Stars and Bars

  One afternoon, in the middle of a desultory conversation, his mother had referred casually to ‘that old letter of your father’s’. After the incredulous and heated recriminations had died down (‘It’s taken forty years for you to deliver it!’) his mother had hurtfully handed it over.

  ‘Read it,’ she had said, a hint of tears in her voice. ‘You’ll understand why I never gave it to you.’

  He unfolded it now, a curious taut expression on his face, and spread it carefully on the top.

  My Darling Girl,

  In case anything should happen to me I want you to keep and treasure this. All I have is at your disposal. My faith in you is as my affection for you and knows no bounds.

  With all my love,

  Your Old Dad.

  Henderson had tears in his eyes as he read this, tears of frustration. Every time he read this letter he had to suppress a monstrous urge to tear it up.

  ‘He was absolutely convinced you were going to be a girl,’ his mother had said. ‘Utterly convinced. Nothing I said would change his mind. ‘Look after my little girl’ were his last words to me. I thought it would only upset you. It has upset you.’

  Henderson sat back in his chair. There was a vague tremble running haphazardly through his body. He put the letter away and sat for a while tracing the contours of his nose with thumb and middle finger. The knowledge that letter contained represented his life’s greatest disappointment, all the more bitter because there was nothing he could do about it—could ever have done about it. It seemed absurd to worry about a father’s speculations on the sex of an unborn child in 1943…But if you were that unborn child…? Somehow by being born male he had let his father down, even though the man had never known.

  He stood up. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said out loud. He must be cracking up. He forced himself to think of something else. Irene. There must be some way of getting Irene south. Perhaps a quick, contrite visit tomorrow. Work out some sort of compromise? He paused. Contrition, apologies, compromise, backslide. He watched his tea cool, its taste metallic in his mouth. He felt an old familiar anger at his indecisiveness. ‘What did he really want from his life? Melissa or Irene? Always assuming they’d have him…He was tired of his own company, he realized; he wanted to inflict it on somebody else, before he got too old and it all got too late.

  Chapter Five

  Henderson walked into the diner round the corner from his apartment. It was long and thin and tastelessly decorated in colours of maroon and brown. In a corner near the door two or three hat-stands crowded in on a blonde Latin-American woman who kept the till. Along one wall ranked booths filed back into the gloom. Opposite them was a high formica bar, with fixed bar stools. Behind the bar in the middle was the stainless steel kitchen.

  The diner was staffed with the friendliest middle-aged ladies Henderson had ever met. By his third breakfast there he was thinking of them as favourite aunts, so overwhelming was their celebration of his arrival each morning. The women all had the same hard-curled perm in varying shades of grey. Their voices were harsh—cigarette harsh—but kind. When they weren’t telling Henderson how wonderful it was to see him again, they joked and grumbled loudly to each other, shouting unconcernedly the length of the diner or joshing with Ike. Ike was the short-order cook and enjoyed teasing the waitresses and laughing at them. He did this constantly (‘Martha, is that new shoes? What you old man do to you this weekend?’) regardless of the fact that the ‘girls’ never ceased bellowing their orders at him.

  While he talked and traded insults he shimmied and swerved above the grills and toasters. He could crack three eggs in one hand, butter five muffins, scramble, poach, fry and slice without breaking into a sweat. At busy times the orders were coming in every three seconds. Henderson never saw him write anything down. And all the while he kept up the banter. ‘Hey, Joy, what you settin’ yo hair in now? Ceement?’ He found his own jokes intensely diverting; his face would screw up as if in pain, his knee would bang the door of a fridge, he’d buckle slightly to one side.

  This morning, being a Saturday, the diner was less busy. Henderson still felt irritated and let down by his wasted night. His eyes were hot, his nasal passages dry and prickly. He nodded to the olive-skinned blonde at the till and allowed Martha to hang up his coat.

  ‘How are you today, Mr Dores? Feeling fine today?’

  ‘Not so good, I’m afraid, Martha.’

  ‘MR DORES AIN’T FEELIN’ SO GOOD, JOY!’

  ‘Did you sleep last night, Mr Dores?’

  Henderson had confessed his insomnia in week one.

  ‘No, not very well.’

  ‘MR DORES DIN’T SLEEP LAST NIGHT, JOY!’

