His Illegal Self

by Peter Carey

Did they give you the address of my apartment?

  I know your apartment, Mrs. Selkirk. Remember I worked for you.

  When you get to my age everyone has worked for you.

  What is it you want me to do?

  They’ve told you.

  Yes, broadly, Dial said, thinking, Oh please don’t piss me off too much.

  Very well, the old lady said. Would you please come to me tomorrow at 10:45. You must bring him back in sixty minutes.

  And that’s it, right? She thought, Must.

  Will you be asking for a fee?

  Oh please listen to yourself, she said. And returned the phone to the care of the Puritans. She could so easily not do this. She stood above the gritty artery of the BQE wondering why, of all the extraordinary things she could do in New York, she would waste her time this way.

  Well, there was the boy, but who would remember that she carried the weight of his squirming life from May until September 1966-cruel ear infections long ago, jagged teeth like shards of quartz attacking from inside, high fevers, cold baths, all the smells of cloves, shit, jasmine oil she mixed with Johnson & Johnson so he always smelled like a newly anointed prince. She had thought she loved him then.

  You’ll go with her to Bloomingdale’s, the tall one said, refusing to lean companionably across the rail. She wants to buy Susan a gift. You accompany her while she purchases it. Then you take the gift and you take the 6 train to Grand Central, then the shuttle, then walk through the passage to Port Authority. Susan will meet you both there.

  The number I called was in Philly.

  Yes. That’s right.

  I’m from Boston. I don’t know Port Authority.

  Just walk, Dial. OK? We’ll be watching you.

  Dial was mostly thinking, Wait till I tell Madeleine this. Madeleine was a Long Island Jew with a Communist father. Who else would understand these fucked-up feelings swelling in her breast right now, her scorn for the cashmere sweater, the guilty certainty that these joyless bank robbers were on the right side of the war.

  If not for me, then for the Movement, Susan Selkirk had said.

  Every time it got her, every goddamn time.

  7

  There was nothing in the Belvedere’s lobby she recognized from her long-ago visit-neither the loud checkerboard of marble tiles, nor the huge faux-Grecian vase. It had been May 1966, six years ago, a time when her speech was still thick with Boston. Today she remembered only what disappointing uses the Selkirk money had been put to-frumpy sofas and matching rosewood end tables. True, there had been a de Kooning on the living room wall, but she had been way too nervous to stare at it. The apartment generally suggested that there had not been a new idea in furniture design this century.

  She walked from the doorman to the elevator operator, arguing, with her big backpack and her stride, her perfect right to be there.

  The elevator man regarded her tits with what she thought of as her father’s dark DP eyes.

  Efharisto, she said.

  You’re welcome, the displaced person said, transferring his attention to the lights.

  As the elevator opened into the apartment she both met and remembered the incongruous smell of burned toast. The very small, very ordinary kitchen was partially visible in the hallway to the left. The Park Avenue sky was straight ahead, and the sun, at that time of morning, was so bright that it took her a moment to see the little creature, a glowing nimbus surrounding him, like a startled fox in a morning meadow.

  Hello, she said. Is that you?

  To her immense surprise he propelled himself toward her, and she, unprepared for six years of solid growth, was winded by the heft of him, the breadth of his chest, the weight of his bones, his dense needy secret life.

  You can’t possibly remember me, she cried, delighted, slipping free of her backpack.

  The boy did not reply, just hugged her like a terrific little animal, grinding his chin against her leg.

  Phoebe Selkirk had perhaps been there all the while, but it took a moment for Dial to become aware of her.

  The visitor made an unsuccessful attempt to separate from her admirer.

  Well-the older woman extended a hand-it appears we once again have the right person for the job.

  She had become old, and Dial, imagining she could feel the skeleton in her grip, released the hand abruptly and smiled too eagerly.

  Phoebe Selkirk seemed less confident, but she was of course still beautiful, with high cheekbones and strong steely gray hair which easily held the superficially simple cut-high on the nape, the long strong hair sweeping toward her perhaps overly determined jaw.

  Now! she said, and at this single command, the boy released his hold and, without looking back at Dial, ran down the hallway.

  Dial found herself saying how very pleased she was to come, realizing, with some astonishment, that she was perfectly sincere.

  The boy appeared again around the back of the bookshelf. The blue one? He smiled at her.

  With the zip, his grandmother said. That one.

  As he disappeared again the old lady extracted a brown paper bag from the bookshelf and pushed it hard at Dial.

  Take, take, Mrs. Selkirk ordered, quickly.

