This a mere summary or digest of the 150 pages of papers, forms, reports in the original case record, all of it written not in Henry’s hand but in that of his predecessor, a young woman who eight months previously had used the same field book and borne the same caseload.
Henry went downstairs to serve his client.
In the waiting room, big as a bus terminal, of what they called the Service Department, he found a seething mob filling the ranks of chairs, hordes of screaming, whimpering, puking, snarling children swarming about. Most of those waiting were Negro, Cuban, Haitian and Puerto Rican women, the basic proletaria, the elemental reproducers, the firm foundation—in New York—of any ambitious and expanding welfare program. All sat facing a huge wall on which hung the faded colors of the flag of the United States of America. Below the flag, back to the wall, stood a black departmental cop with gun, club, radio, handcuffs and whistle.
Henry found his client and helped him to a semi-private corner near the EXIT.
I usta get $168 a month, Mr. Killoran began, his voice thin, cracked, complaining, his eyes a watery senile gray, now I only get $156 a month and nobody ever explained nuttin’ why I only get $156 a month now and I usta get $168 a month.
Henry opened his field book and researched the problem. He explained to the old man that the Welfare Department had reduced his welfare grant by $12 per month because the Social Security Administration had recently increased his social security pension by the same amount.
Whaddeya mean? the old man said, turning up his hearing aid, showing his false teeth and glaring through his bifocal spectacles. Whaddeya mean, what kinda sense’s dat make? Da Social Security gimme duh increase on accounta duh increase in duh costa livin’ and you guys take it away as soon as I get it. What duh hell’s duh sense of dat?
I don’t know, Henry confessed. But that’s the law. Social Security is considered a source of income and everytime your income goes up the law says we must reduce your welfare grant by a corresponding sum.
But Jeez Christ when I got duh increase from Social Security I went out an’ bought me a new television set for $399.90. I gotta pay for it now $24 a month for 24 months. Look at dis, here’s duh payment book, see? I gotta pay dem bastids $24 a month for 24 months and so how’m I sposed to pay duh $24 a month for 24 months if you guys knock off $12 a month from my check, huh?
Henry performed some mental arithmetic: 12 × $24 equals $288, 2 × $288 equals $576. Is it a good set? he asked.
It was a bargain. Dey reduced from $499.00 to $399.90.
Does it work?
Jeez, sure, it works good. It worked perfect duh first week only now dere’s sumpin wrong inside cause when I get a good clear picture I don’t get no sound an’ when I get duh sound I don’t get no picture only otherways it’s okay. So how you guys think I’m gonna pay for it now?
How many payments you made so far?
I made two. I paid dem bastids $48 awready and now I gotta pay dem outa my eatin’ money, see? So you gotta do sumpin’. You gotta gimme $168 a month like you gimme before.
Is this what you came to see me about?
What am I gonna do if they take it back? the old man explained, disregarding Henry’s question. I stay up in that little room by myself all duh fuckin’ time, I got nuttin’ to do, duh kids none of ’em ever come to see me and they don’t let me come to see dem so what am I sposed to do up there all by muself all the time…shoot my fuckin’ brains out?
As a matter of fact, Henry thought—and stopped. What’s happening to me? Something queer is happening to me. Look, he said, don’t worry about it. You need shoes, don’t you? Everybody needs shoes. You need a new overcoat, right? I can send you a special non-recurring grant for something like that.
I got fuckin’ shoes, the old man whined. I got a fuckin’ overcoat. Whaddaya wanta send me dem for? You think I ever go anyplace? I never go nowhere, I got nowhere to go, whaddaya wanna send me dem things for? Jeez Christ…
You stupid senile old bastard, Henry said patiently, I’m trying to help you out. What do I have to do, put everything down in writing for you? He became aware of the bystanders, listening, and lowered his voice. Can’t you understand that if I send you a check for shoes and overcoat…
A black woman rose suddenly from her chair in the front row, stepped forward, faced the crowd and screamed, a cry of outrage and agony. Tall and massive, pregnant-bellied, skin the color of anthracite, red eyeballs rolling, belly jumping, arms upraised, she howled: you is all God says damned unto hell every black wicked fornicating debble here, yes, oooooooooooohhhhhhh!
