The Ballad of West Tenth Street

by Marjorie Kernan

  23

  The first morning of Deen’s enforced sojourn chez Dresden, she was woken before dawn by the baby’s cries. Kristen came out of the bedroom, the creature clutched to her bosom. Deen pulled the nylon quilt she’d been issued over her head and went back to sleep, in spite of the grizzlings and bangs coming from the kitchen.

  Later, waiting till Paul could safely be assumed to be dressed, she darted across to the bathroom, locking the door firmly.

  “Goddamn it,” she heard Paul saying, as he passed by. “I don’t want to hear another word on the subject! Send Ondine in to me for her lesson at two, until then, shut your fucking piehole!”

  Deen tiptoed out and straightened her futon, then went to get her keys and cell phone. They weren’t where she thought she’d left them, nor were they in her coat pockets. Her suspicions grew as she methodically searched the bed, then the few possessions she’d brought.

  “What’ve you done with my cell phone and my keys?” she yelled at Kristen, who sat placidly feeding bits of fried egg into her infant’s mouth.

  “Your mom asked me to take care of you,” Kristen said. “She called me a blessing and asked me to take you under my wing, remember? So all I want to do is like, do a really good job, be your substitute mom while she’s gone. I don’t think a girl your age should have a cell phone. I don’t have one. And I never would’ve dreamed of screeching at my mom like that when I was your age. I was told to mind my p’s and q’s, and I did, didn’t have all sorts of fancy stuff and privileges like you, with your la-di-dah house and a maid to clean it. I didn’t grow up with all sorts of temptations to lead me to the devil.”

  Deen stared at her. She grew up a great deal in that long instant. She came to the knowledge that life is a battle. She saw that victory went to the more resourceful, and that the woman in front of her was probably insane.

  “Well, I need my keys so I can get my books and things for my lessons,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s okay, your mom gave me your schedule with all your teacher’s names and numbers, so I called them all while you were sleeping and said there’d been an emergency and your mom had left me in charge. I told them I’d let them know when you can start your lessons again.

  “It’ll be okay, honey—one thing I always knew about myself was, I was born to raise kids.”

  “You call that screaming, snot-manufacturing, foul dwarf of yours a kid?” Deen cried. “The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta ought to send a team up in space suits to dispose of it!”

  “Now, that’s just because you’re a tad jealous, isn’t it? I know I give my punkin pudding more attention than you, but it’s okay honey, I love you too. But I won’t have you talking about him like that, understood? Look, let’s get something straight—I’m in charge here, and you’re a kid and you’re going to do as I say. For starters you’re going to help me out around here, learn some real things instead of poetry and ballet and whatever. It’ll be real good for you to live a bit less swanky for a while. When your mom gets back I’m going to give her a daughter she can be proud of, one who knows how to clean and care for a home, someone who’ll be fit to marry a man someday and keep him happy.”

  The next day, with no piano lesson with Paul, Deen was in Kristen’s loving care every moment. For Deen, the day passed with agonizing slowness.

  Kristen had called sweetly for her to get up and have some breakfast, she always put on an act of being nice as pie when Paul was around. Paul stood by the window, eating his cornflakes and staring outside, where it was sleeting. He put the bowl down and stalked off to his studio. He wouldn’t reappear until dinnertime.

  Impossible as it seems, Kristen spent a good part of each day engaged in housework. The rest she spent in the feeding and appeasement of that drooling idol, her baby. The few times she went out it was only to shop at a dingy market on Ninth Avenue, or to choose which twenty-nine-cent bootlaces to buy for Paul at a penny emporium.

  Getting the evil gargantuan ready to go out was an ordeal of minute agonies, each a nail driven into the cross anew. The stroller was dirty, wash it down, no, use Lysol. Oops, punkin threw up some of his breakfast, change his coat, put this one to soak in the sink. It fought the putting on of mittens and booties like a virgin fighting off a rapist. Often it would propel so much fluid from its eyes, mouth, and nose while screaming during the process, that its coat would have to come off again and its top changed, as baby mustn’t go out in the cold with anything damp near its dear little throat. Deen thought she would like to place something damp around its throat—her own reddened hands, soaked with water and Ivory liquid.

