One of the reasons Laverne loved Buddy was for his professional know-how. He really knew what he was doing, like Ken Canning with the sax and clarinet, and it was her assumption that most men did not, this bias based on her experience as waitress, witnessing the rotten food forked up with relish, and as prostitute dealing with clients who took off pressed pants over polished shoes to expose yellowed underwear.
“But say I get divorced,” he went on, “Naomi’s going to stay where she is. She’ll get the house and custody of Ralph, and this is a small town: I’d be running into both of them all the time, which I wouldn’t mind that much with her, but it’d be tough with the boy. He looks up to me.”
“Sure,” Laverne said sadly.
“See,” said Buddy, “she’d have to divorce me. I ain’t got no grounds against her. Christ, she’s home all the time except maybe once a week she rides the bus downtown to the department stores, where she usually don’t buy anything even. And she’s always in a good mood, does anything I tell her to.”
Laverne thought of something important: “But you said she hates your guts, Bud.”
Buddy nodded vigorously. “Damn right. But it’s hard to put in words, Laverne. Maybe it ain’t hate. She just don’t care, which is worse than hate. She don’t really listen when you talk. She don’t notice what matters to you. She will serve food you always despised and call it your favorite.” He winced and rubbed his forehead. “I know it don’t sound that bad, but all things that matter can’t be explained, like why you like some smells and can’t stand others and why women are scared of mice and why you get a funny chill up your back if a piece of metal squeaks across concrete, see?” He peered at her with mean eyes. “One man’s meat can be another man’s poison like the fella says, and you can’t make sense out of it…. She won’t argue, you can’t get a rise outa her. Now you and me haven’t come to words, but I figure one could get under the skin of the other pretty easy if you wanted to, and I know I wouldn’t wanna tangle with you, Laverne.”
“Aw, Buddy,” she chided him lovingly.
“No, we could, I figure, and that’s the way it oughta be. But she’s weird. She gives me the creeps, if you want to know. I got the definite feeling she could catch us in bed together and would apologize and leave the room.”
“If that’s right,” said Laverne, “it’s weird all right.” She said that to be in sympathy with Buddy, who obviously regarded sexual infidelity as a maximum crime, straitlaced as he was. Speaking for herself, loving him madly, she might be happy to know he was getting outside nookie and thus giving her a rest. For the moment, however, she had to put up with him in bed so that he would be with her for the important things like eating her meals and judging her home-decorating ideas and talking about his business, and just being there, relaxing with his shoes off, naked under the bathrobe she bought him, belching after a good feed, there on her couch with the new flowered slipcover he thought was real good taste, laughing like a kid at radio comedy, Rochester giving the works to Jack Benny, Bob Hope and Professor Colonna, and the rest.
But he had a problem. “Gee, Bud, it’s tough, but you’ll work it out. Far be it from me to put pressure on you.”
He would cheer up. “You’re a sweet patootie. Hey, you know what, I’m hot for your body.”
But after months of this Laverne’s personality began to darken around the edges like a head of lettuce kept too long in the hydrator. Physically she was putting on weight, her bazooms and behind sagging with it, and in a brassiere and girdle her flesh puffed over straps and waistband. She got no exercise, and being around the flat all day she tended to eat a lot of candy. Unless Buddy showed up for a meal she ate no real food at all, just nibbled on cheese crackers, Hostess devil’s-food cupcakes, salted peanuts, and nickel blueberry pies, washing them down with Orange Crush or heavily sugared iced tea when summer came.
The top-floor flat was like a Tappan oven when the sun baked the roof all day, and she cooked within, along with the tuna-and-noodle casseroles she made for Buddy in the smaller model. She took to going about in her kimono, bare-ass underneath, which made him all the hornier on his visits and also sparkled the eyes of the little piss-willie who delivered groceries and whom she was idly amused to heat up, because already at fourteen or fifteen he was the characterless sort of jerk that some men took a couple more years to become, thinking only of dumping their loads.
