The Ballad of West Tenth Street

by Marjorie Kernan

  He looked around the cabin; as the light strengthened he could make out its contents. There was a pot-bellied stove at the far end, with a simple kitchen counter next to it. There was a table, two chairs, a wood bin, a small bookcase, and an upholstered armchair. Everything fit just so in its place and it was all as neat as a pin.

  On the table there was a tray with two thermoses and a napkin-covered basket. Propped against one of the thermoses was an envelope.

  He decided to stay in bed just a little bit longer, before reading what was in that envelope. He’d sunk as low in his mind as a man can the night before, and needed just a few more moments of quiet and comfort, then he’d get up and face what was next. It had been so kind of them to let him stay here for a night, they didn’t know how kind.

  Soon enough he’d be on his way, but first he needed to do a bit of thinking. He felt that having come that close to throwing himself in the river, then being saved from it by an act of kindness, that he needed to make some gesture of thanks.

  It seemed that it was time to settle a few things in his life. He’d go that day to the welfare agency. He’d tell them calmly, politely of his troubles and ask for their help. He’d go to one of the public bathrooms first to clean himself up. No, first he’d go next door and ask the Hollander girl if she’d keep Titus for him, until he got settled.

  He’d heard they had billets for the homeless up in Albany. He’d do whatever they said and pitch in to whatever they asked him to. Perhaps he could get a bed in a dormitory and work in the kitchen, washing pots or peeling vegetables. Maybe if he were very good and worked hard they’d help him find a little place, a room somewhere. A place he and Titus could share together. Though he knew, much as it hurt him to know it, that places like that have rules against pets.

  He couldn’t bear it, but it seemed he must.

  There was no point in putting off reading that letter, now that he’d already faced the worst. He opened it and read it through, then took it closer to the window to read again.

  “Dear Captain,” he read more carefully this time. “I would be honored if you would consider this little place yours for as long as you like. Ettie will show you the arrangements for water and so forth. I look forward to meeting you, when you find it convenient.” The signature was illegible but he knew it was the colonel’s.

  He sat down in the ladder-back chair with a thump. There must be some mistake. People didn’t just go around handing out snug cabins to bums. But Deen had said the colonel was a bit batty, yes, but surely not that batty?

  A Post-it stuck to the back of the envelope came to his attention. In a different hand someone had written: “The outhouse is to left, in back.” A rough map made no doubt as to its placement. It was welcome news—the Cap’n had been dying to take a leak, but had been holding it in.

  Coming ever so quietly back in, he thought, Well, I’ll just see what’s in the thermoses, and wait. Ettie will explain it all.

  When she tapped on the door he’d cleaned himself with a handkerchief and some water from a bottle, made the bed to military precision, and wiped the damp handkerchief over the toes of his boots.

  She led him into the garden, to a terrace behind the house. The colonel was standing at an open window, above the Cap’n’s head. He smiled, saying, “Welcome. I trust you slept well?”

  “Wonderfully.”

  “Good. Now, I thought it better we don’t meet in the house,” the colonel said. “Independence and all that. You have your territory, I have mine. That shed there is yours for as long as you like, keep it neat and be careful with fire, and everything will be just fine. I inquired into city aid for the homeless, but it is a most unconscionable system. Couldn’t understand one word they were saying. Seemed far better to forgo all that and make a bit of a berth here for you. Now, you keep things secure there, don’t impinge on my comfort, and I won’t impinge on yours, agreed?”

  “Yes sir, Colonel, sir,” the Cap’n said, saluting.

  “You are also a military man, I understand?”

  “Yes sir. Corporal Meens, U.S. Army, sir.”

  “Not, in fact, a captain?”

  “No sir. They gave me that name as a joke.”

  “Well, in any case, I outrank you. Serve in Vietnam, did you?”

  “Yes sir, I did.”

  “Kill the enemy?”

  “When I had to.”