  When things are dire they can always get direr. There’s always room for one more grain of misery. Kristen had read somewhere that fresh chicken livers were a super-nutrient, that a small portion each day from an early age would build a body like Hercules’s.

  The gorged idol apparently agreed. It couldn’t get enough of them. And with the cunning of all simple life-forms it had developed a foolproof method for getting more. It would begin by making a wet, sucking noise. Then hold its hands out and twist them, as though turning a pair of knobs. Next it opened its mouth wide and let out a shriek. But not its regular shriek, the ear-piercer, this was a new shriek, more like a roar. It would sustain it until it heard the refrigerator door open, then die down to whimpers.

  Kristen tried to cut it down on this new drug, looking rather frightened, but it was not to be refused.

  Having eaten close to half a pound of sautéed liver at lunch, it now snored in its crib in its favorite position, head resting on meaty arms and fat bum high in the air. From time to time it let out a moist fart.

  Deen was drying dishes when suddenly Kristen let out an enraged howl. Leaping back from the cupboard below the sink she held up a rag covered in what looked like chocolate sprinkles.

  “Just look at this! Mice!” Flinging it away from her she took the phone receiver from her cardigan pocket. She kept it there so that Deen couldn’t make any calls.

  “Yes, this is Mrs. Paul Dresden in 1W. We have mice. What do you mean, so does everyone, lady? It’s an outrage! I want you to do something about it. Mice are filthy. My baby could get hantavirus! Yes, first thing tomorrow, or else.”

  She scooped up the baby and inspected its thick limbs for signs of bites. Then glared at Deen. “From now on, he doesn’t go anywhere near the floor, got it? Punkin dum wanna hab hantavirub,” she crooned to it. It rolled over sleepily in her arms and let out a drilling fart in the key of C.

  Darkness falls, the sleet continues to come down outside the windows. Soundlessly, Paul enters the kitchen. His hair sticks up all over the place but his face is still. His son, the inflated idol, looks up at him, his mouth agape. It’s dark in the humid, dirty kitchen, a lamp by the door the only illumination.

  “Let us now pray,” Paul said, dropping his head. “Our father, who hath gathered this feast of burnt offerings and foul essences, yea, unto the perpetual spaghetti Bolognese. Oh please, not again.”

  The infant stole a hand into its diaper and lay back in its high chair.

  Paul raised his head and looked around, seeming unsure where he was. His gaze stopped on Deen. “What is this child of a noble house doing here?” he asked Kristen. “Hast thou stolen her? Menaced her with evil threats, made her a hostage in your eternal feud with your betters? Her father, the duke, and her brothers, warriors all, shall not rest until we hang from gibbets, and our house is razed. And what’s that foul brat up to now? Christ, woman, can’t you teach him not to frig himself at the dinner table?”

  “Paul, I have to talk to you. We have mice. I called the super but he could care less. You have to do something. Our baby could get hantavirus!”

  “The worries of an inane woman,” Paul said to Deen, sighing. “Who spends her days occupied in mindless matters. Such women invent plagues, sorcery with yarn, idiotic tales and color periodicals filled with calumny. Personally, I’d worry more about the poor mouse. Rinaldo would probab
ly roll over and crush the life out of it. God, look at him, he’s huge, as if he’s been fed on kryptonite. What’ve you been feeding him, woman? Come on, out with it.”

  Kristen shook, not daring to tell him. She pulled the cardigan closer around her thin floral-print dress and stared down at her plate.

  “Ondine, pray tell me, what has she been feeding him?”

  “It’s gotten a taste for sautéed chicken livers.”

  “Really. Why do you call it it?”

  “Well, you can hardly call a thing like that a person.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because it’s an it! You’re all sick, all of you! She cleans the place all day and just gets crap smeared over it worse, and lectures me about being Miss Fancypants. It’s completely psycho to slave away for nothing, and end up with a shithole like this! And that thing there, you could sell it to the circus!”

