—Didn’t know you’re back I got that Italian for you, he’ll be here next Thursday he’s . . .
—Thursday hell he can be here tomorrow morning or he don’t need to come at all you tell him that and wait, you got that plan I drew?
—I got it right here . . . the frayed buttonhole came open, with it a folded yellow sheet and a picture that flew up between them, to reach the floor face up.
—What’s, looks like you been holding out the best one on me Leo . . .
—Must have, must have fell out . . .
—Sure as hell did fall out didn’t it.
—Must have fell out in my pocket out of that envelope . . .
—Yes well just, here just better keep them all together . . . he faced it inside his shirt pocket—now . . . he flattened the yellow page against that green with the heel of his hand,—just give me your pencil there now look, I forgot to mark this in we’re going to need vents all down here if we change it around like this see what I mean? Now you get that Eyetalian in here tomorrow on it or he don’t need to come at all.
—I’ll try to do that for you Mister Angel but wait, these here pictures what . . .
—Don’t do it for me Leo you just do it and these pictures, you just let me take care of it . . . and he pulled the door hard behind him against the day that seemed to dim as he entered it, gray dimmed overhead to vindicate small shams of housefronts’ glassed porches boxing retirement in undervests no longer anywhere for sale behind aluminum doors bearing aluminum initials, yards parceled behind chain link not even his waist high toward an American flag flown high and bleak some blocks ahead down one curb, up the next, shoulders down hands fallen to the depths of pockets, when a rubber ball hit him on the leg. He stooped and caught it, and looked up, around, into a drive squeezed along the fence to a man poised there in a gray patterned suit and wearing a shirt and a tie, and he threw the ball and stopped dead.—Wait is, Jack . . .?
The man turned as the ball bounced past him toward a child who rounded the corner of the house and stopped it, half running toward her with the sudden and grotesque effort of the limp that dragged one foot behind him.—Jack? Gibbs? is that you Jack . . .? But with one twisted turn the figure was gone behind the house. He stood there until a curtain stirred at the window, and then he turned and went on toward the flag, and the glass front just across where he went in and sat at the counter eating a western sandwich, looking from one face to the next of the sprawled soldiers, glancing repeatedly back at one more erect under a major’s clusters until he finished and left, the flag behind him, up one curb and down the next. The child was in the driveway with the ball, and he hurried toward her.—Wait, little girl? Wait a minute, I just want to ask you something . . . she backed down the fence a step or two.—That man you were just playing ball with, is he here?
—He just went, she said half pointing up the block.
—He, see I thought I knew him, he . . .
—That’s my father.
—Oh. When will he be back.
—Every week today, he comes to see me every week just about.
—You mean, where does he live then.
—Someplace else, he just comes here to see me and you know what?
—He’d ah, he hurt his leg did he?
—He always had that, he got it in the war and you know what?
—He always had it?
—He got that fighting the Germans in his tank, his tank broke and when he got out they shot him like that and he almost froze, it was in winter and you know what?
—Rose! came a woman’s voice from the house, or behind it.
—Wait, what’s you name?
—Rose.
—Rose you get in here . . .!
—What, Rose what . . .
—Rose get in here!
He stood there looking after her for a moment and then up the empty block where she’d pointed, breaking that way suddenly in a near trot and looking, down every curb, in both directions, dropping finally to a walk where the elevated limb of subway loomed ahead off one curb, up the next to stop off balance there and turn abruptly as though sheltering from the wind in the drugstore’s entrance, apparently absorbed in Surgical Appliances for the Whole Family as cadenced heels stabbed the pavement passing behind him.
—So what happened.
—So I’m bringing this file folder over to his desk to check this specification, I guess he didn’t see me because I look down and he’s sitting there with all these dirty pictures in his lap, honest.
—Him?
—Honest, so he sits forward real quick and . . .
—No if you hardly saw them then maybe they weren’t . . .
—Are you kidding? This one on top where she’s going down I mean he’s hung like Kenny you couldn’t, wait you got a token? They stopped at the foot of the steps rummaging in purses, bumped by a man escaping a bar gleaming red behind them who muttered—sorry passing up the stairs where they followed, rummaging, through the turnstile and out to the platform pausing sheltered by a billboard loaf of bread surcharged Astoria Gents.—You want to come up that way? So I can be up front for when I change, don’t look back he’s really checking you out.
—Who.
—He’s got on this gray suit with these big checks on his tie . . . they stopped toward the end of the platform.—Him.
—He just bumped us down at the bottom, he looks . . . the train roared in against the platform.—I swear, they’re like animals . . . and they settled back to a gentle rocking motion—with all these rhinestones down the shoulder but I’m scared to wear it . . . lights dimmed, came up, halts became more frequent filling the aisle with feet kicking aside torn newspaper, flattening candy wrappers,—sitting right acrost yeah, your stop’s next?
—Yeah good night, I’ll see you . . .
