“Tell me.”
“Well you know, Hopper for example, when he paints, it’s not that the people are derelicts or broken, but there’s often something in the coloring that makes it all so ineffably moving.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I thought what I wanted to do was paint just people I love dearly—large, bigger-than-life canvases—and I want them to be accurate and flattering and all that—but somehow, if I can color them properly, I want them to be sad. Because really, life is people you love and sadness, and I wanted to try to get that down. I would paint Phillip.”
And me, Sally thought
“And my parents—I can do my father from photographs.”
And me, Sally thought.
“And of course, the three girls.” Edith paused then; a wind feathered the river and she watched it.
Shit, Sally thought.
“Just the seven of you,” Edith said then.
“I haven’t the patience to pose,” Sally said quickly; “just the family is best.”
“Please,” Edith said. “I really need you to be the seventh and last.”
“Oh shit, I hate it when you whine, all right, I’ll pose for you, just quit that sheep-dog look, I’ve got a weak stomach and it’s early in the day.”
So Edith began to concentrate her thoughts on “The Blues.” She studied all the great portraitists, and she read and reread Chekhov to see how he did it with words, and she began a series of pencil sketches and it was clear, even from them, that she was on to something, she was working very close to her subconscious, and the emotions showed through. She kept at it and at it, working long after the girls came home now.
Still, when they needed items—leotards, book bags, anything at all—Edith did the doing. Trying to compress these labors into one shopping trip per week. As she did on a Thursday, the first week in February, late on a biting afternoon, when she put aside her sketches, changed, made out a shopping list, brushed her reddish hair, threw on her navy blue coat, and set out on what was to be, astonishingly, her final trip to Bloomingdale’s.
2
Billyboy
—and now the nigger on the right began to fade, shouting “can’t, can’t make it”-—but Billy Boy kept up the pace across the yard, increased it even, because nothing tired him, nothing stopped him, even the gunfire that was aimed down at them from the towers. There was less gunfire now than a minute before, as more and more prisoners broke, more and more guards panicked and began looking toward their own safety, and that was good, that was good.
Only the sirens, the sirens were louder, screaming like they were monsters on their own and that was bad, and then one of the niggers on the left caught one in the knee and did a flip, landed hard, tried to crawl, but you don’t crawl with a kneecap gone, you don’t crawl far, but he tried, because up ahead was the laundry gate and it was open which was good, no, better than good, because it wasn’t just open, no, it was open and there wasn’t any guard—
Except now there was. Billy Boy led the half-dozen niggers and it all seemed so perfect, the early February evening warm, so you wouldn’t freeze if you had to run awhile, and not many stars so it would be really dark when you wanted it that way—except now, as they rounded the last corner and headed toward the gate from the shadows, now there was the outline of a guard, one hero guard, armed, one hero guard with one mother of a rifle and Billy Boy led the charge toward him and Billy Boy was the farthest ahead and Billy Boy was in the center so the .first shot should have gone dead at Billy Boy but the guard was white, so he went for a nigger and one shot, one hit, then he tried a second nigger but no go, Billy Boy was close enough by then, close enough to make a fist of his right hand, a club of his arm, and one swing later and the guard was out on the ground and while another of the niggers grabbed the rifle Billy Boy was through the gate and into the street and running, running, it didn’t matter which direction, there was the prison wall on one side, small houses on the other, and up the street now a car was coming toward them, but the driver saw what he was in for, and the brakes shrieked, and the car tried making reverse but no go, the motor died, and the driver threw the door open and ran toward the nearest small house while Billy Boy led the niggers into the car and shit, it was one of those foreign bugs, no power, no size, and while the niggers piled in around him, Billy Boy turned the key and the wounded nigger said, “start you motherfucker,” and you could tell the panic but Billy Boy felt none of it, his hands were made for keys, keys and motors and anything else you wanted, his hands were magic so naturally the car started right up and he spun into a driveway, vrroomed off back the way the car had come.
So it was a go, all systems were go like on the way to the moon, except Billy Boy didn’t know this part of Illinois, who the hell knew shit about downstate Illinois, unless you were born there and if you were born there you didn’t know shit about anything, that’s how dumb the hayseeds were, and he turned left at the first corner he came to, just because it was a corner and it led away from the walls, and then the first chance he had for a right, he took that and from the back came a nigger’s voice going “Hey where the fuck you fuckin’ goin’?” and Billy Boy made his voice big, big and deep when he said, “You got a problem?” and you could hear the nigger shitting in his britches as he quick said, “You’re doin’ it, just keep doin’ it, you’re doin’ it good,” and Billy Boy nodded, felt the time coming for another turn, a left, and first chance he grabbed it and this was a straight stretch of road now, houses, sure, but not many people, and he gunned the mother, foot to the floor all out gunned it and all the niggers, you could tell they were really excited now, really up now, the prison was long long goner—
—then Billy Boy stopped the car.
He got out fast and they just looked at him, their questions falling over each other, “Whass up?—where the fuck you goin’? —you crazy—?”
