The Ballad of West Tenth Street

by Marjorie Kernan

  Sadie stood in her kitchen, a much nicer kitchen than Kristen’s. Barefoot and wearing torn jeans and a striped silk shirt with some unknown man’s monogram on its pocket, she was, rather typically, staring vaguely at the fridge and wondering what the hell to cook for dinner. Why did each day have to have a bloody dinner, she wondered.

  After some minutes sipping a drink and mulling the contents of the fridge, she decided on Savoy cabbage and a rather suspect steak—she’d just make sure it was thoroughly cooked. The area door opened and Deen came down the steps.

  “How’s the wunderkind Rinaldo?” Sadie asked her.

  “Just as awful as ever. She was changing its diaper when I got there, it kind of peeled off in a sheet of yellow crap. You never smelled such a stench.”

  “Lovely. Lessons going okay?”

  “Sure. I had to play blindfolded today. It’s always interesting at least. Munster, you think he ever leaves that apartment?”

  “An agoraphobe? I hadn’t thought of that. But yes, quite possibly. Maybe that’s why he married that stooge—to guard the gate.”

  “God, Munster, any normal parent would never let their child go near there.”

  Sadie laughed. “Well, thank God we’re not normal, what an unpleasant thought.”

  Hamish came clattering down the stairs, sounding like an army.

  “What, tore yourself away from the delights of Ettie’s kitchen?” his mother asked him.

  “She makes me go home for dinner,” he said sadly. “It’s a rotten shame. She was making chicken pot pie with leeks, and she makes her own pastry for it. And she makes all the stocks from scratch. What’s that?”

  “A steak, what the hell does it look like?”

  “Like the sole of some old wino’s boot. Hey Munster—Ettie’s all upset about the Cap’n disappearing. I am too. Is there any way to call the cops or something, see if he’s okay?”

  “I don’t know, darling. Bums do that you know, go off on toots. But I’ll talk to a cop I know at the station tomorrow, all right?”

  “Thanks. And Munster? Ettie’s showing me how to cook some stuff, maybe I’ll make dinner tomorrow, if you’ll buy the ingredients. It couldn’t be any worse than this.”

  Sadie raised her eyes and offered a silent hallelujah to the gods.

  Robert crept up the stairs from the basement. The girl, Deen, was playing some Liszt. The colonel always went upstairs for his nap round about this time of day and Ettie was out doing the shopping. He tiptoed down the hall, drawn to the way the girl was making the keys sing. When she’d finished the piece he stuck his head round the door.

  “S’okay if I talk to you about piano music?” he asked her.

  Deen looked at him, at his long face and prominent nose, and the way his eyes stared longingly at the keyboard. “Sure,” she said.

  “I’m Robert, the one that’s doing the boiler work.”

  “I know. You stay and drink with the colonel. He likes you.”

  “Thing is,” Robert said. “Damn, but I got to get this right. The thing is, this tune you’re playing? I want to show you something about this tune. It’s all nice and just like the doctor ordered, that’s good. But you ever fiddle with a tune, make it so people want to jump up and stomp around some? Mind if I sit?”

  Robert slid onto the bench next to Deen. “Here look, this gizmo in the tune here? Nice, real nice. But you put your left hand to doing this and roll the notes around and all of a sudden you got something. Go ahead, you try it, now fly it up another key. That’s right. Now watch this, fill in a spin here, put some funk behind it, like this. See, the left hand’s spinning the rhythm, now the right’s adding some too. Yeah, like that! You know how to play ‘The Pig Knuckle Waltz’? Well, that ain’t so surprising, I wrote it myself. I’ll show you, it’s just these here three thumps, and a little bit of razzling around like this, you can play it all sorts of ways after you get it into your fingers. Go ahead, we can play it together.”

  Deen let out a laugh as she watched Robert’s fingers walking up and down the keys and followed them. As she became used to the tempo and notes she started adding riffs, as he did, they bounced them back and forth, sometimes joining together in a rousing stomp. She was having such a good time she didn’t want to stop, but all tunes must end, and at last they jangled their way to a spanking finish.

  “Amen, sister,” Robert said. “I been listening to you play and admiring how you can fly on a keyboard but saying to myself, where’s the fun in that old longhair stuff, where’s the fun for a kid?”

