Twice Melvin

by James Pumpelly

  “Aha! Then you admit to Charlene’s power,” I counter, “her ability to make a man do what he would not.”

  “Ah!” she rejoins, taking my bait with such pleasure I know instantly it’s me who is caught. “The good Saint Paul had something to say about that, writing, ‘For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I.’ And again, ‘For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do.’”

  Aunt Martha’s uncanny memory of the saints, I am soon to discover, is but another trick in her mind-reading repertoire, every jot and tittle of the holy writ – or any other great work - available for instant scan if one knows how to use the galactic library.

  “Yes,” I admit, recovering, Thelma’s Sunday-school lessons not all for naught, “but Saint Paul also wrote, ‘Now if I do that I would not, it is…it-it-’” I stumble, trying to recall the verse. “Oh, now I remember, ‘It is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me.’”

  “Which is where I was leading you all along, nephew!” she cries in triumph. “And believe you me, wringing an admission of sin from you has not been easy!”

  Drawing back for my last punch, I don my most arresting courtroom demeanor:

  “So you would judge, auntie. But as the great Montaigne maintained, ‘We readily acknowledge in others an advantage in courage, in bodily strength, in experience, in agility, in beauty; but an advantage in judgment we yield to no one.’ So, I leave it to you to decide,” I jab cleverly, “I leave it to you to judge me sinner or saint; notwithstanding the Bible’s stern admonishment,‘Judge not, that ye be not judged-‘”

  “For with what judgment ye judge,” she finishes for me, forestalling another memory lapse, “ye shall be judged.’”

  “Which, so saying, should put the fear of God in you,” I reply; realizing, even as I cite the verse, that by judging her I’m accusing myself; Aunt Martha’s theft of my thought spreading a smile - George and Charlene walking in before she can gloat over her latest advantage.

  “Nonsense!” Charlene tossing her comely head, cheeks color-stung with anger. “Believe what you will, George, but my baby has a soul! And a pure one, at that!” she adds defiantly, her hands on her hips suggesting his immediate departure.

  “I was only repeating what we heard out there,” George retorts, “not making a judgment. And my idea on how to rectify that deficiency…should there be one…is-“

  “Sound familiar?” A.M. thinks, accepting my affirmative nod.

  “Well, at least give it some thought,” George back-stepping to her front door. “You can bet your bottom dollar they don’t call it a marriage bed for the sleep it affords!”

  “No dollar will ever see my bottom!” Charlene rebuts, dropping her hands from her hips as if to ward off advance from the rear, “…although, a carat or two might dazzle my shiner.”

  “Sounds like your treachery is working,” I observe, “either that, or George is reverting to his old habits: planning a hard right turn at the church house steps.”

  “Don’t you worry about George,” A.M. avers, “he’s going to wise up, take a little trip back to Boston…put some distance between himself and his problems.”

  “How do you know?” I quiz, following her to Artie’s bookstore.

  “I read his thoughts, that’s why; and he’s tired of being refused; tired of being blamed for a problem that promises no relief.”

  “Relief?” I challenge, “you make sex sound like a kidney function, Aunt Martha. A real pisser. Come to think of it, that’s why George left Boston in the first place - he being at all times a pisser or a pain in the ass, according to what he told me - so what comfort can he expect by returning?”

  “Melody!” A.M. knocking two books off a shelf to gain Artie’s attention – or distract mine. “Let’s see what’s smokin’ here,” she cracks with a wink, “or, in the parlance of The New York Times, what news is fit to print.”

  “Can’t be much to read from a mind that never reads,” I quip, feigning humor to obscure concern.

  “And there’s not much to be gained by avoiding concern, either,” Aunt Martha’s proximity giving Artie the shivers. “So what are you worried about?”

  “Melody,” I admit. “Specifically, that George may be going to Boston to visit her.”

  “Oh, he’s harmless,” she assures me; Artie trudging off to build a fire, “there’s nothing to worry about there. Look at it this way, dear,” A.M. hovering over Artie’s wood-burning stove, “if a man were starving, it would be foolish to waste his means on a new suit of clothes. What he needs is a hot meal. And what George needs right now is just that. Nourishment. Nourishment for the soul.”