She gibbered, squeaked, foamed at the lips, and when the guard, blowing his whistle, came toward her fondling his club she sank to her knees, clasped her hands in prayer, threw back her eyes with a spastic jerk and toppled over, hitting her head on the floor with a sound like that of a hammer on stone. But the blow did not seem to hurt her. When the guard tried to lift the woman she struck at him, when he tried to cuff her wrists she clawed at him and spat in his face. While the mob watched, many standing on chairs for a better view, the policeman and the woman struggled on the floor until the cop, exasperated, managed to get his stick under her chin and immobilized her with a choke-hold.
He straightened up, sweating and panting, as a second guard appeared at the entrance to the hall. Together they manacled the woman and frog-walked her out of the hall, presumably to the medical clinic on the second floor but perhaps to the mysterious greased chute in the basement that led, so rumor had it, directly to the great Final Solution Furnaces underneath the city.
Moments later, in either case, the disturbance was forgotten. Routine resumed its steady uproar in the Service Department waiting room.
In Henry’s hollow sensitive head the woman’s screams continued, however, to resound; he failed to feel the old man tugging at his sleeve or to notice the bitter snivelling. Henry heard only screams, screams, a sustained wave of screaming compressed so powerfully that the Vampire State Building, object of the pressure, rose eight inches off its foundations and hovered in space, enduring and supported by the sound of the unendurable. The climax passed, the screams faded in volume, the skyscraper settled gradually back on its pad of steel, the granite and concrete. Aborted launch, once again.
The old man tugged at Henry’s arm.
Yes? he said. Yes? Yes?
I said so whatcha gonna do about it?
I don’t know. I don’t know. What can I do? What can anyone do?
Gimme back my twelve dolluhs, dat’s what. Dat’s all I ask, fuh chrissake, my twelve dolluhs back.
Did you hear that? he asked the old man. Did you hear that awful noise? They’re screaming out there.
Dem’s duh sireens, fuh chrissake, it’s noontime. So whaddeya gonna do?
Do? Henry gathered his straggling wits, looking down at the withered derelict standing on his shoes, on Henry’s shoes, sputtering his consumptive, cancerous, diabetic breath in his face, Henry’s face. Yes, he said, go home now. Keep your TV set. We’ll send you money, lots of money, all you need.
Yuh sure? Yuh ain’t jus’ bullshittin’ me like duh udduh investigatuhs done?
You’ll get the money.
Okay. So how about carfare? Yuh gotta gimma a dollah now.
A dollar?
Yeah, one dollah. Duh subway, it’s fifty cents each way.
Oh. Yes. Of course. He found some change in his pocket and gave it without counting to the old man, who snatched it from his palm and hobbled away.
Lanahan grabbed his arm. What’d you do that for?
He said he needed carfare.
Well you don’t pay them out of your own pocket, for godsake. Take them to the receptionist, she handles petty cash. All you do is authorize the disbursement.
Which form is that?
Form 1138b, Authorization for Disbursement of Petty Cash. All you do is fill it out and sign it.
I see. Well…I see.
Come on, let’s eat lunch. Rosie’s Grill.
/> Lanahan guided him, like a child, toward the racks of time cards and the time clock. Punch your card, Henry. Here it is. Stick it in the clock, Henry. Careful, not your fingers. Not your fingers! That’s right, that’s the way to do it. Very good. Lanahan punched his own card and led the way toward the EXIT. They joined the rushing mob in the street; they attached themselves to the queue in the doorway of Rosie’s Grill; they spent fifteen minutes of their lunch hour standing and waiting; they ate their corned beef, mashed potatoes, purple cabbage, got up and joined the queue at the cash register; they rejoined the packed urgent streaming swarms in the street, hurried to the Welfare Building and joined the queue waiting at the elevator doors. That is, Lanahan did. Not Henry. Henry, he climbed the deserted stairways to the fourth floor and into the clamor of telephones, the surf-like rustle of a thousand papers, the comingled buzz and drone of a multitude of human voices. The heat in the room seemed oppressive after the empty stairwell. Seated at his desk before his stacks of forms, Henry stripped down to shirtsleeves, loosened the tie about his neck and undid the collarbutton.
