Good Evening Mr. and Mrs. America, and All the Ships at Sea

by Richard Bausch

  “That’s interesting,” Marshall said and started to edge away from her.

  “Wait. You have to tell me about yourself. Alice’s father thinks you’re delusional.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m only partly joking,” she said. “Tell me—do you have designs on the presidency?”

  It was as if she had struck him in the stomach.

  “Well,” she said, smiling, so that the little eyes almost disappeared in skin, “do you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “I’m only partly joking when I say it, you know.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  Alice walked over and put her thin arm through his. “Arlene, what’re you asking my fiancé about?”

  “I’m only partly joking,” Arlene said again, as if this were the final point she wanted to make. She turned and walked away, looking back to offer her partly joking smile.

  “Pay no attention to her,” Alice said. “She hasn’t had a kind word for anyone in years.”

  “I don’t think your father likes me,” Marshall said.

  She shook her head and appeared to pout. “Aren’t you going to wish me a happy birthday?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I didn’t know you asked the D’Allessandros.”

  She had spoken through him.

  “Pardon?” he said.

  “Do I get a birthday kiss?”

  “Here?”

  She took a step closer. “You want to go upstairs?”

  He took a breath and couldn’t answer.

  “You’re so cute.” She laughed and touched his cheek. “I’m so happy. I’m really happy tonight, Walter. Are you coming with us tomorrow? We’re going to a funeral service first. A friend of Minnie’s, and Stephen’s. Well, she was sort of a figure, around here. With the people in the kitchen—Minnie and them. One hundred six years old.”

  He nodded. It was partly reflexive. “I saw that little man here. He must’ve come in with the D’Allessandros.”

  “Think of living a hundred and six years. She saw absolutely everything that happened in this century. All of it—the whole coming of the modern age, Walter. And Minnie says she could remember things about the Civil War. Imagine. She was born into slavery, here in Virginia.”

  He said, “Alice, did you invite the D’Allessandros?”

  “I haven’t seen them.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Did you say we’re going to a funeral tomorrow?”

  “That’s first. In the morning.”

  Her father appeared from the doorway and reached for her, pulling her away. “Okay, kid. Time to eat. Then cut the cake and open your gifts.”

  Marshall waited in line with them, and when they had filled their plates, he followed them out to the side porch. He had filled his plate with bread and butter. Alice wolfed down a big helping of pasta salad, talking all the while. She didn’t really know the old woman whose funeral they would attend tomorrow; their going would be a gesture of togetherness. They would pay their respects, and then they would travel together to a restaurant in Maryland that Alice knew was still refusing service to colored people. The owner was using excuses to do it, but so far it had been discouragingly successful. The whole day was planned, and she was happy talking about it with Marshall, keeping her voice down through some of it so her father couldn’t hear. Apparently, he was not interested in having his daughter involved in any protests.

  Her father ate quietly, concentrating on his food, and now and then she would ask him if he was listening.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “Good.” She waited a moment. Then, “Walter and I are already sexually involved.”

  He kept eating, watching the others on the far side of the room.

  “I’m expecting, in fact.”

  “Yeah?” her father said, chewing.

  “Twins.”

  “Good.”

  “We’ve been swapping with another couple, of course, so we’re not sure if these are actually Walter’s twins or our Jamaican friend’s.”

  He looked at her. “What’re you talking about?”

  “I said I always wished I’d had a twin.”

  “Oh.” He went on eating.

  She winked at Marshall, then went on talking, to Marshall now, about her happiness and being in love. Marshall kept searching the shifting crowd in the room, and found that he was unable to eat much. The D’Allessandros and their odd friend were nowhere to be seen.

  “Okay,” Mr. Kane said, rising. “Let’s cut the cake and open the presents.”

  “I’m not finished eating,” Alice told him. “I want some more pasta.”

  “You’re gonna blow up like a balloon one day. I swear to God I never saw anybody eat like you do without gaining weight. Come on.” He had taken hold of her elbow and was pulling her into the next room. From somewhere, the big woman from the kitchen, Minnie, glided past and took their plates as they passed through the hallway and into the living room.

