“Carma, Jamie is dead! Believe it, and have pity on yourself, There’s no need to suffer in the awful way you do. Bury him, in your heart and be done with it. Let him go! You can’t resurrect him!”
Her reply, underbreath had been “Can’t I? Can’t I?”—the teeth exposed and a sudden sick, fantastic look in her eyes. She was trembling when she added: “I’ll find a way.”
His hand pressed itself to the prickly coldness at the back of his head.
“Carma . . .!” But he stopped there, realizing, surely, that what she’d said had been figurative. She wasn’t that irrational—yet. It was his own foolishness.
The excesses of her neurotic grief!—an understatement if ever there was one. But what was one to do, or advise, a woman as strong-willed and other-worldly as Carma?—one as dangerously self-dramatized? As long as he’d known her—so many years now—and loved her in his way (hadn’t he once proposed!) she had made romantic literature, a kind of living poetry, of life. But now she was making something monstrous—far beyond tragedy and grief—out of death.
“I’ll find a way!” What an extraordinary thing to say! Eerie. Sinister. He’d never seen this side of Carma, perhaps because it was new. It hadn’t been there to be seen before. Regardless, it confirmed his belief that someone must help her, and soon. If not he, alone, then perhaps one of his encounter groups?
Both ideas were ridiculous. She was hopelessly beyond any capacity for transference if that’s what Robert (V. Algood Jones) had in mind. Indeed, she was well beyond any psychiatric help at all, particularly with a man she had almost married. Perhaps they would have wed, if he hadn’t been embarrassingly “fourth” in line. (And how could she possibly add a Jones after a Smith?!) Besides, he in no way needed a wife. He was so existentially involved with all his patients, that he was drained, an empty vessel, at the end of each working day, having given all his energy and love away, seldom needing a woman at all, but simple, total rest to recharge all the mysterious batteries that kept his devotion and dedication in endless supply.
And a group? She imagined a stammered monologue into a circle of faces so strange they’d resemble a coven of witches stirring a brew. Brew it would be with questions to answer, intimate habits to expose, bizarre behavior to explain: confessing how theatrical she was by nature and inclination, how it helped immeasurably to dramatize her grief and her lack of sleep by prowling the streets of the Village at any small dark hour, her face so hidden she might have escaped from a harem, or, if she was on Long Island, by wandering through the misty grounds, writing spidery poems to her beloved on the steps of his tomb—one more fantastic example of her Jamie-madness!
Better the bitter chemical: the revolting red spoonful of syrup so thick with sugar that pink crystals had crusted over the mouth of the bottle, all of its sweetness insufficient to disguise its vile and evil taste.
The demi-tasse of silky black chocolate that came after it helped a bit, as did the routine of Rose’s amusing disapproval: the pout of that sweet Irish underlip, the puckered frown, the censorial shake of the pretty head. Goodness! If Mrs. Evans wanted the tiniest extra sip—just to be sure she’d sleep—she had virtually to wrestle the headstrong girl, unscrewing the bottle from an iron fist.
But about Angel . . .
She took his card for temporary safekeeping to the small safe behind the hinged painting Jamie had done of a few battered slum-shacks in St. Thomas, and placed it on top of the velvet box of the never-worn Harrington-Smith jewels, at least those she kept in Manhattan, and the day’s usual assortment of documents from her lawyers that required her signature, papers she often didn’t bother to read since most of them merely attested in boring detail to money she had lost, or, more likely, the ever-accumulating amount of her wealth.
Before she did this however, she examined for the first time the cancelled postmark on the card, going back to her desk to fetch a small magnifying glass.
The zip code was blurred but she could read it, and the postal map in the pages of the local phone book outlined the area in the city from which the card had been sent. 10023—the east side, between 117th Street and 129th.
Spanish Harlem.—A ghetto boy.
Dear Mother . . .
She felt a slight chill: one of hope and anxiety.