  Inside the bag Dial saw books, a card game, chocolate bars.

  Quick, take it.

  When Dial hesitated Mrs. Selkirk kneeled before the visitor’s backpack and unbuckled it.

  She’ll be late, she said, thrusting everything inside. She was never on time. He’ll need entertaining.

  Dial raised an eyebrow at her.

  Yes, the old lady acknowledged the reprimand. I’m a bully.

  Is this OK? the boy called.

  The sweater, a Cambridge blue, managed to produce an echoing blue among the interstices of his velvety gray eyes.

  You have lovely hair, Dial said, then felt foolish for saying something so fond.

  But he raised his chin at her as if inviting her to touch.

  The grandmother did not exactly smile, but there was that slight wavering of the lips and she combed her brown hands roughly through her own hair. Dial thought, It’s your hair he has. Good genes. The blue sweater was similarly privileged, the dense slightly greasy textures of New Zealand, the memory of many acres contained within its knit.

  Well, shall we go? said Mrs. Selkirk brightly, holding out her hand toward the boy and, at the same time, touching Dial lightly upon the elbow. In this and other small ways, Phoebe Selkirk showed herself to be well disposed toward Dial but it was impossible not to see, in the elevator, in the lobby, that she was suffering in some way. There was a sadness as she touched the boy on the shoulder, on his head, turned back the sleeve of his sweater from his wrists.

  This “play date,” she said, rolling her eyes at the term, is meant to be from twelve to one.

  Yes, I know.

  She’ll be late, so don’t get agitated.

  They said twelve.

  Trust me, she’ll be late. Just be back by two. Two-thirty even, that’s fine. I wish she would just come here, you know. She could have. Nothing would have happened. You tell her that. Hurry, these WALK signs only last a second.

  Dial was surprised to find herself wanting to display sympathy but she felt too indelicate to offer it, too coarse, like a rough mud doll beside something fine.

  She could have come to the apartment, Mrs. Selkirk continued, a little winded by her sprint across Park. The staff would die before they gave her up. They’ve known her all her life.

  This seemed a rather reckless notion, but Dial did not comment directly. She’s your daughter, she said, pleased that this could mean almost anything.

  Alas, she is, said Mrs. Selkirk. Her father’s daughter too.

  At Lex, the old lady had called the boy Jay for the first time. Dial had no issue with this. In fact she was all for it. She had always thought Che a ridiculous name, an indication of everything that was wrong with the so-called Movement. If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain’t going to make
it with anyone anyhow. But she was uncertain she had heard correctly. The next time she heard Che and when she asked the question about his name, in Bloomingdale’s, she did it quite innocently. Such were the barbs she triggered. It was as if she’d accidentally brushed a poison jellyfish.

  Dial was no longer a dirt poor scholarship girl. She did not have to take this shit. She was a Vassar professor, not that this old cow would know, or think to ask. Anna Xenos had her own temper issues and she would have enjoyed walking away, had it not been for this lovely little boy who presumably did not need more torture in his life. Dial looked at him with pity, observed his anxious hand stroking his grandma’s arm while the idiot bought Chanel. Dial would have been hard-pressed to imagine a purchase more perverse or willful-Chanel for a woman who named her child Che and her parents Class Enemies.

  With the wrapped gift clasped in her hands she looked directly into Dial’s eyes. For a moment she faltered, looking down at her gift, maybe seeing just what she had done. Then she shoved it violently at the messenger.

  You want me to call him Che in Bloomingdale’s.

  Dial thought, This woman has been driven mad by grief.

  At the door, she suddenly felt her arm snatched.

  Just go, Phoebe Selkirk hissed, go now. If anything happens to him, I’ll kill you.

  And with that Dial took the boy’s hand and ran, laughing hysterically. Jesus, she thought, as the backpack slammed against her spine. Jesus Christ, what would it be like to have Susan Selkirk as your daughter, a child who would burn down everything you owned, not least this perfect little boy with his perfect little boy legs, falling socks, banged-up shin and expensive sweater made from merino sheep, the face, the father’s face, dear Jesus.

  He looked at her adoringly, little glances, smiles. She thought how glorious it was to be loved, she, Dial, who was not loved by anyone. She felt herself just absorb this little boy, his small damp hand dissolving in her own.

  Walking out of breath along the passageway from Times Square to Port Authority a fellow freak came at them, smiling, long ringlets, badges across his denim jacket. He raised his hand to salute her.

  Was this a creep?

  When he slapped her hand she felt the slip of paper. How ridiculous was this.

  He was PL? the boy asked.

