"So for a female who's still alive there must be lots of chances left."
"Well Mrs How I don't want to disillusion you, but there are those who prefer deceased females.''
"O I know all about real necroes. I was thinking of nice young clean cut morticians.''
"You mean the sort who plays lacrosse and ambles into the preparation room to embalm smelling of bay rum.''
"Exactly, exactly. That's exactly what I mean. What was that."
"Sounded like a shot, thirty eight calibre.''
"O god."
Christian trotting after Mrs How through the curtained doors. Across a little patio. Down steps, brushing by shrubbery. A light switched on. A shadow running along the side of the wop's house. Towards a white form stretched on the lawn. A voice shouting over the darkness. As I step and crack a loud twig.
"Ok everybody. Don't move. Let's see.''
"That's my husband."
"He's o k lady, he might have a hernia but he's not hit. I shot into the ground. He was trying to break in there.''
Howard flat on his face out like a light. Tree leaves rustle. Crickets chirp. Mosquitoes buzz around the ears. And one's just drilled for blood in the side of my neck. Lights go off everywhere. And nobody pours out in this purlieus to see what's the matter with one of its prostrate citizens.
Howard How lugged feet first. Mumbling something about buying land from the Indians for three lousy white pots. Christian gripping him under the armpits, the policeman holding by the ankles. Loafers fallen off. Taking him backwards across the patio. Through the french doors of the dining room. All the good eats and brandy left under the candle light. Balding policeman in his short blue sleeves. Smell of gun powder. As we hoist Howard How up the creaking stairs. Folk are always heavier than you think. Flake him out on a big double bed. Under a painting of Niagara Falls. With a crimson, fluffy counterpane, just like Howard's socks. And he has a handful of grass clutched in his first. And a patch of sweat on his crotch.
Policeman as he goes down, looking back up the stairs. At the colored engravings of vintage cars on the wall. All the things in other people's houses. Seem better than what you have in your own. Protocol now to get the hell out of here. And brave the terror of a walk down this suburban street. If the policeman doesn't shoot you, the guy committing hold ups with the gat will.
"Sorry about that Mrs, guess it's natural someone wants to know what went on in the house next to them. In a nice neighborhood like this. But he wants to watch himself. I got my orders."
"Thank you officer."
"Any time lady you need any help, just give me a shout, I'm right over there."
"Thank you officer."
"Got nothing else to do.''
"Well thank you very much officer.''
"Thank you lady."
Policeman backing out on the patio as he pushes closed the dining room doors. Mrs How standing staring. Tiniest bit of moisture in her eyes. Looking right at me. When I don't know where else to look. Except right back. And say something before she hears the pounding in my chest.
''I guess Mrs How I better really be going too.''
"No please don't"
''Well this is an imposition with Mr How not so well.''
''He's just plastered. Doesn't mean the end of hospitality. Come on, I 'll show you to your cell.''
Through Howard's den to a pine panelled room. An old foot pedal sewing machine. College pennants on the wall. One says Bucknell high up between the twin pink spreaded beds. Crunch of summer seaside sand on the floor. Childhood smell and taste of breezes salty. The wooden jetties out on Par Kockaway. And the fear of shark. When you wade out toward the tumbling grey waves.
"Please if there's anything I can get you, just shout. I'm going to clean up a little before I go to bed."
"Thank you."
"And you know, I am sorry. You're nothing like I thought you were. And Howard will be so chastised in the morning."
Christian sitting on the bed. Lamp glowing under a white glass. Two green shades pulled down on the windows. The softness of her voice. The tending of her hands. That you could marry. Take her away, out into the wilds of some underdeveloped country. Like Ireland. Plop over the turf and sow a spud. Sit each night deep into darkness by a fire. To the sound of ocean waves.
Christian stepping back into How's den. Push the black button for white light. Peal up a stack of magazines. Country Gentlemen. Glossy pages of hope. Anything lavish always helps me to sleep. Nice to see these faces the last thing at night, the cream of St. Louis society. Photographed in their rose gardens, next to wives and both with their backs up against mellowed stone walls. Just peek out between the curtains on Howard's windows. Not a breath of air. To fan my hopes. That I would explode in the sky over America. A big shot. And all I got was a bang which came rectally out of Quell in the next cubicle as I was happily reading his Wall Street Journal. All I brought with me here. Was Helen. She lies down like veils do. In her growing old grave. Left lying, left lonely. And before her covers die in their dust. Let them lift up purple. The color she wore. To see her a living wife again. When I was so young and terrified to be wed. Just sit now. Turn off the light. The dark in someone else's room. A highway ?s roar not far away. In Grand Central Station nearly took a train on track twenty eight for Boston because it was called the Puritan. Needed to go where there's that kind of beauty. And a bunch of little kids shouting at people as they went by, hey mister you dropped your wallet. And when I smiled they said gee he's smart. All those hours and days ago. And all those months and years. When Vine in one of his quiet evening bull sessions told me how he looked up at the memorial tower on the seaman's institute at the Battery. To think of all the lives lost out on the water. To whom he could have given a warm burial.
