Meet My Maker the Mad Molecule
Christian turning from the window. Mr. Vine leaning over the casket wiping the glass.
“Must be a little condensation on the inside Mr. Christian. But I hate anything to mar such a lovely face. Woman’s lips are one of the most beautiful parts of her body. I can always tell a woman who looks at a man’s lips when he talks instead of his eyes. Are you all right.”
“Yes. Do you think we could leave now.”
“Yes, a few minutes. Our large reposing room is busy this morning. We never know in this business.”
“Mr. Vine I think maybe you’re telling me too much about your business. I don’t want to say anything but it’s getting me down.”
“What’s the matter.”
“I don’t want to know about the business. It’s getting me down.”
“Don’t get sore. I forget sometimes. I try to make everyone feel at home and not treat the funeral business as something strange. People ought to know about it. My own funeral is already arranged. But don’t get sore. When it happened to me and it was my wife, I found I wanted some sort of distraction and because I arranged the services myself it made me feel better. And I thought you wanted to take an interest.”
“This isn’t distraction.”
“Take it easy son. You’re not alone in this, remember that. If I shot my mouth off, I’m sorry. I don’t want to do that with nobody. But getting sore isn’t going to bring her back. Beauty is the only thing you can remember. Try to remember beauty. Come on, I like you, be a sport.”
“My wife’s dead.”
“I know that.”
“Well, what the hell do you mean, sport.”
‘If I understand you correctly Mr. Christian, you’d rather I didn’t conduct this any further. I can put you in the hands of an assistant if you prefer.”
“All right, all right. I’m not the kind of person who wants to start trouble. Leave everything as it is. I’m just worried about money and what I’m going to do.”
“Look. Listen to me. I want to tell you straight. I don’t cut cash out of nobody. I don’t conduct this business on those lines. You’ve got as long as you want and longer. Understand me. And if that isn’t long enough I’ll think of something. If you hadn’t come here alone from another country I wouldn’t take all this trouble but you seem to be a nice guy. I even thought you were a type for this profession and that’s a compliment as far as I’m concerned. You’re a gentleman. And when it’s over, if you want to come back and see me, I’d like that. There’s a place for you here, remember that. And if you make that decision, I’d like that. Shall we close it now, Mr. Christian. You’re ready.”
“All right.”
“You can wait with the chauffeur.”
“O.K.”
“We’ll take care of you. Christian, remember this isn’t death. All this is life.”
Walking out of the hall. Through the curtained doors. Putting up coat collars. The chauffeur smoking a cigarette. One of his grey wisps of hair hangs and goes into his ear. Christian coughs. Chauffeur getting out to open the door. A flash of yellow socks with white stripes.
The car pulls across the road. The hearse draws up in front of the Vine Funeral Parlor. Three men step out, rubbing their green gloved hands, stamping their feet on the hard snow. Elevated train roaring by on its iron trestle at the end of the street. The garbage truck has taken away its pile of snow. Chauffeur blows a smoke ring. And he turns around.
“Would you like this blanket, Mr. Christian. Put it round your legs in case you get cold. Always a few degrees colder when you get out of the city.”
“Thanks.”
“They are coming out now, Mr. Christian.”
Mr. Vine standing aside, holding back a door. Coffin on four shoulders. Like an elephant, four black legs. Vine twitches his head, bends his ear to his shoulder and rubs. Goes in again. Comes out in a black overcoat, papers in his hand, hatless, eyes bright. Crossing the street. Stepping gingerly with his gleaming black shoes over the ridges of snow. Leaning in the window to the chauffeur.
“To expedite the journey, John, we’ll take the West Side Drive. Go up Park and cross-town on Fifty Seventh. You all right, Mr. Christian.”
“Yes.”
Vine pausing, a car sweeps by. He looks upon the rest of the world as something he will bury. His gravel voiced military manoeuvres. I guess we’re going. No use fighting over it. He’s only trying to be nice. First time anyone ever offered me a job.
