by Bill Albert
“Life’s too damn short for standing around like a mug. We got better things to do. Right, babe?”
She limped over and sat down in the police car.
“Do you mind?” she asked, hand on the rearview mirror.
“Be my guest, lady.”
She adjusted the mirror so she could see her face.
“Oh, Lord! Oh Sweet God!”
“You alright?” asked the cop, bending to look in the window.
“Yeah. It’s just how I look, that’s not alright!”
Her hat had come off and her hair, which she had so painstakingly arranged, was a tangled mess. An ugly red welt had come up over her left eye, and there seemed to be swelling around both eyes. She reached up to touch the bruise but quickly pulled her hand away. It was painful. There were runs in her stockings and her new dress was torn across the shoulder, exposing the white strap of her bra.
Welcome to Palm Springs, Archie Blatt.
It was like a blast furnace in the open police car. She began to sob. Trails of black mascara ran down her cheeks.
“Please, lady, take it easy willya.”
The policeman fidgeted nervously by the side of his car.
“Lady? You listening in there? I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s being Sunday and lunch time and, well, old Jerry might not get that truck out here so quick, and it’s so dang blasted hot and all, I guess I could take you up there to the airport, if . . .”
“Take me to the airport?” she cried. “The airport!? That’s the last place in the world I want to go looking like this!”
Enid knew it was all hopeless. Utterly beyond recovery. She couldn’t stop crying.
“Enid? God, please! Enid?”
“What’s the matter?” asked Harold, hovering anxiously over the his grandfather, who was sitting on the side of the bed, swollen hands resting limply on his knees.
“Where’s Enid?” Abe asked, his face screwed up in pain.
“Still not back.”
“I can’t get up,” he said in tears, weakly hitting at his legs. “Can’t. They don’t work. I try to push. Try and nothing happens and I’ve gotta go to the bathroom! Please!”
He held out a shaky hand toward Harold. The boy reached down, put the old man’s arm over his shoulder and lifted him up. Then slowly he helped him down the hall into the bathroom. Someone, most likely the bald guy, was banging on the front door. He ignored it.
Harold stood his grandfather against the sink and pulled down his pajama pants. The pale legs quivered unsteadily. He lowered him gently onto the toilet. The old man moaned with relief and let go a string of wet farts, followed immediately by the splattering rush of diarrhea. The stench billowed out of the toilet bowl and filled the room. Harold held his breath and pushed open the window. It did little to clear the air.
Blue Valley Y Camp! Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. The unremitting odor of fresh shit wafting up between the rough board seats. No privacy. Other kids yelling and shouting. He had to be alone on the toilet or he couldn’t go. It had been very tough for him at Blue Valley Y Camp.
Head sunk forward onto his chest, Abe began to cry softly.
“Please, “Harold begged, sitting on the side of the bath and putting out a tentative hand to pat Abe on the shoulder. “It’s going to be alright. Don’t cry, Granddad. Come on, don’t.”
God, thought Harold, I sound like Aunt Enid! That surprised him, as did his being able to cope with actually touching the old man’s increasingly putrefactive body. Not that he liked doing it. He didn’t. But it wasn’t as bad as he had imagined.
Outside, the banging was getting more frenzied.
“It’s not,” said Abe distractedly. “Not going to be alright. I’m dying, Harold. How can that be alright? Can’t walk, got no strength at all, have to be washed like a little baby, nobody knows what this kind of dying is like.”
“I gotta get the door now,” said Harold, standing up. “Be back in a second.”
Abe grabbed for him. Fingers rasped feebly against Harold’s forearm.
“Don’t leave me, son! Please don’t leave me here by myself!”
“But there’s someone knocking.”
He let go of Harold. His arms flopped to his sides.
“Just like that daughter of mine,” he said petulantly, “leaving me by myself in the house. A sick man. No feelings for what I’m going through, no feelings at all.”