  All the birthday gifts were stacked next to an easy chair to the left of the fireplace, and straight-backed chairs from the dining room had been placed in a semicircle around it. The cake was on a portable table in the center of the room. Mitchell Brightman got the attention of the crowd and led them in singing “Happy Birthday.” Alice held onto Marshall, resting her head on his shoulder as they sang. There was yet another cheer, and again she held Marshall’s hand up, waving to everyone. Then she cut a few slices of the cake, and her father began passing them out. Finally, he called Minnie from the kitchen, and she took over. There was a lot of confusion and noise, and someone put a Beatles record on, “I Saw Her Standing There.” Alice took Marshall’s other hand and started dancing. There were more cheers, and others commenced dancing, too. Marshall saw Atwater and his mother doing the jitterbug, and now, to his relief, Mitchell Brightman cut in on him to dance jerkily, precariously, with Alice. The man who had written speeches for Everett Dirksen was standing on his hands again, in a corner of the room, but no one was paying any attention to him. When the music shifted into a soft ballad, the man dropped to his feet and lay down along the floorboards, his hands folded under the side of his head, apparently asleep. Across the room, Albert and Emma moved stiffly in a slow dance, rocking slowly back and forth, looking like statues coming loose at their moorings.

  Finally, it was time for Alice to open her gifts. She sat in the chair, picked up one of the packages, and shook it. “It’s so light,” she said. Her father stood nearby, talking to another woman, low, stirring his drink with one finger. The woman had her hair in a bun on top of her head, and her glasses came to sharp points, which gave her very white face a cruel look. She nodded, leaning close to him while he went on. Alice said, “Should I read the card, Daddy?”

  He hadn’t heard her.

  “Daddy?”

  Now he seemed to come to himself. “What? Open the gifts.”

  “I’ll read the card.”

  “Just get on with it, kid. You got a lot of loot there.”

  “The card says ‘Happy Birthday, Love, Dad.’” She held it up and made a gesture as if to say “So much for fatherly love,” then tossed it behind her and began tearing at the gift wrap. Marshall edged away, out of the circle and back toward the kitchen. There were several knots of people in each room, talking quietly, some of them still eating. He saw Atwater and Loretta sitting on a couch, sipping drinks and watching everyone else. Loretta lifted her hand and waved at him. In the kitchen, Emma was seated at the table, while Albert stood over her, drinking a glass of water. He had one hand on her shoulder.

  “I think we’ll be heading out soon,” he said, not quite looking at Marshall. “It’s a long haul back into town for me. And Emma’s tired.”

  A moment later, Atwater walked in. “I thought I saw you come in here,” he said to Marshall. Then he turned to Minnie, who was going over a silver cup with a soft cloth. “We need a kitchen towel,” Atwater said. “We�
�ve had a spill.”

  “Yassuh.”

  “You don’t have to ‘sir’ me,” Atwater said. “I don’t believe in any of that stuff. I’m all for tolerance. Integration now, that’s me.”

  Minnie simply stared back at him. “Yassuh,” she said. Then she produced a hand towel and took a step toward him. “Where is this mess you wont cleaned up?”

  “Oh, I’ll do it,” Atwater said.

  But she held the towel back from him. “Na, suh. This is my woik. Where is it?”

  Atwater led the way out.

  Emma stood. “Take me in to say good-bye to Alice.”

  “She’s opening her gifts,” Marshall said.

  Emma reached for Albert’s hand, and made a gentle slapping motion into the palm of it. Albert started out of the room with her. “We’ll just say our good-byes,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

  Marshall watched them go. And then he was alone. He looked at the windows, saw the light from an outbuilding on the far side of the yard. The light shone through the merest reflection of himself. A half-moon was sailing over the tops of the trees. Then, out there, in the cold yard, he saw Mr. D’Allessandro walk into view. Mr. D’Allessandro stood with his hands over his eyes, as though to shield them from blinding light. His shirt was pulled out, and the wind had picked his hair up. He looked hurt. He seemed to falter, his hands dropping to his sides. Marshall opened the door, pushed the screen out, and stepped down off the stoop. He looked back at the lighted windows of the house, the brightness there. By the time his eyes were accustomed to the dark, Mr. D’Allessandro was gone.