He’d be dark-skinned surely. Please let it be so!—the pale olive, brown gold of her son, or the dark ground nutmeg of Jamie’s father. Jamie’s father!—who had, so often, with glory, stood bowing to the strident shouts, the throat-torn cheers of the entire populace, it seemed, of old Madrid and who died, a stumbling alcoholic, drunk and disgraced, fatally gored, fearfully tossed, spilling coils of entrails onto the blood-wet sand of that dreary, disgusting ring in Tiajuana.
If Mrs. Evans had moments such as these, when she felt that nothing short of an identical twin, a doppelganger, Jamie ostensibly reborn, resurrected, could fill her longing, she hoped that “son” qua son, perhaps needn’t be a particular height, color, race, age at all, peculiarly, not even sex. Wouldn’t a loving and beloved “daughter,” if one could fine one, possibly, just possibly do? All of which, in part, accounted for the strange wording of her advertisement, so laconic it seemed a telegram, and perhaps in its urgency and desperation, was.
Truly, Swingers All had the right words if woefully the wrong means and method!—“a good time and a lasting relationship”—to keep her (but for what meaningful useful purpose, really?) from where she most often wanted and would eventually, inevitably be: “in the dust, in the cool tombs” beside the body of her boy.
He sends his love.
Many kisses . . .
Angel’s card had been first simply because it was there, instantly, before her eyes, impossible to ignore.
Perhaps that had been part of its sweet, or cunning, purpose. It was not a letter among others, to be shuffled through and opened third, or fourth, or last. I’m first. Or rather, Im first. Most probably, Im firs’—minus the apostrophe.
After Angel’s card, the cassette tape was irresistibly next, explored through the envelope with wondering fingers. She wasn’t to hear it—and then with mild chagrin and clear disappointment—until late afternoon of the following day after Dori had returned with the machine to play it, but its hard, flat, mysterious thickness piqued her curiosity.
As it slid with a plastic clatter onto the polished surface of her desk, she drew back in alarm. Surely the bewildering object had been designed and timed in the next instant to bring the room, the house, perhaps the entire city block, down in smoking ruins about her shattered head!
Her own stupidity exhausted her! A cassette cartridge, of course, plainly lettered MEMOREX 60. And with her discovery, her hope, not her brain was shattered. She smiled, appreciating the intensity of the death-wish that had been so quick to make a bomb of a spool of black tape. Still . . . Today, even letters were suspect, with dogs trained to sniff out the faintest, subtlest whiff of death, blinded eyes, maimed fingers—though usually the intended victims were controversial figures, heads of state, or important persons of rabid political persuasions. Unhappily, she could think of no one at all, no one who wanted to blow her to pieces.
Only herself.
“Now / Hunted by thyself / Thine own prey . . . / Caught in thine own snares / Self-knower! / Self-hangman! . . .”
How lovely it would be to have a mortal enemy. That surely, as all things must, would imply the reality of its opposite: the power, the capacity to possess a mortal friend: deadly, implacable.
Now . . . The large manila envelope . . . The one carefully lettered PHOTO DO NOT BEND, so ruthlessly bent by postal employees, it was sitting before her at a ninety-degree angle. She reversed the fold over the edge of her desk, flattening it as best she could.
Several of the letters she noticed were so plastered with scotch tape, one expected them to be stamped Top Secret, or better, in the peculiar governmental language of the day, Eyes Only. The sender of PHOTO DO NOT BEND, however, had not even bothered to wet the glue
on the flap, merely spreading the metal two-pronged clasp that closed it.
It contained, somewhat warped and semi-creased down the center, an eight-by-ten glossy photo of a boy. No, not a boy at all: a young man, or, as she leaned closer, pushing her eyeglasses more snugly against the bridge of her nose, one not so young, since the face that confronted her had that peculiar lifeless quality of having been carefully retouched.
The eyes, however, told the truth: they’d lived much longer than the air-brushed cheeks and forehead, and they weren’t twins, exactly—the left one slightly narrowed, cunning, hinting a telltale hardness.
But how unfair she was! A self-styled physiognomist who knew nothing about the subject whatsoever. She held the photo at arm’s length, determined to be kind. A handsome face, really; secretly a sad one, but to her empty. No, this “boy”—man—didn’t attract her. Here was a mask, a studied maleness. Surely the teeth were tightly clenched to create that strong, square jaw, and the long, casual, somewhat messy hair seemed on consideration less messy than artful, with its skillful carelessness.