Having so much time on her hands, Laverne thought about the entire male race and believed she would have had a lot more respect for them if they stayed permanently hard and did not after such a temporary friction spill and go limp.
They came and went, is what they did, all of them, and Buddy began to seem, as Ken Canning had in his time, no exception to the rule. There was one universal standard of prostitution: for the stated fee, you got the customer off, by whatever means. If he shot his wad while putting on the rubber, as some did, you had no further responsibility without further negotiation.
Laverne had wanted to be Buddy’s slave and not another master like Naomi. She despised men she could dominate, but began to think there was no other kind. There might even be something radically wrong with males, with sex organs hanging out where they could be hurt accidentally. Buddy once crossed his legs while sitting on her couch and yelped in pain: his Jockey shorts had entangled his balls. Sometimes he went at it so ardently in bed that, despite the rubber, the head of his little dummy was chafed and the roll of his foreskin stayed purple for hours and if unfurled was striped in pink, orange, and ruby red, and had to be doused with Mexican Heat Powder.
Laverne began to count how long he would go without mentioning his hopeless marriage unless reminded. She always gave up before he did. The one thing in which a man had more endurance than a woman was in not defining himself. By August she had heard the same statements so often that they could have switched roles in the dialogue, with her doing his lines to a T. Her own were no longer so tolerant, so agreeable, as of yore, and what she began to resent most about him was not his doing nothing about a divorce, but rather his causing her to turn bitchy; as with Ken Canning, she despised not his lying but his assumption that she could not bear the truth.
Why were men such cowards? The only exception she knew was Jesus Christ, who never had sex and stuck by his principles and was nailed to the Cross for it. In August she began to go to Mass and take communion again for the first time in years, but it seemed the first time ever, because she had had to live a lot to taste the Flesh and Blood in the bread and wine, to accept a lot of dicks and serve a lot of hamburgers before seeing the Light in which human weakness cast no shadow.
Yet she continued, for old times’ sake, in compassion and without hope, to give Buddy a chance to be more than a man. She still loved him, though gradually this love had turned from the particular, earthly sort to that with which he was regarded by his heavenly Father. By September she would not have married him had he been free, but being human she was not above the claims of spite, which alone had delayed for some days the realization of her intent to go downtown to the old red-brick convent near the railroad station and find out whether it was too late to become a novice in the Sisters of Charity.
The new delivery boy’s identification of himself as Buddy’s son was both a shock and a sign. It was as if God had Himself got fed up with the suspense. Laverne took a long bubble bath and then put on her best outfit: the green satin dress and the white picture hat. Going out into the yard, she saw the stout couple on the porch. They peered disapprovingly at her. They had seen Buddy come and go for half a year.
She sniffed at the piggish pair and said: “Anybody comes looking for me, tell ’em I have went downtown on the bus, willya?”
The old battleax smirked silently, but the man said: “Yes, ma’am.” If he had been there alone he would have been eying her jugs in that uplift that was fastened on the last hook and yet still cut her back. But it was essential that neither those nor her behind encased in the armor of two-way stretch would wobb
le. She would look like a lady when she went to marry Christ.
chapter 12
ALONG WITH Buddy’s saucer containing two preserved kumquats, and Naomi’s pineapple slice, the moon-faced waiter brought two fortune cookies.
Taking one and turning it idly in the light of the pagoda-shaped table lamp, Naomi asked: “Did you ever know anyone who actually ate these?”
This was typical of her conversational contribution.
Buddy smiled feebly. “Ever hear the one about the guy who opened it and found a slip that said, ‘Help, I’m being held prisoner in a Chinese bakery’?”
Gravely, Naomi said: “Yes, I have.”
His smile strengthened with wryness. “It’s a pretty old turkey, I guess. Time I was getting a new one.”
“I wonder,” said Naomi, “if the Chinese have their own form of wit.”