  “Nasty business. My generation didn’t do a very good job of providing you youngsters with a good, clean war. You needn’t comment on that. Now, a few ground rules. I understand you don’t drink. That saves a hell of a lot of trouble. First, be careful of fire in the shed. Keep the key to the garden gate on your person and spend your days as you please, but be chary of telling others where you live. It’s all highly illegal in any case. You and your cat may have full use of the garden. If you get in trouble, tell Ettie. If you’re sick, tell Ettie. If that cat of yours is sick, tell Ettie. I will respect your privacy but I will also wish to know that you are well, that understood?”

  “One hundred percent, sir. May I say something sir?”

  “Certainly, Corporal.”

  “I am so grateful, and so is my cat. Thank you, sir.”

  “That’s a hell of a fine cat, soldier. I never felt such fur. Now, you settle in and get some rest.” The colonel lowered the window.

  “I show you things,” Ettie said, touching the Cap’n’s elbow. “Just simple things now, I tell you more later, okay? This is a well, but covered, so no one fall in, over here is hose tap for your water. You can throw dishwater down the grate here. This is your key, for the gate. This is a lot of stuff under this tarp for you to make your place nice, it’s all for you, the colonel, he thought it better if you fix it up inside yourself. I make you food and leave it on porch. Anything you need, you tell me. The colonel, he really mean it, you tell me if you need the doctor or anything. The children next door, he listens to them, they say help our old friend. They gone now, their uncle in England is sick. I tell you everything later, yes? For now, you sleep, rest. It’s okay, the old man up there, he’s good man.”

  Cap’n Meat listened attentively, nodding to show he understood, which he did, while also feeling as though he were sleepwalking.

  Ettie stood looking up at him, a kindly, concerned expression on her face. He pulled himself together and said to her, “I think I might sleep quite a bit for a day or so, I don’t seem to—”

  “Yes, we talk later. I understand.” Her brown eyes expressed more than she could convey with words.

  The Cap’n nodded his head, then went to the cabin, where he fell into the stunned sleep of a person who’s been through more than they could take.

  Dusk was just falling when he woke. He lit the kerosene lantern on the table, adjusting the wick and putting its glass shade back on carefully. He pulled the curtains shut over the windows and did something he hadn’t done in a long while—he undressed and pulled his spare set of clothes from his knapsack and put them on. Then he knelt in front of the stove and made a fire. He fed Titus, putting a sheet of newspaper down for the saucers, and tidied the quilt on the bed. He sat down in the armchair. A long while passed. It was deeply quiet inside the little cabin. He sat there for some hours, not looking around him. Instead he felt his surroundings, the heat from the stove snaking into the air, the hiss of the burning wood, the pale light on the yellow boards. He didn’t move. Titus jumped onto the bed and went to sleep. The quietness crept into the Cap’n’s being.

  Water streamed down his cheeks, and into his beard. He didn’t blink or make a sound. He felt a great many things but they were nameless, his hurt a blank washed by a rain. He saw images flicker in his mind, then go, replaced by another, unaware that his cheeks were soaked. Eventually he felt tired, so tired. He blew out the lamp, closed the damper on the stove, and went to bed. The tears that had salted his face came back in the middle of the night. He woke, letting out a muffled howl and cried knowingly then, with the abandon of a child.

 
; The Cap’n slept for most of the next two days, getting up once in a while to feed Titus. Early on he left a note for Ettie on the porch: “Just sleeping, all is right.” He knew she’d worry; she had a face for worrying.

  In this he was correct. Without wishing to look like she was spying on him, Ettie had nonetheless kept a worried glance aimed at his cabin. And though she would never, ever tell anyone, she’d woken that night and heard the Cap’n sobbing like a lost child. It had nearly killed her not to go down and smooth his forehead and say words a mother would to a poor, sorrowful child.

  On the third morning the Cap’n woke feeling a jauntiness he hadn’t felt in a long while. All the things in his mind that had been confused seemed to have left him. He had no idea if this offer of the cabin were for real, but he’d make the best of it and that was all a man could do. Titus, who’d crept under the covers to sleep next to his stomach, let out a purr. Yes, that’s the way to see things, the Cap’n thought, no use guessing and fussing, just find pleasure in what you have.