—I’ll see you Terry . . . and she settled back appearing to seek a gap between trouser seats and shifting bulks from cloth coat sales across the aisle to where arms folded over the tie’s bold check he sat eyes fixed above her on a car card burgeoning the Statue of Liberty garnished with appropriate verse and the train stopped, and started, stopped as though exchanging refuse from one teeming shore to carry to the next.
—Watch out you stupid fuck you.
—Watch the doors there . . .
—Is this the Penn Station?
—Who you calling stupid you dumb fuck, you want me to bust your fucking ass?
—Let them out there, let them out . . . resonant, unrelated, syllables blared from a loudspeaker, purse clutched her glance over a shoulder swept ahead ready when he turned square in his path steadied against a vending machine.
THE LORD’S PRAYER
Use it as a
Lucky Charm Medal
25¢
OUT OF ORDER scrawled across it—sorry . . . he caught her elbow,—are you all right?
—I think I hurt my ankle, they’re like animals I swear.
—Can’t get you a lucky charm how about a drink . . . elbows found ribs and shoulders backs—place is like the dawn of the world here, this way . . . countless hands and unattached eyes, faces looking in different directions, rolled newspapers clutched and their wives’ umbrellas, frankfurters redolent, a muffled explosion and falling glass.
—Here, I’m over here . . .
—My God a bomb . . .
—Five thirty-eight to Babylon . . .?
—To Jericho . . .
—Over here . . .!
—What are you standing here shouting for. I was over there.
—What? Oh, Ann I didn’t see you I didn’t even know you were, I just thought I saw Mister Gibbs over there with a young . . .
—What are you doing here in the first place.
—Getting the five thirty-eight, I had an appointment I didn’t even know you came in.
—You’re the only one that can have an appointment?
—No I just, are you getting the train?
—What do you think I’m here for, the fres
h air? I’m getting the train if we’re not all killed first.
—So am I . . .
—If you don’t push me down the stairs first.
—I just thought we should hurry . . .
—Then maybe you could have offered to carry something.
—Oh here . . .
—Well not now we’re practically there . . . Elbowed, stabbed by folded umbrellas, they got two together staring at backs of necks as the procession shuddered into motion and the lights went out. After a wavering try they came on again. The conductor stood tapping his punch.
—Shall I pay for yours?
—Is that too much to expect? She looked back to her book.
—No no I, I just thought maybe you’d bought a round trip . . .
The lights went out and stayed out until the train emerged in what was left of the day. His head nodded slightly. He was staring over her shoulder.
El hedouli: hands and feet brought together so that her vulva stands out like a dome, the woman is raised by means of a pulley until the lingam is . . .
—Haven’t you got something of your own to read?
—I, I meant to get a paper.
—Why didn’t you get a paper? Everybody else has a paper. The train settled to a gentle swaying motion and suggestions of buildings fled past the filthy pane.—What are you doing?
—Me?
—You’re making faces at yourself in the glass.
—No I’m, it’s called role playing industrial consultants are beginning to . . .
—Well stop it.
The train was seized with a series of spasms, came to a halt to moan outside a bottling works and moved again. His head nodded.
Lebeuss er djoureb: seated between her legs, the lips of the vulva are fitted over the lingam with the thumb and first finger, so that . . .
—Haven’t you got something to . . . but his eyes were closed and remained so until she dug his ribs.—Come on, we’re here. He walked behind her, out and down the platform past Debbys cespool and We kick ass yours too down the steps and ranged rumps of cars to one that finally started with a tremor right through his livid grip on the wheel out in a whirl of gravel disputing passage only for the time it took his foot to reach the brake—unless we’re both killed first . . . into Burgoyne Street menaced by kerosene flares toward a corner invitingly lighted,—Straight! Go straight! and the car righted narrowly missed from another direction.
—He almost, almost ran right into me!
—Well turn on your lights, my God.
Past ships’ lanterns lighted now and sentry carriage lamps, they mounted the curb and fell to silence.—We’re home.
—Home!
The frame door slammed with the sound of a shot.
—Mama we made a puppet show Mama, me and Donny.
—My God. Did you eat?
The door slammed with the sound of a shot.
—Daddy me and Donny made a puppet show.
The elderly dog eyed him from under a table as he leaned a shopping bag against the room divider, peering through the display of preColumbia erect to the flaccid saxophone, stilled fingers halted up its length to the mouthpiece hung between dentures left ajar.—Hello Dad . . .
—He’s asleep and Daddy you want to see the puppet show me and Donny made? See it’s this clown and this mouse and the clown says hey Donny! Come here, we’re going to show the puppet show.
—Where’s Donny?
—He’s with his bed. Hey Donny?
—After supper Nora, he said starting the round of turning off lights, foyer, hall, bathroom, foyer, snap, snap, snap,—Nora?
—What are you doing now.
—We don’t need lights on in rooms nobody’s in.
—Rooms nobody’s in, put them out in the kitchen too we can all eat in the dark. Nora get Donny for supper.
—He’s with his bed. Hey Don-ny . . .!
—Don’t scream! I said go get him.
—Shall I wake Dad?
—My God no, why.
—For supper?
—He ate already Daddy.