There was no letter or note; nothing at all, but on the back of the photo, clearly printed by letterpress or offset, and like the answers to questions required by a detailed application form, was this legend:
Name: Nicholas (“Nicky”) Fabrizzi
Address: 346 West 47 Street, New York, N.Y. 10038
Telephone: (212) KL5-8643
Age: 29
Race: Irish, French, Italian; parents American born
Birth-sign: Taurus
Education: B.A., English (Brooklyn College)
Health: Excellent
Height: 5 11
Weight: 165
Hair: Dark
Eyes: Hazel
Neck: 15
Chest: 36
Arm (length) 34
Wrist: 7
Biceps: 12
Forearm: 10
Waist: 29
Hips: 32
Penis: (normal) 5×1½ (erect) 7×2
Sexual character: hetero, bi (couples), homo (male-active), group, mild S/M
Thigh: 24
Calf: 14
Ankle: 9
Foot: (shoe) 8½ EE
Head: (hat) 7¼
Jacket: 38 regular
Leg: (inseam) 34
Wardrobe: adequate (including evening)
Languages: English, Italian (restaurant French, Hungarian)
Work: carte blanche
Availability: pre-arranged mutual agreement
Mrs. Evans turned the photo over for another now-slightly-more fascinated look at the astonishing Mr. Fabrizzi before placing it to one side. She possessed an extraordinary memory, one which while bordering on the photogenic, was thoroughly obsessive and uncontrolled, tending often to torture her in the manner of a nagging tune one cannot stop humming or whistling. Regrettably, this young man’s dimensions would probably haunt her for days, intruding at their pleasure regardless of situation or time. She pictured herself brushing her teeth, thinking, Leg (inseam) 34. . .Combing her hair, Penis (erect) 7×2. . . Sipping her cocoa, Biceps: 12 . . .Calf: 14 . . .
The next letter, postmarked the Bronx, was from one Paulo Passannante. Mrs. Evans laughed, perceiving a penchant for attracting Italians with (at least) beautiful names.—Nicholas Fabrizzi. She liked that. And now Paulo Passannante. But then, her sweet Angel was undoubtedly Spanish, with no last name at all—not yet.
The letter was badly, atrociously typewritten on manila paper; five, no six pages long, triple-spaced, looking as if it had been laboriously pecked out with two fingers. It began:
“Hi-yah, Mom! — — ”
With so spirited a salutation, Mrs. Evans paused to adjust her glasses as well as her frame of mind.
“I lost your add but rmemered waht it said abd wrot ti it down the box number on a envelop sos I wouldnt forget and wrher to send it/ Adds are the best way to gget to knjow a lot of innerestting people and have real good times. Bet they dont alwaysmean what they say U Imus I mean i guessyou know thath because you got be to be eful careful what you say in public print— —so thats whay i try to read between the lines. like your ad -holy smok!!!! i din dknow wht the fuck it was - all this here shita bout your “lost” son bussiness. then I figgued out that youwas on to somethin real good wwith your “son” - meaning gyou had some real yong gy guy— —right? did i guess right????? and then it broke up for some resn reason (maube he got V.D.-- joke, ha, ha!) and now your looking to swing itwith some other real young gy guy.meb like me. im real goodlooking,noshit. and that anint no fuckin lie. im 22 but evryone says i look 18 tops. nice and slim. hard muscels and lits of thinl thick hair like you want to put your i hands into.thats what the girsl say. and on my chest to and belly like some d godamn forest. and if its meat your after-lady yousure come to the best supermarket in town (joke, ha! ha!--get it)--eight (ate--ha,ha) fucking inches. you love it up for me real nice and ill screw you into tomorrow, and the day aftre that Lady - you want to be bangged croseyed? then you ask Paulo, hear.? you say nicelike Paulo - i want that jesus-sweet beautifull giantsize supremarket dick of yours. you say -Paulo - I want. . .”
