Plexus

  I told him I didn’t give a hoot for his explanations, that all I cared to know was—would he lend me the five dollars or not?

  “Of course I won’t, Henry, if you put it that way. You have to learn first to put yourself in God’s good graces.”

  “Fuck that!” I said.

  “Henry, you’re steeped in sin and ignorance!” In an effort to placate me he grasped my arm. I brushed it away. We walked down the street in silence. After a time, speaking as softly as he could, he said: “I know it’s hard to repent. I’ve been a sinner myself. But I wrestled with might and main. And finally, Henry, God showed me the way. God taught me how to pray. And I prayed, Henry, night and day. I prayed even when talking to a client. And God has answered my prayers. Yes, out of the bounteous goodness of His heart He forgave, He brought me back to the fold. Look, Henry… last year I earned a scant $1500. This year—and the year is not over—I’ve earned well over ten thousand dollars. That’s the proof, Henry. Even an atheist can’t contest such logic!”

  In spite of myself I was amused. I’ll listen, thought I to myself. I’ll let him try to convert me. Maybe then I can make it ten bucks instead of five.

  “You’re not starved, are you, Henry?” he suddenly inquired. “Because if you are we’ll stop off somewhere and have a bite to eat. Perhaps this is God’s way of bringing us together.”

  I told him that I wasn’t at the point of dropping in the street. The way I said it, however, implied that it was a possibility.

  “That’s good,” said Luther, with his customary insensitiveness. “What you need more than earthly food is spiritual sustenance. If one has that, one can do without ordinary food. Remember this—God always provides sufficient for the day, even to sinners. He watches over the sparrows.… You haven’t altogether forgotten the good teachings, have you?—I know your parents sent you to Sunday school… and they also provided you with a good education. God was looking after you all the time, Henry.…”

  “Jesus,” I asked myself, “how long will this continue?”

  “Perhaps you remember the Epistles of St. Paul?” he continued. Since I gave him a blank look he dove into his breast pocket and exhumed a worn-looking New Testament. He stopped dead and began thumbing the pages.

  “Don’t bother,” I said, “give it to me from memory. I’ve got to get home soon.”

  “That’s all right,” he said, “we’re on God’s time now. Nothing can be more important that the precious words of the Bible. God is our Comforter, remember that, Henry.”

  “But what if God doesn’t answer one’s prayers?” I said, more to discourage him from looking up the Epistles of St. Paul than to know the answer.

  “God always answers him who seeks Him,” said Luther. “Perhaps not the first time or the second time, but eventually. Sometimes God sees fit to try us first. He wants to be sure of our love, our loyalty, our faith. It would be too simple if we could just ask for something and have it fall into our laps, wouldn’t it now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “why not? God can do anything, can’t He?”

  “Always within reason, Henry. Always according to our merits. It’s not God who punishes us, but we ourselves. God’s heart is always open to him who seeks Him out. But it must be a real need. One must be desperate before God gives of His kindness.”

  “Well, I’m pretty desperate right now,” I said. “Honest, Luther, I need that money bad. We’re going to be evicted in a day or two if something doesn’t happen.”

  Luther was strangely unmoved by this last piece of information. He was so well attuned to God’s ways, it seemed, that a little matter like eviction meant nothing to him. Perhaps God wanted it that way. Perhaps it was a preparation for something better. “What does it matter, Henry,” he said fervidly, “what does it matter where you are living if only you can find God? You can find Him in the street just as easily as at home. God will shelter you with His blessed wings. He watches over the homeless just as much as He does over others. His eye is on us always. No, Henry, if I were you, I would go home and pray, pray that He show you the way. Sometimes a change does us good. Sometimes we get too comfortable and we forget whence all our blessings flow. Pray to Him tonight, on your knees, and with a full heart. Ask Him to give you work for your hands. Ask to serve Him, remember that. Serve the Lord, it is said, and keep His commandments. That is what I am constantly doing—now that I have found the light. And God rewards me abundantly, as I explained to you before.…”

  “But look, Luther, if God is really taking care of you so handsomely, as you say, couldn’t you share just a little of your blessed reward with me? After all, five dollars isn’t a fortune.”