Slant of light coming in the door. As it opens. And a foot tip toes in. As I sit frozen. In an indelicate fear. Of someone with a gat. Or an impure desire. To make more moral mincemeat of me than I am already. And the light comes further across the floor and covers the tips of my stockinged feet.
"Who's that."
"O god it's you Cornelius. Those are your feet. God it gave me a scare."
"It's me."
"Whew."
"I'm sorry Mrs How I was just looking to find something to read. And just turned the light out to think.''
"I do that."
''Yes, you can think then.''
"Yes, you really can think.''
"Well that's what I was doing, thinking.''
''What were you thinking if I can be so bold as to ask.''
"I was thinking about marriage.''
"What a thought."
"Yes, it was."
''And what were you thinking about marriage."
"Mrs How I was thinking that two people could live together and face the world.''
"Were you thinking that."
''Yes I was thinking that.''
"I've thought that too. And you know I'm sorry, it was tasteless of me to ask my question.''
"O no."
"Well I know that your wife died. I guess you were two young people alone."
"Yes, we were."
''Well two together can face the whole world.''
"Yes. They can. And winds can blow around them. Bain, storms and things like that can beat on their bodies. And together in a stone little safe house, they can brave any night through till morning. Wrapped in each other's arms.''
''Cornelius that's a beautiful thought you speak.''
"Mrs How."
"Yes."
"I 'm awfully attracted towards you.''
"Are you."
"Yes. I am. It's unfair to say to you so suddenly. I can only tell you because we're in the dark. And you seem so happily married. And I hope you'll forgive me for saying it.''
"Why."
"I don't know why. I guess it's just because I feel I don't belong in this country. I feel such an interloper.''
"What a foolish thing to say. That you don't belong. Of cou
rse you belong.''
"I know I'm sounding awfully conceited but I mean, all I'm saying is my song is sweet. And everybody everywhere looks at me and says, well fella you may be beautiful but can you sell it. And if I've got to say no I can't, if I've got to say that much longer, I 'm going to die.'
"God I know what you're saying. Cornelius I really do."
"Do you."
"Yes."
"I'm glad Mrs How. Tell you the honest truth I'd come out here to pull an awful low down trick on you and your husband, making believe I couldn't speak.''
"But I was looking forward to reading your little notes. After what Howard told me some of them said.''
"When I saw yon at the door. A whole flood of honesty swept through me. I conldn't lie. Not to you.''
"Gee."
"Mrs How. Can I ask yon. Please, just to come a little closer. I really like your smell.'
"Do you."
"Yes."
"I 'll come closer. Sit on the arm of your chair.''
''I won't touch yon."
"I know yon won't."
"And Mrs How, the thing that makes me saddest of all, is how, since I got off the boat, so many people have helped me. Did nice things. Were good hearted. Your husband helped me. And Mr Vine the funeral director, yon must have seen his ads recently, he just about saved my life."
"He must be a nice man.''
"Yes. And the crazy thing was all through my childhood. I felt nobody liked me. A woman stared at me all the way down the aisle with hatred when I was making my first holy communion. Kept looking down at my white shoes that were a little grey at the time. I know I poured sugar in her husband's gas tank and that she could never prove it. But any kid does that. Really put his engine on the blink. And she begrudged me for it. I don't want to sound self pitying.''
"O no yon don't sound self pitying, not at all. Kids around here are always doing that kind of thing to Howard.''
"I guess your husband takes that distillery next door really hard."
"O I think he knew it was there all the time. Howard's a foxy one."
"Mrs How, you do really smell nice. Your lids. They drop incredibly half way down your eyes.''
''Yon see pretty well in the dark.''
"Thank you."
''And I think you smell kind of nice too.''
"Thank you."
"And you know, Cornelius, you mustn't feel like that about yourself. On a little scrap you wrote to Howard. You said yon felt worthless. If the song you sing is beautiful, someone will hear it and think so too. I mean you might not even like this but Howard in his way must have heard it. I certainly have. And something in me. Guess like sinews or a vocal cord, vibrates. And Cornelius, don't you have someone.''
"No."
"Everybody must have. Just someone.''