“It’s not like that,” Harold said. “She had to go out to pick up her friend. That’s all. She’ll be back soon.”
“You say,” retorted Abe. “Covering up for her. That’s it. She doesn’t care about her father. No one cares. An old man, that’s all. A dying old man. In the way. You don’t think I know that? Huh? You hear what I’m saying? I know that. Of course I know that.”
It’s unfair, thought Harold. Aunt Enid is killing herself for this guy. Feeding him, washing him, cleaning up his shit, and all he can do is bitch and moan about her.
The banging stopped.
He looked at his watch. It was twelve-thirty. Aunt Enid was very late. He supposed that the plane could have been delayed. It was only then that he realized who the man at the front door was.
Ignoring Abe’s protestations he ran out of the bathroom. He reached the front door and flung it open. There was no one there.
Harold walked out of the house and into the road. He looked in both directions. Empty.
The midday desert sun reflected harshly off the white sand. He stood there for a minute then went back inside and closed the door.
“You mind telling me just exactly what the FUCK is going on here?”
Rumpled, sweaty, furious and hatless, Archie Blatt was waiting for Harold in the living room. The patio door was open behind him.
“Ha - Ha - Harold Abelstein.”
Archie glared up at the boy, uncomprehending.
“What’s that?” he snapped. “Huh? What’s that?”
“My name?” answered Harold unsurely.
“Harold! Please, Harold!” his grandfather cried out from the bathroom.
“Excuse me just one second,” said Harold backing away toward the hall.
“And, who the hell is that?” roared Archie, in despair.
Without answering, Harold lumbered off. Archie followed.
“Harold!”
“It’s OK. I’m here, I’m here. Take it easy.”
Abe was still sitting on the toilet, a concertina of pajamas around his ankles.
“Where did you go? Leaving me like this. Please, Harold, I want to lie down now.”
“Sure. Come on. Have you um, you know?”
“Wiped?” Abe asked, innocently.
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah,” he cackled, “I’ve wiped! God damn, have I wiped! Used almost half the roll as well!”
Having a crap had obviously revived his grandfather’s spirits.
Harold pulled up Abe’s pants, tightened the drawstring around his waist.
“Give me your arm,” he said.
“Hello there,” said Abe, as they squeezed passed Archie in the narrow hallway.
The small man stood dumbstruck. After a minute he cautiously put his head around the doorway to Enid’s dressing room.
“Come in, come in,” Abe said, waving Archie in from the hallway.
Harold was by the bed, smiling lamely and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
So this was the guy Aunt Enid wanted him to be good friends with? Wonderful! Fat chance now, he thought. First I puke on him, then slam the door in his face. A great start! Where the hell is Aunt Enid?
Archie walked wearily into the room as if he might at any moment step into quicksand or fall down an open manhole. He looked around him at the walls. The roses seemed to reassure him that he was in the right place.
Then he focused on Harold.
“Harold?” he asked.
Harold nodded. Archie relaxed slightly. His mouth crinkled into a knowing smile.
“Sure,” he said, “Harold. Harold Abelstein. Sure. You’re Enid’s nephew, aren’t you? Her sister’s son from up in Los Angeles. I got it now. How you doing?”
They shook hands.
“Fine,” said Harold, pleased that at least Archie knew who he was.
“Listen, Harold,” Archie said, taking him by the elbow and glancing uneasily at the bed, “can I have a word with you in private?”
“Hi,” called Abe from behind Harold. “Abe Cohen’s the name.”
“Hi there,” Archie called back over his shoulder as he propelled Harold toward the door. “Nice to see you. Excuse us for a minute, will you?”
“I don’t mind,” said Abe, sounding as if he did.
“Enid’s father?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Archie sat down on the couch. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat off his head and face. He leaned forward, hands on his knees.
“Her father, huh? What’s he doing here?”
“Well,” said Harold, “I don’t know really. He’s sort of sick.”
