The upshot of it all was that we were given a week’s notice to get out. Since we intended to leave anyway we were not unhappy about it. There was one thought, however, which rankled in me: how to get even with the old bitch?
It was Stanley who showed me the way. Since we were clearing out for good, why not pay her back in regal style? “Fine,” I said, “but how?” In his mind it was simple. He would bring the kids along, as usual, on the last day; he would hand them the ketchup bottle, the mustard, the fly paper, the ink, the flour, everything with which to do the devil’s work. “Let them do whatever comes into their heads,” he said. “How’s that?” He added: “Kids love to do whatever is destructive.”
Myself I thought it a marvelous idea. “I’ll give them a hand,” I said. “When it comes to dirty work, I’m a bit of a vandal myself.”
The day after we planned this campaign of despoliation we received word from the bank that our check was no good. Frantic telephone calls to Tony Maurer—and to Milwaukee. Our millionaire had disappeared—as if the earth had swallowed him. For a change, we were the victims of a hoax. I had a good laugh at myself, despite my chagrin.
But what to do now?
We broached the news to Stanley. He took it philosophically. Why not move into his flat? He would take the mattress off his bed and put it on the floor in the parlor—for us. They never used the parlor. As for food, he guaranteed that we wouldn’t starve.
“But where will you sleep? Or how, rather?” I asked.
“On the springs,” he said.
“But your wife?”
“She won’t mind. We’ve often slept on the bare floor.”
Then he added: “After all, it’s only temporary. You can look for a job, and when you get one you can find a place of your own.”
“O.K.” I said, and clasped his hand.
“Get your things packed,” said Stanley. “What have you got to take with you?”
“Two valises and a typewriter, that’s all.”
“Get busy then. I’ll put the kids to work.” And with this he moved the big horsehair sofa over against the door, so that no one could enter.
While Mona packed the valises I ransacked the cupboard. The kids had been looking forward to this event. They went to it with a vengeance. In ten minutes the place was a wreck. Everything that could be smeared was smeared with ketchup, vinegar, mustard, flour, broken eggs. On the chairs they pasted the fly paper. The garbage they strewed over the floor, grinding it in with their heels. Best of all was the ink work. This they splattered over the walls, the rugs and the mirrors. The toilet paper they made garlands of to festoon the bespattered furniture.
Stanley and I, for our part, stood on the table and decorated the ceiling with ketchup and mustard, with flour and cereals which we had made into a thick paste. The sheets and covers we ripped with knives and scissors. With the big bread knife we gouged out huge chunks of the horsehair sofa. Around the toilet seat we spread some moldy marmalade and honey. Everything which could be turned upside down, dismantled, disconnected or torn apart we turned upside down, dismantled, disconnected and ripped apart. Everything was done with quiet commotion. The last bit of destruction I left for the children to perform. It was the mutilation of the sacred Bible. First they doused it in the bathtub, then smeared it with filthy unguents, then tore out handfuls of pages and scattered them about the room. The woeful-looking remnants of the Holy Book we then put in the bird cage which we suspended from the chandelier. The chandeliers themselves we bent and twisted into an unrecognizable shape. We hadn’t time to wash the kids; we wiped them as best we could with the torn sheets. They were radiant with joy. What a job! Never again would they have a chance like this.… This last operation finished, we took counsel. Seating the kids on his knees, Stanley gravely instructed them what to do. They were to leave first, by the back exit. They were to walk quietly and leisurely to the front gate, quicken their steps as they moved down the street, then run as fast as they could and wait for us around the corner. As for us, if we encountered the old bluenosed bitch, we would hand her the keys and bid her good-bye pleasantly. She would have a job to push the door open, assuming that she suspected anything amiss. By that time we would have joined the kids and hopped a taxi.
Everything went as planned. The old lady never made an appearance. I had one valise, Stanley the other, and Mona carried the typewriter. At the corner the children were waiting for us, merry as could be. We caught a taxi and drove to Stanley’s home.
