She still had a third of a glass of beer in front of her when he came into the bar. She turned her head at the sound of the door, as she had been doing all along, but this time she really did know it would be him. She just knew it. She had been playing little doltish games with herself, giving herself two or three more door openings before she left, setting up little fail-safe devices either to permit their meeting or to foil it. But this time she knew it would be him, and she turned her head, and it was.
He looked very much as she remembered him. A tall man with a lumbering gait, broad in the shoulders, thick at the waist. Thicker indeed at the waist than when she’d seen him last.
His rust-brown hair was about the same length as it had been then. Before he’d worn it a little longer than was fashionable, and now it was a little shorter than fashion called for. And his beard, a little lighter than his hair, was a small and neatly trimmed affair confined to his chin and upper lip. It had been just like that when she’d first met him—at a party? at the White Horse?—and then shortly thereafter he’d let it grow in full. But now it was as it had been at that first meeting.
He had not noticed her. Someone had greeted him, and he was at the bar now, talking to someone she did not know. She was glad for a moment or two to observe him without being herself observed.
She recognized his jacket, a bulky tweed of no particular color. Had the elbows always been patched? And had he always worn glasses? He wore a little wire-rimmed pair now and they did not really suit him at all. They sat on his broad nose and looked like a pair of spectacles placed upon a statue in an attempt at humor.
She watched him, and sipped her beer, and then Frank went over to take a drink order, and leaned forward and evidently mentioned her, because a moment later John Riordan turned to glance very casually her way. His eyes brushed over her, stopped to take her measure, then widened.
“Well, I’m damned.”
“You always were, Jack.”
“It’s Andrea,” he said. He thumped his companion. “Do you know this lady?” he demanded. “No, you wouldn’t. Before your time. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here, should I?” Frank poured his drink, whiskey and soda, no ice, and John Riordan wrapped a large hand around the glass and carried it over to where Andrea was sitting. “Shouldn’t be surprised. Everything operates in cycles. Things go in and out of fashion and all things come to him who waits. Charlie Marx knew the whole story. Thesis and antithesis. His only mistake was hoping things would get better.” His eyes fixed thoughtfully upon her face. “You look well,” he said. He put meaning into the automatic phrase, and the words warmed her.
“Thank you. So do you.”
“You’re kind, but the hell I do. I’m getting just like my old man. The one thing on earth I fucking swore would never happen, and here I’m getting the same red nose and the same pot belly.” He slapped rhythmically at his abdomen. “He used to call it an alderman,” he said. “Did you ever hear that expression?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Wait a minute, I’m a goddamned liar. The old man never called it an alderman. Why should he? They don’t have aldermen in New York, for Jesus’ sake. I got that out of a book. Studs Lonigan, James Farrell. Old Studs was getting himself a pot belly and called it an alderman.” He drained his glass in a swallow and tapped it on the bar top. “Hell of a note when you steal things from old books and slip ’em into your own life. Another of the same, Frank, and bring the lady what she’s drinking. I knew you’d be back, Andrea. It’s always a question of time. This jacket is back in style again. I knew it would be sooner or later. Just keep things long enough and they’re all the rage again.”
“I’m just here on a visit.”
“You’re not moving back?”
She shook her head. “I’m an old married lady now.”
“That time you phoned me—”
“I got married that afternoon. It’ll be three years next month.”
“Kids?”
“A little girl. She was a year old in January.”
“God in heaven. You’re making me feel older than time. What else have you got? House in the suburbs? White picket fence?”
“Yes to the house, but there’s no fence around it.”
“And a car, of course.”
“Two cars.”
“Of course, God forgive me, two cars, his and hers. And any number of labor-saving devices, and a great deal of heavy furniture, and a recreation room in the basement paneled in knotty pine.”
“Knotty cedar. Pine is tacky.”
“God save us all.” He had been smiling throughout, his blue eyes glinting, so that she knew to take his words in good humor. “A suburban matron. The word sticks in my throat. It conjures up visions of a stout woman with bulldog jaw being summoned to search female prisoners. Scarcely an image that fits you.”
“Scarcely one I aspire to.”
“Let me look at you. You do look well, dammit. The life evidently agrees with you.”
“It does.” Their eyes met, and she gave a quick nod. “It really does,” she said.
“And your husband’s good to you.”
“He is.”
“Never takes a whip to you.”
“Not unless I deserve it.”
“Oh, I suspect you deserve it now and again, but he keeps you on a loose leash. I don’t believe I know your married name. You may have told me but I was in a bit of a fog that morning.”
“It’s Benstock.”
“And your husband is—”
“Mark.”
“Mark Benstock. A professional man?”
“A lawyer.”
“A lawyer.” He was not mocking, and he was not exactly judging, and there was really nothing in his words or tone to which she could object.
“You like it there, Andrea? Up in Buffalo?”
“It’s my home, Jack.”
“That’s a damned good answer. It says more than yes or no, doesn’t it? A damned good answer. I’ll tell you a secret. I fucking well envy you.”
“You envy me?”
