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

by Richard Bausch

  I didn’t want to hurt anyone, Father.

  Agh. Ah. Hah, hah. Excuse me. Interesting way to go about it.

  Father?

  Listen, son, just try to be as truthful and as charitable as possible with everyone. And try to remember that one thing you really can’t do is marry both of these young women. And that you’ll do much more harm if you marry any girl without loving her. You say you love this woman—

  Which one, Father?

  You know, I no longer have the slightest idea which one. Do you love either one?

  I don’t KNOW.

  Well, then—is it your usual practice to go around asking girls to marry you?

  No, Father.

  You understand that people don’t ask other people to marry them unless they’re in love—usually, anyway, these—these days. Ah.

  Yes, Father.

  Well, so—did you love your fiancée when you asked her? The first one.

  I don’t know if I did. I like her. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  Who—where did you learn that asking a person to marry you—that’s how you protect somebody’s feelings? Son, that isn’t the way the Western world is set up, you know.

  Yes, Father.

  Let me get this straight—you asked one girl to marry you to spare her feelings, and now you’ve found you’re interested in someone else. Is that an accurate description of the mess you’re in?

  Well, I don’t even really know her that well, Father. But I think so, yes.

  Is this other person interested in you?

  She said she’d marry me.

  Oh, yes. Quite. I don’t know how I could’ve let that slip my mind.

  I went to see this other person, Father, and I think about her a lot. And I know it would upset my—the first one.

  Your initial—your fiancée.

  Yes, Father.

  Well, of course. That seems clear.

  I’m sorry, Father. I wanted to tell her about it, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

  You didn’t want to hurt any feelings.

  She’s counting on it, Father. She doesn’t have any idea.

  And you think it’ll hurt her too much to deprive her of yourself.

  No, Father—that isn’t it. It’s what she says. The expressions on her face—I do like her—

  Look, do you have any time to figure this all out for yourself? When’re you supposed to be married? You haven’t—you haven’t set dates for these marriages?

  The date—there’s no date set quite yet.

  For either one?

  Right.

  Does anyone else know about these engagements?

  My mother does about the first one. And her father does.

  The first one’s father?

  Yes, Father. He threatened me.

  He what?

  Threatened me. About his daughter. I haven’t let that affect me, though.

  You haven’t—agh. Hah. Uh—excuse me again.

  It doesn’t have anything to do with it, Father. I’m sorry. I just wanted to give you the whole picture—

  Son—

  Father?

  Never mind. Hold on a second. I have this cough—ah. Listen. Ah, look—just try to be as charitable and truthful as you can in all your dealings with people, especially people you say you—ah—love. These sorts of problems can change overnight. Now, is there anything else you have to confess?

  I don’t like my mother’s fiancé. I have uncharitable feelings about him.

  Your mother has a fiancé, too?

  Yes, Father. And I have bad feelings about him.

  Do you act on those feelings?

  I’ve been cool to him, yes.

  Anything else?

  No, Father.

  Try to be charitable.

  Yes, Father.

  For your penance—

  Should I keep telling my mother when I have these feelings, Father?

  I don’t think so. It wouldn’t really do any good, would it?

  But if she asks me. Should I lie to her? Wouldn’t that be a sin?

  Don’t volunteer anything.

  And if she asks?

  Be honest but charitable. Perhaps you should examine your feelings toward this man.

  I can’t stand being around him, Father.

  Maybe you should work on it, for your mother’s sake.

  Yes, Father. Should I tell my mother I’ll work on it?

  Not unless she asks. Now, for your penance say a rosary, and ask the Blessed Virgin for guidance. And try to be a little more cautious about what you say to people.

  Alice didn’t call Monday night. Tuesday and Wednesday she wasn’t at work. He spent the lunch hour Wednesday deciding to call her, and then changing his mind about it; he did not want to risk getting her father on the line. So he waited for her to call, and when she did, late that afternoon, she seemed angry with him.