He didn’t answer. No way he could answer. He had an answer, sure, a great answer, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you could say—
—Billy Boy sensed things, that was all there was to it. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why, he just knew that he sensed things, and he was sensing something now, sensing that it was time to get out, time to keep moving but not in the car, and without a look back he began to run toward a field and when the car roared down the road leaving him in the darkness, he didn’t feel alone or bad, no, he felt that things were right, solid, the car was fast but it wasn’t solid, not anymore.
He got to the field fast and made his way to the far side and the first thing coming along was a girl, a girl on a bike and she was really barreling and he thought that maybe what he should do was just go out and grab the handlebars and shake her off and ride away and then he thought that maybe he ought to shake her off and then slip it to her, love her up good and fast, no one was in his class when it came to quick loving, they never forgot it after Billy Boy got off them, and what if this one was pretty, what if this one was—
—no. Not now. He sensed it was wrong. Not a girl. Not a bike. Not now. Wrong. Wrong. Run. That was the thing now. Just run.
He just ran.
He didn’t need a bike. Not now. He didn’t need a girl. Not how. He needed a girl, but not now— what he needed now was this: a stop sign and a tree. Up ahead he saw a tree. But no stop sign. The next corner was nothing. It was a shit corner, a nothing corner.
He ran on.
The next corner had a stop sign. It was a great fucking stop sign. But no tree.
Shit.
The next corner had them both, a stop sign and a tree—except the tree wasn’t a tree, it was like a twig more, nothing you could. use.
More corners.
Then he was there.
Waiting.
A car came up to the stop sign. Paused. Billy Boy didn’t budge —another bug, another goddam foreign job—they were bad luck tonight—not always, sometimes you could do okay with a foreign job, but he’d already left one tonight, there was no point to getting i
n another. Not when he sensed what he needed was a Cadillac.
Next up was a Chevy. No go. He waited. Next up was a Buick. It was big but it wasn’t a Caddie and he was about to let it go when he sensed he was being picky, too picky, nothing wrong with a Buick, he’d made it plenty of times in a Buick, so as the car halted by the sign he burst out from the tree and the driver was on the other side but who cared, Billy Boy just ripped open the near door, and the driver was a big guy but who cared, Billy Boy just ripped him loose from the wheel, pulled him across the car and out, made a fist of his right hand, made a club of his arm, and one swing later the Buick guy was wiggling on the ground as Billy Boy slid in and vrrooom, gone.
Gone but not safe, not with these clothes, not with these clothes and no money and those were items that needed fast taking care of, so if it was an open place first, he’d go for the money, if a clothing store, the other, he didn’t care which order, he needed both.
The clothing store was dark. He pulled in the back, parked with the motor on, wondered what he would find he could use, comfort was important in clothes and comfortable clothes weren’t all that easy, at least not for him, but beggars couldn’t be anything else but, until they had clothes and bread, so he shouldered the back door open and the alarm was so quick and loud it shocked even him—goddam two-bit store, what the hell did it need to have an alarm that big for?—but he was inside, no time to waste with questions, and first he found some raincoats, got one that seemed maybe like it might be okay, then a pile of work shirts was no good, kid stuff, but another pile two counters down was better and he grabbed one of those and finally some jeans, it was hard to see sizes, so he took half a dozen and headed back out the door—
—-right into a cop, a cop with a pistol, but before there were words he threw the clothes dead at the mouth of the gun and the cop was surprised long enough for Billy Boy to reach him and once he reached a cop, it was over, man, and when this cop was groggy on the ground Billy Boy took his pistol and aimed it at the cop’s nuts and the cop cried “Jesus, please” and as Billy Boy picked up his clothes he aimed it at the cop’s eyes and the crying was louder now, “Don’t—Christ—gimme a—donnnn’t—” this last and loudest coming as Billy Boy began to fire—
—KA-BLAMM—
—KA-BLAMM—
—and now moving in close, three in succession.
You had to laugh. The fucking cop passed out. You had to really laugh at a thing like that. Because all the shots missed; close, sure, but misses. And still he passed out.
Chickenshit cops these days.
He aimed his final bullet at a police car tire, tossed the pistol away, back in the Buick and Vrrooooooom! A few miles on he saw a dark garage, pulled in, motor running, quick changed clothes. They weren’t good but not so terrible either. They’d do. They’d have to.
And he’d have to leave the Buick, he didn’t sense it, he knew it, because the cop would be awake about now and he’d seen the Buick so the Buick was about to become another portion of his past.