  THAT’S TOO BAD. SORRY TO HEAR THAT, MR DORES!’

  ‘Looks like Joy din’t get too much sleepin’ done neither.’ Ike’s left leg gave way and he dug his elbow into his hip.

  TWO EGGS OVER, BACON, TOASTED BAGEL,’ Joy bellowed from the recesses.

  Two eggs hit the skillet as she spoke, a bagel slammed into a toaster, rashers fizzed under a grill.

  ‘Martha wisht she could be kep awake nights. Right, Martha?’

  ‘Not by you, that’s for sure.’

  High-pitched wheezing from Ike.

  ‘What’s it gonna be this morning, Mr Dores?’

  Henderson thought. ‘Poach one, scramble one on lightly toasted rye. Three rashers of bacon—burned—um, cottage fries. Orange juice and a toasted English, one side only.’

  ‘POACH ONE, SCRAMBLE ONE ON PALE RYE. CREMATE THE BACON, THREE. FRIES. TOASTED ENGLISH, ONE SIDE ONLY.’

  ‘Actually, could you make that poach two, no toast, hold the fries, some bacon and a bagel and lox?’

  ‘IKE, MAKE THAT LAST ONE POACH TWO, NO TOAST, HOLD THE FRIES, BAGEL AND LOX.’

  Henderson smiled with guilty satisfaction. He had been trying for days to concoct an order that would thwart-Ike’s astonishing memory and co-ordination. This was anew and unfair ploy, changing the order after it had been delivered.

  ‘You comin’ out wit me tonight, Martha?’ Ike asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Not if you was the last man in the world!’

  Ike ran on the spot for five seconds.

  ‘SCRAMBLE ONE ON A MUFFIN, TO GO. TWO EGGS UP, CREMATE THE BACON!’ Joy boomed.

  Henderson tensed. Three orders at once, Ike and Martha were still shouting at each other. The juice came. About—it seemed—thirty seconds later his eggs were in front of him. Two poached, three perfect crisp rashers, a bagel and lox. He sighed and looked up. Ike was drinking ice-water.

  ‘Don’t get a breakfast like that in England, do you, Mr Dores?’ Martha asked.

  Henderson had to concede the Tightness of this remark. The last time he’d ordered a cooked breakfast in England, the egg yolk nestled in a halo of transparent albumen, the grease in the fried bread furred up his palate for several hours and he had been unable to remove the bark-like rind from the floppy bacon.

  The thought of England subdued him. He ate his breakfast quickly, silently resolving to make his peace with Irene before he picked up his hired car. Perhaps she could fly down and meet him later? He’d suggest it to her, make up some story about a colleague coming in the car at the last moment.

  Outside, he stood for a while on the pavement. The sun shone, but it was cooler today after the rain. He breathed deeply, flexed his shoulders and summoned a cab from the slow moving stream of traffic. He got in and sat back on the wide seat. He was beginning to feel slightly better. The city in the morning always had that effect on him. The cab took him smoothly across town to Irene’s apartment on the upper west side.

  Once there, he paced up and down for a moment or two rehearsing his apology before attempting to step into the lobby. Irene’s apartment was in an old brownstone that had been extensively renovated inside. There were heavy plate-glass doors at the entrance, through which he could see an expanse of tiled flooring leading to a stainless steel lift. A small man sat at a kind of lectern to one side
.

  The heavy glass doors would not open. Henderson pressed the buzzer beneath a loudspeaker on a slim pedestal.

  ‘Yeah?’ The little man spoke into a microphone at the side of a lectern.

  ‘I’ve come to see Ms Irene Stien.’

  ‘She expecting you?’

  ‘Well not exactly…’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Dores.’

  The man pressed some buttons on the console in front of him and spoke—inaudibly to Henderson—into the microphone.

  ‘She’s not in.’

  Henderson pressed the entryphone button again. He detested these machines.

  ‘Could I speak to her, please?’

  The little man ignored him. Henderson rapped loudly on the thick glass, hurting his knuckles. Wearily, the man got off his stool and approached the doors. Henderson recognized him. A small Slavonic-looking fellow with a waxy, heavily-pored skin. He had one of the most negligible foreheads Henderson had ever seen: his hairline began an inch above his eyebrows. On his nylon blazer was pinned a badge. ‘A. BRA.’ This was Adolf Bra, Irene’s doorman.