  “Don’t you care what’s going on?” she said.

  “Alice, you said not to call you.”

  “I meant the other night.”

  Now, he was irritated. “Well, how was I supposed to know that?” She was silent just long enough for him to feel sorry again. “Alice,” he said. “Look—”

  “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

  “No,” he said quickly, with a sense of capitulation and cowardice.

  “I took time off to be with Minnie.”

  “How is she?”

  “Oh,” Alice said, “she’s just the same.” She began to cry again.

  “I’ll pray for her,” he said.

  “Walter?”

  “Yes.”

  “I feel like everything’s falling apart.”

  “It’ll be all right,” he told her.

  Mr. Wolfschmidt would not let him go early, so it was growing dark by the time he got off work, and headed up to the school. He had no time to stop and eat, or to visit Saint Matthew’s. He hurried past the stores with their pictures of Kennedy at work, and the wind stung him. The very air seemed inimical, loaded with judgment. Leaves swirled under the lamps and seemed to skitter, as though alive, across the surface of the road. He breathed the odor of diesel exhaust fumes and the raw dust of the city and thought of the sulphurous air of hell. On one corner of Eighteenth Street, a black man sat with a cup in one hand and a bundle of clothes in another. He rattled the cup at Marshall and said, “Caught short, sir.”

  Marshall had a ten and a twenty in his pocket. He gave the man the twenty.

  “Thankee, sir.”

  He walked on a few paces, then had the thought that the money was a kind of payoff, a ransom to keep from having to deal with the man in any other way, in the way of a true Christian. He walked back, and the man impassively watched him come. Walter got down on his haunches and looked out at the street, the people hurrying by.

  “Chilly night,” he said.

  “You wont it back?” the man said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “The fuck’n money. You wont it back?”

  “Oh. No, sir.”

  “Well, it don’t buy you the right to mess with me, either.”

  “No, sir,” Marshall said. “I’m not going to mess with you at all.”

  “Well,” the man said, “what you wont wid me, then?”

  “Nothing,” Marshall said. “Nothing at all. Just—passing the time.”

  “Well, pass it somewhere else,” the man said. “I ain’t in no talkin’ mood. You did good, and you can leave it that way. You wont your money back?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I thankee. Now go on.”

  Marshall stood.

  “Git.”

  “Yes, sir.” He walked on in the stinging wind, discouraged, fighting the sense of the futility of every hope and intention, filled with chagrin and confusion.

  At the school, gloriously lighted in the window, the embodiment of his most selfish wish, Natalie Bowman sat with her big book on her lap—Shakespeare. Seeing him, she waved, saying som
ething he couldn’t hear through the glass, then came to the entrance of the little library to greet him.

  “Your face is purple,” she said.

  “The first really cold night.”

  “You’re late.” She didn’t wait for an answer, kissing him on the mouth, her arms resting softly on his shoulders. He put his arms around her and tried to keep from dropping to his knees.

  She said, “An un-gentle man is never nervous.”

  “Natalie—” he breathed.

  “I know,” she said. “I cannot go for a drink after class because I have to study.” She stepped back and folded her arms under her breasts and seemed to study him. “Maybe one drink.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  She gave a small, thrilling laugh. “Maybe I vill tell you my life story.”

  “We could do that.”

  “Have you told anyone about us?”

  “Not yet—”

  “I have told Mrs. D’Allessandro that we are going together.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “She didn’t look too happy.”

  He was at a loss.

  “I’ll be here.” She smiled, then reached over and touched the tip of his nose. “I hope you get some other color in your face before then. You look embarrassed.”

  “It’s the cold,” he insisted.

  “I know.” She turned and started back into the room, her dark hair swinging across the middle of her back.