  Deen got up and ran to her cubbyhole, throwing herself down on the slippery quilt, too stunned with pity for herself to even cry. She was sure her mother had died in a plane crash and that Uncle Brian was also dead and she’d never, ever get out of this hell.

  “My, even by your standards, that was a particularly horrid meal,” Paul remarked to his wife. “Any hope for a bit of dessert?”

  That very same evening, uptown and a few blocks east, the colonel, Robert and Mrs. D were having a serious discussion in the colonel’s back parlor. Not surprisingly, they were also drinking neat whiskey.

  Their faces, though, were anything but jovial. Deen had not appeared for her piano session with Robert, and Ettie had burst into tears as she brought in the tea sandwiches, saying she hadn’t seen Jaimes in three days.

  Mrs. D went next door to peer in the windows. “The place has that feel,” she reported, when she came back. “An empty house. Houses breathe when they’re inhabited, I’d say no one’s been there in days. I don’t know what to think.”

  “Come, come, Mrs. D, that’s not your usual style,” the colonel said. He’d lately begun calling her Mrs. D too, and in so doing become a tiny bit less a southerner and that much more a New Yorker, though he still stuck out like a sore thumb.

  “Something must’ve happened to make them up sticks and go,” Robert said. “Must’ve been something that came on real sudden, didn’t leave any of them time to tell no one nothing.”

  Mrs. D smacked her hand down on the arm of her chair. “Colonel, do have today’s paper? No, of course you don’t. Do you think Ettie has a Post?”

  Ettie was summoned, yes, she said, she had a copy. She ran to get it. When she returned she asked Mrs. D anxiously; “Is there something about the family? They were in accident? I know something wrong. Tell me.”

  “They’re fine, I’m sure Ettie, but I think they’ve gone off somewhere…. Here it is. I saw the piece this morning but didn’t make the connection.” Mrs. D snapped the paper smartly and read the article aloud. ‘ “ROCKER IN COMA. Sixties rocker Brian Brain, of the Royhatten Transference, remains in serious condition after a motorcycle accident in London. An unnamed source at the hospital has been quoted as saying he may never be able to walk again.’”

  “Dear me,” the colonel said.

  “Aha—here it is. ‘Sadie Hollander, the widow of legendary rocker Ree Hollander, and a close friend of Brian’s, arrived Tuesday to be by his side. The British tabloids have been filled with the story, a number of headlines suggesting the two may be linked by more than just friendship.’ Oh, really,” Mrs. D said, adding her own commentary.

  The three people sat in silence for a moment, thinking through the possibilities.

  “So she lit right out of town, whoosh, to be by her friend,” Robert said. “That’s what a real friend does do. Whoosh. I don’t know anything about what them tabloids are saying about that other thing. So she lights out, but where are the children?”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t get all their cell numbers,” Mrs. D said. “I could kick myself.”

  “Perhaps she sent them off to their relatives,” the colonel said.

  “She no familia,” Ettie said, beginning to cry and her English breaking down. “And Colonel? Those children, they call to say hi Ettie, I here, if they can.” She broke into Spanish to complete her thoughts, her fears communicating themselves to the others.

  “We got to call the cops,” Robert said. “Right now.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t get their cell numbers,” Mrs. D moaned.

  Just then the bell rang at the front door. Ettie ran for it, Robert and Mrs. D following. It was Hamish. Ettie grabbed him, holding the boy as she wailed her happiness to see him. Then she grabbed his coat sleeve and dragged him to the colonel’s parlor.

  “It’s Deen,” he said, looking around at the adults. “Munster left her with the Dresdens. You know, Deen’s piano teacher and his wife. I’m staying at the Fieldings. I stay there once in a while and it’s pretty decent.

  “Deen called the first night, said it was horrible, but I just figured she was being dramatic. I mean, she goes there every other day for her lessons, for hours. But since then she doesn’t answer her cell phone. I tried calling their apartment but the phone just rings and rings, they don’t even have an answering machine. That’s weird. Munster called twice and I lied, said Deen was okay, I mean, she’s all the way over in London, so what can she do? I just didn’t want her all worried. I was going to ask the Fieldings to help, but then I remembered you all get together to drink on Thursday nights.”