I thought his wife might be a bit put out when she learned what the children had done, but no, she thought it was a wonderful prank. She was delighted that they had had such a holiday. Her only complaint was that they had soiled their clothes. Lunch was waiting for us—cold meats, baloney, cheese, beer and crackers. We laughed our guts out rehearsing the morning’s work.
“You see what the Poles are capable of,” said Stanley. “When it comes to destruction we know no limits. The Poles are brutes at bottom; they’re even worse than the Russians. When they kill they laugh, when they torture they get hysterical with glee. That’s Polish humor for you.”
“And when they’re sentimental,” I added, “they give you their last shirt—or the mattress from their bed.”
Luckily it was summertime, for the only covering we had was a sheet and Stanley’s winter overcoat. The place was clean, fortunately, even though poverty-stricken. No two dishes were alike; the knives, forks and spoons, all odd pieces, had been collected from junk heaps. There were three rooms, one after another, all of them dark—the typical railroad flat. There was no hot water, no bathtub, not even a shower. We bathed in turn at the kitchen sink. Mona wanted to assist with the cooking but Sophie, his wife, wouldn’t hear of it. All we had to do was to roll up our mattress each day and sweep the floor. Now and then we washed the dishes.
It wasn’t bad at all, not for a temporary flop. The neighborhood was depressing, to be sure—we were living in the dumps, only a few doors from the elevated line. The worst thing about the situation was that Stanley slept in the daytime. However, he slept only about five hours. He ate sparingly, I noticed. The one thing he couldn’t do without was cigarettes. He rolled his own, incidentally; it was a habit which he had retained from the old days at Fort Oglethorpe.
The one thing we couldn’t demand of Stanley was cash. His wife doled him out ten cents each day for carfare. When he left for work he took a couple of sandwiches with him wrapped in newspaper. From Tuesday on, everything was bought on credit. A depressing routine, but Stanley had been following it for years. I don’t think he ever expected things to be otherwise. So long as they ate every day, so long as the children were nourished and clothed.…
Every day Mona and I disappeared towards noon, went our respective ways, and returned in time for dinner. We gave the impression that we were busy scouting for jobs. Mona concentrated on raising little sums to tide us over; I floated about aimlessly, visiting the library, the art museums, or taking in a movie when I could afford it. Neither of us had the least intention of looking for work. We never even mentioned the subject to one another.
At first they were pleased to see Mona returning each day with something for the children. Mona made it a point to return with arms loaded. Besides the food we sorely needed she often brought rare delicacies which Stanley and his wife had never tasted. The children always got candy or pastry. They lay in wait for her each evening at the front door. It was quite jolly for a while. Plenty of cigarettes, wonderful cakes and pies, all kinds of Jewish and Russian bread, pickles, sardines, tuna fish, olives, mayonnaise, smoked oysters, smoked salmon, caviar, herrings, pineapples, strawberries, crabmeat, charlotte russe, God knows what all. Mona pretended that they were gifts from friends. She didn’t dare admit that she had squandered money on these luxuries. Sophie, of course, was dazzled. She had never seen such an array of food as now graced the cupboard. It was obvious that she could support such a diet indefinitely. The children likewise.
Not Stanley how
ever. He could think only in terms of privation. What would they do when we left? The children were being spoiled. His wife would expect miracles which it was beyond his power to perform. He began to resent our luxurious ways. One day he opened the cupboard, took down some tins and jars of the finest delicacies, and said he was going to exchange them for money. There was a gas bill to pay, long overdue. The next day he took me aside and informed me bluntly that that wife of mine was to cut out bringing candies and cakes for the children. He was getting to look more and more glum. Perhaps the restless days on the bare springs were wearing him down. Perhaps he surmised that we were making no effort to get work.