  “I could do that, Henry, most certainly—if I thought it were the right thing to do. But you’re in God’s hands now: He will look after you.”

  “In what way would it interfere with God’s plans if you were to lend me that five bucks?” I insisted. I was getting fed up.

  “The ways of the Lord are beyond our knowing,” said Luther solemnly. “Perhaps He will have a job for you to go to in the morning.”

  “But I don’t want a job, damn it! I have my own work to do. What I need is five bucks, that’s all.”

  “That will probably be provided, too,” said Luther. “Only you must have faith. Without faith, even the little you have will be taken from you.”

  “But I haven’t anything,” I protested. “Not a goddamned thing, don’t you understand? God can’t take anything away from me because I have nothing. Figure that out!”

  “He can take away your health, He can take your wife from you, he can take from you the power to move your limbs, do you realize that?”

  “He’d be one big louse to do that!”

  “God afflicted Job sorely, surely you haven’t forgotten that? He also raised Lazarus from the dead. God giveth and God taketh away.”

  “Sounds like a swindle game.”

  “Because you are still beclouded with ignorance and folly,” said Luther. “For each one of us God has a special lesson to teach. You will have to learn humility.”

  “If I only got a bit of a break,” I said, “I might be ready to learn my lesson. How can a man learn humility when his back is already broken?”

  Luther disregarded this last completely. In restoring the New Testament to his breast pocket he came upon some forms from the insurance company which he flourished in my face.

  “What?” I fairly shrieked, “you don’t mean to say you want to sell me a policy?”

  “Not now, to be sure,” said Luther, grasping my arm again to quell my agitation, “not now, Henry, but perhaps in a month or so. God works His wonders in mysterious ways. Who knows but that a month from now you may be sitting on top of the world? If you had one of these in your possession you could borrow from the insurance company. It would save you a lot of embarrassment.”

  Here I abruptly took leave of him. He was still standing with hand outstretched, as if immobilized, when I got to the other side of the street. I gave him one parting glance and spat out a gob of juicy disgust. “You prick!” I said to myself. “You and your fucking Comforter! For a pair of heartless shits I’ve never seen the like of you. Pray? You bet I’ll pray. I’ll pray that you have to crawl on hands and knees to scratch for a penny. I’ll pray that your wrists and knees give out, that you have to crawl on your belly, that your eyes will become bleary, and filled with scum.”

  The house was dark when I got back. No Mona. I sank into the big chair and gave myself up to moody reflections. In the soft light of my table lamp the room looked better than ever. Even the table, which was in a state of huge disorder, affected me pleasantly. It was obvious that there had been a long interruption. Manuscripts were lying about everywhere, books lay open at pages where I had left off reading. The dictionary too was lying open on top of the bookcase.

  As I sat there I realized that the room was impregnated with my spirit. I belonged here, nowhere else. It was foolish of me to stir out in the manner of
a householder. I should be home writing. I should do nothing but write. Providence had taken care of me thus far, why not forever? The less I did about practical matters the more smoothly things went. These forays into the world only alienated me from mankind.

  Since that fantastic evening with Cromwell I hadn’t written a line. I moved over to the writing table and began fiddling with the papers. The last column I had written—the very day that Cromwell had visited us—lay before me. I read it over quickly. It sounded good to me, extraordinarily good. Too good, in fact, for the newspaper. I pushed it aside and began slowly perusing a novelette which was unfinished, that “Diary of a Futurist,” of which I had read fragments to Ulric once. I was not only favorably impressed, I was deeply moved by my own words. I must have been in good spirits to have written that well.