  He got up and made a fire. He hadn’t made one since that first day, and it had gotten cold inside the tiny structure, so he made it well and tended it for a while. He thought, as he did, that he’d look for a nice tin can, one that he could bank down a pile of live coals with each night, keeping them for a good blaze each morning.

  He remembered what Ettie had said, about a pile of things under that tarp. Peeking out the window by the front door, he saw that Ettie was in her kitchen and the lights were on in the colonel’s back parlor. Very quietly he went out and pulled back the tarp. There were all sorts of things under it. Boxes of tools and nails and screws, saw-horses and boards, what looked like a rug rolled up in paper, and a stack of plastic cartons. He opened one: it was filled with crockery. Another contained a set of well-seasoned iron skillets and a percolator.

  He put the lids back on and went inside the cabin to think. It seemed the old colonel really did want him to fit the place up to suit himself. A thought snuck into his mind, one that was as pretty as a birthday cake hidden in a pantry—that he’d do a real job of it, make the place as tidy and practical as the cabin of a boat he’d once seen. And maybe, a thought came that was so pleasing that he smiled, maybe Miss Ettie would poke her head around the door when he was done, see how bright and snug he’d made it. Why, he’d make a real job of it and scrub everything until it shone.

  Another thought came into his head, but he quashed it as being too good to hope for, so please understand that he never did think it, but he did, just for a flash, imagine that Ettie would see how nice he’d made it and then tell the colonel, and that the colonel would nod approvingly. He never really thought it though, mind you.

  He worked through the day and when he was done he sat to admire his labors. There were shelves over the counter now, covered in a red paper he’d edged in points. They were stacked with dishes and pots and supplies, which he’d taken a good deal of trouble to make orderly, and the teacups hung in a row from hooks. A mirror for shaving was hung by the window, with a crate below it that held towels and soap. The buckets and cleaning supplies were below the counter, which he’d skirted with a piece of blue checked fabric, carefully tacking it up with evenly spaced thumbtacks. The rug, a handmade wool oval with a pattern of ivy, covered the center of the red linoleum floor. His clothes and his pack were stowed under the bed. Beside them were a pair of the handsomest slippers he’d ever seen, which had come from one of the cartons. The last thing he’d done was to put the set of Dickens on the little shelf, where he added the few things he carried with him—some letters in a worn cloth pouch and his own book, The Count of Monte Cristo. It was a book he’d always found had something that reflected a day’s hardships or joys.

  He sat in the armchair, stroking Titus, who’d leaped onto his lap. Titus seemed to approve mightily of the arrangement of the cabin; he worked his claws into the Cap’n’s trousers, just barely digging into his skin, his thick tail switching against the Cap’n’s thigh.

  27

  Deen had now been incarcerated chez Dresden for nearly two weeks. You might not recognize her, if you happened to see her on the street with Kristen. Her face had grown closed-in and pinched, and she moved dully. Even her caramel-colored hair was limp and lifeless.

  At night, on her futon, she imagined scenarios of revenge, but lately even those had ceased to interest her much. In fact, she’d taken to going to bed as early as possible and sleeping heavily until Kristen screamed at her to get up.

  Her lessons with Paul were the one element of her old life that remained as before. She’d tried talking to him about her situation, but he’d cooked up a surefire way of dealing with what he didn’t want to know—he ignored it. He pretended now that she went home as normal between lessons; at all other times Deen’s presence and voice went unseen and unheard by him. He’d accused her of not practicing enough, which was perfectly true—she wasn’t allowed to. He’d even taken to walking right through where Deen stood in the kitchen, making her step aside.

  Naturally, Deen had thought of escape many times. She kept an eye peeled for ways she might, but Kristen had the instincts of a jailor. The door of the apartment was always locked and bolted, with a chest dragged in front of it for extra security. The sole phone receiver was kept at all times in Kristen’s pocket, then taken to bed with her.