He noticed with a pang of disappointment that Miss Dresnick had not returned; apparently she like others had checked out for the “field,” where indeed Henry himself longed to be and would have gone if Mrs. Kelly, unit supervisor, had not interposed the requirements of administrative discipline. She was present, as he saw from the corner of his eye, stationed at her desk, signing papers, consulting a caseworker, listening at the same time to the telephone receiver fastened to the side of her head by means of a yoke-like attachment of molded plastic, and watching Henry Lightcap from the corner of her eye.
What to do first?
He began with the weekly work report sheet, in triplicate, on which he was meant to record all the field visits he had made, all the phone calls received, all the paperwork completed, all the reports dictated, all the office visits received, together with the day and time of day of each. Since the keeping of an hour-by-hour record would have left him little time for anything else, he filled in his work report sheet with fiction, creative accounting, a random selection of names and case numbers from his field book. Nobody would ever read the work report sheet. It was not meant to be read; it was meant to be filled out.
He got up and placed his work report on top of the heap of other reports and documents that overflowed Mrs. Kelly’s IN basket. Before she or the telephone could nab him again he picked up an armful of case records from his desk and fled up the backstairs to the dictation room. Among that labyrinth of corklined cubicles, all of them occupied, he sought a corklined cubicle of his own. Bat Lanahan grabbed him.
In here, Henry, where the hell you been? Sit down, I’m almost finished. The cubicle contained a table, a dictating machine and two chairs. He sat and listened as Lanahan concluded the dictation of a home visit report:
Present at time of visit was mother, Mrs. Lee, and her four younger children, viz., Darlene age five, Sharlene age four, Marlene age three and Paulene age two. The mother is pregnant and expecting her next child in March. Since receiving a report from P.S. 149 that the second eldest daughter Carlene has not been attending classes, we inquired about her and after intensive questioning learned that this child, age fourteen, was also pregnant and expecting in early February. Our client has no knowledge of name or whereabouts of putative father. Investigator reminded client that Carlene should bring birth certificate to welfare office, after birth of child, if she wishes the child of her child to be added to the family grant. STATUS OF FATHER: Husband of our client is Mr. Willie Lee, who is under court order to contribute $45 per week to the support of client’s children. Mr. Lee has never complied with court order and his whereabouts are unknown to authorities. Client states that she has had no contact with this man since he deserted family one year ago and has no knowledge of his present whereabouts. When investigator inquired concerning ownership of certain articles of male attire found in kitchen sink, client stated that these belonged to her cousin, Mr. Simpson Adderly, who sometimes visited the family, being fond of the children. Client refused to divulge name of author of her current pregnancy. RECOMMENDATION: Investigator recommends that monthly grant of $655.45 be continued until birth of child and grandchild, at which time upward grant adjustment will be in order. When asked why she was having another child, client replied—groping about for some time in her ancient African mind (smell of woodsmoke)—“Well suh Mistah Lanahan suh, yuh see, duh moe chilluns we has duh moe money we gits.” Kidding of course, operator, strike that last line. Thank you, Patrick C. Lanahan signing off.
Sigh. Pause.