“That surprises you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it does.”
He started to say something, then changed his mind. He took a pack of Camels from the breast pocket of the tweed jacket and offered her one. She reached for her own, then left her pack on the bar and accepted one of his Camels. The taste was much stronger than what she was used to, but not in an unpleasant way. He waved to the bartender for another round. She still had most of her beer left, and covered her glass with her hand, and the bartender replenished Riordan’s drink.
She said, “Straight whiskey and unfiltered cigarettes. You haven’t changed.”
“At this hour I’ll take soda in the whiskey, I’m afraid. I don’t know if I’ve changed or not. I’m fatter, we established that much. I used to wear these—” he touched his glasses—“just for reading. Now I only need them for seeing.”
“Shure an’ it’s ould age creepin’ up on you.”
“Didn’t I ever tell you not to do a brogue if you can’t do it convincingly? And as a matter of fact it’s middle age creeping up on me, and it’s doing just that, and it scares the crap out of me.”
“Does it really?”
“Sometimes.” He picked up his glass and looked into it as if reading tea leaves. “I said I envied you. I’m surprised that you’re surprised, Andrea. Seems to me you’re fairly enviable.”
“Well, I’m happy, Jack.”
“You’ve found yourself. You’ve got a stable life, you’ve got a good situation.”
“I know it.”
“Ever miss it?”
“What?”
He made a circle with his hand. “This.”
“I think of it sometimes.”
“And?”
“It’s hard believing it was me here. It wasn’t so long ago but it seems forever. Did you know a friend of mine? Winifred Welles, we called her Winkie?”
“Doesn’t ri
ng a bell.”
“No, I guess she didn’t come downtown much. I don’t think you ever met her.”
“What about her.”
“Oh, nothing.” She took a small careful sip of beer. “How’ve you been, Jack? I don’t suppose you got married or did anything silly like that.”
“No, not yet.”
“Do you have anybody special?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Then he said, “I did for a while. It fell in the shit a month or so ago. No, it was longer than that. Around Christmas. That’s the best time to pack it in, you don’t have to buy presents. Otherwise I’d have been stuck with presents for her and her whole goddamned family, so I got off cheap. Luck of the Irish and all that.”
She looked at him and didn’t say anything.
“She was too young or I was too old, something like that. We got a couple of good months out of it. You can’t ask for a hell of a lot more than that.”
“I suppose not.”
“Unless you sign on for the whole trip. The kid and the two cars and the house in the country. I mean the suburbs. Does your suburb have a name?”
“Tonawanda.”
“Jesus, that’s beautiful. Tonawanda.”
“It was the name of an Indian tribe.”
“I’m sure it was. You wouldn’t make up something like that. Jesus God, I know someone who lives in something called Tonawanda.” He put his hand on her wrist. “I’m not making fun of you, Andrea. I swear to God I’m not.”
“Damn you, anyway.”
“Hey, easy, easy.”
“What I want to know is why can you do this to me? Tell me that.”
“Easy,” he said. His hand was on her shoulder, squeezing hard but not too hard. She felt tears welling up and couldn’t understand what had prompted them.
“Easy,” he said, gentling her as a man in a Marlboro commercial might gentle a skittish mare.
“I’m all right now.”
“Certainly you are. Finish that beer and let me buy you another. Or something else with more authority to it.”
“No, I don’t want another drink.”
“Whatever you say.”
She took one of his cigarettes without waiting for an invitation. He gave her a light and she gripped his wrist as she accepted the flame. Perhaps her fingers pressed his skin more than was necessary. Their eyes met for an instant and then she drew hers away.
“I’ve got a new book out,” he said.
“The bartender told me. The cover’s on the wall, he said.”
“Yeah. I don’t suppose you read the last one.”
“I saw ads for it. I tried to get it at the library but they didn’t have it.” She hadn’t, really. “It was a collection of essays?”
“Well, pieces for the Voice, mostly. And a few odds and ends.”
“Did it sell well?”
“Not too. What’s called a decent enough sale for a first book, which means it didn’t earn out the advance.”
“And the new book is—”
“A novel.”
“What’s it about?”
“People.”
“Always a good subject.”
“So they tell me.”
But they weren’t talking about his book any more. They hadn’t really ever begun talking about it. They were just taking turns uttering words like a pair of boxers shifting their weight from foot to foot in an early round, sizing each other up, feeling each other out.
“I’d give you a copy, you know, if I had one with me.”
“I’d like that. I’d buy a copy but it would be nice to have an autographed one.”
“Just lowers the value. The unautographed ones are the rare ones.”
“I don’t—oh, I get it.”
“If you wanted to walk over to my place I’ve probably got a copy lying around I could spare.”
“I don’t have very much time. I have to meet Mark fairly soon.”
“Whatever you say.”
She glanced elaborately at her watch, took a last drag on her unfiltered cigarette, leaned forward to stub it out in the ashtray. “You still live in the same place?”
“Same as ever.”
“Well, I guess I have time.”