  When they went out, which was rarely, she’d warned Deen that if she tried to run off she’d scream that the girl was being abducted by a child molester, a call that would rouse every citizen to grab her. It was, Deen acknowledged, a highly effective approach.

  The windows in the kitchen were barred, being not much above street level, and Paul locked his studio each night. Kristen had also dug out a baby monitor, which she hung by the door; the other end was next to her bed.

  In any case, Deen was sensible enough to realize that while she could perhaps effect an escape by night, that wandering the city streets in the dark might not be the wisest plan.

  Kristen also held another threat over Deen’s head—the threat to expose Deen’s secret boogie-woogie to Paul. She worked Deen over, telling her that Paul would dismiss her as a pupil at once if he found out.

  It was not a very good threat, but it worked. Deen carried a certain guilt regarding that other music, not so much out of a feeling of disloyalty to Paul but as a disloyalty to classical music itself. And, more potently, it was a secret of her inner self, a half-formed philosophy she was not ready to voice.

  As always, in matters of guilt and subservience, there were also practical, self-serving considerations. As you know, Deen was a hardheaded little thing, and though she looked around her and saw that Paul was as mad as a fucking March hare, and his wife and spawn the bane of her existence, she wanted to continue her lessons with him. She wished to be a great musician more than she cared about a few weeks of misery.

  On this day though, Deen woke from fevered dreams with a sudden lucidity. She realized something that filled her with worry—that humans adapt.

  Everyone has felt this fear from time to time. How a desire to fit in, to cut oneself a little slack, can involve compromising certain elements of one’s will. Send even the most ruggedly individual teenager off to boarding school and they will begin to model herself after whoever is in power among her peers. It begins with little things such as hairstyles and vocabulary, and can end with the worst—being a recognizable product of a particular boarding school for the rest of their life.

  Send a person to prison and the same thing applies, though with admittedly higher stakes. But as anyone who’s lived in an enforced environment knows, whether summer camp or boot camp, they come out in some way molded by the system.

  What Deen realized that morning was that you could be placed in the very pits of hell, with imps poking at you day and night with red-hot pitchforks, and you’ll begin placating an imp or two. That if Munster didn’t return soon, she might start trying to win Kristen’s favor.

  With a small groan, she go
t up. There was no lesson that day, so she’d be stuck with Kristen’s scintillating company for every hour of it.

  The Blob was sucking its thumb in its high chair, the remains of a banana flung about it. Paul stared through her, then tried to walk through her, as he went to the sink. Deen twisted away just in time.

  Later, as Deen was mopping the floor, Kristen decided to give her a lecture regarding female comportment.

  “I told you, rinse the mop in hot water after each swipe. Look at little Miss Fancy, taking such dainty dabs. Put some elbow grease in it! Anyways, I’ve decided to give you a few pointers about life. Deen, at least nod, show you’re paying attention, I’m telling you important stuff, like, older sis to younger sis, okay? The thing is, women and men are so different. Your mom probably told you that they’re equals but you know what? She was lying to you. I’m sure she’s all women’s lib and that stuff, wants you to grow up with every opportunity and all, but sometimes we women have to tell one another the truth. Guys don’t want women who are as good as they are. Or at least ones that don’t know when to be quiet about it. You ever see me talking back to Paul? And you know why he married me? Because he’s a real man and wants a real woman, one who’s ladylike and keeps a nice home and cares more than anything about his baby.”

  Deen allowed these priceless insights to fall unheard around her as she stared down at the grimy floor. Her knuckles were swollen and red from repeated contact with hot water.

  “I’ve got to tell you, Deen, it’s only because I want to be like a real older sister to you, you’re going to have to stop kidding yourself that you could ever be a great musician like Paul. I’m telling you that because, honey, I really care about you.”

  Deen clutched the mop handle, ready to break it over her knee, then beat the woman senseless with it. Instead she took a breath and reached behind her back, lighting one of the gas burners. She moved the mop across the floor, toward where the Blob lay in a plastic cradle. Pretending to stumble, she swung the mop up, running the wet strands over the Blob’s head. It let out a howl like that of a witch being burned at the stake.