J R

  —Okay! How do I know what it is look I’m trying to do something!

  —Go ahead and do it, you want me to get the pack . . .

  —Go ahead . . .! he dug among paper scraps and envelopes for a letter four lines long of skips and smudged erasures, licked the ballpoint to grind in initials, pounded a stamp on US SAVings and loan Ass R eno Nev and came in a turn for the Money Order window digging for the wad of bills with a sudden stoop after a penny rolling toward Parcel Post.

  —Look out!

  —Holy . . .

  —It’s not my fault look, the box was already bust . . .

  —Okay! just help pick them up . . .

  —Look the whole end’s busted, what’s, what are they sup . . .

  —Nothing! just these here little cards will you help pick them up before somebody . . .

  —No but what do they, wait a second is . . .

  —Look you don’t need to read them! just, just pick them up!

  —No but, him . . .?

  —What’s so funny!

  —He’s your business representive, Edwerd Bast?

  —What’s so funny about that!

  —I mean he doesn’t know shit look he can’t even spell his own name Edwerd look, e d . . .

  —I said quit laughing! How do you know so much anyway and I mean he didn’t even spell it, he . . .

  —Because I got this here Uncle Edward that’s why, it’s w a what do you mean he didn’t spell it, I bet he doesn’t even know it . . .

  —So what! boy if you don’t quit laugh . . .

  —Then how do you know he’ll even do it, he doesn’t know . . .

  —Because he will that’s why!

  —He doesn’t know shit about business how can . . .

  —So what! I’ll give him these here same little books to read up come on just pick them up . . .

  —Then how come you even put this little telephone number he’s not even around anyplace, he . . .

  —That’s my business look shut up will you, Mister Gibbs just came in you think I want to broadcast the whole . . .

  —Okay but he’s not even around anyplace, my father said . . .

  —That’s how much you know boy he has to come by the school to pick up this here check they owe him doesn’t he?

  —Yeah well my father said he said s, h, i t on the tv he better not show his face . . .

  —Yeah well your father he’s full of . . .

  —Yeah well you better watch out boy, if he ever finds who got that whole mountain of dirt out front of our house hauled away you’re going to be in . . .

  —So what you said he’s always yelling he wants to get rid of it practically since you’re born didn’t you? I mean it already had these little trees growing in it look be careful how you’re picking them up will you? I mean you can’t give somebody this dirty business card when you go in some office and . . .

  —So throw away the dirty ones who needs all these, I mean it looks like there’s a thousand . . .

  —So what you had to order a thousand if you want this here free wallet gift so . . .

  —Look there’s a couple over there hey, he’s stepping on . . .

  —Holy . . . he came on at knee level,—excuse me could you move your foot Mis, oh hi Mister Gibbs . . .

  —What?

  —Hi . . . came from down there,—I just wanted to ask you . . .

  —Wait a minute, what . . .? he ground a foot turning back to the window,—probation, it’s made out to the Department of Probation p, r, o . . . well God damn it I didn’t name it, here. Twenty, forty, ninety, one ten, one sixty, one eighty yes I do use an old-fashioned fountain pen is there a regulation against that too? Two thirty, two forty, five, seven, eight wait I’ve still got some change nine, nine fifty, seventy-five, eighty-five Christ wait, ninety-five, six, there . . .

  —Hey Mister Gibbs?

  —What is it!

  —No I just wondered, did you see Mister Bast around anyplace?

  —Bast? he licked the envelope in a turn for the Out of Town slot,—you had him last . . .

  —I, what?

  —Thought your gang took him to the money museum, he said in a turn for the door—most popular man in town . . . and it banged closed behind him where smoke and flame escaping the black spread up Burgoyne Street found purchase on a descending bloat of Chloe as he dodged the car mounting the curb in arrival, digging in pockets at a half trot through the reek of asphalt to come up with a crushed cigarette package, matches with a half fare ticket stuck in the cleft, still digging as the door banged behind him and he reached the grilled window emptying a pocket—just turning in some tickets . . .

