by Bill Albert
First the rent wouldn’t be paid. The real estate guy would call up and ask about it. She wouldn’t be able to contact Archie. Then the checks would stop coming. Maybe he would change his phone number or tell his secretary that he was out. Archie could do that. He was a businessman. He made those kinds of decisions. And then what?
Abe had closed his eyes. He was asleep.
It was too hot. She stood up and closed the window. Cooler air from the wall vent began to fill the room.
And All They Will Call You Will Be . . .
“It’ll be alright, Harold. A temporary arrangement is all until, until . . . well you know. Listen, it won’t be so bad, you’ll have your own room and you can have lunch and dinner here with us. Charlene said to bring your records if you wanted to. It’s a nice house and I’m sure you’ll get along with John. He loves children. Not to say you’re a child, darling. Of course not. But, you know what I mean. I’ll take you over after you’ve had breakfast. OK?”
First he had lost his room and now she was farming him out to Charlene. Horrible, cooing, groping, fat-fingered Charlene and her husband John, who loves children. Complete blackness. A total nightmare.
“Can’t I just sorta sleep there?” Harold asked desperately, pointing to the couch. “I won’t be in the way, really.”
“Well, darling, if it was only me, of course you could. But, there’s your grandfather, and tomorrow my friend Archie’s flying in from Los Angeles. The house just isn’t big enough for all of us right now. You can see that, can’t you?”
He could and he couldn’t. Besides, it wasn’t fair. He’d been there first. Who was this Archie guy, anyway?
“Uh-huh,” he said, downcast.
I have to do this, Enid told herself sternly. Have to and that’s that. Can’t let myself feel guilty. He’s young, he’ll get over it. It’s not like I’m hiding him away from Archie or anything like that. I’m just saving myself unnecessary aggravation, that’s all. And, he’ll be more comfortable at Charlene’s. A room of his own. Better for everyone.
Still, she found it difficult to watch Harold. Eyes blank, mouth sagging, he sat across the table from her, aimlessly running his finger around the rim of a glass. It was half-filled with milk. There was a white high-tide mark on his upper lip. It made him seem much younger.
She reached across the table and patted his hand.
“We’ll survive this, Harold. You and your Aunt Enid. We’ll survive, won’t we, darling?”
“Yeah,” he said glumly, not looking up, “Is there any Bosco in the kitchen?”
Maybe survive, she thought. On the other hand, maybe not.
On the second front the battle was also not going very well. During the night Abe had fouled the bed. He was weeping when she came into the room.
“Please, don’t,” she said to him, wanting to cry as well.
She forced herself to ignore the raw smell of shit that overfilled the room and tried to imagine how her father must feel.
He lay there, his head turned away, sobs shaking his body.
“Never happened before . . . I never . . . never . . .” he muttered over and over again.
She had helped him into the bathroom. He seemed to weigh less than the day before. She put him into the bathtub and washed him. He continued to sob, all the while mumbling to himself. After a few minutes he calmed down, accepting her attention. When she had finished he sat unselfconsciously on the toilet with a big towel draped over his shoulders and talked.
“The Sally Army it was. I thought they were all bands, Christ, and that kinda thing. You know what I mean? You might have been married, changed your name. I didn’t know. But they found you for me, didn’t they?”
Thank you, Salvation Army, thought Enid.
“They even gave me the train fare. Me. Ha! Abe Cohen. They knew I wasn’t, you know? How could I be? Didn’t matter though.”
He stopped talking, gasped for breath. Without moving his body suddenly seemed to fold in on itself.
“Enid, do you think maybe I could go and lie down again for a while?”
Harold had expected a big man. Someone with the physical bulk to match Charlene’s. The only thing big about him was his voice.
“Hi there, Harold!,” he boomed, thrusting out a surprisingly delicate hand. “John Briggs. How are you today? Settling in OK?”
“Fine thank you, sir.”
“Hey now, none of that sir stuff here. No sir! Ha! Ha! No sir! Can you beat that? Listen to me, willya. It’s just plain John. You call me John. OK?”
“Sure, right, John.”
“That’s the ticket.”
He slapped Harold on the back.
“Now you’re cooking!” he bellowed.
Short and thin; if you were charitable you might call him dapper. Like a small imprecise copy of Fred Astaire, Harold thought, only more stick insect like. Maybe it was the black pencil-thin mustache.
“You get all your gear stowed away? Everything shipshape?”
“Yes, thanks, uh, Mr., I mean, John.”
“Good. Very Good. Well, now,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly and rocking back on the tiny heels of his tiny feet, “Where’s the little woman?”
Harold wondered who he was talking about.
Harold and Enid and Abe and Archie
Feeling Tomorrow Like I Feel Today
“Do I have to stay actually in there with him? The smell, and he’s not making . . .”
“Harold, he is your grandfather. He is dying. What else can I tell you?”
“And Earl said I could come down there. That maybe I could . . .”
“Harold? You want to leave him alone? You want to do that?”
Guilt. Always guilt. His mother had been a master of guilt. A grand master. Especially effective were her questions ending with for you.