  “George needs soul food, does he?” her allegorical approach failing to placate.

  “In a sense,” her smile widening, “In fact, we could call it his blue-plate special.”

  “You’re just getting in deeper,” I warn, not taking kindly to her reference to Melody as a cheap lunch.

  “You don’t understand,” she argues – something she loves to do - “George is blue, right? But Melody’s bluer; true blue, if you get my point. So let him make a blue streak to see her. It doesn’t matter. She’ll blue-pencil his plot faster than he can script it if he starts any blue movie moves.”

  “Thanks, Auntie,” I snort, noting her sudden interest in the paper with which Artie is stoking the kindling, “leave it to you to fetch the bluebird of happiness.”

  “And why not?” she crackles. “Looks like your march is going up in blue flames.”

  “My march?” I echo, out of step with her about-face.

  “Thelma’s questionnaires, dummy,” A.M. nodding at a stack of mimeographed sheets, “he’s burning them.”

  “But they’re blank,” I exclaim, scanning the stack, “probably just surplus copies he ran off to help her cause.”

  “Maybe, but at least we can have a peek at Thelma’s questions,” Aunt Martha’s infectious enthusiasm having immediate effect, the idea of researching my pending doom irresistible. “Let’s see,” she puffs whimsically, scanning a sheet before Artie can wad it up, “it’ll be interesting to see where Thelma’s interest lies.”

  “Ok, but clue me in before we start: are we lying up or lying down this time?”

  “Down,” A.M. ignoring my taunt. “ Wow! Look at this,” she instructs, projecting her thoughts for me to read, “’Miss Cellaneous March Questionnaire’…Melvin, you’d better hope she doesn’t succeed!”

  “I thought her impending success was your impassioned aim,” I rejoin, “thought you were gleefully anticipating your nephew’s character assassination.”

  “You’re the character making an ass of yourself, not me. But look at these questions, Melvin,” A.M. projecting them above the stove as Artie collapses into his armchair, trusted flask in hand, “Offender’s Name it reads, and Number of Offenses per Spree.”

  “Yes, and look at this: under Crime she asks for Frequency of Offense and Duration of Offense; and under Offender Profile one is supposed to rate the Skill in Assault Techniques and Size of Weapon. Judging by the tenor of her classifications, auntie, she has people making war, not love. What kind of message is she trying to send?”

  “None,“ A.M. perusing the form with the distressing resolve of dripping water. “If she were trying to send a message, she’d use Western Union. No, this is covert action. This is General Peabody duping her troops; Thelma, the would-be-temptress, getting the goods on the local lovers. You can bet that for every questionnaire answering favorably for the offender, there’ll be one more crime in the criminal, one more offense in the offing.”

  “You mean she-“ I start to say, Artie’s long sigh interrupting me, the kindling going up in a wasted rush of flames, a canvas tote of split wood lying untouched at his feet.

  “She’s compiling a hit-list,” Aunt Martha declares, “a list of men to hit on; any ‘offender’, whose wife or fiancee is
disenchanted enough to join her march, fair game for her hunting.”

  “And all at my expense,” I moan, “a man who couldn’t survive his reputation. ‘O what a vile and abject thing is man if he does not raise himself above humanity,’ I lament, quoting an unremembered author of yore.”

  “Seneca,” she informs me, surprising me yet again by her familiarity with the ancients, “knew him in my…let’s see…my third Roman life, I believe; though I didn’t agree with his philosophy.”

  “I bet you didn’t,” my lips curling like burning paper, and with the same finality, “I can’t imagine you a Stoic!”

  “Nor can I this lovable man,” A.M. glancing at Artie, then lowering her eyes as if to conceal affection. “Though impervious to words, Artie’s anything but unfeeling.”

  “And just where are you going with this?” I demand, mistrusting her endearments.

