Damnation of Adam Blessing

by Packer, Vin

  • • •

  During the second beer, Adam got a marvellous idea. Why didn’t restaurants instead of having menus and dozens of waiters, work out a master electronic selector? It could operate the way a jukebox did. One could sit at the table, punch “Sauerbraten” or “Alpenragout” and have it recorded mechanically in the kitchen, at the same time the price was tabulated automatically on a check. Waiters would only be needed to serve the food.

  Charity seemed impressed. At least she was quiet and did not try to change the subject; she smiled and enthused, and Adam had a third beer while he waited for the wine list. He began to tell her all his ideas.

  In the midst of his description of DO OR DIET, the waiter brought the wine list. It annoyed Adam. Waiters were always fast when you wanted them to be slow, and slow when you were in a hurry. Adam chose a Beaujolais, with instructions to chill it. He added an aside to Charity that Beaujolais and Swiss Dole were the only red wines that could be profitably chilled…. Adam was continuing with his explanation of the game he had invented when he realized the waiter was lingering. “Well?” said Adam.

  “The lady is having Savannah Shad and you’re having the duck?” Adam nodded.

  The waiter pointed out that a cold Moselle might be preferable.

  Adam’s heart began pounding.

  “I think he’s right, Adam,” said Charity.

  Then suddenly Adam regained his composure. Still, Adam was invulnerable; still he had hold. He very graciously instructed the waiter to bring whatever wine the waiter thought best. He used the word “indubitably;” indubitably the waiter knew wines better than Adam did. Charity was smiling and the waiter was smiling, and Adam began to smile too. He handed the wine list back with a flourish.

  During dinner, Charity only played with her glass of wine. Adam no longer minded that she did not drink. It meant more for him, and he had the whole bottle, save for the tiny amount in her glass. He felt wildly happy and expansive. He said that tomorrow he was going to offer the Howard Johnson chain his idea for an electronic menu. He said he even knew a way to help finance the project, and the idea for this came as he talked. He would call on Luther Schneider, the head of Waverly Foods. A deal could be worked whereby Schneider would pay for the installation of the machine, if Howard Johnson’s allowed Waverly to print across the machine’s top that Waverly Foods were served. It would mean business for both, he told Charity, and as he told her this he realized he had not even finished his duck, and the bottle of wine was empty. He called for another beer then changed the order to another bottle of Moselle.

  Charity was frowning slightly. Adam reassured her. It was one of those nights when his liquor simply did not affect him.

  “But let’s talk about you!” he said. He leaned back, no longer interested in eating the rest of the duck. “What are your summer plans?”

  “I’m going to Europe,” she said. “Very soon.”

  It was a surprise to Adam, but on this fantastic evening nothing daunted him.

  “I’ll go along,” he said. “Where will we go? Rome is a bore, so let’s not go there.”

  She laughed. He did not like that laugh. He asked her what she was laughing at, and she said she was not laughing at anything. “I mean it,” he said. He did, too. He would sell the Stammbuch tomorrow. He would let his helper run “The Mart” for the summer. It was his Stammbuch; it was his business, for that matter; he could do with The Mart what he pleased.

  “Have you ever been to Europe, Adam?”

  “Not because I couldn’t afford to go,” he said.

  The waiter opened the second bottle of Moselle. Adam asked him if he had chilled it. The waiter smiled and nodded. Adam said to Charity: “Beaujolais and Swiss Dole are the only red wines that can be profitably chilled.”

  “Don’t you want some coffee, Adam?”

  Adam said, “Certainly! After dinner!”

  A party at the table opposite them were smiling. Adam smiled back, giving a smart little salute with his right hand.

  Adam said, “In Europe we’ll look Billy up! Won’t he be surprised!”

  “I dare say,” said Charity. Then she said, “Adam, it’s very late and I’m tired.”

  “Be glad you’re a rich girl,” said Adam. “You don’t have to go to work tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday, Adam.”

  “All the more reason for celebrating,” said Adam. “It’s Saturday night.”

  As he said the words “Saturday night,” something seemed to want to occur to Adam, but nothing did. He reached for the neck of the wine bottle and poured himself another glass. Some of the wine splashed onto the tablecloth.

  Adam said, “It’s the waiter’s job to pour the wine. This fellow’s not working very hard, is he?”

  Suddenly Adam realized that Charity was calling the waiter.

  “Look,” Adam said, “I didn’t mean to criticize him. I’m perfectly able to pour the wine. Let him alone. Let’s talk about our trip! We might even start off at Klatz, hmmm?”

  Charity persisted in calling the waiter. Adam was pleased that she was looking out for him, trying to please him. He said, “It’s very nice of you, but maybe the fellow’s had a hard day. Sunday’s busy in Luchow’s, and tomorrow’s another new week. Let him be, Charity.”

  Adam sipped his wine. He liked the idea of starting off their European jaunt in Klatz. They could drive to Geneva and visit Marshall Bollin. Adam made a mental note to learn to drive a car before they sailed.