  —Wrong window, buddy.

  —What do you mean, it’s the only window here.

  —Maybe you got the wrong track then . . . the heap was pushed back under the grill.—Next?

  —No wait, sorry . . . he recovered a torn half of Jack’s Little Green Card, squares bearing Place ten number three sixth race, Win—sorry there, I think I get ten dollars and forty cents back.

  —For what.

  —The refund for these tickets.

  —Fill out this and send them to this address.

  —What for, can’t you . . .

  —Look buddy I had enough of you the other time, start getting wise again and . . .

  —What other time what are you talking about? I simply want to turn in these tickets . . .

  —For the refund you want, right? So you fill out this and mail them where it says.

  —But I need the money now, I’m . . .

  —You want to take them in yourself, go ahead.

  —In where.

  —In Brooklyn where it says. Next?

  —Brooklyn?

  —One way?

  —Wait a minute . . .

  —That’s one seventy-eight.

  —But I didn’t say I was going to Brooklyn, I’m . . .

  —You buying a ticket or not. Next?

  —Wait. Look. There isn’t any next. There’s nobody behind me, he said loudly over the sound shaking the station from above.—Is that the train?

  —What else would it be, wise guy?

  —I mean the train to New York, when’s the next train to New York.

  —Make up your mind, here . . .

  —But, no but this timetable’s, these are trains for the whole East Coast, can’t you just tell me if that’s the next train to New York? I have to get to New York . . .

  —New York?

  —Yes, I . . .

  —That’s one eighty-four.

  —But that’s the point I don’t have one eighty-four, I . . .

  —You buying a ticket or just trying to make more trouble?

  —More? All I want is, all I have is thirty-one cents Mister, Mister Teets I can’t give you one eighty-four that’s why I need the refund, don’t you . . .

  —Fill this out and mail it in. Next?

  —Teets look behind me! There’s nobody there Teets! Nobody next! Nobody! He clung to the bars a moment longer and then grabbed up the tickets and ran toward the stairs and up them two, three at a time, out to the platform and the train to slump in the first seat he found with a newspaper jammed in the hinge which proved, when unfurled, to be the Staats Zeitung und Herold.

  A conductor with a wisp mustache stood tapping his punch.—Ticket?

  —Ja? He looked up from the paper with a great smile.

  —Your ticket?

  —Ahh, Sie wollen meine, meine . . . He rummaged in pockets, to come up with a cardboard square and offer it with a beaming smile.

  —This is a half fare ticket, Mister.

  —Bitte?

  —I said this ticket, this is half fare ticket.

  —Ja ja . . . he beamed, nodding, his eyes beginning to cross.

  —Half fare, half. Kiddie. Child.

  —Ja, wissen Sie . . .

  —Look. You, man. Ticket, child ticket. Get it?

  —In dem Bahnhof, ja, he commenced still beaming, eyes n
ow firmly crossed,—in dem Bahnhof habe ich die . . .

  —For Christ sake look. Where you buy ticket?

  —Herr Teets, verstehen Sie? In dem Bahnhof, Herr Bahnhofmeister Teets, Gott-trunkener Mensch, verstehen Sie? Mit der Dummheit kämpfen Götter selbst vergebens, he beamed, eyes abruptly straightened,—nicht?

  —Oh for Christ sake.

  —Bitte? The smile gone, his mouth hung open.

  —Forget it. The conductor punched the ticket emphatically and turned up the aisle, abruptly snagged by a hand on his arm.

  —Ja danke, danke schön, he beamed shaking the conductor’s hand up and down, raising his great smile from the Staats Zeitung each time the conductor passed the entire trip in and trapping him with a final vigorous handshake upon arrival, where he sought a telephone and sat in the booth wiping his face before he dug out his coins and dialed.—Hello? Mister Eigen please . . . Hello? Mister . . . oh, would you ask him to call me right back? It’s an emergency. My name is, God damn it . . . No, somebody’s scraped the number off this phone, I’ll have to call back. He banged it down and ducked out, into the next booth studying the three coins in his hand before he raised one and dialed again.—Hello? Ben? No I’ll hold on . . .