Smiling, Lanahan pushed buttons and listened to a playback of his report:
Operator, this is Investigator Patrick C. Lanahan reporting a statutory visit to the home of Mrs. Adelaide Adderly Randolph Lee, case number AFDC 2091663, address 1310 Avenue D. Client lives in Apt. 7B of twelve-story brick tenement. HOUSING ARRANGEMENTS: Apartment consists of two rooms plus bath, occupied by this family of one adult and twelve children, rent $350 per month, verified by rent receipt signed Hurwitz, LL, showing rent paid for month of February. Client claims rent is paid to date but was unable to produce current receipt. Furnishings are adequate, housekeeping standards fair. Client made usual complaints of rats, roaches, waterbugs. At time of visit plumbing facilities were out of order; client promised to contact Health Department and file complaint against LL Hurwitz. Client is two months in arrears in gas and light payments and requested supplementary check, stating that heating bills were excessive because of the broken windows. Client was reminded to contact LL when accidents occur and to file complaint with Buildings Department if LL fails to comply with regulations. Since client had failed to do this her request for supplementary payments was denied. FAMILY UNIT: Family unit consists of Mrs. Lee and twelve children as follows: Mancie age 17, William age 16, George age 15, Carlene age 14, Mylene age 13, Yurlene age 12, Randolph age 11, Daryl age 10, Darlene age 5, Sharlene age 4, Marlene age 3 and Paulene age 2. Named as putative fathers of these children are Mr. Mancie Williams, whereabouts unknown, Mr. William Henry Harrison, whereabouts unknown, and Mr. Randolph Adderly, whereabouts unknown. Father of four younger children is Mr. Willie Lee, whereabouts unknown. HOME SITUATION: Present at time of visit…
Lanahan shut off the machine, removed the recording belt, attached an identifying slip and dropped it into a basket brimming with others. He stood, squeezed Henry’s shoulder.
Hang in there, Henry, I’m off to the field. Field of the old white horse. He winked. Meet me there if you can, we’ll throw back a few. Lanahan picked up his field book, papers, case records and hustled out. Henry sat down before the dictaphone.
He opened his top case record and read the last report, written by a former caseworker; his own report would be a continuation. He opened his field book to the appropriate entry and read the notes he had made on the home and family situation during his recent visit. After a summary of the case he had written, in a ballpoint scrawl so hard the page was lacerated, one word: hopeless.
Hopeless.
But mere truth would not suffice. It never does. The one thing nobody wants to hear is truth. Honesty is always a dangerous policy. He placed a fresh recording belt on the drum of the machine, locked it in place, turned the switch, picked up the microphone and prepared to speak.
He prepared to speak. He had done this many times before and yet this time, staring at the sleek plastic belt spinning on the aluminum drum, hearing the soft murmur of the mechanism, this time he hesitated. From nineteen other cork-lined booths in this fluorescent-lighted hall arose the rapid, mechanical, soporific chatter of his co-workers. Lightcap alone remained silent. Thinking, My God…I can’t talk to this machine anymore…
He stared at the revolving band on which the recording needle inscribed a slowly growing coil of silence, line after delicate line signifying nothing.
VI
In February he got a letter from Gibbsie in Utah. His niche was waiting for him. Report for wor
k April first. One afternoon in mid-March Henry said goodbye to Bat Lanahan and stumbled out the door of the White Horse Tavern.
Clouds of steam billowed over the street, bearing a smell of decay. Henry wandered alone through the dark crowd overflowing the sidewalks, hearing but indifferent to the whistle of police, the clash of colliding traffic, the vast roar of the city. He made his way slowly, on foot, through the canyons of Lower Manhattan to the Barclay Street terminal of the Erie-Lackawanna. At once he was caught in converging streams of men in black topcoats and little gray hats pouring from Wall Street onto the ferry boats.
Newspapers were unfolded; Henry maneuvered through ranks of the fresh evening same old Daily News to the front of the boat. He looked at the river and the Jersey shore and a faint pinkish glow on the west symbolizing sunset. He watched the glow fade above the chemical dumps, toothpaste factories and condemned slaughter-houses of Jersey City.
Turning and lifting his eyes above the newspapers which everywhere confronted him in place of human faces, he gazed at the old pinnacled towers of Lower Manhattan, some not quite in plumb, sagging like tombstones in a jammed, impacted churchyard. The highest windows caught the setting sun and for a moment blazed as it filled with fire, a fire soon quenched by the ambiguity of twilight.