Hearse pulling out. Vine signaling with his hand. And we follow. To the end of the street. Another elevated train. Wake Helen up. Window full of refrigerators there. Say they’re giving them away for nothing, almost. Just step inside for bargains beyond belief. I feel like there’s nothing around me in the world. Highway on the curve of the earth. Everybody knows why I’m in this car and Helen in hers.
The two black cars swiftly moved across Fifty Seventh Street. Past the opera house on the corner where people huddle up under the marquee waiting for the bus. The sky opens up where the city ends and the Hudson flows by. Up the ramp and flowing out into the stream of cars on the smooth white highway. Towering cold bridge high up over the Harlem River. Further and the red tiled roofs of houses behind the leafless trees. Along here the rich live down to the water’s edge.
Road curves up through the second woods. A lake behind in the valley, a swamp and golf course. Great chains hang from post to post. Tall iron gates. Monuments inside with stained glass windows. Some with spires. Take you in here and lay you down. This cold day. Knuckles frozen. Breasts still. Where no love can taste. Tickle or tender.
Man in soft grey uniform salutes. Mr. Vine steps out across the snow. Up the steps into a grey stone building. Thin veins of ivy. Vine’s coming to speak.
“There’ll be a few minutes’ delay. Just a formality. John, just pull the car up in front there and wait for us.”
Chauffeur turning, ice crackling under the wheels.
“It’s nothing, Mr. Christian. Just identification. They have to check everybody who’s buried.”
Coffin on the four shoulders disappearing under the canopy and into the squat building into the side of the hill. Be looking at her again. They give us no privacy. They’d shout back at me if I object. If you own a bird and it’s flown away you run out to tell the whole world. And they tell you to shut up, you’re disturbing the peace.
They come out. Shift and slide it in. Engines purr and we move. All these winding roads and trees. People under the stones. So white and white. Branches frozen silver. Paths crisscrossing everywhere. Tombs on the hills. Heads in sorrow. Lightning in a sky in summer. A bronze woman melted and cold on a door. Cowled face with a hand on her cheek. Hold away the world from the rich bones inside. A white marble man and woman stand up out of their rock. Look out over a sea. Where ships die. And men slip below the cold water. And where are you nearest.
No trees here. Four men stand by the tent. They’ve brushed away the snow. Fake grass over the mound of earth. Norman Vine comes back to this car.
“Mr. Christian. I thought since you’ve got no religious preference I might read something. And I’ve just told John to give a few dollars to the grave diggers if that’s all right, it’s the average tip.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll go then.”
Gently sloping hill. Snow lies for miles. Fades below the stiff dark trees. High grey sky. Know young girls you love. Take cigarettes from lips and kiss. A dance band plays. Grow up loving memories. Die leaving none. Except the Christmas Eves. When the whole year stops. These Polish hands who shovel on the dirt sit at poker tonight and drink wine. Downtown in the city. They take away a wife who clings to railings along the sidewalk and she screams and they lock her up. Can’t see her any more because she’s crazy. Love you as much as love can be. Cooking and washing. Mending and waiting. Each thread of body till it breaks.
“If you’ll just stand there, Mr. Christian, I’ll read these few words I’ve got here.”
Cornelius Christian
next to Norman Vine. Who holds out his little paper. Nods his head to the diggers. Straps stiffening under the coffin. Mist in the air from his voice.
“We are gathered here as brothers and we pray for another soul. The birds, trees, and flowers are life and they are around us to give birth in spring. This interment is life and for us the living, a beauty to ennoble our lives, to give us a kiss to caress us in our living pain. We gather to see the soil give one of us peace, to all love and remember her forever. We now give her to her God. O.K. boys.”
One for Yes
In a rented pair of blue tinted eyeglasses, crossing by the fish market and moving down Owl Street past the wide steps of the treasury building. The middle of the month of August. Reaching out across the weeks to sink clutching fingers into this harmless Wednesday.
