“I dunno,” said Bigelow, shaking his heavy head. “I dunno if that would work out.” He punched the cash register, causing the bell to sound and the NO SALE sign to appear in the window. He clattered in the change drawer and brought out a half dollar, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if he were going to put it into his eye like a monocle. “Here,” he said to Ralph. “You never earned it, but if you got to save up for another bike…”
So he was sympathetic after all; Ralph kept changing his mind about the grocer.
“Oh, I can’t take that—it was my fault.” Then Ralph sensed all at once he was being fired. He politely asked Bigelow if his suspicion was correct.
The grocer rubbed his aproned belly against the counter. “That’s about the size of it, kid. I got to have a boy with a bike. Even if you was fast as Jesse Owens, how would it look? Like I was a cheapskate. The A and P undercuts me on prices, and Rumbauer’s, over on Maple, he’s got a panel truck and delivers as far as them snobs in Wydale Hills; he charges an arm and a leg of course. Me, I’m in between. I got to work my hump off or I’ll be on my uppers.” His big cheeks collapsed in dramatic compassion. “Anyway, you’re a little light for all the lifting I need around here.”
It occurred to Ralph’s logical mind that now no deliveries would be made for the rest of the afternoon, and he would have pointed that out to Bigelow did he not discern behind the grocer’s sad-hound mien an absolute conviction that for him the matter of style superseded the claim of practicality. He was familiar with that trait of character, having identified it first in his father and then, in a juvenile cast, in Horse Hauser.
However, Ralph was not depressed by the turn of events. What a glorious day: lost my bicycle, lost my job, found my love. His memory of Laverne was an undifferentiated glow, without details and even impersonal; he could not see her face because she invested him absolutely, in a cloud of gold.
“Well,” said he, “it’s been a pleasure working with you.” He seized Bigelow’s hand and shook it.
“Same here,” said the grocer, his eyebrows moving in wonderment. “Good luck to you, kid.”
Ralph marched to the meat department and said goodbye to his friend Red, who couldn’t shake because his hand was buried in the cavity of the fryer he was disemboweling.
“Made your million awready?” said Red when he heard the news. He peered sharply towards the front of the store and saw that Bigelow was occupied with a customer who had just entered. Red signaled with neck and shoulders for Ralph to come around behind the counter. When Ralph arrived at the butcher’s block, Red said in a low voice: “He catch you with your hand in the till?”
Ralph laughed gaily, but Red for once was not joking. He pulled out a fistful of chicken entrails and dropped them onto the block. “I saw Hauser help himself a couple times. I never said nothing. This is a free country, and it’s the old boy’s business, not mine. But if I caught that little piss-ant stealing any of my meat, which I got to account for, I’d chop his dinkum off with a cleaver.”
He pushed his white cap back with his left wrist. “Funny thing happened. I went down cellar first thing this morning to take a leak, and I found this brick, see, that somebody’d thrown through the window and there was money tied to it, cash, see? I never said nothing to the old boy about it, and he never mentioned it to me. Now, ain’t that funny?”
“I’ll be darn,” said Ralph.
“I’ll be goddam,” said Red. “So Hauser don’t show up today. I been thinking if there’s a connection.”
“Maybe his conscience bothered him,” said Ralph.
Red suddenly threw his freckled face towards the ceiling and laughed. “Fuck ’em all but six: save them for pallbearers.” He slapped the pallid cadaver of the chicken and said: “So long, Small Change. Be good, and if you can’t be good be careful.”
“So long, Red.”
On the walk home Ralph passed Horse’s house, and as he had anyway to tell him about losing the job, he went through the side yard with its maimed wheelbarrow, busted-handled spade, and the garden hose from which the black rubber had flaked extensively from the underlying fabric: if you turned on the faucet you saw a sprinkler system of many outlets, but only dust and weeds were there to be watered.
The Hausers’ back porch was screened in. Horse often slept out there in the warm season on a canvas Army cot between the washing machine and a couple dozen paint cans.