One day that past August she had wheeled Robin two blocks in her carriage to Eileen’s house. Eileen had been extravagantly pregnant then, six weeks from her due date, carrying high and proud. The two of them sat in the yard on lounge chairs while Robin slept in her carriage and Eileen’s Jason dug with a trowel in the garden, either for worms or to get to China.
They sipped iced tea and talked about the heat and the Vietnam war and then about breast-feeding. Andrea had nursed Robin for the first three months.
“So she went straight to whole milk and you didn’t have to fuss with formula,” Eileen said. “I guess that’s simpler on top of being healthier and more natural. It’s supposed to be healthier, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. I don’t know if it really makes a difference. It depends who you listen to.”
“But you wanted to do it.”
“Well, Mark wanted me to. He wouldn’t have been terribly disappointed but he preferred it that way and it didn’t bother me. If anything I think it’s more convenient.”
“I suppose his mother nursed him so he wanted the same for his daughter.”
“No, as a matter of fact, she didn’t.”
“Really? That’s interesting.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, Andrea. Just that it seems interesting. I’d like to nurse the new baby but the only thing is I don’t know if it’s fair.”
“To whom?”
“Well, I didn’t nurse Jason. I mean it never occurred to me to nurse him. Nobody was nursing babies that year. Oh, this will kill you. I told Rita next door I was thinking about nursing the new baby and you know what she said? She said, ’Oh, that’s so unnatural!’”
“You’re kidding.”
“I swear to God. She’s the ultimate Polish joke, Andrea. She really is.” Then, leaning forward, “The thing is, would it be fair to nurse the new baby if I didn’t nurse Jason?”
“Well, how would he know the difference?”
“Listen, there’s plenty that they know. Or he could find out years from now and have a complex about it. What do you think?”
“I think you should do whatever you feel like doing.”
“I suppose so…. I know.”
“What?”
“If it’s a girl I’ll nurse her but not if it’s a boy. Is that crazy?”
“It sounds it.”
“Well, I don’t want Jason to have a complex. That’s all.”
A dingy narrow building on Perry west of Seventh, five floors, two apartments to the floor, the stairwell full of cooking smells. His apartment was three flights up. They climbed the old stairs without speaking, he leading the way, and he opened the door with his key and stood aside to let her enter.
There was a police lock, a heavy steel bar that fitted into a steel plate on the floor and braced against the door. “That’s new,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
“Got it a couple of years ago. I got sick of having junkies coming around and kicking the door in. They never found anything much to take but I resented the intrusion. A man likes his privacy, don’t you know.”
“You always did like your privacy.”
“Saloons exist to serve the needs of private people. There’s an eternal truth for you, Andrea. Hurry and write it down.”
“Won’t you use it in a book sometime?”
“If I remember, and if it still sounds good to me when the time comes. Drink?”
“No thanks.”
While he poured Glenfiddich scotch into a glass she took the measure of the apartment. It seemed to be more or less as she remembered it. She had not been to his place that many times. Half a dozen? And how many times had he come to her place on Jane Street? Eight, ten times?
Hardly a grand passion.
She
lit a cigarette. The apartment did seem the same, and yet she was conscious now as she had not been previously that it was small—a single long narrow room with a tiny stove and refrigerator in one corner, a long wall of jerrybuilt bookshelves, a fireplace the flue of which was permanently stopped up, a threadbare maroon rug, third- and fourth- and fifth-hand upholstered chairs, a convertible sofa, its arms scarred by neglected cigarettes, which he opened into a bed if he had overnight company but slept on unopened if he was alone.
She was aware of the smallness now, and of the shabbiness, as she had been aware of the sour odors of the building while they climbed the stairs.
And yet—
“Here it is.”
She took the book from him, held it in both hands, turned it over to regard his photograph on the back cover. “It’s a good picture, Jack.”
“Considering what they had to work with.”
“Where was it taken? The Head?”
He nodded. “Leaning on the bar with a glass in my hand. The consensus was that my friends wouldn’t recognize me in any other surroundings. You sure I can’t get you a drink? There’s beer in the icebox.”
“I’m positive. ’In Love with Crazy Jane.’ Where’d you get the title?”
“It’s a reference to Yeats.”
“Oh, the Crazy Jane poems. Right.”
“It’s the usual kind of crap. It asks the age-old question—can a Mick from Bay Ridge possibly contend with the human condition if some bastard makes the mistake of teaching him to read and write? And it comes back with the usual answer.”
“Which is?”
“You have to read the book to find out.”
She sat down on the couch, the book in her hands. She read the cover blurb without really paying attention to what she was reading, letting her eyes scan the column without their registering what they saw. After a moment or two he sat down beside her, reading over her shoulder.
“Autobiographical, Jack?”
“A little. Be better if it was. More honest. But you know me, I can’t tell a story without trying to improve it, so I turned the truth around and put in things that happened to friends of mine, or things I heard about, or things I made up altogether. There’s a lot of Catholic bullshit and a lot of Village bullshit and a certain amount of political bullshit, but not too much of the last because I got sick of it.”
A Week as Andrea Benstock Page 12