  I glanced at one manuscript after another, reading only a few lines at a time. Finally I came to my notes. They were as fresh and inspiring as when I had jotted them down. Some of them, which I had already made use of, were so provocative that I wanted to write the stories all over again, write them from a fresh, new angle. The more I unearthed, the more feverish I became. It was as though a huge wheel inside me had begun to revolve.

  I pushed everything aside and lit a cigarette. I gave myself up to a delicious reverie. All that I had wanted to write these past fall months was now writing itself out. It oozed out like milk from a coconut. I had nothing to do with it. Someone else was in charge. I was merely the receiving station transmitting it to the blue.

  Just the other day, some twenty years since this occurrence, I came upon the words of one Jean-Paul Richter, which described exactly how I felt at that moment. What a pity I did not know them then! Here is what he wrote:

  “Rien ne m’a jamais ému davantage que le sieur Jean-Paul. Il s’est assis à sa table et, par ses livres, il m’a corrompu et transformé. Maintenant, je m’enflamme de moi-même.”

  My reverie was broken by a gentle knock at the door. “Come in,” I said, not moving from the spot. To my surprise Mr. Taliaferro, our landlord, entered.

  “Good evening, Mr. Miller,” he said, in his quiet, easy Southern way. “I hope I am not disturbing you?”

  “Not at all,” I replied, “I was just dreaming.” I motioned to him to take a seat and after a due pause I asked what I might do for him.

  At this he smiled benevolently, drawing his chair a little closer. “You look as though you were deep in work,” he said, with sincere kindliness. “It’s unfortunate that I should have disturbed you at such a moment.”

  “I assure you I wasn’t working, Mr. Taliaferro. I’m glad indeed to see you. I’ve been intending to call on you for some time. You must have wondered.…”

  “Mr. Miller,” he interrupted, “I thought it was time we had a little chat together. I know you have lots of preoccupations, besides your work. Perhaps you are not even aware that it is some months now since you last paid your rent. I know how it is with writers.…”

  The man was so truly gentle and considerate that I simply couldn’t stand on pretense with him. I had no idea how many months we were in arrears. What I admired in Mr. Taliaferro was that he had never in any way made us feel uncomfortable. Only once before had he ventured to knock at our door and that was to inquire if we needed anything. It was with a feeling of great relief, therefore, that I surrendered myself to him.

  Just how it happened I don’t know, but in a few moments I was sitting beside him on the cot we had bought for O’Mara. He had his arm around my shoulders and was explaining to me, quite as if I were a younger brother, and in a voice so gentle, so soothing, that he knew I was a good individual, knew I had never intended to put him off so long (it was five months, I discovered) but that sooner or later I would have to come to terms with the world.

  “But Mr. Taliaferro, I think if you gave us just a little time.…”

  “Son,” he said, pressing my shoulder ever so lightly, “it’s not time you need, it’s an awakening. Now if I were you, I would talk it over with Mrs. Miller this evening and see if you couldn’t find a place more suited to your income. I am not going to hurry you unduly. Look around… take your time… find the place you like, and then move. What do you think?”

  I was almost in tears. “You’re too kind,” I said. “Of course you’re right. Certainly we shall find another place, and quickly too. I don’t know how to thank you for your delicacy and consideration. I guess I am a dreamer. I never realized that it was so long since we last paid you.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” said Mr. Taliaferro. “You’re an honest man, I know that. But don’t worry about…”

  “But I do worry about it,” I said. “Even though we may have to move without paying you the back rent, I want you to know that I will definitely pay it back later, probably in driblets.”

  “Mr. Miller, if you were situated differently, I would be glad to accept your promise, but it’s too much to ask of you now. If you can find another place before the first of next month I shall be quite content. Let’s forget about the back rent, yes?”

  What could I say? I looked at him with moist eyes, shook his hand warmly and gave him my word that we would be out on time.

  As he rose to take leave of me he said: “Don’t be too discouraged about this. I know how much you like this place. I hope you were able to do good work here. Some day I expect to read your books.” Pause. “I hope you’ll always think of us as friends.”