The situation was definitely Hamsunesque, but Stanley was in no mood to appreciate this quality. At table we scarcely spoke. The children acted as if they were cowed. Sophie spoke only when her Lord and Master approved. Now and then even the carfare was lacking. It was always Mona who handed out the dough. I expected to be asked point-blank one day how she happened to always have ready cash on hand. Sophie, of course, never asked questions. Mona had her enchanted. Sophie followed her constantly with her eyes, observing every movement, every gesture. It was apparent that to her Mona was a sort of goddess.
I used to wonder, when I lay awake nights, how Sophie would react if she were permitted to follow Mona in her eccentric course for just one day. Let us suppose a day when Mona is keeping an appointment with the one-legged veteran from Weehawken. Rothermel, that was his name, would of course be drunk as usual. He would be waiting in the back of a beer parlor in one of those lugubrious side streets of Weehawken. He would already be drooling in his beer. As Mona enters he endeavors to rise from his seat and make a ceremonious bow, but his artificial leg hinders him. He flutters helplessly, like a big bird whose leg is caught in a trap. He splutters and curses, wiping the spittle from his vest with a dirty napkin.
“You’re only two hours late this time,” he grumbles. “How much?” and he reaches inside his breast pocket for his fat wallet.
Mona of course—it is a scene they enact frequently—pretends to be insulted. “Put that thing away! Do you think that’s all I come for?”
He: “I’m damned if I can think of any other reason. Certainly it’s not on my account.”
That’s how it begins. A duet which they have rehearsed a hundred times.
He: “Well, what’s the story this time? Even if I’m a dope, I must say I admire your invention.”
She: “Must I always give you a reason? When will you learn to put confidence in other human beings?”
He: “A nice question, that. If you would stay for a half-hour sometime maybe I could answer it. When must you be going?” He looks at his watch. “It’s just a quarter to three.”
She: “You know that I have to be back by six.”
He: “Your mother’s still an invalid, then?”
She: “What do you suppose—that a miracle occurred?”
He: “I thought maybe it was your father this time.”
She: “Oh, stop it! You’re drunk again.”
He: “Fortunately for you. Otherwise I might forget to bring my wallet along. How much? Let’s get that over with, then perhaps we can chat a bit. It’s an education to talk with you.”
She: “You’d better make it fifty today.…”
He: “Fifty? Listen, sister, I know I’m a fool, but I’m not a gold mine.”
She: “Must we go through this all over again?”
Rothermel pulls out his wallet ruefully. He lays it on the table. “What are you going to have?”
She: “I told you.”
He: “I mean what will you have to drink? You’re not going to rush off without a drink, are you?”
She: “Oh well… make it a champagne cocktail.”
He: “You never drink beer, do you?” He toys with the wallet.
She: “What are you fiddling with that for? Are you trying to humiliate me?”
He: “That would be rather difficult, it seems to me.” A pause. “You know, sitting here waiting for you, I was thinking of how I might give you a real thrill. You don’t deserve it, but shit! If I had any sense I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you.” Pause. “Do you want to know what I was thinking of? How to make you happy. You know, for a beautiful girl you’re about the most unhappy creature I ever met. I’m not a bundle of optimism myself, and I’m not much to look at, and I’m getting more decrepit every day, but I can’t say I’m thoroughly miserable. I still have one leg. I can hop around. I laugh now and then, even if it’s at my own expense. But, do you know something—I’ve never once heard you laugh. That’s terrible. In fact it’s painful. I give you all you ask for but you never change. You’re always set for a touch. It ain’t right. You’re doing yourself harm, that’s what I mean.…”
She (cutting him short): “Everything would be different if I married you, is that what you mean to say?”
He: “Not exactly. Christ knows, it wouldn’t be a bed of roses. But at least I could provide for you. I could put an end to this begging and borrowing.”
She: “If you really wanted to free me you wouldn’t put a price on it.”
He: “It’s just like you to put it that way. You never suppose for an instant.…”
She: “That we could lead separate lives?”
The waiter arrives with the champagne cocktail.