“They’re sure laughing over there,” said Buddy, nodding at a tableful of Orientals across the room.
“There are people who will roar when somebody slips on a banana peel.” Naomi seemed to be saying this to herself while looking at the teapot.
“Don’t they though.” Buddy had eaten his moo goo gai pan in a state of numbness. He could not endure Naomi’s presence, but neither could he depict in mind the eternal silence into which he had arranged to send her. It had been a mistake not to bring Ralph along: he would have relieved the situation by trying to use chopsticks and dropping food in his lap.
Ralph had something of the natural clown in him, which he did not get from either of them. When he was younger he stepped in dogshit a lot, and on the first day of the first grade he sat on his schoolbag, crushing the banana in the outside pocket thereof. Once when visiting some second cousin of Naomi’s who owned a farm, Ralph walked through a cowpie. Another time, leaning over to see a particular goldfish, he lost his balance and stepped into the little ornamental pond made by a neighbor from a discarded bathtub.
Buddy was startled from his reverie by the brutal sound of Naomi’s crushing her fortune cookie. She put the tiny slip of paper under the pagoda lamp and squinted, moving her head back to lengthen the focal range. She proceeded to search her purse.
“It seems I did not bring my reading glasses.”
Buddy put out his hand.
“How kind,” said Naomi, and gave him her fortune.
He put it under the lamp and read: “Confucius say, He who—” The rest was totally illegible. For an instant of terror Buddy thought his eyes, which had always been perfect, were at fault, but reason prevailed and he saw that the printing ink had run, the letters fusing into a continuous smear.
He explained and said: “Take mine.”
“No thank you,” said Naomi. “That’s the kind of fortune I prefer.” She seized the slip and dropped it in her purse. “They’re usually so silly.”
“They’re supposed to be,” said Buddy, succeeding in cracking his own cookie into two neat parts, the way he always tried, hating the mess; took the slip out; and cautiously read it first to himself. Then aloud: “See: ‘He who eats soup with chopsticks never gets stains on tie.’”
Naomi began to snicker, then went into a hearty if not coarse laugh.
“Hmm,” murmured Buddy. It was one of her tricks never to respond predictably to humor. He was tired of cooperating now, at the eleventh hour, and kept a straight face.
“There’s a moral there, if you examine it,” said she. “It’s not silly at all. I withdraw my statement.”
Buddy suddenly inhaled a whiff of freedom. She would be gone soon, taking with her his motive for years of diplomacy. And if he had had to boil down into one his reasons for wanting her dead, it would be: because of the way she talks.
“Why,” he asked, throwing caution to the winds at last, “can’t you say just: ‘I take it back.’ Why do you always talk in that phony way? You ain’t got no more education than me, and you know it, so why can’t you talk like a normal person?”
Naomi kept her aplomb though the attack was without precedent. “I apologize, Buddy. It was simply the way it came out, I assure you. It wasn’t planned.”
Buddy felt warm as well as damp around the collar. He put a finger there to confirm the feeling. He also felt giddy, and his feet tingled. “I think,” he said recklessly, “you are making fun of me. And furthermore, you been doing it for years.”
“I assure you that comes as a complete surprise,” said she.
“Oh yeah?” said Buddy, snarling now. “Well, I’m onto you. You think I’m garbage.”
Naomi’s forehead disappeared into her hat, which she wore low anyway, old-lady style, the veil swept back over the crown.
“You figured,” said Buddy, “that I was too dumb to figure that out.”
She shook her head. “No, Buddy, I certainly wouldn’t ever call you stupid. I don’t know why you’re saying this, unless you were unsettled by that morbid atmosphere at Leo’s. I have often worried about all the responsibilities you have. When Leo returns to normal, and I’m sure he will, why don’t you take a vacation?”
She had thrown Buddy for a loss. “What, what?” he cried.
“A weekend in Atlantic City might do you a world of good, or better yet, Tampa, Florida.”
