by Jack Livings
So what had he done after witnessing that act of cruelty on the train? He’d ridden on to 72nd, gotten off, climbed out of the ground on the icy half-moon tracks scored into the frozen stairs, up to the bright frigid morning, onto the deserted sidewalk, past the cabs idling here and there, plumes of white streaming from their tailpipes, past the steel cellar hatch doors winged open at the grocer’s on 73rd where a guy in a butcher’s apron was pitching down the cardboard boxes piled in slumping towers at his side, and my father had swollen a little more with every step, vacuuming up the smorgasbord, and he turned and walked under the Apelles’ arch, crossed the courtyard, into the lobby, past O’Halloran, the weekend man, without so much as a nod, and gone up to the apartment, shedding suitcases, boots, gloves, socks, and hat behind him in a bread-crumb trail that led into the pantry, where he banged at the Olivetti for three hours before he felt he’d unburdened himself sufficiently.
Writing down was emptying, yes, but there was no bright moment of relief signaling the end. The writing went on, unresolved, and would go on until he was dead. How else could a person make sense of the world and its inhabitants? He didn’t understand people who didn’t fear oblivion, people content to exist and then leave behind nothing more than a headstone. Every book he wrote was, of course, a faltering attempt to understand those very same people.
* * *
And here was another of those mysteries, a prime example, this beast plodding ever closer to my father through the blizzard. Oh, how cute, thought my father, my very own Christ, laden down beneath his cross, disgorged by the city, another chance for me to redeem myself. Hooray. Perhaps I could throw down my coat to line the poor soul’s way. And what monstrosity could this city offer up by way of a savior? A Frankenstein cobbled together from a murder victim’s severed limbs, a brain from an East Village shooting gallery OD, a waterlogged heart from a concrete-shoed Sicilian?
Whatever messenger the city had sent, it was now approaching 78th Street, only a half block away, coming fully into focus in the orange snow-strewn light, not a monster at all, a natural being, a creation like all nature’s creatures, a being brought to life by the conjunction of sperm and egg, an existence. Another Christ figure just like all the rest.
* * *
Manny got a bad vibe from this guy. He wasn’t coming for the Vornado party, not with whatever the hell he had strapped to his back. And no one in his right mind would be out on a night like this, not unless he was coming to the party. Anyone who was, this angry weather would just stir up the blood. Manny looked over his shoulder, just to check.
My father, to his credit, was wondering if the guy was one of those who had the collective psychosis that infects cities after a war has done its erasing act. You saw it everywhere in New York. On every corner, the ever-tensed sternomastoids, the blood-red eyes of the berserker, teeth ground to stumps, lips soldered into a single angry band of wire, waiting for you on the bus, on the train, in the alley, in the empty lobby, on the deserted stretch of sidewalk, in the stairwell, coming through your windows at night, consumed by a ravaging hunger. For what? Is it a deficiency of compassion that leads us to this, my father wondered, the way a lack of vitamin D makes the bones brittle? The city was starving, and it reeked of ketosis. Broke, smoldering, a gigantic ashen heart. The Skulls, the Nomads, the Savage Samurais roaming the night, bellies rumbling, the kids, everywhere the kids, roaming, always on the move, Central Park, Riverside, tagging trains, boosting anything that wasn’t tied down, Hey, mister, hey, mister, the most feared words in the city. A punch, a crack on the head with a Fanta bottle and the waffle sole of a Chuck in the ribs for good measure, maybe a blackjack or brass knuckles, a quick jab from a ghost that opened your head like an overripe melon. Spread your cash around, stow some in your jock, some in your sock. Keys an awl in your fist. Look crazy. Look poor. Never carry more than one grocery bag at a time. Don’t be old. Don’t be young. Don’t be slow. Travel in packs. Don’t fight back. Don’t look anyone in the eye. If spoken to, get your head down and hustle for the light. If grabbed, submit. If confronted with a knife, monitor your bowel and surrender your wallet. Never widen your eyes, never cry or shake. You’re a teller window, compliant and efficient. If a gun, pray and obey. It will all be over soon.
And if you’re serious about survival, if you have the means and you’re ready to adopt the only truly pragmatic solution, you’ll board yourself up in your apartment and avail yourself of the city’s delivery apparatus, the protection of doormen, hired cars.
You’ll never have to set foot outside again.
But the emissaries of violence weren’t what kept my father up at night. He’d seen worse. He was terrified of the benign. Those who blundered along happily, those too loose with their own fear of the end, those who substituted good luck for ontology. The average schmuck who didn’t keep his tools clean and slept off his hangover behind the boilers.
So Schiff had told him that this obsession with death was a yearning for death, but that felt a little transparent, just a cheap inversion. What help was it? My father maintained his routines, attended to his checklists, guarded his talisman, which did help keep the fears in their cages. He hadn’t always been this way.
He had trouble managing risk and all humans were risks. Machines were risky because they required maintenance performed by humans, humans who might never have to entrust their lives to the proper function of those very machines they were charged with maintaining. Mechanics didn’t drive the cars they worked on. Carnies didn’t ride the roller coasters. Airplane mechanics? Dear god. Elevator technicians? Technicians?