—Ate already? Ate what already.
—I don’t know Mama, he just made something and . . .
—I said will you get Donny.
—Daddy will you help me get Donny? When he gets all those wires around everything with his bed he gets stuck.
—My God . . . a door banged, there was a sound of something falling, of dragging up the hall.—Nora let Donny sit there, you sit here.
—But Mama he has to sit by where the plug is so he can plug in.
—And I have to get through here without tripping on a cord every time I turn around.
—But he can’t eat nothing if he’s not plugged in. I need a fork.
—Use your spoon.
—Daddy can I use your fork?
—There must be more forks, I’ll get you a . . .
—She can use her spoon. There aren’t any clean forks.
—But we had plenty of forks, that whole set that . . .
—Ick, tunafish casserole.
—Sit up and eat.
—Yes we, we don’t have meat very often we . . .
—Don’t have meat very often! You think they give it away?
—No but there should be enough in the household money for just . . .
—Household money, Nora sit up and eat. You said Dad already ate, none of the casserole was gone what did he eat?
—Out of the blue dish with the cover, he . . .
—Oh God. He got in the dog’s food again.
—Would it make him sick Mama?
—Does it make the dog sick?
—Then what’s the matter.
—The way the bathroom smells afterward that’s what’s the matter, now sit up and finish.
—Then will you watch me and Donny’s puppet show?
—Yes, just eat. If you, Donny!
—He couldn’t help it Mama, the wire got caught around his milk glass and . . .
—My God, all over my skirt. Just stay at the table!
—But you’re . . .
—Stay right there till you’re finished! she got past them, rounded the corner and down the hall.—Dad! Are you in there? A rude sound responded promptly beyond the bathroom door and here she came again.—All of you! she whispered, getting her skirt off at the kitchen sink.
—We’re done. We’re done. Get ready for the puppet show.
—All of you . . .
—In here Daddy, in the living room. Donny you get the mouse. I’ll be the clown and the cat and you be the mouse. Daddy you sit here, Daddy sits here and Mama sits here. Donny you’re being the mouse. Mama? You sit here. This is where we live. I’m being the clown and I say let’s get a cat. Come on Donny, you’re being the mouse and you say you don’t want us to get a cat because you’re scared he would eat you, come on, so then you go out. So then the clown goes over and opens the door so the cat can come in and tells him to come in. So then the mouse, come on Donny you’re being the mouse and you hear us, so then the mouse hears us and he comes in where the clown didn’t see him and closes the door on the cat. Come on Donny, come on! You’re being the . . .
—Nora? it’s close to bed time.
—But just let us . . .
—Get undressed Nora. Both of you.
—Mama Donny always ruins everything, he was supposed to be practicing and he was always going back to work on his old bed while he was supposed to be practicing the puppet show. He’s always ruining everything . . .
Somewhere a clock made a try at striking the hour. A door banged, a toilet flushed, a door banged. Tape measure, linen counter, calibrated pencil, perforation gauge,—what are you doing with all that stuff? she came in behind him.
—Just, just getting it out of my pockets . . .
—Would you mind dumping it somewhere else? I need the mirror.
Calibrated pencil, linen counter, tape measure, perforation gauge,—Aren’t you afraid the children will see you like that? he
said, picking them up.
—See me like what.
—Just, I mean, walking around naked . . .
—Why should they be afraid to see me walking around naked?
—No I mean you, aren’t you afraid . . .
—Well say what you mean . . . leaning into the mirror she removed an eyelash.—Afraid! she removed the other eyelash,—because you’re afraid you think everybody else should be afraid?
—Well no, he brought his eyes up from the smutch of hair she’d turned on him—I only meant . . .
—You only meant, you’re even afraid to say what you mean . . . she padded past him and bent over to pick up something, a hairpin? behind the radiator,—afraid it will devour you, that anything alive will devour you.
He stared at it gone upside down, lips parting, cleared his throat.—Are you using the typewriter?
—Am I using the typewriter. She straightened round, an arm akimbo and a breath that briefly exalted things to the disposition of calendar art.—Do I look like I’m using the typewriter?
—There’s something in it, he hastened round himself to turn the roller—I just didn’t know . . .
—Well take it out that’s right, throw it away, she came on, dispelling breath in a gesture that restored her homey disproportion fully dressed,—it’s probably just something of mine for the Foundation grant.
—They were dead on foot. They were helpless too, because they were dead on foot. Probably had an earthquake. When you come to red brick dust you know you’re coming to a house where the people are standing and the people died on foot . . .
—All right, I’ve read it.
—But what is it?
—What is it. What do you think it is, something of mine? It’s a composition of Nora’s what do you, don’t you dare throw that away.
—I wasn’t going to, I just . . .
—Just because you think it doesn’t show talent? You probably wonder how she can be your own daughter she has more talent in, where are you going?
—Finger, he muttered crossing the room.
—What?
—Are you done at the mirror?
—I can tell you what you’ll see there.
—It’s in, something in connection with my work.
—Your work. What, Whiteback told you to take a good look at yourself?