a novel by
BRUCE JAY FRIEDMAN
STERN
Simon and Schuster
New York · 1962
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION
IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM
COPYRIGHT © 1962 BY BRUCE JAY FRIEDMAN
PUBLISHED BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER, INC.
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SECOND PRINTING
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 62-16385
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE BOOK PRESS, BRATTLEBORO, VERMONT
To My Darling Ginger
Prologue
One day in early summer it seemed, miraculously, that Stern would nothave to sell his house and move away. Some small blossoms had appearedon one of the black and mottled trees of what Stern called his CancerGarden, and there was talk of a child in the neighborhood for his son,a lonely boy who sat each day in the center of Stern's lawn and suckedon blankets. Stern had found a swift new shortcut across the estatewhich cut his walking time down ten minutes to and from the train, andthe giant gray dogs which whistled nightly across a fence and took hiswrists in their mouths had grown bored and preferred to hang back andhowl coldly at him from a distance. A saintlike man in brown bowlerhad come to Stern with a plan for a new furnace whose efficient ductswould eliminate the giant froglike oil burner that squatted in Stern'sbasement, grunting away his dollars and his hopes. On an impulse, Sternhad flung deep-blue drapes upon the windows of his cold, carpetlessbedroom, frustrating the squadron of voyeurs he imagined clungsilently[Pg 10] outside from trees to watch him mount his wife. And Sternhad begun to play "Billy One-Foot" again, a game in which he pretendedhis leg was a diabolical criminal. "I'll get that old Billy One-Footthis time," his son Donald would say, flinging his sucking blanket tothe wind and attacking Stern's heavy leg. And Stern, whose leg formonths had remained immobile, would lift and twirl it about once again,saying, "Oh no, you don't. No one can ever hope to defeat the powerfulBilly One-Foot."
It was as though a great eraser had swept across Stern's mind, and hewas ready to start fresh again, enjoying finally this strange house sofar from the safety of his city.
After leaving the home-coming train on one of these new nights, Stern,a tall, round-shouldered man with pale, spreading hips, flew happilyacross the estate, the dogs howling him on, reached his house, and,kissing his fragrant, long-nosed wife deep in her neck, pulled off apanty thread that had been hanging from her shorts. He asked her ifanything was new and she said she had taken their son Donald abouta mile down the road to see the new boy she'd heard about. When thechildren ran together, the boy's father had stopped cutting his lawn,pushed her down, and picked up his child, saying, "No playing here forkikes."
"What do you mean he pushed you down?" Stern asked.
"He sort of pushed me. I can't remember. He shoved me and I fell in thegutter."
"Did he actually shove you?" asked Stern.
"I don't know. I don't remember. But he saw me."
"What do you mean he saw you?"
"I was wearing a skirt. I wasn't wearing anything underneath."
"And he saw you?"
"I think he probably