  “Mr. D’Allessandro?” he said. “Sir?”

  Silence. A little, chilly breeze stirring in the rustling branches. Down the driveway, through the hedge that bordered that end of the property, some people were getting into a car. He thought he heard a man’s laughter.

  “Hello?”

  Car doors slammed. The engine caught, the car pulled away into the night.

  Marshall went back in among the guests. Some people were out on the side porch, laughing and singing. Others had gone out to stand on the stoop and look at the sky. At one point, standing in the arched entryway to the porch, he came face-to-face with Alice’s father, who took hold of his arm above the elbow, leaning close. “Listen. You want to marry my daughter?”

  “Yes—yes, sir.”

  “You’re not messing around?”

  “No.” The younger man’s voice caught and struck the falsetto note. He faked a cough and said again, “No.”

  “It’s not just so you can get Mitch for that school?”

  “Oh,” Marshall said. “Oh, no. No. No, sir. We’d already—I asked Alice before that happened—before I knew about it—” Mr. Kane’s grip was tightening on his arm. “I swear to you, sir. It’s—I’m gonna marry her. Really.”

  “You love her.”

  Marshall nodded. He could not have spoken now if he wanted to.

  “Okay, well, I want you to understand something. You listening good?”

  Again, the young man nodded.

  “I’ve killed better men than you,” Mr. Kane said, also nodding. “You know what I’m saying, son? I’ve shot men dead. Tough, hardened soldiers with a history of brutal behavior. Germans. Veterans of war. And I shot them dead, or ran them through with a bayonet. It happened. You understand me? I don’t want my little girl to get hurt.” He smiled, as though what he had said were a witticism. Then he murmured, “Excuse me,” and moved through to the other room.

  Marshall went shakily back to the kitchen, where he encountered Minnie and the young man, Stephen, to whom he had been introduced earlier. They were sitting at the table drinking coffee.

  “H’lo,” Minnie said, rising. “You look lak you’re a little green around the gills. Lemme git you sonthin’.”

  “No, ma’am,” Marshall said. “I’m fine.”

  “You sho?”

  He nodded.

  She sat back down. There was a fluidity to her motions that seemed incongruous for someone as big as she was. She nodded at Stephen, who leaned toward her across the table and said something low, then sat back again. They smiled at the young man. The two of them seemed to be waiting for him to leave. He felt that things had gotten beyond him somehow, and he was bungling in trying to catch up. He said, “Quite a party,” wanting to talk.

  “Sho is,” said Minnie without enthusiasm.

  “Minnie’s friend passed, recently,” Stephen said. “It’s her service, tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” said Marshall. “I heard. I’m so sorry.”

  “She lived a full, long life,” the other said in the tone of someone trying to ease a shock. “Eva was born into slavery, wasn’t she, Miss Minnie?”

  “Yes she was. One of the fus’ things she evah remembuh is Yankees on the poach, when she lived in Winchester in 1864. Whud’n nothin’ but six yeahs old at the time. She used to tell about that. How she got scared and run. She talked about that the day she passed. One hundred six yeahs old, too. Seem lak that mem’ry was clearuh than some things.”

  “She must’ve been a wonderful person,” Marshall said.

  Stephen put his cup down and stood. “Thanks for the coffee, Miss Minnie.”

  “Yassuh.”

  He looked at Marshall. “See you.”

  When he was gone, the big woman got to her feet and held onto the back of the chair for a moment. Then she moved briskly to the sink, and turned on the tap. Marshall stepped to her side. “Can I help?”

  She stared at him.

  “You wash and I’ll dry.”