  “You play really well,” Deen said. “You ever play classical music?”

  “Some, what I picked up here and there. I can’t read music, don’t know anything about that. And to tell you the truth, whatever I played, the thump was always in it. It ain’t none of my business, but I thought you needed to know what puts the honk in the honkytonk. Besides, you don’t make it as a classical pianist, you can always earn a few dollars in a barroom now. Here, I’ll show you another one, it’s called ‘Take It Round Back.’ It starts out like this.”

  The next afternoon, Deen, thinking herself alone in the house, couldn’t help playing “The Pig Knuckle Waltz.” First for the pleasure of it, but also for the question that was growing in her mind, which was, why didn’t anyone get up and dance when classical music was played? And then a truly revolutionary idea, what if real musicians played living music?

  “The fuck’s that?” Liall asked Hamish in the kitchen.

  “I dunno. Yes, I do—it’s Deen’s fingering, but…”

  “But she’s playing more like dance music. It’s good, it’s like all complicated still but it’s got some kick to it.”

  “Let’s sneak up on her, okay?”

  Deen was enjoying what she’d done with the ending, realizing she’d let her breathing go to shit in her excitement. Oh no, Hames had heard everything, and Liall, who followed him in. Damn, busted.

  Hames leaned on the end of the piano lid. “‘Free your mind, and your behind will follow,’” he said. “That’s what Bootsy said. You going to play some rock with us now?”

  “I might,” Deen said. “But there’s no future in it—you two bozos can’t even read music.”

  “Actually, we can,” Hamish informed her. “Liall got it right away, then he showed me. Look,” he said, pulling a grubby sheaf of paper from his pocket, “we wrote these songs. Ourselves.” He held the sheets out to Deen.

  Deen looked at the scrawls on them. “What’s this symbol mean?” she asked, pointing to a figure like an eight, but wavier.

  “That’s when we go into a jam. And the drummer lights up. We’re waiting for Gretchen to come home for that part. But see there, Liall sketched out a keyboard accompaniment and everything.”

  “What would I play?”

  “Pop’s Farfisa. Munster put a bedspread over it but I checked it out, it’s all in working order. Come on Deen, don’t you ever get the urge to play some real music, instead of all that classical crap?”

  And so a loud wailing and thumping came from the top floor of the old brick row house. Anyone passing by might have thought they could see the very bricks shudder, as the children, in what is only normal for the young, turned their amps up to full volume.

  17

  Cap’n Meat rolled over and groaned. He wasn’t feeling any too good but then again, he wasn’t feeling nearly so bad as he had the last few days. Titus was curled up next to him on a bit of sacking.

  I must be feeling better, he thought, because I’m hungry. The big bottle of water the cop had given him still had a few sips left in it; he drank what was left. “Come on, Titus,” he said. “Time to get a grip on things.” With an effort, he stood and tidied himself as best he could.

  He walked south, buying a bagel and a cup of coffee, looking for a bus stop for Manhattan. Titus didn’t like the subway. Bus drivers didn’t like bums, but he had a Metrocard, same as any citizen.

  It was early afternoon by the time man and cat arrived in
Midtown. The Cap’n was still feeling weak and woozy, so he bought some hot dogs and water and headed to a place he knew in the rail yards. It wasn’t ideal but he could probably rest there safely at least till midnight. He laid out his bag and set his pack behind him, then fed Titus one of the hot dogs and gave him some water. As he settled in he arranged Titus’s feet in his pocket. “Just in case,” he whispered to the cat. “And if we have to cut and run I’ll get you in my pocket first, grab my pack last, that’s a promise.” Then, his limbs aching, he fell asleep.

  Bad men came at him with sticks late in the night. Two of them. So desperate they’d roll him for the few dollars in his pocket, his pack, and his sleeping bag. And his cat, which they’d roast on a spit if their need were great enough. Real family men.

  The Cap’n put his arms up to shield his head, then lashed out with a boot, getting one on the kneecap. Then he jumped up and tore the stick from the other. He checked: Titus was in his pocket. They hadn’t figured on him being so big when they attacked him, now they backed off. But then, the blood in them for harm rose and they came at him again. The Cap’n hit the first on the side of the head; he fell to the ground. He ran toward the other, his fist raised. The smaller man turned and fled.

