The Schwa Was Here

"What do you think he'll make us do?" the Schwa asked as we walked as slow as we dared from school to Crawley's the next afternoon.

"I really don't want to think about it." Truth was, I spent most of the night thinking about it. I could barely get my homework done, which is not all that unusual, but this time it wasn't because of TV, or video games, or my friends. It was be­cause all I could think of were the many forms of torture Craw­ley could devise. I once had a teacher who said my imagination was about as developed as my appendix, but I don't agree, be­cause I came up with a whole bunch of possibilities of what Crawley could do. He could make us clean his dog-fouled patio with our toothbrushes—they do stuff like that in the army, I hear. He could send us on dangerous errands to Mafia types where we might get whacked, because anyone that rich in Brooklyn has gotta know a few of those guys. Or what if he wanted us to move the bodies he's got locked up in a cellar be­neath the restaurant? At three in the morning, when you're tossing in bed, it sounds almost possible, proving that my imag­ination is alive and well, or, I guess I should say, alive and sick.

"I think we're gonna wish we were arrested," I told the Schwa.

The restaurant only had a few customers at this hour of the afternoon. We identified ourselves to the maitre d', who I guess doubled as Crawley's doorman for what few visitors he got.

"Ah," said the maitre d'oorman, "Mr. Crawley is expecting you. Follow me."

He glided up the grand staircase real smooth, like it was a fast escalator and not stairs, then he took us through an unused part of the restaurant stacked with dusty old tables and broken chairs. We went down a hallway that led to the door of Mr. Crawley's private residence.

"Mr. Crawley, those boys are here," the maitre d'oorman said as he knocked. Barking and the pounding of paws followed. Then I could hear all the bolts sliding open on the other side, and Crawley pulled open the door while blocking the escape of the dogs with his wheelchair.

"You're five minutes early," he said, the tone in his voice like we were half an hour late.

We stepped in, he pushed the door closed behind us, a dog yelped because his nose got caught in the door for an instant, and there we were.

Crawley reached into the pocket of his fancy robe—a dinner jacket, I think it's called. The kind of thing Professor Plum would wear before killing Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with the candlestick. From the pocket he pulled a few doggie treats and hurled them over his shoulder so the dogs would leave us alone.

"I've decided to sentence the two of you to twelve weeks of community service," he said. "Mr. Bonano, from this day for­ward, you shall be responsible for the sins. You, Mr. Schwa, shall be responsible for the virtues. Take all the time you need each day, but by no means are you to complete the task any earlier than five P.M. Now get to it."

I looked at the Schwa, the Schwa looked at me. I felt like I had just been called up to the board to explain an Einstein the­ory, but I don't think Einstein could figure this one out, even if he was alive.

"Why are you staring like imbeciles? Didn't you hear me?"

"Yeah, we heard you," I said. "Sins and virtues. Now would you mind speaking in English that people who aren't, like, ninety years old can understand?"

He scowled at us. He was really good at that. Then he spoke, very slowly, as if to morons. "The seven virtues, and the seven deadly sins. Comprendo?"

"Oigo," I said, "pero no comprendo." I hear, but I don't under­stand. At last my two years of Spanish had paid offl It was worth it for the surprised look on Crawley's face—to see that, as Howie would put it, I was only half the moron he thought I was.

"Great," mumbled the Schwa. "Now he's really gonna be pissed off."

But instead of saying anything, Crawley put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. All the dogs came running.

As they crowded around him, jockeying for position, he touched each of them on the head and announced: "Prudence, Temperance, Justice, Fortitude, Faith, Hope, and Charity." He took a breath, then continued: "Envy, Sloth, Anger, Lust,

Gluttony, Pride, and Avarice. Do you understand now, or shall I get you a translator?"

"You want each of us to walk seven dogs each, every day."

"Gold star for you."

Crawley peered at me, but I just returned his unpleasant gaze. "Why not Greed?" I said.

"Excuse me?"

"Avarice is Greed, right? That's the way I learned the seven deadly sins. So why not just name the dog Greed?"

"Don't you know anything?" Crawley growled. "Avarice is a much better name for a dog."

He spun his wheelchair and rolled into the deeper recesses of his apartment. "Leashes are hanging in the kitchen." And he was gone.

***