"He got his wish," says Howie. "He died on American soil."
"Yeah. So anyway, those guys at Ellis Island, they were like your cafeteria workers of today—they didn't care what they stuck you with, as long as they got you through the line. So they marked down the family name as 'Schwa,' and it's been that way ever since."
Ira, who had been quiet for most of the story, finally spoke up. "That's not all I heard."
I turned to him. "What'd you hear?"
"Weird stuff—not just about him this time, but about the whole family."
"Weird, like Twilight Zone weird?" Howie asked. "Or weird like Eyewitness News weird?"
"I don't know," said Ira. "Maybe a little bit of both."
"So what did you hear?" I asked again.
"I heard his mom went to the market one day and disappeared right before everyone's eyes in the ten-items-or-less line. Nothing was left but a pile of coupons and a broken jar of pickles where she stood."
"Disappeared? What do you mean disappeared?"
"And why a pile of coupons, if all she had was a jar of pickles?" Howie asked.
"It's just what I heard." Then Ira gets real quiet. "Of course ... there's another story."
Howie and I leaned close to listen.
"Some say the Schwa's father cut her up into fifty pieces and mailed each piece ... to a PO box ... in a different state ..."
"Not Puerto Rico?" says Howie.
"Puerto Rico's not a state," I reminded him.
"It's almost a state."
"Fine, so maybe he saved a piece to send to Puerto Rico when it becomes a state. Okay, are you happy?"
To tell you the truth, I didn't believe either of Ira's stories. "If any of this stuff happened, the whole neighborhood would know about it—wouldn't they?"