Boarding a train was an act of faith. Riding in an automobile driven by anyone he had known for fewer than twenty years could bring on hyperventilation. Airplanes, of course, were out of the question. They hadn’t always been, but by the time I was in high school, they were off the menu.
Mr. Saltwater? Manny said. He was hopping around, puffing into his cupped hands.
You’re absolutely right. I know, I know, my father said.
Great. Let’s pack it in, sir.
Manny, who would be out on a night like this?
Manny stared back at him and smirked.
My father made a coughing sound that approximated a laugh.
Mr. Saltwater?
Yes?
Sir, do you think you might enjoy watching the gentleman there through your window?
I have considered that, my father answered. But I can’t watch him like I’m a god peering down from above. I need to be in it. Human contact. An attempt to—to connect.
Uh-huh, Manny said.
The figure, meanwhile, was no longer a figure but a man. He was carrying a dining room table on his back, and as he closed the distance, features were beginning to emerge, like photo paper submerged in emulsifier.
I can’t in good conscience leave you out here by yourself, Mr. Saltwater.
Well, that’s thoughtful, but I’ll be fine.
All due respect, but I’m freezing my ass off and I can’t leave you by yourself, so if you want to tête-à-tête with the abominable whatever there—Manny tipped his head and shrugged—you’re gonna have to make it worth my while. Otherwise, we’re both going inside and you can throw ticker tape out your window, for all I care. Sir.
Done, Manny. Consider it done. My wallet is upstairs.
Really worth my while, Mr. Saltwater. If I come down with something and have to call in—
I’ll take care of it, Manny. Don’t worry. And look at this. You’ve got a front-row seat to the human condition here.
I take the 3 train every day, sir. I’m all full up on human condition.
Sure, my father said.
* * *
The man was wearing leather ankle boots, the kind that zipped on the side, and he’d stuffed the cuffs of his polyester pants into his snow-crusted tube socks. Balls of freeze hung from his beard. The wool cap and scarf had disappeared beneath clinging white, and plumes of smoke blasted from his mouth as his legs
stabbed forward. His coat was wet with snow, the brown fabric splotched with darker brown, creating a camouflage pattern where the water had soaked in. Buttons were entombed in plaques of ice. On his back, an ornate oak dining table, which he’d inverted and was carrying like the carcass of an animal, had developed its very own snowdrift.
Mister Universe, Manny said.
Mhmm, my father said.
At a distance of about ten feet, the man stopped and gingerly straightened his torso, the table sliding down until the back edge slipped into the snow with a shush.
Wedged beneath the front half of the table, the top resting against his back, hands on his knees, he ran his eyes over my father, and then Manny, who was dancing in place, then back at my father. The man’s tongue flicked at the corners of his frozen mouth. He repositioned himself slightly forward, bending deeper, dropping his elbows to the shelves of his thighs, like a linebacker, fingers clasped loosely.
My father was consuming him, assessing and recording. The man’s eyes were sunken into his skull, shielded by a protruding brow. There was something familiar about him. It never was the eyes that one examined, not really, but the tender flesh around them. All eyes are the same, my father reckoned, marbles stamped out by the celestial organ machine and dropped into their sockets, sacks of vitreous humor for collecting reflections, light and dark—and how, in a place like New York, can the darkness not spread throughout the body, infecting every system until the person is nothing more than a miniature city himself, gray, covered with weedy spalls? That’s what shows up in the bags beneath the eyes, the wet canvas sag of the upper lid.
The man’s tightly trimmed beard, the mask of the frostbitten and hypoxic Everest climber, his icy, swollen cheeks, lips chapped to the consistency of beef jerky. My father felt the overwhelming need to greet him as one who’d completed a spiritual journey of vast proportions. He wanted to strike the right tone, jocular but respectful. After all, it was not every day—
Enjoying the show? the man said.
Who’s that? Manny said. He took a step closer.
Manny? the man said.
Who’s there? Manny said.
It’s John Caldwell, the man said.
Ho shit, Manny said under his breath. Get out from under there, Mister Caldwell, he said, taking hold of the top edge of the table.
My father reconciled the face before him with Albert’s. So this was the son.
Appreciate it, John said to Manny. He planted his hands in the small of his back and arched.
Mister Caldwell, said Manny. Far out. Did someone call you?
Can you believe someone threw this away? John said. Left it on the curb at 72nd. It’s solid oak. You put in two weeks of work and it’s as good as new. You see those barley-twist legs? A real craftsman built this. Probably not a drop of glue. All dovetails and dowels. What kind of sicko throws away something as beautiful as this?
Mr. Caldwell, if no one’s called—
Good eye, my father said.
Thank you, said John.
Erwin Saltwater, my father said, holding out his hand.
Pleasure, John said. You live in there?
Mister Saltwater’s upstairs from your father, Manny said, which is what I wanted to ask you about.
What about?
I figured someone would have tried to call you. But if you’ve been out.
What about? John said.
Your father. They took him out on a stretcher a couple of hours ago.
A stretcher? my father said.
Yes, sir, Manny said. Mister Caldwell, sir, do you want to step inside for a minute? You can use the phone.