He: “Better fix another one—the lady is thirsty.”
She: “Do we have to go through this farce every time we meet? Don’t you think it’s a bit boring?”
He: “To me it isn’t. I haven’t any illusions left. But it’s a way of talking to you. I prefer this subject to hospitals and invalids.”
She: “You don’t believe my stories, is that it?”
He: “I believe every word you tell me—because I want to believe. I have to believe in something, if it’s only you.”
She: “Only me?”
He: “Come, you know what I mean.”
She: “You mean that I treat you like a sucker.”
He: “I couldn’t express it more accurately myself. Thank you.”
She: “What time is it now, please?”
Rothermel looks at his watch. He lies: “It’s three-twenty exactly.” Then, with an air of consternation: “You got to have another drink. I told him to fix one for you.”
She: “You drink it, I won’t have time.”
He (frantically): “Hey, waiter, where’s that cocktail I ordered an hour ago?” He forgets himself and attempts to rise from his seat. Stumbles and sinks back again, as if exhausted. “Damn that leg! I’d be better off with a wooden stump. Damn the bloody, fucking war! Excuse me, I’m forgetting myself.…”
To humor him Mona takes a sip of the cocktail, then rises abruptly. “I must be going,” she says. She starts walking towards the door.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” shouts Rothermel. “I’ll call a taxi for you.” He pockets his wallet and hobbles after her.
In the taxi he puts the wallet in her hand. “Help yourself,” he says. “You know I was only joking before.”
Mona coolly helps herself to a few bills and stuffs the wallet in his side pocket.
“When will I see you again?”
“When I need more money, no doubt.”
“Don’t you ever need anything but money?”
Silence. They ride through the crazy streets of Weehawken which is the New World, according to the atlas, but which might just as well be a wart on the planet Uranus. There are cities one never visits except in moments of desperation—or at the turn of the moon when the whole endocrine system goes haywire. There are cities which were planned aeons ago by men of the antediluvian world who had the consolation of knowing they would never inhabit them. Nothing is amiss in this anachronistic scheme of things except the fauna and flora of a lost geological age. Everything is familiar yet strange. At every corner one is disoriented. Every street spells micmac.
Rothermel, sunk in despair, is dreaming of the variegated life of the
trenches. He remains a lawyer even though he has but one leg. He not only hates the Boches who took his leg away, he hates his own countrymen equally. Above all, he hates the town he was born in. He hates himself for drinking like a sot. He hates all mankind as well as birds, animals, trees and sunlight. All he has left of an empty past is money. He hates that too. He rises each day from a sodden sleep to pass into a world of quicksilver. He deals in crime as if it were a commodity, like barley, wheat, oats. Where once he gamboled, caroling like a lark, now he hobbles furtively, coughing, groaning, wheezing. On the morning of the fatal battle he was young, virile, jubilant. He had cleaned out a nest of Boches with his machine gun, wiped out two lieutenants of his own brigade, and was about to rifle the canteen. That same evening he was lying in his own blood and sobbing like a child.—The world of two-legged men had passed him by; he would never be able to rejoin them. In vain he howled like a beast. In vain he prayed. In vain he called for his mother. The war was over for him—he was one of its relics.
When he saw Weehawken again he wanted to crawl into his mother’s bed and die. He asked to see the room where he played as a child. He looked at the garden from the window upstairs and in utter despair he spat into it He shut the door on his old friends and took to the bottle. Ages pass during which he shuttles back and forth on the loom of memory. He has only one security—his wealth. It is like telling a blind man he may have a white cane.
And then one evening, seated alone at a table in a Village dive, a woman approaches and hands him a Mezzotint to read. He invites her to sit down. He orders a meal for her. He listens to her stories. He forgets that he has an artificial limb, forgets that there ever was a war. He knows suddenly that he loves this woman. She does not need to love him, she needs only to be. If she will consent to see him occasionally, for just a few minutes, life will have meaning again.