After the Judge had sipped his drink once and smacked his lips, he said, "This is ex cathedral."
"What?" Sherman said.
"That's what the Pope says when he's speaking frankly. I mean that nothing that I say to you now while we're drinking is in the letter. My friend Tip Thomas took to himself a helpmeet ... or is it helpmate. I mean by this, he took to himself a second wife. As a rule I don't approve of second marriages, but when I think about it I just think, 'Live and let live.' You understand, boy?"
"No, sir. Not exactly, sir."
"I wonder if I should overlook the second marriage and talk about his first wife. Talk in praise about his first wife and not mention the second."
"Why mention either one of them?"
The Judge leaned his head back. "The art of letter writing is like this; you first make gracious personal remarks about health and wives and so forth, and then when that's covered, you come plumb to the subject of what the letter is really about."
The Judge drank blissfully. As he drank a little miracle was happening.
When the telephone rang, the Judge could not understand all at once. J. T. Malone was talking to him, but what he was saying seemed to make no sense. "Grown Boy killed in a street fight ... and Jester in the fight?" he repeated. "I'll send somebody to get Jester at the drugstore." He turned to Sherman. "Sherman, will you go drive to Mr. Malone's drugstore and pick up my grandson?" Sherman, who had never driven a car in his life, agreed with pleasure. He had watched people drive and thought he knew how it went. The Judge put down his drink and went to the kitchen. "Verily," he started, "I have some serious news for you."
After one look at the old Judge's face, Verily said, "Somebody daid?" When the Judge did not answer she said, "Sister Bula?"
When the Judge told her it was Grown Boy, she flung her apron over her head and sobbed loudly. "And in all these years he never had his share of sense." She told this as though it was the most poignant and explicable truth about the unreasonable fact that was shattering her.
The Judge tried to comfort her with little bearlike pats. He went to the library, finished his drink and the drink that Sherman had left unfinished and then went to the front porch to wait for Jester.
Then he realized the little miracle that had happened. Every morning for fifteen years he had waited so tediously for the delivery of the Milan Courier, waiting in the kitchen or in the library, his heart leaping up when he heard that little plop. But today, after all these years, his time was so occupied he had not even thought about the paper. Joyfully, the old Judge limped down the steps to pick up the Milan Courier.
6
SINCE livingness is made up of countless daily miracles, most of which are unnoticed, Malone, in that season of sadness, noticed a little miracle and was astonished. Each morning that summer he had waked up with an amorphous dread. What was the awful thing that was going to happen to him? What was it? When? Where? When consciousness finally formed, it was so merciless that he could lie still no longer; he had to get up and roam the hall and kitchen, roaming without purpose, just roaming, waiting. Waiting for what? After his conversation with the Judge, he had filled the freezing compartment of the refrigerator with calf liver and beef liver. So morning after morning, while the electric light fought with the dawn, he fried a slice of the terrible liver. He had always loathed liver, even the Sunday chicken liver that the children squabbled over. After it was cooked, smelling up the whole house like a stink bomb, Malone ate it, every loathsome bite. Just the fact that it was so loathsome comforted him a little. He swallowed even the gristly pieces that other people removed from their mouths and put on the sides of their plates. Castor oil also had a nasty taste, and it was effective. The trouble with Dr. Hayden, he had never suggested any cures, nasty or otherwise, for that... leukemia. Name a man a fatal disease and not recommend the faintest cure ... Malone's whole being was outraged. A pharmacist for close on to twenty years, he had listened to and prescribed for trillions of complaints: constipation, kidney trouble, smuts in the eye, and so forth. It he honestly felt the case was beyond him he would tell the customer to consult a doctor, but that was not often ... Malone felt he was as good as any bona fide M.D. in Milan, and he prescribed for trillions of complaints. A good patient himself, dosing himself with nasty Sal Hepatica, using Sloan's Liniment when needed, Malone would eat every living bite of the loathsome liver. Then he would wait in the brightly lighted kitchen. Waiting for what? And when?
