“
It’s funny that I’m the one talking about helping Bert,” Victor said, “and not the other way around. I told you my grandfather came to America from Europe for a better life. My uncle died fighting communists in Poland. My dad worked for twenty-five years in an auto plant. He carried a lunch-pail every day. My mom worked part time at the five and ten. Bert’s uncles are big shots in various industries, his dad gives money to the art institute uptown. They’ve had money and position for generations. Bert wants to throw all that out and if he gets his way, no one else will ever have a chance. I used to think that the left....” Victor’s fingers trembled. Without paying attention to what he was doing, he put a spoonful of mashed potatoes into the ash tray with his pipe.
“Why does he bother you?” Juliet asked. “You know his dreams will never come to pass. So does he.” She touched his hand. “It’s still warm. Let’s go outside. I’d like to look at the moon.”
They walked to Lake Otrobe. The glow from a distant steel mill reddened the southern sky. “Industry,” Victor said admiringly. “Creating wealth.” He began to sputter again on the way back when they passed the apartment building where Bert lived. They looked up at a lighted window. A dark figure with his back to the street sat in a gray armchair, still, his head down. “He’s fallen asleep reading,” Victor mumbled. “Engels no doubt or Lenin or one of those other thieves.
”
”