"Mrs How if it wasn't now. And say it was years ago. Like in high school. Would you have liked me."
''Of course I would. But why do you say that."
"Because no one really did. Not if they were beautiful like you. And could have what they thought was better than me."
"Someone must have thought you were good. Otherwise you could never be like you are."
"My uncle bought me a green bicycle. And there was an aunt who baked me apple pies, juicy, sweet and with cinnamon. I used to go and eat them on Saturday mornings.''
"The whole pie."
"Yes."
"I think you want a lot. Out of people Cornelius. That's real work peeling a whole bunch of apples. But anytime you want, you can come out here and I 'll bake you an apple pie.''
"Would you."
''Yes. Of course I would."
"And you wouldn't mind if I ate the whole thing,''
"No I wouldn't mind."
"I'd like to come and eat an apple pie baked by you. Mrs How."
"Would you."
"Yes I really would. I can taste it already.''
"Can you."
"Yes I can. Makes my mouth water. And you wouldn't mind would you, if I had a great dollop of ice cream on it.''
"No I wouldn't mind. What I mind I guess is what I'm doing here sitting on the arm of your chair. Because I can't stand this much longer. Because from me you can have whatever you want. Any kind of pie. I'll give it to you. But please, please, don't make me sit here any longer waiting. Because I'll run. I'll run. O god I'm a bad bad girl. To fall like this down into your lap. Kiss me kiss me. O god. Kiss me. I'm going to break my marriage vows. With you."
Mrs How's lithe limbs locking around Christian's neck. Lips on his eyes. Unstrange tempo. Of times with other bodies. Tapping on one's own. Wakes you rearing up. Tasting flesh with its sound and smell and softness. Under a mauve silken sheath. Crushings of elderberries. Peaches on trees. Sappy peeling bark. Tall grass where there might be snakes. Walk through the danger to touch the ripe sweet fuzz. Swimming in the juice. With a sprinkle of salt, eat the sin. Committed on How. Moaning round up there, unconscious I hope, on the bed. Not wondering as Quell does twenty times a day. Where the hell is that Christian. Mr Quell, that Christian you so ardently seek, is in the crapper. Because he doesn't want some really lousy tedious clerical thing to do. Wants to do what he's doing with this wife. Called Jean. Howard's own real pal. Best god damn piece in the purlieus. Whom I sneaked looks at all evening long. Small, dark irised, fancy assed licking her lips. Jigging her leg up and down. A smile for me lurking in the back of her eyes. Just as you, Howard were warming up to Cornelius Christian with a bunch of brand new unfriendlinesses. Now your wife's shedding her dress. She mustn't think you'll wake up by falling off the bed. Get reminded you had a guest. And holy cow, now the phone's ringing. Bight in the middle of Mrs How talking a mile a minute in the dark.
"Let it ring Cornelius, let it ring. God almighty I'm going to break my marriage vows. I'm going to break them. God almighty is this what it's like. My mother never told me. She never told me. Or mentioned a thing. About how to be a bad girl after eight years of married life. Every inch of you Cornelius. Let me touch every inch of you. The damn phone ringing. Maybe I shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't after all these years. Of my nice little married life. Break my wedding vows. But yiminey yiminey. I'm all wet and streaming between my legs. I can't help myself. Mother. I can't. Quick. Let me lock the door. At least let me do that. And get this phone off the hook.''
Little noise her feet make. Two leaps and maybe one bound. And a click. And another leap and bound and she's back. And absolutely out of all her clothes. Smelling nearer and better than ever. In places where I put my hand. Nobs of her spine down her back. Lifts her right tit with her hand and pushes it in my face. Talking a mile and a half a minute. Her mouth biting in my hair.
"I can't help myself Cornelius because I want you. So terribly much. Just on this ordinary day the way it's been. No one could ever have told me I'd be wrecking my life. Eight in the middle of the night in the middle of my marriage. From the best family in Charleston and I might just as well have been from Damascus. Heard tell all about Daniel Boone and nobody ever told me about falling from grace. Simple West Virginian girl. With no dirty thoughts. Liked the legs of the tennis stars. The way their hair bounces when they serve the ball. Tour hair's like silk. Crowns the face of a saint. With I hope the desires of a devil. Never even opened a man's fly before. And you've not got buttons. Like I expected you to have. Got to keep talking. Please don't mind. Should I sit on it. Like this.''
"Yes."
"Yes to you. Yeses and yeses. Make believe I'm dead. Helpless on a slab. And that I don't know what you're doing to me. And I do. Because I 'm all alive. Talk dirty to me.''
"I can't."
"Go on. Like say anything you can think of.''