  Syllables resonant and unrelated fused arrivals and departures on the loudspeaker as he sat with the door pushed open, staring out,—Ben? Yes, hello, listen. Has her lawyer come up with any final offer? I can’t keep living by my wits this way much longer I’m . . . No I just mailed a God damned payment, if they come up with some kind of a final . . . I don’t know! I know it yes, I don’t . . . What property and securities Christ I don’t even, I had five percent of some brokendown family held company I used to work for probably still got it someplace but that’s the . . . they said what . . .? No now listen God damn it I’m not trying to get out of support for the girl Ben you know that God damned well it’s this other, this God damned alimony part that’s . . . I know it I know you set it up that way but listen what God damned good is a tax position if I can’t even . . . when, now? I can’t take a cab over no I can’t even take a bus over, I’ve got exactly eleven . . . all right yes all right, late in the week . . .

  He pulled the door open studying the two coins in his hand before he raised one to the phone and dialed again.—Mister Eigen please . . . Hello? I just called . . . Eigen? I just got into town. Where’s Schramm . . . he wedged the phone against a shoulder digging in a pocket to come up with the cigarette pack, hesitate over the last one there and take it.—Christ how, who got him into Bellevue? What? All right, I agree, but Christ it couldn’t have happened to anybody else, it was an accident that could only have happened to Schramm . . . Who? If they want to keep him there overnight for observation let them . . . Well he could too you know God damned well he could, especially after this, the last time I talked him out of it he . . . I know it . . . Right now I’ll walk down there right now, it should take me about . . . Because I have exactly one cent, that’s why! What . . .? Nothing. Fine, great, sitting in the railroad station with a God damned penny in my pocket looking for a familiar face been like this since I was seven, come down from school for the weekend or being put on the Sunday night train it never leaves, Schramm’s right you can’t just kill part of it you, wait, wait I see somebody I, I know, wait hold on . . .

  He came out of the booth pulling his tie closed at the throat, his voice constricted in the call—Amy . . .? as though that had constricted it, knotted his voice and his face in consternation as hers filled with her smile, her arms extended open passing him where he sank back against the booth and then into it watching her come half to her knees to embrace the boy who stood away quickly in embarrassment to pick up a suitcase, straighten the school blazer, as he caught the dangling phone—like, like one of those old Shirley Temple movies, Jack Haley goes in one side of the revolving door and she comes out the other but Christ, Tom? Imagine having her, having anybody that glad to see you? Eigen? hello . . .?

  And the glass of the shuddering door caught her eyes and her profile framing the boy’s stooping close as they passed with her arm to his shoulders to catch—I can recite The Charge of the Light Brigade.

  —Let’s hurry, Francis.

  —Half a league, half a league, half a league onward why are we hurrying?

  —Let’s just hurry.

  —Into the valley of death rode the . . .

  —Did you eat something on the train, Francis?

  —A cheese sandwich, it was a whole dollar just cheese and bread. Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon in front of them volleyed . . .

  —Let’s go this way for a cab.

  —Volleyed and thundered. Where are we going, home first?

  —Yes.

  —Is Papa there?

  —He’ll be home late tonight. He’s been away.

  —At Geneva?

  —Why Geneva?

  —He asked me if I’d like to live at Geneva. Into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell . . .

  —Here’s a cab.

  —Can he take me to the hockey game tomorrow?

  —I thought we might go to the Cloisters.

  —What’s that.

  —A sort of museum, she said, and got his bag in pausing, before she followed, for a look back.

  —Mister Merton hates me Mama.

  —Who’s Mister Merton?

  —My math teacher, he hates me.

  —I’m sure he doesn’t hate you Francis.

  —He does too. Look at that movie, can we go to that?

  —We’ll see.

  —Would you want to live at Geneva Mama?

  —I don’t know, Francis.

  —If you could live anywhere you wanted in the whole world where would you live?