On the early morning streets messengers trotting in and out of doors. Just this instant I feel good. Ships moving out to sea on the high tides. Barges carrying western trains headed north across the narrow waters. Bridges and highways humming with tires. Smell of coffee across this downtown.
I stop. Look up. Obstructing me in my forward motion, a face coming out of prepsterhood. Quickly steering a detour into the gutter, and nearly getting cut down with machines, I had to leap back from the honking horns. Too late, too weak and vulnerable to turn and run this crazy time in my personal history. A smooth jawed figure. Grey natty topcoat, cream shirt and fat striped tie. And eyes that turned on their glow.
“I know you, hey aren’t you George Smith. Not so fast like you were at the building site, that time.”
“Beep.”
“Ha you’re George Smith all right.”
“Beep.”
“What do you mean, beep for an old friend. We were prepsters together.”
“Beep.”
“Ha ha George. It is you. Greetings. No kidding. Well how are you. I read that nifty write up in the papers. I mean you’re a somebody. I mean I’m not doing badly. I’m doing all right. Got myself a little old partnership. But I mean how are you, all right.”
“Beep beep.”
“Now wait a minute. George ha ha. I know this is a funny situation.”
“Beep.”
“But a jokes a joke. O.K.”
“Beep beep.”
“Now hold it. Let’s not make a meeting like this in the middle of Owl Street with all the congestion, holding things up. I mean you’re located here. What do you say.”
“Beep.”
“Gee George is there something wrong. Are they crowding you. This has kind of gone on too long to be comic. I can take a hint, if that’s it. What are you saying this beep to me for. If you don’t want to recognise me say so.”
“Beep beep.”
“What is it. Is this a method, something happened and you use this method. I mean they said in the papers you were building a mausoleum, that costs, I know, I mean are you nervous.”
“Beep.”
“It’s a method.”
“Beep.”
“I see that’s one beep. O now I remember. The rude noise you made to the reporters. O I’m catching on, a voice lapse. It’s one beep, maybe, for yes.”
“Beep.”
“And two for no.”
“Beep.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know anything about this George. Is it permanent.”
“Beep.”
“Gee that’s tough, on your wife and kids. I heard you got married. Only guessing you got kids. To Shirl. What a girl. She’d never even gave me a tumble. Remember the tea dances. Those white linen suits Shirl used to wear. She was beautiful.”
“Beep.”
“But I just didn’t know you had this problem. I guess you’re under specialists.”
“Beep.”
“New method like this must tax the mind. You must want to really say something once in awhile. Like an opinion.”
“Beep beep.”
“Is that right. If there’s anything you need. I know you have money. But if you’re bothered by a problem, spiritual, you know. Why you holding your hand to your ear. You’re not deaf too.”
“Beep.”
“O, gee, that’s tough. You lip read.”
“Beep.”
“You remember Alice. You know I married her.”
“Beep beep.”
“She only mentioned you the other day. How Shirl followed you right across the ocean. The ocean. I’m saying the ocean. My Alice, yes, mentioned you. She mentioned you. This is a really rotten world. Real rotten. It’s rotten. Guy’s speech and hearing cut off in his prime. I said in your prime. It’s a shame. But you can still see. I said see, you can still see. To lip read. From behind the blue glasses.”
“Beep.”
“Thank God for that. Can they do something for you. I said, help you. Can they help you.’’
“Beep beep.”
“It makes you sick, doesn’t it. A disgrace. I said it was a disgrace.”
“Beep.”
“Believe me I’m really sorry for what’s happened to you. I mean that sincerely. I said, I’m sorry. Sincerely.”
“Beep beep beep.”
“That’s three. I got it. For thanks.”
“Beep.”
“Only George, I’m sort of in a hurry. Like to hang on, talk over old times. Sure would like to hear. I mean, get together won’t we. I mean sometime, old sport, when you’re all right again. You’ll be all right. Thing is not to worry. I said, don’t worry. Looking at my watch. Got to be dead on time, somewhere. An appointment. I wish you all of God’s luck that someday you may be well again. Hope your health comes back. I mean that.”