  He had a strange, breathless sense of unreality, a kind of practical disbelief; he almost pinched himself. In the radio school, he found Mr. D’Allessandro’s office door open, his coat hung across the desk chair. The others were already engaged in the evening’s work. Albert was reading a commercial about a restaurant. Mrs. Gordon was sitting on a stool with a headset on, getting ready to do the news. She glanced at Marshall with a reprimanding expression, then returned to her work. Ricky Dalmas sat in a ladder-backed chair against the wall behind her. Joe Baker was in the engineering booth, working the console. The new student, Wilbur Soames, stood with Martin Alvarez behind Baker, quietly talking. When Marshall entered the sound booth, Baker said, “D’Allessandro wondered if you were going to skip tonight.”

  “Where is he?”

  Baker shrugged.

  Albert’s voice was in the speakers. “I’m probably not pronouncing this right, but in a minute, after the news, we’ll have some of the music of Pro-ko-feef.”

  Baker turned it down a little and put on earphones. “I understand we got the cathedral. This thing is shaping up to be some night.”

  Martin Alvarez said, “Congratulations, mun.”

  “I don’t know,” Marshall said.

  “D’Allessandro’s all excited,” said Baker. “You’d think he’d landed Edward R. Murrow himself.”

  “D’Allessandro’s learning about showbiz,” Wilbur Soames said. He was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. He wore a gray suit with no tie. His white shirt was open at the collar and the darker coils of hair on his dark chest showed. The whiteness of the shirt made his skin seem even blacker than it was. Nodding at Marshall, he said, “I hear you had some trouble.”

  “Did Albert tell you?”

  He nodded. Then, “It was on the six o’clock news, man.”

  “It was? We were on television?”

  Soames was amused. “They didn’t get any footage of you, no.”

  “We almost got killed. Did you see Albert’s face?”

  Soames took his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms, leaning against the wall again. “Well, I guess it turns out the Civil Rights bill hasn’t quite gone into effect in some places.”

  “You should’ve been there,” Marshall told him.

  “No, thanks. I said before, I’m all through with that.”

  “I don’t understand how you can say such a thing.”

  Soames leaned toward him; it was almost aggressive. “Easy.”

  Alvarez made a clicking noise with his mouth, shaking his head. “Right here in the capital, mun.”

  Dalmas had risen on the other side of the glass, and was holding up a piece of paper to indicate that he was ready to read his commercial.

  “Oh, good,” Baker said. “Wilbur, dig this.” He put the switch on so Dalmas could hear. “Okay, Ricky, take it away.”

  Ricky said, “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.”

  “What the hell’re you doing?” Baker said.

  “I’m helping you set my level.”

  “You’re fine,” Baker said. “Damn.”

  They waited. Baker flicked the switch, so Dalmas couldn’t hear him. “Don’t miss this, Wilbur,” he said without looking back at Soames.

  “I’m listening,” Soames said.

  “You want me to start?” Dalmas said.

  “Yeah. Right now,” said Baker, signaling him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, baldness happens to the best of us, and there’s no reason to make bald jokes about it and laugh about people like that Buddy does to poor Mel Cooley on The Dick Van Dyke Show. There’s no reason to call people ‘baldy’ or ‘skinhead’ or ‘billiard ball.’ But for those who do, there’s something to make the whole thing easier on yourself. Call Don’s Hair Salon, where bald people have been going for years…”

  Soames laughed as Baker put his head down on his arms.

  “You shouldn’t laugh at him,” said Marshall.

  “You’re feeling virtuous,” Soames murmured. “That can be a bit intoxicating, I guess, huh? But it’s unhealthy to be too serious about it, you know what I mean?”

  “It’s a very serious thing,” Marshall said.

  “This boy’s religious,” said Baker. “He was gonna be a priest for a while.”

  “A priest, huh. Well, that is pretty religious.” Soames patted the young man on the back. “Just playing with you, there, Walter, boy.”

  Marshall looked at him.

  “That’s all right, man. Really, I understand.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Marshall said.

  Soames laughed. “I’m not that complicated, believe me.”

  Baker had put music on.

