Collected Short Stories Read online

  “Did you hear me, Patrick?” asked Levy. “Are you still there?”

  A paramedic team broke into the apartment twenty minutes later, but, moments before they reached him, Pat had died of a heart attack brought on by a suffocating bout of asthma.

  Mr. Levy did nothing until he was able to confirm with Pat’s bankers that his client’s check for $1,100 had been cleared by the insurance company.

  Nineteen months later Pat’s sister Ruth received a payment of one million dollars from Geneva Life, but not until they had gone through a lengthy court battle with Levy, Goldberg & Levy.

  The jury finally accepted that Pat had died of natural causes, and that the insurance policy was in existence at the time of his death.

  I promise you, Marvin Roebuck lived to regret it.

  THE FIRST MIRACLE

  Tomorrow it would be A.D. 1, but nobody had told him.

  If anyone had, he wouldn’t have understood, because he thought it was the forty-third year of the reign of the emperor. And in any case, he had more important things on his mind.

  His mother was still angry with him, and he had to admit that he’d been naughty that day, even by the standards of a normal thirteen-year-old. He hadn’t meant to drop the pitcher when she had sent him to the well for water. He had tried to explain to her that it wasn’t his fault he had tripped over a stone—that bit at least was true. What he hadn’t told her was that he had been chasing a stray dog at the time. And then there was that pomegranate: How was he to know that it was the last one, and that his father had taken a liking to them?

  The young Roman was now dreading his father’s return and the possibility that he might be given another leathering. He could still recall the last one: He hadn’t been able to sit down for two days without being reminded of the pain, and the thin red scars hadn’t completely disappeared for three weeks.

  He sat on the window ledge in a shaded corner of his room, trying to think of some way he could redeem himself in his mother’s eyes. He had spilled cooking oil all over his tunic and she had thrown him out of the kitchen. “Go and play outside,” she had snapped, but playing outside wasn’t much fun if you were only allowed to play by yourself. Pater had forbidden him to mix with the local boys.

  How he hated this uncivilized country! If only he could be back home among his friends, there would be so much for him to do. Still, only another three weeks and he would …

  The door swung open and his mother bustled into the room. She was dressed in the thin black garments favored by locals: it was the only way to keep cool, she had explained to her husband when he had seen her wearing them for the first time. He had grunted his disapproval, so now she always changed back into imperial dress before he returned in the evening.

  “Can’t you find anything useful to do?” she asked, addressing the sulking figure of her son.

  “I was just …”

  “Daydreaming as usual. Well, it’s time for you to wake up, because I need you to go into the village and fetch some food.”

  “Yes, Mater, I’ll go at once,” the boy said. He jumped off the window ledge, and started running toward the door.

  “At least wait until you’ve heard what I want.”

  “Sorry, Mater,” he said, coming to an abrupt halt.

  “Now listen, and listen carefully,” she began, counting on her fingers as she spoke. “I need a chicken, some raisins, figs, dates, and … ah, yes, two pomegranates.”

  The boy’s face reddened at the mention of the pomegranates. He stared down at the stone floor, hoping she might have forgotten. His mother put her hand into the leather purse that hung from her waist and removed two small coins, but before she handed them over she made her son repeat her instructions.

  “One chicken, some raisins, figs, dates, and two pomegranates,” he recited, as he might the modern poet Virgil.

  “And be sure to see they give you the right change,” she added. “Never forget that the people here are all thieves.”

  “Yes, Mater …” For a moment the boy hesitated, wondering if he dared to ask.

  “If you remember everything, and bring back the right change, I might forget to tell your father about the broken pitcher and the pomegranate.”

  The boy smiled and, clutching the two small silver coins tightly in his fist, ran out of the house into the compound.

  The guard who stood on duty at the gate removed a great wedge of wood and allowed the massive door to swing open. The boy jumped through, and grinned back at him.

  “I hear you’re in trouble again,” the guard shouted after him.

  “No, not this time,” the boy replied. “I’m about to be saved.”

  He waved happily to the guard and started walking briskly in the direction of the village, reciting some verses from Virgil’s Aeneid, which reminded him of home. He kept to the center of the dusty, winding path that the locals had the impudence to call a road. It seemed as if he spent half his time removing small stones from inside his sandals. If his father had been posted here for any length of time he would have made some changes; then they would have had a real road, straight and wide enough to allow two chariots to pass.

  And Mater would have told the serving girls a thing or two. Not one of them knew how to set a table, or even to prepare food so that it was at least clean. Since they had been stationed in Judaea, he had seen his mother in a kitchen for the first time in his life. He was confident it would also be the last. Soon his father would be coming to the end of his tour of duty, and they could all return to Rome.

  He had learned many things during the past year, but in particular he was now certain that when he grew up he wasn’t going to be a tax collector, or work in the census office.

  The village to which his mother had sent him was a few stades from the compound, and the evening sun shone down on him as he walked. It was a large, red sun, the same deep red as his father’s tunic, and it was still giving out enough heat to make him sweat and long for something to drink. Perhaps there would be enough money left over to buy himself a pomegranate. He couldn’t wait to take one home to show his friends how large they grew in this barbaric land. Marcus, his best friend, would probably have seen one as big, because his father had commanded a whole army in Asia Minor, but the rest of the class would be impressed.

  When he reached the village, he found the narrow twisting lanes that ran between the little white houses swarming with people. They had all come from the surrounding area at his father’s command to be registered for the census, so that each of them might be taxed according to their rank. His father’s authority had been vested in him by the emperor himself, and once the boy had reached his sixteenth birthday, he too would serve the emperor. Marcus wanted to be a soldier and to conquer the rest of the world, but the boy was more interested in the law, and in teaching his country’s customs to all the barbarians who dwelled in strange lands.

  Marcus had said, “I’ll conquer them, and then you can govern them.”

  “A sensible division between brains and brawn,” he had replied. His friend didn’t seem impressed, and had dunked him in the nearest bath.

  The boy quickened his pace. He knew he had to be back in the compound before the sun disappeared behind the hills: His father had warned him many times that they must always be locked safely inside before sunset. He had told his son that he would be safe while it was light, as no one would dare to harm him while others could see what was going on, but that once it was dark, anything could happen. The boy was aware that his father was not a popular man with the locals, but he dismissed the plebs from his mind. (It was Marcus who had taught him to refer to all foreigners as plebs.)

  When he reached the marketplace, he began to concentrate on the supplies his mother had requested. He mustn’t make any mistakes this time, or he would undoubtedly end up with another leathering from his father. He ran nimbly between the stands, checking the produce carefully. Some of the local people stared at the white-skinned boy with the curly fair hair and