Buddy had never traveled anywhere. He cited the suggestion as another example of her incessant disparagement of him. “You know I can’t swim.”
Naomi smiled sanctimoniously. “You can sit on the warm sand and watch the bathing beauties.”
He was genuinely shocked. “How dare you say that to me?”
Naomi’s smile stayed in place while her head turned at an angle. “That’s harmless enough.”
“You calling me a sex fiend?” He turned to see whether the Chinese had overheard him, but they were greedily chopsticking rice into their mouths from little bowls held just under the chin.
Naomi got her cigarettes from the purse. Over the years her eyes seemed to move closer to her nose and the diameter of her nostrils had diminished. Her features were gathering together into one central vertical line. But the phenomenon was short-lived; when the cigarette was lighted they came back to normal.
Buddy was seeing things. He gulped a mouthful of cold tea from the handleless cup and got more than one bitter leaf.
He must not allow his attack to falter. “Next you’ll say I been running around, is that it? You sit home there all the time, nursing a grudge. I’m onto you, though.” He tapped his temple. “I’m not as dumb as you think.”
Naomi was reluctant to part with the lungful of smoke she had inhaled. Little wisps lurked from time to time at the corners of her mouth and finally a slow and thin blue stream emerged from her nose.
She said: “I really am convinced the situation calls for a change of scenery. Leo can manage for a week or so on his own.”
Buddy could not help going on the defensive. “I’m letting Leo go, for your information. He’s lost his marbles completely. He shot his parrot and he sold all his furniture. I don’t even want him on the lot when I’m there, let alone behind my back. He turned out to be some kind of mama’s boy.” He drew back in his chair. “I got nobody to trust, let me tell you. I even caught Ralph the other night, busting some store window and making his getaway. Haha! How about that? Little smart aleck. He’ll end up in reform school one of these days. That’s how Baby Face Nelson started, huh?”
Naomi looked amazed, but not, as it turned out, at the information. “This exaggeration is something quite new, Buddy. And your face is flushed. Do you feel all right?”
Again she had nailed him. In fact he had a terrible heart-burn. He put a hand on the resilient flesh that covered his solar plexus and gulped. The aftertaste, though he had not belched, was like the smell of smoldering celluloid. The slimy chicken fragments in the moo goo gai pan had looked weird, too white, as he chased them through the bean pods, like pieces left over from making Frankenstein.
“I’m fit as a fiddle,” he however said defiantly, his eyes protruding from the effort required. H
e tried to relieve the pressure with a bitter joke. “But they should change the name to Ptomaine Terrace.”
Rejecting as always his suggestion that she go whole hog for once, Naomi had had her usual four-course special with chop suey, into which she stirred the ball of gummy rice molded in an ice cream dipper and then had eaten it with dedication. Buddy on the other hand had tried to stimulate his nonexistent appetite by resorting to the tactic, typical of his style and also notoriously effective sometimes in Chinese restaurants, of ordering a profusion of dishes: three oval platters flanked his plate. Along with the moo goo had come sweet and sour pork, and a heaped mélange of those chewy little vegetables you never saw anywhere else. The result was the reverse of what he expected: he was nauseated by the presence of so much food and merely tasted here and there. The inscrutable waiter took it all away at length, no doubt to return it to the pot.
Yet Buddy’s stomach burned as if he had swallowed gluttonously. His fingers had gone cold from the terminal joints to the tips, and an excruciating cramp had manifested itself in his right thigh.
Seeing Naomi’s dead-white face, framed in dead black and exuding smoke from its orifices like an inanimate incense burner, he trembled with the sudden apprehension that she had poisoned him, deftly dosed the teapot while he was looking elsewhere. One, the tea tasted excessively bitter; two, she avoided it and drank ice water; three, reaching for the tiny saucer of mustard, she had overturned his water glass, which the negligent and, now that he thought of him, treacherous-looking waiter had not refilled. Thus he had no means with which to dilute the venom.