“I didn’t make the egg soft enough for you? I should have stood there longer waiting in the sun for you? You think I’d be doing this if it wasn’t for you?”
He had never been able to work out an adequate defense.
“No, Aunt Enid. Sorry.”
“I won’t be long. Just to the airport and straight back. Twenty minutes at the most. You can hold down the fort for that long, can’t you, darling?”
The last time he had seen his aunt so dressed up was at the funeral. Now she wore light colors. A fancy dress, stockings, high heels, a wide-brimmed hat, and a brassiere that lifted up her tits and made them look larger and more pointy. Also lots of makeup. He didn’t like it when she looked so exaggerated. Eyes too big, mouth too big, tits too big.
“Good-bye, darling,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “Take care of everything.”
The door closed behind her. With the back of his hand he wiped the lipstick off his face.
“Enid,” Abe called weakly from the bedroom. “Enid.”
Reluctantly, Harold went in to see his grandfather.
“She’s gone out for a little while,” he explained. “To pick up someone from the airport.”
Harold didn’t know whether his aunt had told the old man anything about Archie. He wasn’t going to. Besides, he didn’t know that much himself. A boyfriend from St. Louis who took care of her. Someone he had to be good friends with. That was about it. The whole thing made him uneasy. First the old man and now Archie. What would it mean for him? She did say they would survive, didn’t she? He and Aunt Enid. It sounded alright, although he wasn’t sure exactly what she meant. It’s not that he wanted her attention exactly. In fact, he recoiled from it. But then again he wasn’t exactly sure.
His feelings confused him. He didn’t like to think about them too much.
He wished he could go down to the stables and hang around with Earl for a while. Then he could at least escape from the old man’s stink, which had by then invaded the hallway. Even the Air-Wick
couldn’t kill it. He could also get away from the probing questions and the incessant rambling monologues.
“Who’s she picking up?” asked Abe.
“A friend, I think,” Harold answered.
“A friend? Her friend from St. Louis?”
“Dunno,” replied Harold.
So, she had told him. But, how much? It didn’t matter, Abe had zeroed in on St. Louis and was off in search of something else.
“I knew this guy from St. Louis once. Met him when I was in Chicago in ‘37. I think it was ‘37. I suppose it could have been ‘38. Anyway, did I tell you this one before? No? Well . . .”
Harold sighed.
The evenings weren’t much better. Charlene talked at him as if he were a three-year-old, all but tickling him under the chin, and John—she actually called him Big John—told him all about real estate in Palm Springs.
“Bargains! Golden opportunities, Harold! I’m here to tell you. And, this is straight from the horse’s mouth. They’re selling like hotcakes! Absolute hotcakes! You know, I tell the people when I take them out to see a property, I tell them, ‘Listen, it’s cheap at twice the price.’ If that doesn’t do the trick, I say, ‘What’s the matter, folks, are you saving it all for a rainy day?’ And then I spring it on them. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘You can’t go wrong, because it never rains in sunny Palm Springs!’ Ha! Ha! Doesn’t that just take the cake!?”
“Harold? Harold? A glass of water please, Harold?”
The story about the man in St. Louis had ended.
Harold got up, went into the bathroom and filled a glass for his grandfather.
A telegram had come the night before. No chance to give him a hint, to soften the impact. She would have to explain everything between the airport and the house. That would give her ten minutes at the most. Not nearly enough time.
She looked at her watch. The plane would land in fifteen minutes, at eleven-thirty. I’ll take him into the Village first, she thought. Talk to him over lunch. Archie’s happy when he’s eating.
She started the car, pulled out into the road and headed toward Sunrise. Passing the stables, she saw Earl and his father. They were unloading bales of hay from a big truck. She tooted her horn and waved. They glanced up but didn’t wave back. Maybe they don’t recognize the car, Enid said to herself.
Archie would want to come straight back to the house. For seven years that had been the ritual. To the house and to bed. He was often so worked up it was all she could do to keep him from starting in the car. In the turmoil of the last few days she had completely forgotten how horny he was when he arrived.
“Hey, you know what, babe? I get this incredible hard-on the minute I walk on the plane. Gee, isn’t that something? A guy my age? Have to fly all the way with a copy of Life on my lap!”
She’d tell him she was hungry. That there was nothing to eat in the house. Any excuse for a breathing space. Not that it would do any good in the end. She had resigned herself to that, but couldn’t think past what it would mean when the money stopped coming. First she had to deal with today.
It suddenly occurred to her that she was selling Archie short. If he really loved her, like he said he did, it all might work out. Why not? Her father was not going to be around much longer. Even Harold. He was sixteen. Going into the eleventh grade in September. A couple of years more and he’d probably be gone. Sure. Why couldn’t she sell that to Archie? If he really loved her. No problem. She smiled and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Things were not all that bad. Sure. She’d been stupid to get herself so worried and upset.
She pulled up at the stop sign on the corner of Sunrise. There was no one coming. She made a right turn and put her foot down. As she did the smothering doubts rolled in once again. Did he love her? In eight years they had never spent longer than two weeks together at any time. Honeymoons. Three, sometimes four a year. How much could you tell from that? Relaxed, problem-free vacations for Archie. Golf and sex. Sure, he had loved her. What was not to love? It was all exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it. On a platter. She smacked the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. Sure, she thought, on a platter!