''Can anyone hear us in here.''
"On my sports night that's what you say. To such an innocent girl as me. I used to think if I ever took it up the ass the neighbors would find out. Shake a finger and say I wasn't devout. I'm just ordinary Episcopalian and you're a fraidy cat. Talk dirty. Or am I too big of a s
urprise.''
Mrs How's teeth and lips and mouth. Sucking on Cornelius Christian's neck. All the room filled with breathing. And ears god damn alert for any other sound. Like a shoulder against a door. And a shout. Hey what the hell do you think you're doing locked in there with my wife. Enraptured on the American flag. With the latest stars it has, one for black, one for brown, one for yellow and ten for white. The rest for all the miserable. Fly it to show the neighbors what god damn country we're all living in. Over in that bastard's garden with the patriotic statuary it's America. While that son of a bitch with his shades pulled down thinks he's in Minsk. Because nobody's sure with all the micks, wilyos and Rumanians. And Miss Musk whose folk are from Hungary. Got it up her. For the greater glory of my country. In Vine's best coffin. We could have been pulled by bicycles with spokes woven red white and blue in crepe bunting. Accompanied by the community band. Shaking the casket to hell. Out in the torrential July fourth rain. Keeping us cool in our heated entwinement. Soften the cardboard all over town. Dream often of Miss Musk. Parading, twirling, knees pumping to the drums. Does plenty to a baton and boy what the hell can't she do to a wang. And George one day called us both to the preparation room. Said just see the size of this guy's prick. And Miss Musk flushed all over pink. So did Vine. And Charlie. And Fritz. I just thought wow. And wrote it down in my record book. With grey headed George nearly beside himself, having seen such a whopper. And wherever you are. Dead or alive. Eyes spy. Collecting little facts. Keep them lurking, skeletons in the closet. Clanking. To fuck up all the harmony coast to coast across this land. Sail down a highway and nobody gives a shit where you've come from, so long as they think you're hot shit for going where you're going. Foot on the accelerator. Slamming the miles dead. Streaking away from all your troubles. On the Salt Flats with your low numbered license plate. Mine says zero as I go coo coo on two feet down the street. Ears lighting up red about once a block with a big spark of whimsy. Asking more questions of unaccompanied ladies. When was your last adultery. It was while hungrily licking his face. Taking advantage of his beauty and youth. Setting an awful example for your kiddies upstairs in bed. Your exquisite dark fragility. And things could be swell if I only knew the answer to this country. Who is the big shot who sits secret somewhere at the very end of all the graft. Smoking a cigar in his big leather chair. Listening neither sad nor glad to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir raising their voices in a great celebration of candour. The janitor across my street said, hot day today, and that's the truth. That nobody else is telling. About anything. Sat mornings at my west side window watching the garbage snoopers. Envied their search for pots to piss in. And even for pianos to play. As one son of a bitch with flowing red hair sat down and sparkled his fingers for two hours over the ivories of an out of tune baby grand blocking the sidewalk. That someone musical was throwing out. Know I must go. Goodbye. Goodbye. To the tinkle of my fountain hidden up inside you. Mrs How. My watch says by the ray of light coming in, It's time to ask for welfare. Save my soul. Lost in Queens. Frightened by all the heart chilling terror. Mrs How. Never untwine your arms. Never let me go. To sail an ocean. Die away from here. But if I don't I'm doomed. Because they don't want my song. And all that's left is death, waiting down all the streets. Carried living in all the cars. And a knife grinder once walked from stoop to stoop. Ringing his little bell. Handing you a sharpened blade. Collecting his money. That grew into a mountain. Where my Fanny Sourpuss lies crucified growing cold in her skiing snow. One of her breasts as big as your buttock. Could make me rich with her signature. Said she was bought and now she can buy. Keep me grievously pained in this paradise. I was twelve and thin and ugly. And there, just one row over, at her desk, Charlotte Graves, the only girl who loved me. When they said I was nearly the dumbest boy in the class. Next to Twitches. Who was branded monumentally stupid. Put sitting in the last seat in the last row. His neck dirty and he had scaly ears. And I went to see what made him dumber than me. His house sitting on a hill. Wondered why they had all the broken ice boxes on their lawn. I whistled him out and asked him. He said because they might need them sometime. I thought that was smart as hell. And knew neither of us was so dumb after all. The sun is going to come now on the brown bright oak leaves. Of autumn. And before disaster gets me. For the adultery on this shady street. A seed planted in the glimmers of love and anguish. All over even before it's begun. O god Cornelius I can't stop it I've come. Never felt so good and bad at once. When am I ever going to see you again. Bake you apple pies.