Oh, that’s perfect. That’s just perfect. What happened? John said.
Possible heart attack? Manny said. They weren’t sure.
That bastard. Did anyone call Fil?
Lines are down, Manny said.
What about the girl who stays with him? John said.
I believe he fired her, sir.
Oh for Christ—so no one went with him?
No, sir.
Where’s the girl—what’s her name?
Erica, sir. Like I said, I don’t think she’s working for your father anymore, Manny said.
And Fil knows? Tracy knows?
Mister Caldwell, you got me. Lines are down everywhere. If you want to try yourself … Manny shrugged at the building.
You’re Albert’s son, my father said.
John looked at my father with unrestrained annoyance.
Manny, tell us again. Spell it out slowly? my father said.
I got no idea, honestly. Ambulance came, I took them up, they rolled him out on a stretcher. He was awake. That’s a good thing, right? Maybe he fell? Hip?
He didn’t fall, my father said.
Whatever you say, Mister Saltwater.
We’ve got to go to the hospital, my father said.
John made an effort to look around as if he hadn’t heard, as if his mind were somewhere else. What about this? he said, thumping the table. I’m not just leaving it out here where someone can take it.
That don’t seem real likely, sir, Manny said.
You don’t think so? John said.
We could put it in the package room, Manny said. Temporarily.
Temporarily, John said. Should I leave a deposit?
No, sir, Manny said.
Okay, then, John said.
The men converged on the table, tipping it onto its feet and taking up positions on either end, John and my father on one, Manny on the other.
Ready? John said.
They lifted, my father and Manny grunting identical expletives as the weight hit their arms, and they shuffle-tripped over to the archway, scowling against the wind, the unbalanced division of labor setting them in opposition to one another, working their way through the gate like a drunk trying to find a keyhole. Somehow they got through without doing too much damage to themselves or the table, and they set it down with a unified groan so Manny could wedge the lobby doors. A couple came in behind them and he waved them up to the Vornados’ place.
A screeching, thudding passage through the lobby into the package room, the table coming in like an overweight cargo plane splattering itself all over a dirt runway in Burma. Manny extricated himself and assumed a post-wind-sprint stance by his desk, knees locked, elbows locked, huffing at the floor, while John slouched greaser-style against the lobby wall, a trespasser in the building where he’d grown up. He was watching the elevator, unable to shake the premonition that his mother would at any moment charge through the doors, eyes narrow, finger apoint, lashing him for his unacceptable behavior toward his father, his only father, the man who put a roof over his head, food on his plate, clothes on his back, never asking for his thanks, never asking for more than a moment of his time. Her strong mezzo filling his head like a gas. She’d been dead only a few years, and as his fine-lined memories of her had receded, John’s recollections had become charcoal sketches, thick, impressionistic strokes that imposed moods on her, and which had less and less to do with the vital expression of her inner being than with his expression of himself through her.
My father was watching him from the package room doorway. John was dripping like a cat pulled out of a drainpipe.
You look like you got into it with a brick wall, my father said.
John held up his scraped-up hand, the knuckles brown with dried blood, and said, Minor altercation.
Albert’s son, my father thought. You want to use our phone, towel, whatever you need, my father said. The words fell like lead pellets from his mouth.
Hm, thanks, John said, I’ll call from down here. That okay, Manny?
Sure, Mister Caldwell. Desk phone or the one by the service elevator?
Doesn’t matter. Where’d they take him? John said.
Roosevelt. I’ll get the number, Manny said, disappearing behind the desk for the yellow pages.
Suit yourself, my father said.
You’re new, John said.
&nbs
p; Sorry? my father said.
You didn’t live here when I was a kid.
I guess we’ve been here seven, eight years, my father said.
Hm, John said.
Your father’s been here since—
’Forty-five. You know him?
I do, my father said.
Then you know he is a man who finds all aspects of the species equally detestable.
Well, said my father, he does have strong opinions.
Manny held out the phone to John, who took it without turning away from my father.
Albert Caldwell, John said into the mouthpiece. Yes, a patient.
That familiar imperiousness. No hello, no need for the polite how-do-you-do that weaker men deployed to get things done. He was Caldwell’s son, there was no doubt about it.
My father knew how this little drama would unfold. John wasn’t going to get far with that attitude. Depending on her disposition and how deep into her shift she was, the switchboard operator might decide to transfer him to the lounge, where, at this hour, the phone would ring fifty times before a groggy intern picked it up; or, stale joke, she might send him to the morgue; or she might simply put him on hold while she paddled her coffee with the rough wooden stick that was somehow meant to serve as a minimalist spoon, as though a chair might just as well be a nail, a car a cup of gasoline, a flower a grain of sand. It made no sense, none of it: why she sat in a windowless room, her head plugged into the knobby wall, why her legs throbbed, every second of the day a new manifestation of the never-ending aggravations foisted upon her by an uncaring god. Eventually she would disconnect the call. He’d call back, only to be flatly denied access to his father, the operator inventing a hospital regulation about calling hours, and he’d demand to speak to an administrator, someone he’d know by name, a family friend. He’d threaten her job.