  By leaning his weight against one door a half-inch gap could be created. Bra approached.

  ‘Could I speak with Ms Stien,’ Henderson repeated firmly. Speak ‘with’, he thought. Good God.

  ‘Ms Stien is not within her domicile.’

  For some reason this pedantry made Henderson even angrier.

  ‘Did you learn that at doorman school? Look, you know me. And I saw you speaking to her, for Christ’s sake. I just want a word.’

  Bra looked at his fingers. With the edge of one thumbnail he slid something from beneath the other.

  ‘I told you. Ms Stien is not within—’

  ‘Her domicile. I know.’ Henderson forced a smile. ‘I don’t believe you. I’m a friend of Ms Stien. If you can’t let me speak to her I shall report you to—‘ he couldn’t think to whom. ‘I shall report you.’

  Bra waggled his forefinger and leant towards the gap. Reflexively, Henderson did the same.

  ‘Go suck your cock,’ Bra breathed. His breath had a pungent, pickled odour, as if he lived exclusively on a diet of capers.

  Henderson recoiled, too surprised and nauseated to retort. If he had had his sabre he would have driven it-through the gap in the door and skewered Bra’s narrow body.

  ‘You’ll regret this!’ he shouted. He should have sworn as colourfully back at him, he realized seconds later, but he felt he had already made something of a fool of himself, a capital crime in the Englishman’s book. Reverting to type, he gathered what he could of his dignity around him and smiled pityingly at Bra, now back behind his lectern. Common little man, he said to himself. Serf. Nation of peasants, what do you expect? Diet of turnips and liverwurst. Vitamin deficiency, rickets, in-breeding. Subnormal, subhuman…He checked himself, feeling suddenly ashamed. He’d have him in the gas chambers next. The man was only doing his job—albeit un-courteously—there was no need for such poisonous hatred.

  He walked up the street until he found a phone, inserted a dime and prodded out Irene’s number.

  ‘Hi there, this is Irene. I’m really sorry I’m not in right now—’

  Answering machine. It was like trying to see the President.

  ‘—promise I’ll get back to you. Beeee.’

  Henderson wanted to say he was sorry, explain everything, categorize his emotions.

  ‘Irene. This is Henderson…I’ll phone tomorrow.’ He hung up. His voice had sounded stilted, pompous. She’d never phone back someone who spoke like that…He stood alone on the street, balked, frustrated, all his good intentions stymied and snookered. What more could he do? There was nothing for it but to hire the car, collect Bryant and head south.

  PART TWO

  The South

  Chapter One

  Henderson hired his car. He had asked for a medium-sized model, yet what he got was bigger than anything on the roads in Britain. The girl at the rental agency assured him that this was the standard size. They had larger cars if he wanted one. He said no.

  In the car the bonnet seemed to stretch ahead like the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. He slotted the gear into ‘drive’, touched the accelerator and the car pulled strongly away. He couldn’t hear the noise of the engine. The power steering, he discovered, allowed him to manoeuvre with two fingers. The thought of barrelling down the freeways in this behemoth suddenly sent a tremor of boyish excitement through his body, displacing his gloom and disappointment. God, this is fun, he thought as he surged up the ramp from the underground car park, it’s like some sort of massive toy.

  By the time he had driven home, collected his suitcase, and then driven uptown to Melissa’s apartment, the steely blue car had lost the glass from a tail light, acquired a scratch running the length of one side and received a dent in the left hand front wing. Furthermore, on the course of his journey he had been described as a cunt, a fuckhead, a jiveass honky, a ‘sackashit’ and a ‘muthafuck-ah’ by the other snarling drivers he had fouled up or interfered with in some way or other. Pedestrians—meek, timid creatures in Britain—had kicked his tyres and thumped the bodywork with their fists. One particularly irate jaywalker went so far as to gob—greenily and with astonishing volume—on his windscreen. He managed to park not too far from Melissa’s door but sat still in his car for five minutes or so (windscreen wipers going) trying to regain his composure.

  Melissa welcomed him at the door, Candice yapping in her armpit.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Their cheeks touched, he felt her hair sharp on his face.

  ‘Candice, don’t shout at Henderson.’