He called Horse’s name four times before the owner appeared.
“Hi, Asshole,” said Hauser, remaining behind the screendoor.
Three steps below, Ralph said: “You know what? Old Bigelow hired and fired me in one afternoon.”
“Shit fire and save matches,” said Horse. He threw the door open and reached the bottom step before its slack spring contracted and slammed it with the report against making which he had been warned. But his old man was still at work; the truck was gone.
“Somebody hooked my bike,” said Ralph.
“Well, fuck me.” Behind his crude exterior, Hauser was capable of a generous sympathy. When told of the connection between the theft and the discharge, he said: “You take my bike. Show up there tomorrow and he’ll hire you again, mark my words.”
“But he don’t want me anyhow. He was just looking for an excuse. He says I’m too light for the cellar work.”
Hauser puffed out his chest and said: “It’s true that takes muscle.” But he gave Ralph a compassionate look and added: “But you’re wiry, Sandifer, and can take care of yourself. A big hunk of flab like Bigelow ain’t got no right. He can’t barely climb them stairs, puffing like a switch engine.” He made a fist and punched an imaginary target. “Boy, I’d like to give him one in that belly sometime, be like hitting a zeppelin though: all air behind it.”
“Well, I got to go,” said Ralph. “I just wanted to let you know I appreciate everything.”
Hauser asked: “Hey, did Bigelow mention that brick?”
“Yeah, but not the money! Red did though.”
Hauser made a face. “Red? You know how much meat that Red takes home for himself? Listen, I could tell you. Red steals that old simp blind. Course, Bigelow is the biggest crook in town.”
“Who does he steal from?”
Hauser shouted: “Bigelow? The fucking public, that’s who. He puts rotten apples and potatoes at the bottom of the sack. He’ll sell you spoiled food that will kill you with ptomaine.”
Ralph realized that Horse was merely feeding his own spite, a favorite exercise, and even if it approximated the truth, which Ralph doubted on practical grounds, Hauser had but half a moral leg to stand on, having himself pilfered money.
“So long, Horse, and thanks again.” Ralph started away but was stopped by Hauser’s question.
“You reported it to the cops, I hope.”
“No, but I will.”
“They’ll never find it. They’re all nigger lovers.”
Ralph turned once more, but again he was halted.
“Too bad,” said Hauser, “you didn’t stay on the job long enough to meet that whore!” He chortled. “You would of creamed your jeans.”
Ralph had actually forgotten all about that subject. That Hauser referred to Laverne Linda Lorraine; that drunkenly they had been heading for her dear staircase on Saturday night; that his kind friend on the one hand was on the other a stinking, vile, obscene criminal whose filthy tongue should be ripped out—all this was clear.
But it could also be regarded as established truth that, except in movies and ancient narratives such as the series about Frank Merriwell, a normal modern individual did not commit violence in response to verbal attacks on a woman’s honor, especially those made in innocent ignorance by an imbecile who no doubt had been home all afternoon playing with himself while perusing the little eight-page fuckbook the edges of which could be seen protruding from his back pocket as he climbed the steps.
So said the voice of reason. All the same, Ralph felt like a leper. A lesser crime against L.L
.L. could be rectified: he still owed her for the breakage. His fifty-cent wages belonged to her. He fished out the half dollar and warmed it in his hand as he started back on the route to 23-B Myrtle.
But he had not quite gained the next corner when his father’s Buick appeared, swerved into the gutter bordering the wrong side of the street, and came to an uneasy rest, its engine throbbing.
“Glad I caught you,” said Buddy, hooking an elbow over the windowsill. “Hop in.”
“I wasn’t heading home yet,” said Ralph.
“Ralph,” Buddy said softly, “when I tell you to do something, there’s always a point to it.”
His plan in ruins, Ralph took refuge in a military sort of discipline. He marched around the car and got in.
“What happened,” Buddy explained once the order had been obeyed, “is Leo’s dear mom passed away.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“The proper sentiment, son.” Buddy put the car in motion and reached the right lane on a leisurely diagonal. “Now your mother and I are going to the laying-out. I think it’s your place to come along.”
