon is not actually pork. There are words in the Talmud to that effect."
They went out onto the front step.
"Kavalier?" the man called, trying to rhyme the name with its French cognate.
"As in Maurice," Rosa said.
"Got a package."
"That's kind of an understatement, isn't it?"
The man didn't reply. He climbed up inside his truck and disappeared for a while. First a wooden ramp emerged from the back, like a tongue, reaching toward the neighbors' Buick, then lolling on the ground. After that, there was a lot of banging and clamor, as though the man were in there rolling around a keg of beer. Presently he emerged, wrestling a hand truck down the ramp, under the weight of a large oblong wooden box.
"What is that?" Rosa said.
"I never saw that at Joe's," Tommy said. "Wow, it must be part of his equipment! It looks like a-oh my gosh-it's a packing crate escape! Oh, my gosh. Do you think he's going to teach me how to do it?"
I don't even know if he's ever coming back. "I don't know what he's going to do, honey," she said.
When Joe and Sammy had returned from the city last night with news of the Escapist's passing, they both seemed pensive, and said little before they each went to bed. Sammy seemed diffident, even apologetic, around Joe, scrambling up some eggs for him, asking him were they too ru
The news had certainly come as a shock to Rosa. Though she had not been a regular reader since the days of Kavalier & Clay-Sammy wouldn't have Empire books in the house-she still checked in with Radio and Escapist Adventures from time to time, killing a half hour at a Grand Central newsstand, or while waiting for a prescription at Spiegelman's. The character had long since slipped into cultural inconsequence, but the titles in which he starred had continued, as far as she knew, to sell. She'd assumed, more or less unconsciously, that the heroic puss of the Escapist would always be there, on lunch boxes, beach towels, on cereal boxes and belt buckles and the faces of alarm clocks, even on the Mutual Television Network, [19] taunting her with the wealth and the unimaginable contentment that, though she knew better, she could never help feeling would have been Sammy's had he been able to reap the fruits of the one irrefutable moment of inspiration vouchsafed him in his scattershot career. Rosa had stayed up very late trying to work, worrying about them both, and then slept in even later than usual. By the time she had woken up, both Joe and the Studebaker were gone. All his clothes were in his valise, and there was no note. Sammy seemed to feel these were good signs.
"He would leave a note," he said when she phoned him at the office. "If he were. Going to leave, I mean."
"There wasn't any note the last time," Rosa said.
"I really don't think he would steal our car."
Now here were all his things, and Joe was not. It was as if he had pulled a substitution trick on them, the old switcheroo.
"I guess we'll have to just cram it all into the garage," she said.
The stout little mover wheeled the crate up the walk to the front door, puffing and grimacing and nearly ru
[19] The Escapist, starring a young Peter Graves in the title role, 1951-53.