  When the waiter finally appeared, he presented Charity with the check.

  Adam said, “Good God, this fellow really is falling down on the job!” He reached across and took the check from the table.

  Charity said, “Pay it, Adam. And then let’s go!”

  Adam couldn’t blame her. A bad waiter could ruin everything. Adam hated to leave a half-full bottle of wine, but Charity was right. He should pay up and leave, and not bother to tip either. It did not have to mean the evening was over. They were very near Greenwich Village. They could go to some nice bar and have a brandy.

  “I’ll take care of everything,” he smiled at Charity. “Don’t let him upset you.”

  The waiter’s handwriting was sloppy, and Adam had difficulty reading it. The t bars slanted downward and there were breaks in the lower sections of his o’s.

  Adam said, “He’s not only lazy, he’s dishonest. You should see this writing, Charity.”

  “Never mind it, Adam, please. Let’s go!”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Adam said. Again the people at the opposite table smiled, and again Adam smiled back and gave another salute. They seemed to like him immensely. If the waiter had not been so irresponsible, Adam might well have asked them to join Charity and himself in a round of drinks.

  When Adam reached for his wallet, it was gone. He searched all his pockets, twice. He said, “That does it!”

  “Don’t shout, Adam!”

  “I don’t mind a lazy waiter,” said Adam, “but I’ll not tolerate a thief!” “Adam, please!”

  Adam said, “He stole my wallet, Charity! I can’t stand for that!”

  “He didn’t steal your wallet. You must have it.”

  “I don’t! That’s all there is to it!”

  Charity looked angry. Again, Adam could not blame her. She said, “Wait a minute,” and left the table. By rights, Adam knew he should go with her while she complained to the management, but he had a rather dizzy sensation. The wine was probably inferior, he decided. Bad whisky could do the same thing. He sampled a bit more of the wine. He felt so dizzy that he had to steady one hand with the other as he raised the glass to his lips. Some of the wine spilled onto his shirt. He saw the people at the next table watching him.

  “Bad wine!” he called. “Poison! And my wallet stolen in the deal.”

  “Poor thing!” one of the women said to the man beside her. It was nice of the woman to sympathize. They were all nice people.

  “Thank you,” Adam cried out.
“It’s a good thing to know people care!”

  He had more of the wine, holding it in his right hand, which was steadied by his right elbow leaning on the table. With his left hand he propped up his right arm, pushing the glass toward his mouth. Then the glass fell out of his hand, and the wine spilled all over his shirt, his suit, and the tablecloth. Another waiter — not his own — came hustling across the room.

  “Ask my waiter to bring me another glass!” said Adam.

  “If you’ll come with me you can talk to your waiter,” said the other waiter.

  Adam shook his head from side to side with amazement.

  What kind of a place was it where the customers went to the waiters!

  “Come on, sir!” the other waiter said. He had Adam’s arm and he was actually trying to pull Adam to his feet. Adam felt very sad for the people at the next table. They would be treated the same way, no doubt, and they were nice people. Adam stood up, leaning against the other waiter.

  “What kind of a place is this?” he said to the whole room. “You don’t deserve this! Hang on to your wallets!”

  The nice woman at the next table looked very sad. Adam wanted to comfort her. He tried to walk across to her, but the waiter pulled him back. Adam called to her: “Don’t stay here! Look what’s happening to me!”

  Tears were suddenly streaming down his cheeks. They were all such nice people, all duped too. “Look at the handwriting,” Adam said. He wanted to explain it, to tell them all to notice their waiters’ handwritings, but he felt too tired now, and the waiter was stronger; the waiter was propelling him out of the room.

  His own waiter was waiting at the EXIT with a man in a dark suit. The manager? … Adam pointed his finger at the man. “My wallet! I can’t pay until the waiter gives it back.”

  “The lady has settled already, sir,” said the man. “Good night, sir.”

  “The lady?” Adam said. What lady? The one at the next table who had smiled? Adam wanted to thank her, but the man in the dark suit had already opened the door, and Adam walked into the fresh air like a newly-freed prisoner.

  “Here’s the cab money she left for him,” a voice said behind him.

  Adam stood in the clean cool night. He saw his waiter out in the street trying to hail a taxi. He was making a get-away, Adam decided, and he had Adam’s wallet with him. Adam began to cry again. Didn’t anyone care that there were thieves loose in the world? He asked some of the people who passed him there on Fourteenth Street, but they only laughed, and the more they laughed, the more Adam wept.

  10

  Klatz, Switzerland

  Dear Addie,

  Father died last night. It came as a shock since he was doing so nicely when I left him yesterday afternoon. It was his desire to be buried wherever he died (you know how father hated fuss) so I am arranging a service for him in Geneva. Mother is flying here for it. There is no more to say on the subject, I guess. Please skip the usual sympathy note, since like father I agree that these things should pass with a minimum of ceremony.