Breathless, pained, Mrs. Evans turned her eyes from the page. She was shaking: not from dismay or the slightest distress at the sexual intent and quality of the letter or the obvious delight Mr.—what?—who?—Passannante derived from exposing his strong sexual needs and fantasies to a woman he’d created in his head, but the bewildering unexpected reality of its connection with Jamie. Had her son’s dying breath placed, eleven months later, six pages of illiterate pornography in her trembling hands?
Paulo Passannante!
im real goodlooking,noshit.
She was able to tear the letter to shreds, every page . . .
and that anint no fuckin lie.
. . . but not the words.
(maube he got V.D.—joke, ha, ha!) and now your looking to swing itwith some other real young gy guy.meb like me . . .
Angel in the safe, the tape in the desk drawer, Messrs. Passannante and Fabrizzi a cheerless New Year’s Eve celebration all over her beautiful carpeted floor . . .
Rose would “tsk, tsk” to be sure, wielding her vacuum nozzle like the voracious snout of an ant-eater, gulping down the confetti she’d made of “Nicky” and “Paulo.”
you want to be bangged croseyed . . .?
She stared at the remaining two letters, tempted not to open them, to throw them, indeed everything, all of it, away.
Only the thought of Angel stayed her.
Please fine me . . .
One thing, however—be sure of that—no more letters. These would be all. These seven. No more.
“Dear Madam:”
Well! That seemed civilized, if a bit formal. Under the circumstances of her ad, probably it was the best one could do, or say (though the penmanship was painfully self-conscious, slanted to the left in a fine, meticulous script).
“I read your advertisement with sympathy and wonder. With puzzlement, I must add. With unsatisfied curiosity. But also, initially, with a concluding shrug of indifference. One sees so many odd, even ridiculous ads in The Village Voice.
“I had no thought of answering, of writing a reply of some sort, or inquiry. Yet later, days later, I found myself remembering your few strange words; perhaps not so much ‘remembering,’ as ‘unable to forget’ since this, the latter, has a haunting quality the former does not possess.
“And finally, after three false starts, I find myself writing to you again, and (who knows?) this time I may actually find the courage to send the letter.
“It is now, at this moment I write, well after midnight, but I have promised myself . . .”
Mrs. Evans paused in her reading, staring up at nothing in particular for a moment’s blank thought, vaguely puzzled, the reason for it not yet clear. She went on—
“. . . I have promised myself to seal, address and stamp the envelope, then take it to my corner mailbox, which is just a block away.
&
nbsp; “There I reserve my final options. I may, with good sense, tear up the letter, or, with equal good sense, irrevocably mail it—‘good sense’ in this instance being intuition, since in this matter I am truly gifted.
“One danger: loneliness, sheer loneliness may prompt me to stretch out my hand to open that metal maw, desperate. . .” (Mrs. Evans paused, taking a second to realize that “metal maw” meant “mailbox”) “. . . desperate to ease my psychic isolation.
“But to go on. Since I wax too long, let me include briefly a physical description of myself and a few facts of personal history which you may deem of import . . .”
Mrs. Evans smiled, enjoying herself, and the letter, which had some of the quality of having been written a hundred or two hundred years ago. Why this was so became obvious just a little further on.
“. . . of personal history which you may deem of import. I am a young man of eighteen from the mid-west, Iowa to be exact—a small town called Benoit. I am of more than conventional good looks facially; I say this modestly because I am simply quoting others and (although I have a steady job) I do, from time to time, when I am called upon by my agency, freelance modeling. I am fair in color, with light hair and blue-green eyes, but I am, unfortunately, and I must emphasize this, very short in build. This was a source of suffering to me in the past, particularly in school where children can be cruel. In addition, I suppose all men desire to be tall, equating tallness with manliness, but I have since found out how untrue this is and that stature per se means little or nothing in the adult, mature world of social intercourse and commerce.
“My mother, a widow, died eight months ago, leaving me her modest savings and a small house—an ‘unworked’ farm, really— which I quickly disposed of, all of which—after my profound grief had sufficiently spent itself to allow me to think, feel, and plan rationally—afforded me the means to realize my greatest ambition: to move to New York City and become a writer.”
Ah now. Light!
Bereavements Page 3
