Paulie

The playing field of Paulie’s day camp was little more than an open sandlot behind the rundown yellow brick building housing the Yeshiva Rav Shimon bar Yochai. It took Sharon two hours by bus, plenty of time to dread having to plead with Rabbi Tayson to keep Paulie on, but what choice did she have when her son’s behavior had deteriorated to the point where no other day camp would have him? She and Pinnie had argued, and she’d left the house forgetting her wallet, with only enough change for round trip bus fare in her purse. Last night’s conversation with Barney hadn’t helped, either. She’d called him, and a woman had answered.

“Is Barney Berg there?”

“Barney—I think it’s your ex-wife,” the woman yelled into the mouth of the receiver without bothering to cover it. Sharon heard the magnified sound of the woman’s chewing gum followed by the popping of a bubble.

Barney took the telephone. “Yeah?”

Picturing his pink, bald dome, Sharon asked, “Who was that?”

 “Who?”

 “That lady who answered.”

 “Oh, that was Irma. I’m going to marry her this coming winter.”

 “Congratulations.”

A tense, long pause. Then, finally, from Barney’s end: “What did you want, Sharon? The alimony’s not due till next month.”

“I didn’t call for money. I’m calling because of Paulie.”

“Is he sick?”

 “No . . . Yes, in the head a little, maybe. Phyllis had a cold last week, but she’s better now.”

 “Yeah?” he breathed impatiently into her ear.

She’d be damned if she let his cud-chewing Irma get off that easily. And Barney, too, whose accidental spilling of seed eleven years ago had produced Paulie, despite her...