One morning toward the end of summer, Malone was wakening and fought against wakening. He struggled for the soft, sweet limbo of sleep, but he could not recapture it. The shrill birds were already up and at him, slicing to shreds his soft, sweet sleep. That morning he was exhausted. The terror of consciousness washed over his tired body and limpened spirit. He was going to force himself to sleep. Think of counting sheep—black sheep, white sheep, red sheep all hippity-hoppity and with plumping tails. Think of nothingness, oh, soft sweet sleep. He would not get up and turn on lights and roam the hall and kitchen, and roam and wait and dread. He would never fry that loathsome liver at dawn, smelling up the whole house like a stink bomb. Never no longer. Never no more. Malone switched on the bedside lamp and opened the drawer. There were the Tuinal capsules he had prescribed for himself. There were forty of them, he knew. His trembling fingers slid amongst the red and green capsules. Forty of them, he knew. He would no longer have to get up at dawn and roam the house in terror. No longer go to the pharmacy just because he had always gone to the pharmacy as it was his living and the support of his wife and family. If J. T. Malone was not the sole support, because of those shares of Coca-Cola stock his wife had bought with her own money and because of the three houses she had inherited from her mother—dear old Mrs. Greenlove who had died fifteen years ago—if because of his wife's various resources he was not the utter and sole provider, the pharmacy was the mainstay of the family and he was a good provider, no matter what people might think. The pharmacy was the first store open in Milan and the last to close. Standing faithfully, listening to complaints, prescribing medicine, making cokes and sundaes, compounding prescriptions ... no more, no more! Why had he done it so long? Like a plodding old mule going round and round a sorghum mill. And going home every night. And sleeping in bed with his wife whom he had long since ceased to love. Why? Because there was no fitting place to be except the pharmacy? Because there was no other fitting place to sleep except in bed beside his wife? Working at the pharmacy, sleeping with his wife, no more! His drab livingness spread out before him as he fingered the jewel-bright Tuinal.
Malone put one capsule in his mouth and drank half a glass of water. How much water would he have to drink to swallow the forty capsules?
After the first capsule he swallowed another, then a third. Then he stopped and refilled the water glass. When he came back to bed again he wanted a cigarette. As he smoked it he grew drowsy. While he was smoking his second cigarette it fell from between his lifeless fingers for J. T. Malone at last had gone to sleep again.
He slept until seven that morning and the household was awake when he went into the busy kitchen. For one of the few times in his life he failed to bathe and shave, for fear of being late at the pharmacy.
That morning he saw with his eyes the little miracle, but he was too swivetty and occupied to take it in. He took the short cut through the back yard and back gate, the miracle was there but his eyes were blind as he loped toward the gate. Yet when he reached the pharmacy he wondered why he had been hurrying so; no one was there. But already he had begun his day. He let down the awnings with a slam and turned on the electric fan. When the first customer entered his day had begun, although the first customer was only Herman Klein, the jeweler next door. Herman Klein was always in and out of the drugstore all day long, drinking Coca-Colas. He also kept a bottle of liquor in the compounding room of the pharmacy, as his wife hated liquor and did not allow it in the home. So Herman Klein spent the whole day at his shop doing his watchwork and visitin
g the drugstore frequently. Herman Klein did not go home for noonday dinner as did most Milan businessmen; he had a little snifter, then ate one of the neatly wrapped chicken sandwiches that Mrs. Malone supplied. After Herman Klein had been attended to, a flurry of customers came in all at once. A mother came in with a bed-wetting child, and Malone sold her a Eurotone, a device that rings a bell when the bed is being wet. He had sold Eurotones to many parents, but privately he wondered why the ring of the bell would really be effective. Privately he wondered if it might not scare the be-Jesus out of a sleeping child, and what good would it do if the whole house was alarmed just because little Johnny made some quiet little pee-pee in his sleep? He thought privately it would be better to let Johnny just pee in peace. Malone advised the mothers sagely: "I've sold a lot of these devices but the main thing I've always felt about toilet training is the cooperation of the child." Malone scrutinized the child, a squarish little girl who did not look at all cooperative. He fitted a woman who had varicose veins with a surgical stocking. He listened to complaints of headaches, backaches and bowel trouble. He studied each customer carefully, made his diagnosis and sold the medicines. Nobody had leukemia, nobody went away empty handed.