Ralph returned to the style of his preadolescence: a writhing of features and a childish moan.
“It’s not exactly fun for anybody,” said Buddy. “It’s an expression of respect. I believe you call Leo a friend. You owe him that much.”
His father had misinterpreted his reaction. Ralph stood ready to give his due to Leo, of course. Laverne L. L. had herself stated that responsibility was paramount in her book, her eyes the color of deep water, her hand like a lily.
“Take long?” he nevertheless asked.
“As long as necessary,” his father said. He frowned quickly at Ralph, then put his eyes back on the road. “You’re taking short cuts again and slurring when you talk. That doesn’t go over in the business world, where money might depend on you making yourself clear. Also in this instance it’s pretty cynical, Ralph.”
“I didn’t mean it to be. I just wasn’t thinking.”
“I accept your apology,” Buddy said, and in compensation he gave an assurance: “I imagine fifteen-twenty minutes would wrap it up for you. You give your condolences to Leo, look at the cards on the flowers, and greet the other people courteously, and I’d say that was about it. You don’t have to spend much time looking at the body. Everybody will understand that in a young fellow.”
“Oh, that I don’t mind,” said Ralph, “if I don’t know the person. You’ve got nothing then to compare. I cut Leo’s grass a couple dozen times in two years, and I never once even saw his mother.”
“Neither did I,” said Buddy, and added piously: “But I understand she was a very fine lady.” Having reached a point opposite their house, he made a nonchalant U-turn which when completed brought the vehicle in to a perfect park: a demonstration of virile skill that was not lost on Ralph. When the time came he wanted to drive well, dominating the machine but with an almost lazy sense of ease. It thrilled him to think that if Laverne drove at all, she must by definition—soft golden container of grace—do it badly, beautiful intruder on a brute mechanism.
They entered the house to find his mother sitting in the nearest chair to the door, dressed like a Mystery Woman all in black including hat-with-veil.
“See you’re all set for the festivities,” said Buddy, lifting one side of his mouth as if to insert a pipe or cigar. “Give me five minutes to get into a dark suit.”
Ralph followed his dad down the hall, asking: “What do you think I should wear? The only dark suit I’ve got is for winter. I don’t even have a summer coat.”
Buddy turned in the doorway to the master bedroom. “Clean white shirt, Ralph. I can loan you a black tie. A clean pair of pants with a good crease. Black shoes if the pants are gray or any shade of blue; brown if the pants are brown or tan; and with a good shine in any event.”
Ralph entered his own room and inspected the clothing deposited on chairs, draped on doorknobs, and hung or heaped in the closet. The only pants that agreed with his father’s prescription were a pair of white ducks, in which, with black tie and white shirt, he would resemble a ballpark vendor of Eskimo Pies. He had no alternative but to remove the mothballs from the pockets of his winter suit, a dark-blue garment of weighty wool, and climb into its trousers in a temperature of some eighty degrees.
Already steaming, though the jacket yet lay on the bed, he got a white shirt from the dresser. Naked to the waist, he avoided the sight of himself in the mirror because he could not spare the time to tense his muscles, in the absence of which effort he would see more scrawniness than the wiry character kindly ascribed to his body by Hauser.
Shirt on, Ralph went into the hallway and took the four steps that brought him to the door of his parents’ room. He was about to enter when he saw his father leaning in profile at the bed to insert an object under the pillow. The chenille spread was pulled back in the interests of this chore.
His father was naked. His sex organs, at which Ralph scrupulously avoided looking, were the largest he had ever seen on a man, the testicles like oranges and a banana-sized penis, sprouting from a thick black hedge. But then Ralph had no vast experience of adult male pudenda.