  “What an operation,” Alvarez said, going out.

  Soames nudged Marshall’s arm and said, “You think I ought to be out there with those folks because I’m colored, don’t you?”

  “No,” Marshall said.

  “Hell—sure you do. It’s okay if you do, man. But, listen, I don’t do anything for that reason anymore. It doesn’t follow that just because my mother made a habit of staying out in the sun I’m going to be there in the street getting the shit kicked out of me by the police. I’m Wilbur Soames, first. Me. You know? You ever read a book called The Invisible Man?”

  “Sure,” Marshall said.

  “Not H. G. Wells,” said Soames.

  Marshall was silent.

  “I’m talking about Ralph Ellison,” Soames went on. “And, well, I’ve decided to demand that I have the luxury of my identity—without having to tie it to everybody else whose mother made a habit of staying out in the sun, and without having to live up to anybody else’s idea of me and what my needs and interests are. You see? I don’t feel it’s all that healthy for me to have to spend my whole life according to anybody’s idea. You understand?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Marshall told him.

  “I can see it in your eyes,” the other said.

  Mr. D’Allessandro came in then, rattling his keys. “What’re you doing, Wilbur? Are you indoctrinating young Marshall, here?” He gave Marshall a look, which he quickly glossed over with that rictus-like smile.

  Soames also smiled. “In a manner of speaking. I don’t think I’m enough of a nigger for his taste.”

  “That’s not true,” Marshall said, sensing that he was far out of his element, and feeling the color rise to his face. “How can you say a thing like that?”
>
  Soames patted his shoulder. “Just messing with you, son. Your heart’s in the right place, and, man, not everybody’s is. Not everybody’s is.”

  “Wilbur likes to get under your skin,” Mr. D’Allessandro said. “So to speak. It’s the way he operates.”

  “He’s not a Freedom Rider,” Joe Baker said.

  “As a matter of unpleasant fact,” said Mr. D’Allessandro, “he was there. And he has the scars to prove it.”

  Soames leaned against the wall again, his arms folded, regarding Joe Baker, who shrugged and said, “Small world.”

  “I know—you were there, too,” Soames said. “You told me before. That was some bad time, and I remember thinking about how much I loved the guard. Man, I loved the guard that night.”

  Marshall broke in, addressing him. “You were part of it, then—you know.” He had meant to indicate that the other man understood, but then he couldn’t quite formulate for himself what the understanding was.

  “Yeah, well,” Soames said. “It was a while back.”

  “Is young Marshall trying to draft you into the movement?” D’Allessandro said.

  “Yes, massuh.”

  They all laughed, and the young man had the feeling there was something they were referring to that he had not been allowed to know or hear. Now D’Allessandro seemed to remember himself, stirring into motion. He went across to his office, and Mrs. Gordon made her way there, too. He closed the office door, then opened it again almost immediately. Mrs. Gordon appeared agitated, wiping her forehead with a napkin, her purse dangling from the crook of her arm. She went into the studio and gathered her coat, and Mr. D’Allessandro walked with her down to the foyer, then out. For a few minutes, there was just the sound of the music Albert had put on. Marshall looked at the others’ faces, wondering what they were thinking.

  “We’ll all be famous,” Wilbur Soames said, laughing. Joe Baker had murmured something to him. A moment later, D’Allessandro came back upstairs, exhibiting the pointless breeziness of a man who has managed to put something unpleasant behind him.

  “Mrs. Gordon hasn’t been—feeling well,” he said, not quite allowing himself to look at Marshall. “She’s—gone home. So.” He clapped his hands together. “We’ll have to go on without her. Let’s get cracking now. This is supposed to be a radio station.”

  The others took their places to continue the evening’s practice. D’Allessandro supervised this, bustling from the studio to the sound booth and back, and when things were settled, Soames at the console now, Baker and Dalmas in the studio at the microphones, he went into his office. Marshall followed. There was a cigar crushed out in the ashtray.