Most of the stores on the street had "For Rent" signs in the windows, and others were closed for the day.
But halfway down the block from the bus stop there was a barber pole reflecting a candy cane of light from the window.
The shop was empty except for the barber reading a magazine in the chair nearest the window.
When he looked up at me, I recognized Matt—stocky, red-cheeked, a lot older and nearly bald with a fringe of gray hair bordering the sides of his head—but still Matt.
Seeing me at the door, he tossed the magazine aside.
"No waiting. You're next."
I hesitated, and he misunderstood.
"Usually not open at this hour, mister.
Had an appointment with one of my regulars, but he didn't show.
Just about to close. Lucky for you I sat down to rest my feet.
Best haircut and shave in the Bronx."
As I let myself be drawn into the shop, he bustled around, pulling out scissors and combs and a fresh neckcloth.
"Everything sanitary, as you can see, which is more than I can say for most barbershops in this neighborhood. Haircut and shave?"
I eased myself into the chair.
Incredible that he didn't recognize me when I knew him so plainly.
I had to remind myself that he had not seen me in more than fifteen years, and that my appearance had changed even more in the past months.
He studied me in the mirror now that he had me covered with the striped neckcloth, and I saw a frown of feint recognition.
"The works," I said, nodding at the union-shop price list, "haircut, shave, shampoo, sun-tan…"
His eyebrows went up.
"I've got to meet someone I haven't seen in a long time," I assured him, "and I want to look my best."
It was a frightening sensation, having him cut my hair again.
Later, as he stropped the razor against leather the harsh whisper made me cringe.
I bent my head under the gentle press of his hand and felt the blade scrape carefully across my neck.
I closed my eyes and waited. It was as if I were on the operating table again.
My neck muscle knotted, and without warning it twitched. The blade nicked me just above the Adam's apple.
"Hey!" he shouted.
"Jesus… take it easy. You moved. Hey, I'm awful sorry."
He dashed to wet a towel at the sink.
In the mirror I watched the bright red bubble and the thin line dripping down my throat.
Excited and apologizing, he got to it before it reached the neckcloth.
Watching him move, adroit for such a short, heavy man, I felt guilty at the deception.
I wanted to tell him who I was and have him put his arm around my shoulder, so we could talk about the old days.
But I waited while he dabbed at the cut with styptic powder. He finished shaving me silently, and then brought the sun-tan lamp over to the chair and put cool white pads of cotton soaked in witch hazel over my eyes.
There, in the bright red inner darkness I saw what happened the night he took me away from the house for the last time….
Charlie is asleep in the other room, but he wakens to the sound of his mother shrieking.
He has learned to sleep through quarrels—they are an everyday occurrence in his house.
But tonight there is something terribly wrong in that hysteria.
He shrinks back into the pillow and listens.
"I can't help it!
He's got to go!
We've got her to think about.
I won't have her come home from school crying every day like this because the children tease her.
We can't destroy her chance for a normal life because of him."
"What do you want to do?
Turn him out into the street?"
"Put him away.
Send him to the Warren State Home."
"Let's talk it over in the morning."
"No.
All you do is talk, talk, and you don't do anything. I don't want him here another day.