He pulled into the first shopping center he came to, got out, waited in darkness. An old guy came along pushing a cart full of food. He loaded the food into his car, took out his keys, and Billy didn’t even bother making a fist of his hand, a club of his arm, not for an old guy—for an old guy a swipe was enough, a backhander, and as the old guy folded up Billy Boy grabbed his wallet and car keys, took off again on the road, counting the bread as he went along—
—shit, six bucks, he should have made a club after all, teach the old guy about coming out at night with an empty wallet. He reached back for the food, rummaged around, felt what should have been an apple but it was an onion, reached again, snagged an orange this time, peeled it as he drove, ate it down fast—
—the car slowed. Billy Boy gave a glance at the gas gauge. Empty. He really should have clubbed that old guy. The car coasted to a stop and he started running again, not on the road but across a huge barren stretch of Illinois land, because in the distance there were streaks, streaks of light, and as he kept on running the streaks turned into headlights and once he saw the turnpike clear, Billy Boy knew his next stop would be one of those service areas and now ahead he saw the streaks turning off and he picked up his pace as the service area assumed shape in the February darkness, and when he finally reached it he almost went inside because he had the six bucks and you could buy burgers with that, only more important than eating was moving, and he went to where the cars were and right away along came this Shrimp and if a swipe was enough to handle the old guy, this one coming now, this Shrimp with the pale blue eyes, you could take care of with a finger snap—
—only Billy Boy sensed that was wrong. Big wrong. As the Shrimp came toward him what Billy Boy sensed was… was …
… fear?
“Ex—excuse me, sir, but I could sure use a lift.”
The little guy looked at him quietly; nothing showed in the pale blue eyes.
“Swear to God I won’t be no trouble.”
“You drive?”
“Yessir. I do. I drive good.”
Again, the little guy looked at him quietly.
“Please.”
“Wouldn’t mind some company,” the little guy said. And he gestured toward his car.
Toward a Cadillac!
Billy Boy waited while the car was unlocked. Carefully so as not to upset anything, he got in. His hands stroked the leather.
“I’m driving all night.”
“Yessir. No problem. I’d like that. Fine with me.”
“You want to use the facilities, use them now.”
“Huh?”
“Do you want to piss or not?”
He did. “Oh no sir. Just fine, thank you.” What the hell, no point in getting people mad at you.
The wondercar began to glide.
So smooth. So smooth. Billy Boy just sat there. Everything was good now. He sensed that.
“You didn’t ask where we were going.”
“I didn’t?”
“No.”
“Well, where are we going?”
“New York City.”
So smooth. So smooth. Billy Boy just sat still. Everything was great now. Because even though he had never been there, Billy Boy had always sensed that the Apple was going to be the end of the line…
3
Theo and Charlotte
They undressed in silence.
They stood across the small bed from each other, their backs to each other, concentrating on their clothing. He had always been aware of the plainness of his room, but never so much as now, with Charlotte, for the first time, inside—she was, for him, that beautiful.
Correction.
Not just for him. He had seen, these past months, too many male heads turn whenever Charlotte had made an entrance. He had noted, these past months, the following flick in the eyes of their wives—from their men, to this woman, to their men again. With her black hair framing her pale skin, with the straight nose, the wide mouth, the wide violet eyes, she was clearly not a creature to be competed with, not by others of her sex. And just as clearly, she was meant to be surrounded by luxurious things.
His room was hardly luxurious. When he had fantasized their Iovemaking, he had imagined much. Musicians somewhere, out of sight of course, floating perhaps, surrounding them with sound, string quartets, piano trios, Mozart, Chopin, Liszt. And perfumed air. And silken sheets (black? Did he dare black?). And their bodies miraculously tinted gold. And— And—
He finally managed to unbutton his shirt, but before he took it off he turned, glanced at the lone candle illuminating this square, dreary, plain, barren room. “Too harsh for us,” he managed. Then to be sure she understood, he added, “Candlelight.”
The perfect face turned toward him.
He blew out the candle, lifted the shade. “We deserve to be lit by the moon, Charlotte,” and he made a quick gesture toward the February night.
In the dark silence now, the perfect smile.
He turned away and was startled at the amount of courage required to drop his shirt to the floor. For the moment, he was not nearly that brave. It was not the fact that he was so completely inexperienced that blocked him. He had confessed to her that he was still, ye Gods, a virgin. That he had managed to go through four years at Oberlin without once coming close to a naked female form.
Two truths had to be faced. One was that his body, his naked body, humiliated him. He was that frail, that sickly in appearance. He had never in his life weighed one hundred twenty pounds or stood more than five feet six. Not only did he not look strong, he had little skill at resisting epidemics. When a sickness was around, he would catch it. And he always seemed to have a cough.
But he had a wonderfully aesthetic face, much older seeming than his twenty-two years. His eyes were pale blue, he was subject to headaches and minor pain, so he had with him always the look of someone brilliant, someone special, someone deeply haunted.
In other words, he resembled nothing so much as precisely what he was: a young, sensitive, unknown, but unquestionably gifted Romantic poet.
And he loathed being a cliché.
“Theo,” Charlotte whispered then.
Startled: “What?”
Calm: “It’s just I like saying your name. Theo. I can say it all I want. Tell me you don’t mind.”
“I love you so,” he told her, which was, of course, true, and saved him from lying to her.
Because he hated his name. He had been born Theodore Duncan and except for his long-dead mother who used to call him first “The Bairn” and then just “Bairn” alone, a word from her past, from what was left of her Scottish girlhood, the world had always called him Theo.