  Mrs. D was already rifling the pages of her Filofax. “What’s the Dresden’s address?” she asked Hamish. “And give me your cell numbers, your mother’s and Deen’s too.” She noted them down. “Colonel, I think I should go over there right now.”

  “Yes, I think that would be best.”

  “He’s attacked people with a hammer,” Hamish said.

  “Who?” they all cried.

  “Paul. But it was a while ago.”

  Robert’s face hardened. “Mrs. D, I was going to go with you anyways, but now I think I better go armed. Colonel, you got a baseball bat?”

  “No, but naturally I have a revolver. I’ll go up and get it.”

  “Now hold on a minute,” Mrs. D said. “Everyone just calm down. This wife of his, what’s she like?” she asked Hamish.

  “Well, she’s younger and has a rabbity face, and Deen says she whines a lot. She says she spends the day cleaning the apartment and caring for this really horrible baby she has.”

  “Hmm. I see. Nine times out of ten it’s the woman causing the trouble. You can leave her to me. Robert, you can come along, but you’ll stay in the cab and wait.”

  “Long as I can bring a candlestick or something,” he muttered.

  When, in a few moments, they were gone, the colonel said to Hamish, “Sit down, my boy, sit down. And Ettie, I insist you have a small glass of port, for your nerves. No, no, you need it. There, that’s better, isn’t it? Think I need a nip myself. I’m sure everything will be fine, just fine. But naturally we’ll be a bit anxious while we wait for the inestimable Mrs. D to report. No one I’d trust more to get the job done. Still, our vigil may be long, and young Hamish here needs to keep his strength up. Any chance you have some roast beef sandwiches lying about, Ettie?”

  Mrs. D stood at the apartment house entrance, pretending to search for her keys. The door opened and a couple came out. “Oh, thanks,” she said, grabbing it. She wanted to give Kristen as little warning as possible.

  For the same tactical reason, she didn’t ring, but beat on their door with the flat of her hand.

  It was just as she’d expected. A scared, ferrety-faced woman with lanky brown hair peered out the door.

  “Mrs. Dresden?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Mrs. de Angelo. I’m here to see Deen.”

  “Oh, well, she’s gone to bed.”

  “It’s kind of early, isn’t it?”

  “She wasn’t feeling well, so…”

  “I think you’d better le
t me in. Now.”

  Mrs. D looked around her, scoping the joint in seconds. It was ghastly, to be sure, but there were no signs of criminal activity, unless you counted the baby in its crib, its stomach as large as a basketball, who was grinning at her from beneath a mop of golden ringlets.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “In his music room. Back there. He works on his symphony at night.”

  “And Deen?”

  “It’s not really a guest room I guess, but I made it nice for her.”

  “What’s she sick with?”

  “I think she’s just coming down with a cold. I brought her some orange juice and made sure she was tucked in all right.”

  “Why hasn’t she answered her cell phone? Why’d she miss her lesson with Robert?”

  “I guess she just didn’t want to. Kids are like that sometimes, you know. I can’t make her turn on her cell phone, or go to lessons, ’cause I only know what lessons she tells me she has. Her mom asked me to take care of her. She was all worried ’cause she had to go off to London at the drop of a hat and there was nowhere for Deen to stay and she said to me, you’re an angel to take care of Deen. It hasn’t been easy, I’ve got the baby too, but I’ve tried to be like a real mom to Deen. You have no right to barge in here and act like I’m keeping her a prisoner or something. I’ve spent hours with her showing her how to sew and make a cake and all kinds of nice stuff. Her mom called me an angel for doing it.”

  “I need to see Deen.”

  “I told you, she’s sleeping.”

  “Past that door?”

  “Yes,” Kristen whispered.

  Mrs. D opened it quietly then turned on a tiny flashlight she had in her bag. A few steps down the hall she saw Deen. She was asleep on her futon in that state of abandon children have, one leg and an arm outside the quilt. Her face was composed and her long, reddish hair strewn over the pillow. The bedding was of the cheapest sort, but the girl looked healthy and untroubled. Mrs. D backed silently out.