  Losing no time, the Cap’n climbed the steep steps cut into the towering stone wall of the rail yard. The other might return with a posse, there was no going back to that place. A blow he’d taken to his scalp was leaking blood and he was limping from others that had landed on his legs.

  Shaken and sore, he limped around the edges of the Village the rest of the night and all the next day. His head felt muddled and he barely saw what was around him, but he was still afraid of whoever had made the red eyes, afraid to go back to his regular spots.

  By the end of the afternoon though, he was past caring. He felt he couldn’t go on any longer and wanted to sit on his bench under the oak tree once more. He sank down on it and put his hand on Titus’s head. The leaves had fallen from the trees and they drifted and clattered across the walkways. The sky was a dark, faraway blue. The Cap’n stared up at it, his mind empty.

  “Hey, isn’t that that old bum?” Liall asked Hamish.

  “Where?”

  “There, on his bench.”

  Hamish stared, then broke into a sprint. “Cap’n Meat! Are you okay? Cap’n, it’s me, Hamish, can you hear me? What’s wrong?”

  “Somebody beat the crap out of him,” Liall said. “Look at his face.”

  “Cap’n Meat, say something.”

  “Oh, I thought it was a dream. There you are, dear boy. Friends. Not many. Mustn’t worry, I’ll be fine. Would you, would you take Titus? I can’t keep him.”

  “What’ll we do?” Liall asked.

  Hamish ran over to the curb and flagged down a cab, opening its door. “I’ll be right back,” he told the driver. “Come on, help me get him up,” Hamish told Liall.

  He needs a doctor,” Sadie said as they pushed and tugged the Cap’n down the area steps. “Hames, quick, call Dr. Ed.”

  She got him onto his back on the kitchen floor with help from Liall and Deen. “Deen, get a glass of milk and stir in three big tablespoons of brown sugar.” Sadie pushed her hair back and looked at the nearly dead bum on the floor. Christ, why me? she thought. “You get a hold of Ed?” she called to Hamish.

  “He wants to talk to you,” he said, handing her the phone.

  “Ed, hello, yes, we have a problem here, could you come round? Uh, a guest, who’s staying with us. Yes, come in the kitchen door.”

  Sadie went upstairs and got a futon, which she laid out in the back of the kitchen. “Deen, run upstairs and get the blankets I left out on the landing, and grab a pillow.”

  Sadie knelt and looked at the wound on the Cap’n’s head. The Cap’n opened his eyes and smiled faintly at her, then tried to speak. “Just keep quiet,” Sadie said. “Everything’ll be okay.”

  “Where’s Titus?” Deen cried.

  The Cap’n brought his fingers to his pocket. Deen gently opened it. “Come on out, Titus, please.” The cat poked his head out and let out a yowl. Deen stroked it and it crept out onto her lap, trying to hide under her arm.

  “Oh shit, where’s that milk and sugar? Hames bring it to me. Liall, you hold his head up a bit, that’s right.” Sadie brought the glass to the Cap’n’s mouth and he took a sip, then another. The next try the milk rolled down his beard, so she pinched his nose and tilted another swallow into his mouth. “Well, we’ll give him some more in a bit. Now you boys help me pick him up and get him on the futon. You take his feet and I’ll take his head. Now lift.” They got him an inch or two off the floor then set him down. “Gawd,” Sadie said, “we can’t even pick him up and the futon’s a bloody mile away.”

  “The incapacitated are rolled,” a precise voice with a Harvard Yard accent said behind them. “You bring the bed to the patient, roll him onto it, which even a child could do, provided they had the wits. Then the futon is dragged to wherever you desire it. Though of course it’s usually a gurney and somewhat more hygienic than a futon dragged across a dirty kitchen floor.”

  “Hey, Dr. Ed,” Hamish said. “He always knows everything,” he whispered to Liall. The two boys brought the futon over, then Ed and Sadie rolled the Cap’n onto it. Sadie got the boys to take the basket chairs in the back of the kitchen upstairs, clearing an area to make a sickroom for the Cap’n. They tugged him over to it on the futon and Sadie put a pillow under his head.