  “Oh…nowhere,” she muses, eying his silver flask the way one ogles a favorite souvenir, remembering the pleasant times, “…unless we want to follow him into oblivion.”

  With a sudden gasp, Artie appears to have heard us - or heard something, whatever it was surprising him - his emptied flask dropping to the hardwood floor with a metallic crash as he lurches forward, falling across the wood at his feet with the thud of an ax-felled tree, his stiff felt cap rolling in an arc, then coming to rest under his chair.

  Later, when I recall the scene, I remember a flash of light before Artie hit the floor - or a streak, I should say, not a flash; an intense, fleeting glow moving out and up from Artie’s falling frame to pass out of sight through the rafters. I’ve never seen a man die, from the spirit’s perspective; but the trauma of Artie’s death attacked me like claws ripping viciously through my chest, my own death, unremembered until now, coming back with crushing pain: that moment, alone in the woods; the agony of knowing I was dying, that I was powerless to prevent it, to defend against its pillage, its cruel thievery of my life, my ambitions, my dreams, my chance, even, to make amends for my follies; seeing all - the past, the present, the future; the future as it might have been – all I had done, or not done; my silent scream of terror summoning Martha; hearing her voice, remembering it from my youth…going back…back…Aunt Martha’s hand now soothing my brow, my fright, her familiar voice comforting me, telling me, “It’s over, Melvin…it’s all over, sweetheart…Artie’s got a table reserved in the Galaxy Lounge…he’ll be just fine. They’ll probably even let him have his flask for a while…let him adjust to his new surroundings.”

  “His flask!” I hear myself cry, reaching to where I had seen it drop - only to find it gone. “I had my first taste of whiskey from that heirloom flask!”

  “A quick death is the supreme good fortune of mortal life,” Aunt Martha stroking my empty hand. “I can remember a few that were otherwise.”

  “I-I was just-“

  “I know,” she consoles, “…I know. But having once remembered, it loses its sting, my dear. You’ll learn to take comfort in looking back…back at a bridge you’ve already crossed. A bridge that, from the other side, once seemed so enigmatic, so foreboding. So impassable.”

  “Then-then why aren’t we allowed to recall this while on Earth?” I ask, trembling from the rush of memories. “Why not take the sting from death altogether?”

  “Maybe because we would let down our guard?” she suggests, each of us alighting on an opposite arm of Artie’s chair. “We could opt out of trial, of difficulty, by escaping across the bridge. Given the certainty of peace on this side, and the equal certainty of making it safely across, who would choose to withstand all the evils on the lower side?”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” I marvel, regarding the still form of my friend - our friend - sprawled on the floor. “But Artie never seemed bothered,” I muse, death playing its usual trick of reminiscence, “I mean, he never seemed aware of evil. It was as though he didn’t know it existed.”

  “Where there is good - all good - there can be no evil,” A.M.‘s tone betraying her depth of thought. “And Artie was a good man.”

  “He was that, and more,” I agree, suddenly aware of what needs to be done. “We should let someone know about this, pay our respects by-“

  “Taken care of,” she interjects. “George is on his way,” the little bell at the front entrance tinkling as she answers.

  “And how did you do that?” I ask, ever amazed at her abilities.

  “I-I didn’t,” a rare humility in her voice, “you can thank one of Artie’s angels for summoning him.”

  “A guardian angel?”

  “Exactly. Put the thought in George’s mind, made him think he should come look for a book of poetry for Melody.”

  “You know,” I bristle, pulling her with me to leave George behind, “seems to me you’ve said something about George being with Melody a dozen times today. That’s not persistence, Aunt Martha, that’s stalking. And I’ve had enough of it!”

  “‘Love cloys, unless pain cuts the bliss,’ Martial used to say - another one of my Roman compatriots - but by the bridge we were just discussing, you’ll soon leave such folly behind.”

  Indubitably, she’s right; and after reliving dying, I’m too discomposed to pretend otherwise.