Archie paused, picked a white thread off his pants.
“He staying here? You mean, permanently staying? Here?”
Harold didn’t think it was really any of Archie’s business. He figured if Enid wanted to, she would tell him. After all, he was her friend.
“Sort of,” he answered.
“Sort of,” Archie repeated under his breath.
He took off his jacket and loosened his tie.
“Yeah. OK. Let’s move on a little. I thought she told me once that her father disappeared or something like that when she was a kid. You mean he turned up here? Out of the blue?”
Harold shrugged. Archie seemed to be having a hard time getting a grip on things. Harold knew he wasn’t being very helpful. He didn’t care.
“It smells awful in there,” Archie ventured.
“I suppose so,” replied Harold.
Archie looked at Harold questioningly. Nothing. He tried another tack.
“And you? What? Here for a visit? Summer vacation? You know, I usually don’t come out this time of year. Probably why I’ve never seen you before.”
“Yeah.”
Archie raised his eyes up to the ceiling as if looking for divine intervention.
“Uh-huh. I see. Good,” he said, leaning back and crossing his short legs. “So, where’s your aunt then?”
“She went to pick you up at the airport. About an hour ago.”
“Well, as you can see,” he said, spreading his arms, “she didn’t.”
“Yeah.”
“Right. Probably just missed me. Be here any minute, I expect. Actually, she should have been here before now.”
Archie frowned.
“Shopping maybe? Yeah, probably had to do some shopping on the way back. Listen, Harold, I’ve just got to clean up.”
He pointed to the brown stain on his shirt. Harold blushed.
“I’ve also got to call the office in St. Louis. Damn business. No escape from it. Don’t go away.”
He got up. As he passed in front of Enid’s dressing room, Abe called out to him. Archie waved, said something Harold couldn’t hear and continued on into Aunt Enid’s bedroom. He closed the door behind him.
“We was just passing by and thought we’d look in. You know, to say howdy.”
In her blood-red toreador pants and white puffed-sleeved blouse Harold thought Charlene looked like an enormous lamb chop. He couldn’t shake the image. It was worrying.
“How you doing, Champ? Still knocking ‘em dead?”
Big John slapped Harold on the arm. The lamb chop’s husband was also worrying, as well as a pain in the butt.
Not for the first time since he had come to the desert, Harold urgently wished he was somewhere far, far away. Los Angeles would have been nice. It was Sunday. If he was in LA, and if he had the money, he could go to Fairfax and get some fresh bagels, maybe Cantor’s for lox and eggs. Then in the afternoon up to Hollywood Boulevard for a matinee. The deep velvet seats at Grauman’s Chinese. Afterwards across to Brown’s and a hot fudge sundae with chocolate ice cream. City dreams.
They were shattered by the twang of Charlene’s voice.
“Tell me, Harold,” she said, pushing up close to him, “Archie arrived yet?”
“Yeah,” Harold replied, stepping back and pointing toward the bedroom. “He’s on the phone.”
“Actually,” Charlene said, in what was for her a whisper, “we come by to sorta help Enid out. You know?”
Harold couldn’t imagine how, or for that matter why.
“It’s just sometimes,” she continued, “when you gotta do these kinda things, it’s better if there’s other folk around to soak up some of the heat from the fire, if you catch my meaning.”
She winked at him. He didn’t know why she was winking, what she was talking about. Exactly what did Enid have to do? More important, where was she? She’d been gone for more than an hour and a half. He was starting to worry. What if she never came back?
He closed his eyes and heard his mother’s scream, glass breaking, felt the sickening jolts as the car bounced and rolled over, again and again. Pasadena. Too much smog in Pasadena.
“Harold! Harold!”
He fled from the living room.
“What’s going on out there?” Abe demanded. “You said you’d come straight back.”
Harold told him about Charlene and John. Abe didn’t seem very interested.