  Dr. Ed took off his black cashmere coat, laid it over a chair, then knelt by his new patient, placing his Gladstone bag by his right side. He held a hand up, one that commanded the rest of the party to leave him to do his job. They slunk away on tiptoe, easing chairs out from the table so they wouldn’t squeak, then sat around the pine table. Titus stayed with Deen, curled up on her lap.

  They snuck glances at what Ed was doing. Dr. Ed scared the Hollanders a little bit, or rather, quite a bit when it came to the children, somewhat less so in the case of Sadie. Edward Portman was a tall, gaunt figure who wore bow ties and a long black coat that made one think of Count Dracula. He was a research doctor at the cancer center at Sloane-Kettering, a chess master, and one of that rare type of epicurean who are not visited in the flesh by the signs of their pleasure.

  If he had a soft spot it was for Sadie. All his caustic, finicky ways, well, they didn’t go away like pff when he was around Sadie, but they were softened by a smile of amusement that played somewhere around his lips when he talked to her. And Sadie, who was no stupe when it came to seeing the advantage of things, had made him into their family GP. What sort of lunatic would she have to be, she’d explained to him, to go to some moron MD, when she happened to have one of the best medical minds of the city just crazy about her? Ed had found this reasoning irreproachable.

  Ed put his stethoscope back in his bag and snapped it shut.

  “Played the fiddle,” Cap’n Meat said, his voice sounding as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. “Music that made the very gnats minuet. On a candy purple wind.”

  Ed sat down at the table, lighting a cigarette with a silver lighter that shot a pointed blue flame up with a hiss. Snap, he shut its cover. They waited as he drew the drug in, knowing from experience he’d talk only when he’d finished his first cigarette and lit another. Sadie got up and poured him a glass of the wine she’d gotten out. Ed scoffed at such meaningless matters as fees for attending the Hollander household, but never turned down a good bottle of French wine. Actually, he was horribly expert in red Burgundies and clarets, so Sadie, in her cunning way, had confessed the whole story one day to the owner of Garnet, who made up cases as needed for her now of hideously expensive wines. Still, it was far cheaper than paying some hack to diagnose tonsillitis for meningitis.

  Ed took a sip and moved the wine over his tongue before swallowing it. Sadie took a big slug. “Your guest needs a complete workup,” he said. “I’d suggest calling an ambulance and having him taken to Bellevue.”


  “I’ve always thought that that’s such a pretty word, Bellevue,” Sadie said. “Redolent of some grand estate on a hilltop. And yet one that strikes terror into the heart of every New Yorker. So Tennessee Williams, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps. I’ll leave the creative side to you. Meanwhile, your honored guest there needs blood work, cancer screening, a full psychological evaluation, and, most certainly, a bath.”

  “Oh, Ed, don’t be such a stuffed shirt. Surely you could test his blood yourself. If we send that guy into the state hospital system, on the state’s dime, he’ll never get out, and you know it.”

  “And Titus would be heartbroken if they got split up,” Deen said.

  “Who’s Titus?”

  Deen leaned back and showed him the cat on her lap.

  “Well, you children have always wanted a cat,” Ed said. “You could always assuage your guilt by taking far better care of the pet than the human. I believe that’s how most people do things.”

  “I know the Cap’n needs a bath now, but he told me he likes to keep himself neat and clean,” Liall said. “He told me there are lots of places you can wash up in the city if you want to.”

  “Yes, quite possibly so. But he’s a bum, and bums are crazy. You see, the one state follows as a result of the other.”

  “That’s just a gross generalization,” Hamish said. “I know they mostly are crazy, but the Cap’n isn’t. He’s as sane as any of us.” Realizing that the Hollander family wasn’t exactly a paragon of sanity, he turned red and ducked his head.

  Ed fired up another cigarette from his rocket-powered lighter and smiled at Hamish; it wasn’t a pretty smile. “Your loyalty to your friend is commendable. But what’s the realistic outcome? That you’ll have a large, elderly bum living in your kitchen, taking sponge baths and drinking the vintage Burgundies? His pals drifting in to see him, drinking sterno from socks and playing tunes on the banjo?”