The last time Morrie saw his own father was in a city morgue.
Charlie Schwartz was a quiet man who liked to read his newspaper, alone, under a streetlamp on Tremont Avenue in the Bronx.
Every night, when Morrie was little, Charlie would go for a walk after dinner.
He was a small Russian man, with a ruddy complexion and a full head of grayish hair.
Morrie and his brother, David, would look out the window and see him leaning against the lamppost,
and Morrie wished he would come inside and talk to them, but he rarely did.
Nor did he tuck them in, nor kiss them good-night.
Morrie always swore he would do these things for his own children if he ever had any. And years later, when he had them, he did.
Meanwhile, as Morrie raised his own children, Charlie was still living in the Bronx.
He still took that walk. He still read the paper. One night, he went outside after dinner.
A few blocks from home, he was accosted by two robbers. “Give us your money,” one said, pulling a gun.
Frightened, Charlie threw down his wallet and began to run.
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