What did they talk about? To be more precise, what did he talk about? His work, his sick wife, his horrible kids, his problems. He wasn’t inattentive to her problems, she couldn’t say that. It was just that they never really talked about them in the same way. His answer was always the same. He bought her things. That was part of the deal. She listened and was sympathetic, he listened and paid. Maybe Sylvia had been right, she thought sadly. A high-class whore. Why high-class even? She had never allowed those thoughts in before. They depressed her.
She turned left onto Amado, a shortcut to the airport. It was eleven twenty-five. Shaking a cigarette out of the pack, she put one in her mouth and bent forward to push in the lighter on the dashboard. Just then there was a loud bang and the car lurched violently to the left. Enid hit the brakes and threw all her strength against the steering wheel. The rear wheels locked and the car went into a spin. She was thrown sideways and then forward, hard against the windshield. The car skidded out of control and finally came to a lopsided rest in the soft sand by the side of the road.
The end of his tongue sticking out thoughtfully from the corner of his mouth, Harold spread the peanut butter thickly. The bits of peanut that dotted the slice of bread were soon covered by strawberry jam. He slapped on another piece of bread and coated it with mashed banana and another layer of peanut butter. Having finished constructing the triple-decker, he opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk. He picked up a glass, carried everything into the dining room and sat down.
For the moment he was content.
His grandfather had fallen asleep and his aunt was still not back from the airport. The house was his alone, and he liked it that way. No one talking at him, no one watching him. He felt that people always disapproved when they saw him eat. A fat kid.
“Poor thing! It can’t be glandular though, look at the way he shovels down that food!”
He could understand. It made him uncomfortable to watch fat people eat. Mouths too small, cheeks bulging, they seemed to hunch over their plates, shiny eyes riveted on the food. He made a point when he was eating with other people to sit up straight and appear disinterested.
But now he was alone and interested. He took an enormous bite from the sandwich. The peanut butter was very sticky and it cemented his jaws together. He opened his mouth wide in order to free his teeth. It didn’t work. The wedge of sandwich was so large there was little room for maneuver.
The doorbell rang. Still struggling with the inert mass of peanut butter, bread, jam and banana, he got up, walked across the room and opened the door.
A small man carrying a large suitcase stood on the path looking up at Harold. He wore a suit and tie. Sweat trickled from under a black fedora and ran down the sides of his face. He seemed twitchy, confused and angry. Behind him in the street a cab was just pulling away.
He slammed down the suitcase and took a couple of short aggressive steps toward Harold, almost forcing the boy back into the house.
“What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded. “And, who the hell are you?”
Harold was still trying to clear his mouth.
“What have I told you, Harold? Not once, a hundred times. Not with your mouth full! Are you listening?”
“Haron—ah, Abel-mum,” was the best he could manage.
The man stared in disgust at Harold’s half-open mouth.
“What?” he said sharply. “Damn it, I can’t understand a word!”
In a panic Harold attempted to disengage himself from the sandwich’s dental embrace. He swallowed. Nothing happened. He tried again. This time it worked, but the lump only made it halfway down. He began to choke. The man stepped back in alarm as Harold clutching his throat and making desperate chunting sounds stag
gered down the path toward him.
“UhAh, UhAh, UhAh . . . WOO-LAH!!”
The man’s leg caught against the suitcase and he stumbled backward. Just then Harold launched a sodden projectile of peanut butter, bread, jam and banana. It hit the man square in the chest, hung to his shirt for a moment before dropping to the ground. A few seconds later it was sizzling on the griddle-hot flagstones.
Harold leaned against the side of the house breathing hard, his face a rich scarlet. The man sat on the ground looking at the brown stain on his shirt and shaking his head slowly from side to side. His hat had fallen off. Harold noticed that he was almost totally bald.
“Enid! ENID! Please Enid! Come quick!”
It was his grandfather. He sounded in genuine distress. Harold rushed into the house, slamming the door closed behind him. The little bald-headed guy would just have to wait.
“I’m sorry, lady, but I can’t pull you out. The flat’s gone right down into the sand there. Look, you can see yourself. Could damage the axle if I tried to move it. We’ll just have to wait for the tow truck. You wanna sit down in my car?”
“But I’ve got to get to the airport!”
“Relax, willya. Please.”
“Can’t you just run me over there? Look, it’s only a couple a minutes. It’s very important.”
The big policeman shook his head.
“It’s more than my job is worth, and anyway with that bump on your head you should be going to the hospital, not the airport.”
“I keep telling you. I’m fine. I was out for a few seconds that’s all. Don’t make a federal case out of it. OK?”
“OK, lady,” he said throwing up his hands. “OK. OK. I don’t wanna argue with you.”
She checked her watch. A quarter after twelve. Only forty-five minutes late. The plane might have been delayed, she thought hopefully. Or he might still be waiting. That was a less hopeful thought, for if there was one thing that Archie really hated it was waiting around. If they went to a restaurant and they couldn’t get a table right away he was out the door.