By one o'clock when that wife-ridden, hag-ridden, little Herman Klein came in for his sandwich, Malone was tired. He was also meditating. He wondered who else in the world was worse off than he was. He looked at that little Herman Klein munching his sandwich at the counter. Malone loathed him. Loathed him for being so spineless, for working so hard, for not going to the Cricket Tea Room or the New York Café like other decent businessmen who did not go home for dinner. He did not feel sorry for Herman Klein. He just despised him.
He put on his coat to go home to dinner. It was a sweltering day, with a sky like white lightning. He walked slowly this time, feeling the weight of his white linen coat or a weight somehow on his shoulders. He always took his time and had a home-cooked dinner. Not like that mousy little Herman Klein. He went through the back-yard gate and then, though he was tired, he recognized the miracle. The vegetable garden, which he had sown so carelessly and forgotten in that long season of fear, had grown up. There were the purple cabbages, little frills of carrots, the green, green turnip greens and tomatoes. He stood looking at the garden. Meanwhile, a crowd of children had entered the open gate. They were the Lank brood. It was a curious thing about the Lanks. They had one multiple birth after the other. Twins. Triplets. They rented one of his wife's houses that she had inherited—a crummy, beatup house, as you would expect with all those hoards of children. Sammy Lank was a foreman at the Wedwell Spinning Mill. When at times he was laid off, Malone did not press him for the rent. Malone's house, which Martha had also inherited from old Mrs. Greenlove, God bless her, was the corner house facing a very respectable street. The other three houses which adjoined each other were around the corner, and the neighborhood there was running down. The Lank family house was the last house, that is, the last house in the row of three that Mrs. Malone had inherited. So Malone saw the Lank brood frequently. Grimy, sniffly-nosed, they just hung around since there was nothing at home to do. One especially cold winter when Mrs. Lank was confined with twins, Malone had sent some coal to their house because he was fond of children and knew they were cold. The children were called Nip and Tuck, Cyrily and Simon, and Rosemary, Rosamond, and Rosa. The children now were growing up. The eldest triplets, who were already married and having babies on their own, were born the night the Dionne quints were born and the Milan Courier had had a little article about "Our Milan Trio" which the Lanks framed and put in their sitting room.
Malone looked again at the garden. "Sugar," he called.
"Yes, Hon," Mrs. Malone answered.
"Have you seen the vegetable garden?" Malone went into the house.
"What vegetable garden?" Mrs. Malone asked.
"Why, our vegetable garden."
"Of course I've seen it, Hon. We've been eating out of it all summer. What's the matter with you?"
Malone, who had no appetite these days and never remembered what he ate, said nothing, but it was indeed a miracle that that garden, planted so carelessly and never tended, had flourished. The collards were growing like crazy as collards will do. Plant a collard in the garden and they just grow like crazy, pushing out the other plants. The same as morning-glories ... a collard or a morning-glory.
There was little conversation at the noonday dinner. They had meat loaf and double-trouble potatoes, but although the meal was well cooked, Malone did not taste it. "I've been telling you all summer that the vegetables were home grown," Mrs. Malone said. Malone heard the remark but paid no attention, let alone replied; for years his wife's voice had been like a sawmill to him, a sound you hear but pay no attention to.
Young Ellen and Tommy bolted their dinner and were about to run.
"You ought to chew, darlings. Otherwise nobody knows what intestinal trouble lies in wait for you. When I was a girl they had what they called the Fletcher cure, you were supposed to chew seven times before you actually swallowed. If you continue to eat like firehorses..." But already the Malone children had said "Excuse me," and had run from the house.