  They went through into the main room. Gervase joined in the shrill noise. He thought: if we ever get married again, those dogs are out—pronto.

  ‘She’s just packing her things. Won’t be a second.’ Melissa sat down beside him on the enormous sofa and took his hand.

  ‘Are you OK, baby? You look tired.’

  Henderson told her of his troubled night—post-mugging—of the garbage men and their matutinal seminar group. Melissa looked genuinely sympathetic. She put her hand on the back of his neck and scratched his nape gently. It was an automatic gesture; Henderson recalled it from their early days; it brought him out in a warm rush of affectionate goose-pimples.

  ‘The sooner we get you installed here the better,’ she said.

  He felt grateful and secure. Melissa had things under control. He was suddenly certain he would be happy with her. He put his hand on her shoulder: so thin, so neat. The silk of the eau-de-nil blouse was cool under his palm. He felt the thin strap of her bra. It would be silk too, he knew: crisp and clean on that day, with a discreet and pretty edging of lace.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ he said, with a slight tremble of sincerity in his voice, and touched her neck with his lips. This was a mistake, he realized at once, remembering how she sprayed her neck liberally with perfume. He sat up, his mouth full of a sour foreign taste. Bryant came in.

  ‘Could I have a drink of something?’ he asked, swallowing acrid saliva. ‘Coke? Seven-Up?’

  ‘Bryant, honey, can you get Henderson a Coke?’

  ‘Why can’t he get it himself?’

  ‘Bryant?

  ‘It’s all right,’ Henderson said. ‘No problem. I’ll go.’

  He drank some water in the brilliant kitchen. When he came back, Melissa had gone somewhere, and Bryant was standing alone in the room.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Yes, whew…well.’

  Bryant looked at him as if he were slightly mad. She was wearing blue striped trousers that stopped at mid-calf, a very old faded grey T·shirt and an expensive looking leather jacket, all pockets, flaps and buckles. Her hair was tousled and uncombed.

  Spoilt brat, he thought. Those dogs wouldn’t be the only inhabitants of the Wax household to get a rude awakening when he moved in. He put his hands in his pockets and looked around the room as if he were seeing it for the first time. This is absurd, he thought. She
is a fourteen-year-old girl and I am a thirty-nine-year-old man. So why do I feel nervous? He stopped himself just in time from whistling ‘Nymphs and Shepherds’. Bryant looked at him, apparently quite relaxed. It’s true, he reflected, she is very cool and mature for a teenager. He thought of himself at her age; his awkward, boiling adolescence. His freezing fearful schooldays, the chasms of timidity, the deserts of anguish he had daily to traverse. No points of comparison there. What had been wrong with his education, his environment, his family? Think what torments he would have avoided if he had been like Bryant.

  ‘Where’s Irving?’ he said, with a gasp of relief, finally thinking of something to say.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Ah.’ Henderson nodded vigorously, spun round on his heel, slapped his pockets as if searching for a missing wallet. This was some travelling companion Melissa had foisted on him: he’d have more fun with a Trappist monk. He resolved to drive south with the greatest possible urgency.

  Melissa came in with the two dogs and they prepared to leave. Bryant crouched down and embraced the animals.

  ‘Bye, Candice. Bye, Gervase. Be good, I’ll see you soon,’ she said in a fake-sad voice. For an instant Henderson saw the young girl in her.

  ‘Phone me,’ Melissa said, hugging her daughter. ‘Lots. And you too,’ she whispered in Henderson’s ear as she kissed his cheek. She glanced down. ‘Gervase, stop it!’

  Henderson had imagined that the pressure on his lower leg had been caused by contact with the sofa edge, but looking down saw Gervase trying to fuck his ankle with slant-eyed, panting ferocity.

  ‘Agh! Get off!’ He sprang to one side stamping the animal free from his leg. For the second time that day he wished he had his sabre. Fleche attack: Pekingese kebab.

  ‘I’ll be back next week,’ Henderson said, turning back to Melissa. ‘I’ll see you the -Jesus Christ!’ The mutt had somehow gained the arm of the sofa and was trying to bury its head in Henderson’s groin.

  ‘What’s wrong with that dog?’ he demanded. ‘Shouldn’t you have it seen to? Spayed or whatever?’