He withdrew instantly, silently, without detection, and made it back to his own room, where he imposed a ban on further speculations on his father’s genitals and remembered his identification of the object placed under the pillow: a gun. Many householders kept one. Damn good thing to have at hand if a nigger broke in, as Hauser always said; or any kind of burglar, cheap punk, or maniac, as Ralph added. Hauser said yeah, but not to use on Peeping Toms or he’d get himself killed one of these days.
He sat upon his bed and waited while the shower roared. Before going to Bigelow’s he had washed his own armpits and applied Mum. He sniffed: it was still holding. Sometime after his father had crossed the hall from the bathroom, Ralph tried again, this time with slapping shoe soles, giving plenty of warning.
When he reached the door of his parents’ bedroom, his father, in shirt and trousers, was tying his tie in the mirror. When this was done Buddy took from the dressertop a golden pin and fastened it to connect the halves of his round-point collar. His shirt was made of oxford cloth, and his trousers were navy-blue, with gray chalk stripes. He was certainly more impressive when clothed; somewhere below and behind the end of his pants pleats his huge genitals were contained in the pouch of his Jockey shorts, which unlike Ralph’s own had been changed.
The mirror image spoke irritably: “Do you know what you’re doing?”
Ralph was scratching his crotch. He stopped abruptly once attention was called. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
Swinging his tie aside, Buddy slid a gold clip onto the edge of his shirt just above a button in the high middle. “One characteristic of a gentleman—the main one, in my humble opinion—is he always thinks.” He fed the tie through the loop of the golden chain that swung from the clip. “Whereas a slob always has his mind in a fog.”
“That knitted tie is neat,” said Ralph. “Also that collar.”
“Clothes make the man,” said Buddy, dissatisfied with the hang of the little gold chain. He altered the position of the clip, now hidden behind the tie. He stepped to his personal chiffonier, examined his ensemble in the long mirror inside one door, then from the laden tie rack behind the other took a black tie and presented it to Ralph.
Alas, it was not of the knitted type but rather a slimy-feeling, shiny thing of silk. Ralph went to his own room to knot it. On the first few attempts the ends always came out in different lengths, and he did not want to be criticized by the well-dressed man who did everything well.
When they pulled up in front of Leo’s house, Ralph assumed the idea was to pick up the car salesman and go together to the funeral home. But Buddy cut the engine and stared at Ralph in the rear-vision mirror.
“Leo’s mom is laid out in the living room, Ralph, on the davenport. That might strike you as weird, but if so, don’t laugh. If you feel
a grin coming on and you just can’t hold it, slip out to the bathroom or the porch or something.”
Naomi snickered under her veil and said: “Oh, dear.”
“I think that’s good advice?” Buddy responded in a kind of false question.
“Very good, indeed,” she hastened to say. “But it never would have occurred to me, and now I may not be able to think of anything else but not laughing, or else I’ll laugh.” She giggled again.
“I was talking to Ralph,” said Buddy in a controlled way, and climbed out.
Naomi and Ralph followed him up the walk, Ralph surveying the lawn with a professional eye. Fired from Bigelow’s, he would be back to grass for another month, then leaves, then snow and coal, and then another spring. Life had an inexorable quality about it, and ended with inevitable death. Sweating in the suit jacket and with this sudden tragic sense of life, he mounted the porch behind the slender black figure of his living mother, en route to view the body of Leo’s dead one.
As his father opened the house door, Ralph saw the screen-door had been removed too early for the season and left leaning against the side railing of the porch. The entrance hall of this house, which he had never before penetrated, was stranger yet: utterly empty of furnishings, not even a hatrack or umbrella stand.
His father was now walking tiptoe towards a closed door. His mother had her black-gloved hand to her veil and was making faint asthmatic sounds.
Buddy opened the door and entered first. Endeavoring to suppress her giggle, Naomi stepped aside and motioned Ralph on. He stepped into a room as empty as the vestibule, with one exception: on a davenport lay a dead lady not as old as he had expected. She looked indeed like a former chorus girl.
No one else was there, including Leo. His father ignored the body to stare about in wonderment, then stepped through the archway into the dining room. He soon returned with pursed lips.