“Beep beep beep.”
“Sorry I got to rush. But if you can read my lips I’m saying the cure may be in prayer George. Pray. So long.”
“Beep beep beep beep.”
“Ha ha, goodbye.”
“Beep.”
“See you.”
“Beep beep beep beep.”
A Friend
Before a Christmas in the hard frosty month. They said on the telephone he was dead. I went over to church and sat downstairs in the back in the singing and incense. I thought of summer and the maple leaves. And how they grow there to make tunnels of the streets. And if you die you go away up somewhere in the sky where the airplanes are and it’s white and blue. And it’s red and gold.
They had to bring him back from Florida and all the sunny months. Where the big bugs bang the windows and the golf courses have spongy grass. Loading him in the train on the lonely night north, wrapped in a flag. Over his cold blond smile.
I go back on the slate sidewalk set in the stone ground and kids’ marble holes worn shallow. As children here we were Catholics come together. And altar boys trying to touch God. Stealing apples and cherries Saturday. Sunday adoring the Holy Ghost. Sat out nights on rivers, skating on lakes in the moon. And each summer getting black in the sun and chasing through the waves. He’ll be on the train crossing Virginia through Emporia on that flat sea level land. Over Maryland and the dark green hills. And then Newark where beyond the swamps are the thin white sparkling things sticking in the night and how you go in that endless tunnel and the river crushing my ears and come out rumbling by the long platforms to a stop. They’ll slide him down and wheel him to a truck with a soldier standing by. The lights will be sad and the flag will be bright. Someone will be there to meet him. And they’ll take him north again to the Bronx.
And so I walk up here and near the woods where we trapped, shot squirrel and caught snakes by the tail. Tied a big swing sky high in the oak that I never dared try. Everything green in a fat sun. Each girl friend was forever in talks through the night on some fence. When we washed ears and polished face, hair and shoes until they were health. And we went places where we said hi there, isn’t it swell we all met like this. A game played with hearts and fingertips. Then he had moved away during the war to where there were no trees and lives of people on top of lives and more beside more, in hallways holdin
g grey tiles, footsteps of strangers and silence.
On the hard sad day. I drove down the avenue under the roaring elevator train. And parked in a side quiet street of gloom and grey. I ask the man at the door and he said softly the Lieutenant is reposing in suite seven to your right along the corridor. His name up on a little black sign with moveable white letters that slide on for the next and next. I shake hands and nod with these other friends. Some smile beneath their crinkled eyes and say it’s good to have you here. I kneel at the casket to pray. Always the holiest hearts are dead. Yet he had punched me in the mouth when I had braces on my teeth and crushed my model airplane. And I had loved his sister. In there under glass where I don’t want to look.
Next morning mass and casket and people stepping out into the dreary cold. And a long line of black cars went north again to the cemetery they called the Gate of Heaven. I was the last car filled with his girl friends and sniffles. Off the highway and up a mountain road past the hot dog stand, a few last gold leaves wagging on the trees, and white islands of snow spaced through the woods.
The little green tent and fake rolls of grass they spread over the dirt. The diggers go behind the grave stones to put on caps and jackets, a great heavy row of European hands hanging from the smooth covert cloth. The soldiers lined up and let go a sudden crack in the sky and the bugle with its death sounds going down the valley and coming back again from the hills around.
I stood behind some people and never saw him going down. His girl friends cried and one screamed and was held away and she knelt, her nylon knees sinking in the mud, and we all began to pray and say things to ourselves.
Dear Sylvia
I am writing this letter, you know why. It wasn’t that your mother ripped the curtains down but that she was attacking me with a lethal weapon which, if nothing else, shows she’s got no respect for me and I am, after all, your husband. I would have hit my own mother under similar circumstances, God rest her soul.