  We shook hands once more, then I closed the door softly after him. I stood a few minutes with my back to the door, surveying the room. I felt good. As though I had just come through a successful operation. Just a little dizziness from the anaesthetic. How Mona would take it I didn’t know. Already I was breathing easier. Already I had visions of living among poor people, my own sort. Down to earth again. Excellent. I walked to and fro, threw open the rolling doors and strutted about in the vacant apartment in the rear. A last taste of refinement. I took a good look at the stained glass window, rubbed my hand over the rose silk tapestry, slid a few feet on the highly polished floor, looked at myself in the huge mirror. I grinned at myself and said again and again, “Good! Good!”

  In a few minutes I had made myself a pot of tea and fixed a thick, juicy sandwich. I sat down at my worktable, put my feet up on a hassock, and picked up a volume of Elie Faure, opening it at random.… “When this people is not cutting throats or burning buildings, when it is not decimated by famine and butchery, it has only one function—to build and decorate palaces whose vertical walls shall be thick enough to protect the Sar, his wives, his guard, and his slaves—twenty or thirty thousand persons—against the sun, invasion, or perhaps revolt. Around the great central courts are the apartments covered with terraces or with domes, with cupolas, images of the absolute vault of the deserts, which the Oriental soul will rediscover when Islam shall have reawakened it. Higher than these, observatories which are at the same time temples, the ziggurats, the pyramidal towers whose stages painted with red, white, blue, brown, black, silver and gold, shine afar through the veils of dust which the winds whirl in spiral. Especially at the approach of evening, the warring hordes and the nomadic pillagers, who see the somber confines of the desert streaked with this motionless lightning, must recoil in fear. It is the dwelling of the god, and resembles those steps of the plateau of Iran leading to the roof of the world, which are striped with violent colors by subterranean fire and by the blaze of the sun. The gates are guarded by terrific brutes, bulls and lions with human heads, marching.…”

  A few blocks away, in a quiet street largely taken over by the Syrians, we found a modest furnished room situated in the rear of the house on the ground floor. The woman who rented the place was a bluenose from Nova Scotia, a harridan who gave me the shudders every time I looked at her. Everything imaginable had been crammed into our quarters: washtubs, cooking stove, heater, huge sideboard, old-fashioned wardrobe, extra couch, a battered rocker, a still more battered armchair, a sewing machine, a hors
ehair sofa, a whatnot filled with five-and-ten-cent store knickknacks, and an empty bird cage. I suspected that it was this room the old witch herself had inhabited prior to our arrival.

  To put it pleasantly, an atmosphere of dementia reigned.

  The saving thing was the garden outside our back door. It was a long rectangular garden enclosed by high brick walls, reminding me for some unaccountable reason of the garden in Peter Ibbetson. At any rate, it was a place in which to dream. Summer had just begun and in the late afternoons I would drag out a big armchair and read. I had just discovered Arthur Weignall’s books and was devouring them one after another. After reading a few pages I would fall into a reverie. Here in the garden everything was conducive to dream and reverie—the soft, fragrant air, the humming of insects, the lazy flight of the birds, the swishing of foliage, the murmur of foreign voices in the gardens adjoining.

  An interlude of peace and privacy.

  It was during this period that purely by chance I ran into my old friend Stanley one day. Forthwith Stanley began to visit us at frequent intervals, usually accompanied by his two boys, one five, the other seven. He had grown very fond of his youngsters and took great pride in their appearance, their manners, their speech. From Stanley I learned that my daughter was now attending a private school. His elder son, also named Stanley, had quite a crush on her, he informed me. This last he imparted with great relish, adding that Maude viewed the situation with alarm. As to how “they” were getting along, that I had to drag out of him. It was nothing to worry about, he assured me, but the tone in which he said it conveyed that their circumstances were none too good. Poor old Melanie was still slaving away at the hospital, hobbling to work now with a cane; her nights she spent coddling her varicose veins. She and Maude were more than ever at odds. Maude, of course, was still giving piano lessons.