  “Ain’t you the groom, honey?”

  “Yes,” he said, remembering.

  “You betta git on out there, han’t you?”

  “Alice is opening her gifts,” he said.

  “This ain’t no place for you, honey. You g’on, na. Don’t be gittin’ in Minnie’s way.”

  He hesitated a moment.

  “G’on, na.” She stepped into his place and edged him aside with a massive elbow. And when she looked at him, her eyes were fierce, fixed on him out of a frown, a lowered brow. Her big nostrils flared. “Git. I got enough to worry about. You done found your way in enough as it is, all of you. Git on witchya, na.”

  He went out, chastened, still more flustered. He thought he might even be sick. He had been trying to be friendly, had been wrong about something, and he couldn’t understand what it was. Surely he had not meant his gesture the way Atwater had meant his; he was accustomed to helping his mother in the kitchen. He had merely wanted the feel of ordinary work, to calm himself. And he had wanted to help if he could, with the grief over the lost friend, Eva.

  Out in the other room, Alice was still tearing at packages. He waited by the doorway until she had opened the last one, his own. He looked around for his mother, for Atwater. Albert and Emma had apparently gone home.

  Later, Alice’s father and another man helped Mitchell Brightman upstairs to bed. He was spending the night, Alice said in a low voice, because he was about to pass out anyway. The party was breaking up. She asked Marshall to wait for her, though Atwater and Loretta were in their coats and standing by the front door. She went upstairs, following her father and the two men, and she was gone several minutes. When she came back down, she put her arms around Marshall’s neck and kissed him on the mouth. The force of her slight body suddenly pressing against him almost caused him to fall. He staggered back against the frame of the entryway, and put his arms around her. He was aware of all these others, including his mother, watching. When he thought of her father, he tightened his hold.

  “I’ll pick you up around ten,” Alice murmured in his ear. “Dress up nice. Church nice, okay? A tie and jacket. Something dark. Black, if you have it. Albert’s going, too.”

  “Walter,” said his mother. “Please.”

  Alice walked over and hugged her. “I just know we’re going to be great pals,” she said.

  Loretta smiled, but her eyes were troubled. Marshall
knew the look.

  “Good night,” Alice said. “Mom.”

  “Call me Loretta.”

  “Good night, Loretta.”

  “Good night—” Marshall’s mother paused. “Dear. Tell your father we said good night.”

  Out in the dark, walking to the car, Mr. Atwater said, “That Brightman’s just a mouthpiece, if you ask me. I don’t think he’s read Toynbee.”

  The other two said nothing.

  When they pulled in front of the apartment building, he said, “I’d like some coffee.”

  “Not tonight,” Loretta said. She got out of the car, and held onto the door frame for a moment. The blinking neon on the roof illuminated her in a weird, red-and-yellow glow. Marshall walked around the car and took her arm at the elbow.

  “Little dizzy,” she said.

  “That’s my job,” said Atwater, shouldering Marshall aside.

  “Clark, I wish you’d go on home now,” she said. “Please.”

  “I need some coffee, L’retta. I can’t drive home like this.”

  She sighed. “Okay.”

  “Wait,” Marshall said. “Just a minute.”

  His mother put one hand on his chest. And then the three of them moved a few feet along the sidewalk in front of the building. Atwater leaned on the boy, pushing him away. “This is goddamn ridiculous,” he said. “Pardon my French.”

  “We’re fine, Walter,” said Loretta. “Go on in. We’ll—I’ll just be a minute.”

  “We’re all going in,” Atwater said.

  “Go on, Walter.”

  He went on in to the lobby, and up the stairs, and when he entered the apartment he hurried to the window and looked out. He could see the car and the empty street, but nothing much else. They were standing too close to the building for him to be able to make them out. He could hear Atwater’s voice, but couldn’t distinguish words. There was anger in it, though, and a kind of smugness, too, as though this tone were not under any circumstances to be found wanting or inappropriate. He opened the window and called out, “Mom?”