  What I am really writing to you about is Charity Cadwallader. You may have gathered that at one time Charity and I were rather close. I had intended to break off our relationship at the end of the summer, even before I left for Europe. Father’s illness necessitated a sudden, and perhaps premature, break-up. I am fond of Charity, God knows, but we are two people who simply cannot “work things out.” The suddenness of our very necessary split may prompt Charity to do something she would be sorry for later. I think she is quite hurt by the whole thing; even slightly antagonistic toward me. I do not expect you to understand this fully, since it is a most delicate and complicated involvement between two difficult people. However, I want to suggest that Charity might bring you into the matter as a way of getting even with me. She knows of our relationship as children, and she may misinterpret it to think I would be enraged were she to see you. Nothing could be more untrue. She can see whomever she pleases. However, it is only fair to warn you that her reasons for seeing you might have more to do with me than with you…. Don’t take this the wrong way, Addie. If I were in your situation, I would want to know the facts. Thus, my openness.

  Charity has been seeing a psychoanalyst for years! I would not call her a bona fide neurotic, but neither is she a normal carefree young lady. She is a far cry from the girl you were with the night we all met, for example. She has none of that simplicity, nor any of that “above-board” honesty. In addition, she comes from a very good family, probably an overly-permissive family, which makes her a bit spoiled. But her family can trace their ancestry back to the Mayflower (no kidding either, Addie) and I hope you know what that means in terms of anyone they would accept as a proper young man for Charity…. I don’t care about such things, but again — were I in your shoes, I would like to know the facts.

  God knows I would be the last person to try and run down “Chary,” but she is not what she seems to be. She is a very “mixed-up kid” who cannot use any more complications in her life. It is for this reason also that I ask you to consider all this. One of the many things I’ve always admired about you, Addie, is the fact you do not try to push in where you do not fit. Don’t take that the wrong way. I mean it as a friend of long standing. I think very highly of you, or I would not have left you in my apartment where you have access to all my things.

  I’ll be here at least another ten days. The big news from here is the kidnapping, of course, but with father’s illness and now his death, I have little time to be interested in anything else.

  Yours,

  Billy.

  P.S. I am in need of my poodle-shaped cuff links. Be sure and insure them as they are very expensive.

  Adam had no clothes on when he woke up Sunday noon. The thin Airmail Special was wadded up in his hand like a dirty tissue, so he did not pay it any attention right away. It had been pushed under his door last night. He had read it when he returned to Billy’s apartment, but he did not remember it. He did not remember anything — not immediately. He lay on his stomach, his face in the pillow, his hands and wrists under the pillow. Columns of sunlight striped his back and his buttocks, and he could tell by the smell of everything that it was a very hot May day, no breeze and muggy.

  • • •

  It took him several long seconds to discover where he was and what day it was; then a few more such seconds to realize how he felt. Gradually, painfully, his memory began the play-back of last night. As far as it went, it was a faithful reproduction, but it ended with the waiter bringing a second bottle of wine. The rest was sketchy. His wallet had been stolen. Charity had complained to the management. A woman at the next table had paid the bill. He was not certain about any of it. He could not even remember taking Charity home, nor could he recall his arrival at Billy’s. Here he was at any rate, so he must have seen her home, too; he had no recollection of an argument either. So far, so good.

  • • •

  A dream. Billy’s father had died. Billy had told him to leave Charity alone. Or had Billy called him? A ringing phone seemed to stick in his memory; ringing, ringing, and he had not been able to pull himself from bed and answer it…. Was that right? He lay there thinking about it until his thirst became unbearable.

  When he sat up, he saw his clothes strewn about the bedroom. Beside the night table, on one of the Etruscan chairs, was his wallet. He took that in at the same time he felt the wad of thin airmail paper balled up in his fist. His wallet had not been stolen after all, but he distinctly remembered … never mind. The letter next. Geneva postmark.

  • • •

  For twenty-five minutes he was sick in the bathroom. In between bouts of nausea, Adam sat on the top of the toilet cover, holding his head with his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. He could feel nothing about Marshall Bollin’s death, only rage at Billy. In his mind he composed several letters to Billy. I’ll-do-as-I-please letters and Who-do-you-think-you-are! letters. One of them said: “Of course I won’t write you a sympathy note conce
rning your father. What a break for him to have you eternally out of his sight! I would rather write him a note of congratulations! … Another said that Charity Cadwallader, for all her “alleged” fabulous ancestry, had come to Adam offering her wares in the venerable tradition of any common whore…. After his sickness subsided, Adam got up and made himself an Alka-Seltzer. While he watched the bubbles, waiting for the tablets to dissolve, he composed another letter. Short, subtle, designed to infuriate Billy. In it he said he felt he could handle Charity; in fact, they would probably travel through Europe together this summer.

  • • •

  He did not even bother to dress. He sat naked at Billy’s tambour desk, scratching the words across a piece of Billy’s stationery, using Billy’s quill pen. The phone interrupted him; a girl’s voice. He did not recognize it.

  “Yes, this is Adam. Who’s this?”

  “Eloise Siden, remember?”