“I saw Enid’s friend walk right into her bedroom,” Abe said indignantly. “You hear what I’m saying? Right in he walked and closed the door, liked he owned the place. That’s no friend, Harold. No. More like a boyfriend. You hear what I’m saying? Boyfriend!”
Harold knew that already. Aunt Enid had told him.
“And, how old do you think he is? Huh? Must be sixty if he’s a day. Maybe more. You know something, that’s not right. It isn’t. Too old for her. Old enough to be her damn father. Look at me. Sixty-five years old. And, I am her father.”
Harold knew that as well.
Abe shook his head sadly.
“My little girl. Little Enid.” Then more anxiously, “Where is she? Where’s Enid?”
“On her way back, I suppose,” said Harold, evasively.
The old man sat up in the bed. He studied Harold closely. Finally he shouted at him with unexpected vehemence, saliva spraying from his mouth.
“Bull-shit! Bull-shit! Bull-shit! She’s gone, isn’t she? Run away. I can see it there, there in your sorry fat face! Couldn’t take it any longer, could she? Skipped town, I bet. Leaving me on my own. Having her revenge. You hear what I’m saying? Revenge. You know why? Do you? Because of the damn Depression. That’s all it was. The damn Depression! What could I do? I ask you? What? It wasn’t my fault, damn it! I wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t.”
He fell back on his pillow exhausted.
“Fat face,” thought Harold. He supposed he knew that too.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
Abe didn’t answer. He turned his head toward the wall and the roses.
Back in the living room, Charlene and John had settled down on the couch.
“Where’s Enid at?” asked Charlene.
“That’s exactly what I’d like to know,” said Archie, who at that moment strode into the living room behind Harold.
“Why hello, Charlene, John. Nice to see you both.”
Harold moved to one side. The men shook hands. Charlene pecked Archie on the cheek. All old friends thought Harold, relieved that he wouldn’t be expected to do anything. His relief was short-li
ved.
“So wadda you think of our Harold then?” asked Charlene, looking at Archie and then giving Harold a flirtatious flutter of false eyelashes.
“Isn’t he just a lamb chop?”
Harold gagged.
Archie was sizing him up as if seriously considering Charlene’s proposition, but before he could answer the front was flung open and Enid limped in followed closely by a very large policeman.
It Makes Me Think I’m on My Last Go ’Round
Enid’s entry was met with a stony hush as everyone in the room took in the bruises, the disheveled hair, the torn clothes. She, too, froze in front of the unexpected and unwanted audience. She looked from one to the other. Faces seemed to her to be suspended, floating above their bodies, enlarged and grainy like badly developed photographs. Charlene, John, Harold, Archie. She wanted to get away from them, to run into her room and hide. They didn’t give her the chance. Everyone started to talk at once.
“Oh honey! What . . . ? How did . . . ? Are you . . . ?”
Charlene was the first to go over to her. She put a protective arm around Enid’s shoulder.
“Honey! Oh honey!” she kept repeating.
“It’s OK,” pleaded Enid, trying to wriggle out from under the weight of Charlene’s embrace, “I’ll be OK. It looks worse then it is. Had a flat tire. That’s all. Went off the road and got a little bump on the head.”
She saw Archie watching her from across the room. He seemed rooted to the carpet. Realizing how battered and unglamorous she must look she caught his eye, shrugged hopefully and gave him a self-deprecating smile. It was a moment or two before he returned it and then it came back at only half power, the eye contact unsure. It was as if he needed more time to think about what he was seeing.
What little remained of Enid’s spirits crumbled away. If he couldn’t get by this, she said to herself, how was he going to handle the rest? No way was the simple answer to that. No way at all. She took a deep shuddering breath.
“If you’re OK,” said the policeman, “I’ll be getting on.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Enid, trying to force the deadness out of her voice. “And, thanks very much.”
“Sure thing,” he said.
Then he spied Harold across the room. He grinned broadly, using all his teeth.