  —I don’t know, she said, staring at his back, at the back of his head where he sat at the edge of the seat looking out the window, until they stopped and doormen of different sizes in interchangeable livery opened doors.

  —Where am I going to sleep? he dropped his bag in the foyer.

  —In your cubby I suppose, where you always do.

  —Everything here’s always so neat and shiny it never looks like anybody lives here.

  She’d put her bag down on the sofa and there, from half under one of its white leather cushions, picked up a black lace brassiere, and her bag again.—I’m just going to put on some lipstick, then we can go out . . . In the bedroom she pulled open the first drawer she came to, one filled with shirts evenly stacked, and laying some of them back to stuff the brassiere away from sight stared at a studio portrait theatrically highlighted and shadowed and, as she pulled it forth, lavishly inscribed.

  —Mama . . .?

  —Just a moment Francis. She opened her lipstick.

  —Half a league, half a league, half a league onward . . .

  When he came in she was finishing her eyes.—Don’t you want to wash before we go out Francis?

  —I did once already. Can we go to that movie?

  —We’ll see.

  At the first museum he said—Is that really worth a million dollars? At the next,—I guess he didn’t have time to finish it . . . and at dinner—can I have steak? Later,—You know what I used to think Mama? if I didn’t talk now, if I kind of saved it up and didn’t talk, that then I’d be able to talk after I’m dead.

  She leaned toward him abruptly in the dark cab.—Francis? You don’t want to live in Geneva do you?

  —Would you be there?

  —I, I should think you’d want to stay where you are, in school where, where your friends are . . .

  —I haven’t got any friends, he said without turning from the window, sitting that way at the edge of the seat looking out until they stopped, and a doorman opened the door.—Is Papa home yet?

  —We’ll see.

  He pushed the door in as soon as she’d turned the key, ran into the dark foyer and stopped.—When will he be here?

  —Probably not till after you’re asleep. You’ll see him in the
morning.

  —Can I watch television till he comes?

  —It’s late, you’d better get to bed. You’ll see him in the morning.

  —Can I read before I turn the light off?

  —For a few minutes . . . she came down for his quick embrace, standing, watching him go, till a bathroom door closed and she turned for the bedroom to undress in the dark, and lie awake, half awake in the dark, and then awake at the sound of the bedroom door, opening in the dark.

  —Francis?

  —Amie?

  —Lucien?

  —He is here? Francis?

  —In the cubby, he’s asleep. Don’t wake him now.

  —I? I don’t wake him.

  —I told him he’d see you in the morning. I hope you can do something with him, take him somewhere tomorrow. There’s a hockey game he wants you to take him to.

  —Hockey game . . . a shoe dropped to the floor, then coins spilling, rolling off the carpet.—Hockey game, eh?

  —He says he hasn’t any friends.

  —He has what?

  —No friends, at school. He says he has no friends . . . bedsprings strained in the dark, and were still.—Lucien?

  —Eh?

  —He said you talked to him about moving to Geneva, living in Geneva . . . Lucien?

  —Eh?

  —Well what have you told him, what are you . . .

  —Perhaps he goes there to school some day, in Geneva.

  —Yes but you can’t, someday maybe but you can’t simply take him . . .

  —Look Amie . . . Bedsprings strained abruptly under weight coming up in the dark,—you are always afraid. So he went to Genève with no friend? He must not also be always afraid Amie, until something is settled . . .

  —Well why won’t you then! Why won’t you settle things?

  —I? Yes, I wait for the lawyer, this one of your father, tell him. The Nobili settlement? I still wait, tell him.

  —I’ve never heard of it it doesn’t . . .

  —Yes, I still wait, tell him.

  —I don’t know what you’re talking about Lucien.

  —The boy, yes?

  She lay awake, half awake in the dark, then awake at the sound of the bedroom door opening, the rustle across the carpet, the faint figure paused between the beds and then, as she started to one elbow and caught her breath, and sank back, the strain of the springs across the gap, and the toss of covers on the bed there.