  There are only two kinds of music:

  good and bad. (Duke Ellington)

  XIV

  With Thanksgiving but a week away, Thelma has more on her plate than usual: Arthur Steinberg’s funeral to be wept through, a hyper creative Simon to be made over, and Melvin’s march to be plotted out. But to get through, over and out of anything, Thelma needs more than time. She needs ammunition. Armed with only two completed questionnaires, her retaliatory march is promising to be more like a scouting party than a platoon. Another complication is her burgeoning romance with Simon, the whole of Plainfield beginning to doubt her complicity in the “commie bugster” affair:

  “She’s too forgiving,” Faithful remarks to Mrs. Rolundo after the Sunday service, “too eager to make amends. Makes me think there’s something astir.”

  Mrs. Rolundo replying, “Why of course there is, dear, Thelma being the whirlwind she is.”

  In truth, Thelma is going in circles, pacing a track in the nap of her plush hearth rug while pondering three enigmas: the latest strokes from Simon’s nervous pen. His poems are the kind of masterly work convincing to all save those comprehending them. Of the three, Thelma favors Neither Nor, judging it a none-to-veiled proposal, reciting it through her paces:

  You are unto yourself what you would be;

  But unto me that which you are.

  Pray bright may burn your guiding star

  To lead you to that end which ends with me.

  Pray Great One who from naught envisioned all,

  May all be seen in nothing me.

  Pray precious one by Love to see

  My naught loom large in matters great and small.

  Pray too that ever I adornment be,

  Gold clasp to hold the vestment true;

  Pray then that I in answer to

  The why of we, make plain: twas meant to be.

  You are unto yourself what you would be;

  But unto me that which you are.

  Pray look beyond your neither, nor;

  Past rule’s exception to discover – me!

  If indeed he’s extending his hand, she’s eager to clasp it. Nay, impatient to do so. But caution prevails, the two remaining rhymes so obfuscatory she dare not risk his intent in the first. Of the two, Fairy Tale seems to support her interpretation, as well as suggest his dislike for her marches - a right she’s willing to right if two rights make a wrong in bed. Just yesterday, she shared her suspicion with Artie, his kind old eyes twinkling as she read him the lines:

  One day, by chance, old Happenstance

  Fell hapless from his stance.

  Try as he might, he could not fight

  The slight of reasoned glance.

  Like
those who wait for luck or fate,

  His luck came all too late;

  ‘Cause life demands a show of hands;

  Caught fish require their bait.

  And we ourselves, like storied elves,

  May nap on fancy’s shelves;

  Till comes the fall, from Humpty’s wall,

  That walls us in ourselves.

  So plant a bean, eat fat or lean;

  But keep it Snow White clean;

  Or curds and whey may spoil the day

  Your way churns out the scene.

  The comfort of Artie’s agreement invites her back for his opinion on The Whippoorwill, Simon’s third poem - that the whippoorwill is a member of the goatsucker family, Caprimulgus Vociferus, casting no aspersions on her desire to appreciate its majesty. This very desire is responsible for her discovery of a frantic George attempting to pound life into Artie’s chest.

  “What’s this?” she screams, “what’s happened here?” George’s frenetic attempts as startling as the appalling sight of Artie sprawled on the floor.

  “Heart attack,” George bellows, “or maybe he choked. I don’t know. But go get some help, will you?” his strident tone frightening her out of the store.

  Summoning the doctor from his tavern dinner, she remembers leaving her poem on Artie’s counter, The Whippoorwill a subject upon which Artie might have expounded - Artie, on occasion, enjoying the same trails Simon pedaled. But now she’ll never know; nor, will she retrieve the poem, her Opus Mysterium gone, pilfered by a curious hand, Poor Art’s quickly overrun by the gawkers a public death attracts.

  But when the Plainfield News headlines the poem, she thinks better of losing it, harboring a lover’s pride in seeing her Simon published. Prima facie poetry, it is; the last item placed on Artie’s counter. Just who may have seen Artie last has the locals theorizing on the poem’s relevance to his demise. Even Vincent Tenklei pens an article in which he analyzes the verse for clues. Such notoriety precludes Simon taking credit for his masterpiece, should foul-play be suspected in Artie’s death.