From then on the dinner was a silent one, and neither voiced their thoughts. Mrs. Malone was thinking about her "Mrs. Malone Sandwiches" ... plump kosher chickens (it did not matter if the fowls were Jewish), the A & P hens she prodded carefully, midget turkeys, twenty-pound turkeys. She labeled the turkey sandwiches "Mrs. Malone's Turkey Salad Sandwich," although it was an amazing thing how many people could not taste the difference between turkey salad and chicken salad. Meanwhile, Malone was occupied with his own professional considerations; should he have sold the Eurotone this morning? It had slipped his mind that a few months ago a woman had complained about the Eurotone. It seemed that her little Eustis had slept through all the bells of the Eurotone, but the family had waked up and stood around watching the quietly peeing and sound asleep little Eustis, while the Eurotone bells were ringing like mad. Finally, it seemed, the daddy had yanked the child out of the wet bed and warmed his behind in front of the whole family. Was that fair? Malone pondered the subject and decided it was definitely not fair. He had never laid a hand on his children, whether they deserved it or not. Mrs. Malone disciplined the children, as Malone felt it was the wife's duty, and she always cried when it was her clear duty to spank one of the children. The only time Malone felt impelled to act in such a manner was the time the four-year-old Ellen built a secret fire under her grandmother's bed. How old Mrs. Greenlove had cried, both for her own terror and for the fact that her favorite grandchild was being chastised. But playing with fire was the only misbehavior that Malone dealt with, as it was too serious a thing to trust to a tenderhearted mother who invariably cried as she chastised. Yes, forbidden matches and fires were the only things he had to handle. And the Eurotone? Although it was a recommended product, he regretted having sold it that morning. With a painful, final swallow that made his Adam's apple struggle in his frail throat, Malone excused himself and rose from the table.
"I'm going to call Mr. Harris to take over the pharmacy for the balance of the day."
Anxiety flickered across Mrs. Malone's placid face. "Aren't you feeling well, Hon?"
Rage made Malone fist his hands until the knuckles whitened. A man with leukemia not feeling well? What the hell did the woman think he had ... chicken pox or spring fever? But although his fisted knuckles were white with rage, he only said, "I feel no better nor no worse than I deserve."
"You work, too hard, Hon. Altogether too hard. You're a regular workhorse."
"A mule," Malone corrected. "A mule going round and round a cane mill."
"J.T., don't you want me to put you in a tub of nice, tepid water?"
"I certainly do not want it."
"Don't be mulish, Hon. I'm just trying to comfort you."
"I can be mulish as I please in my own house," Malone said stubbornly.
"I was just trying to comfort you,
but I see it's no use."
"No use at all," he answered bitterly.
Malone took a steaming shower, washed his hair, shaved, and darkened the bedroom. But he was too angry to rest. From the kitchen he could hear Mrs. Malone beating batter for a wedding cake or something, and this made him still angrier. He went out into the glaring afternoon.
He had lost the summer that year; the vegetables had grown and been eaten unnoticed. The hard blaze of summer shriveled his spirit. The Judge had insisted that nothing ailed him that a spell of Milan summer would not cure. Thinking of the old Judge, he went to the back porch and found a paper sack. Although he was free for the afternoon, there was no sense of freedom in him. Wearily he began to pick a mess of greens for the Judge, both turnip greens and collards. Then he added the largest tomato and stood for a moment weighing it in his hand.
"Hon," Mrs. Malone called from the kitchen window, "what are you doing?"
"What? What?"
"What are you doing just standing there in the heat of the afternoon?"
Things had come to a pretty pass when a man has to account for himself for just standing alone in his own back yard. But though his thoughts were brutal he only answered, "Picking greens."
"You ought to have a hat on if you are going to linger long in this broiling sun. Might save you a sunstroke, Hon."
Malone's face paled as he shouted, "Why is it your Goddamn business?"
"Don't swear, J.T., for mercy's sake."
So Malone stayed longer in the broiling heat, just because his wife had questioned and interfered. Then, hatless, and carrying the sack of vegetables, he trudged over to the Judge's house. The Judge was in the darkened library and the nigger with the blue eyes was with him.
"High-ho, J.T., high-ho, my hearty. You're just the man I was looking for."
"What for?" For Malone was both pleased and taken aback by this hearty reception.
Clock Without Hands Page 11