  Listen to you, she said. PL!

  You’re famous. I know all about you.

  No, no, not at all. I think you forgot me absolutely.

  She looked at the little creature. Darling parrot. What could he know of PL, fucking Maoists with cashmere sweaters, shouting men, the thirty-second orgasm.

  She uncurled the paper in her hand.

  What is it, Dial?

  Directions, baby.

  For what?

  She looked at his lifted eager face, realizing he had no idea what was about to happen. No one had told him a thing. These people with their fucking children, thrown here, dragged there, stolen by judges, given to grandmothers, holding her hand. It was not up to her to start his education. She did what she was told, found gate 10. A line had started to form and through the dark glass she could see a bus, the driver eating from a crumpled mess of silver foil.

  When’s the bus get in, she asked no one in particular.

  Don’t know nothing about no bus get in. This was a black man with his face cut by creases. He must have been seventy and the brand of the trumpet was marked clearly on his lips.

  Where are we going, Dial?

  This bus going to Philly, little man.

  Dial retreated across the busy corridor, and here she and the boy squatted, watching gates 9, 10, 11 through the moving forest of legs. The line at 10 grew longer. She was waiting, as predicted. She wanted to give him the chocolate, but who knew how long they would be here. And he seemed perfectly content, his little body pressed against her thigh.

  Do you have any idea what we’re waiting for?

  He ducked his head and looked down at his shoes. It’s very interesting, he said.

  She was still smiling when she recognized, at the end of the line, curved shoulders inside a London Fog. It was the sort of coat you find on Howard Street, folded beside power cords and shoes on the pavement.

  Stay here, she told the boy.

  The ugly sister of the revolution was waiting for her, thrusting an envelope at her as she arrived.

  Here.

  As Dial took the envelope, she felt the boy’s hand pulling on her dress. Across the hallway was her backpack, her purse, her Vassar letter, everything inside. She seized the boy’s shoulder. Stay here, she said fiercely. Do not move. By the time she was back the ugly sister had gone and the boy was offended with her.

  Jay, she said, her heart beating, you mustn’t leave the bag. That’s my purse.

  You hurt me, he said.

  Shit, she thought.

  She was looking at two round-trip tickets to Philadelphia.

  Shut up, Jay, she said.

  You called me Jay, he cried.

  Shut up. Just don’t talk now.

  You’re not allowed to say shut up.

  She was not going to fucking Philadelphia.

  Come here. She dragged him from the ticket line and into a narrow passage off the concourse. It stank. Smelled like someone was living here.

  The kid was acting up. She was trying to read the tickets. She was so stressed she almost overlooked the faint pencil in a childish hand. Change of plan. Mrs. Selkirk expects you to go to Ph and be back tonight. You will be reimbursed for expenses. There was a Philadelphia phone number.

  So she was to go to Philly. Like that. Well fuck them. Rich people. She was going to have dinner with Madeleine tonight.

  The passengers were boarding. She checked the tickets again. They would not be back at Port Authority until almost midnight. Is that how you treat your child, you spoiled rich cow.

  You cannot be a baby, she told the boy, squatting down in front of him so he would see she was serious. You’ve got to be a big boy.

  I’m only seven, he said. His lip was trembling. You’re not allowed to say shut up.

  OK. I’m sorry.

  Because you’re not meant to.

  OK. You’re right. She offered him her hand and he took it.

  Will you call me Che? he asked as she stood.

  Sure. Che. It’s a deal. But still he hesitated.

  What?

  Can I call you Mom?

  8

  A tree fell in Australia. The hippie car entered its crown, like a brick being forced into a shoe. Branches banged and broke beneath the tires and you could feel them spring up like busted bones or spikes and scrape beneath your bare feet on the floor.

  Stop! the mother cried.

  The boy grasped the front seat and peered over the driver’s rancid-butter shoulder. Leaves spun against the windshield like in a car wash, pouring rain. Then a jolt. He bit the seat and tasted blood. He saw a mighty branch, arched, white, bones showing through a skirt of leaves.

  Flying buttress, said the Rabbitoh, the one with long black hair.

  The mother was pressed against the boy, all tied up with worry. He could feel the heavy weight of the tree, pushing and groaning on the roof like a boat tied against a pier. The air was roaring, carrying inside its throat a clearer harder hammering. He wished they could go home.

  Trevor lit a joint, and as its flame ran halfway up its length, the boy saw him twist in his seat and offer it to the mother but her arms uncoiled from around her chest and she struck at it. She shouldn’t have.

  You’re getting high!

  Sparks rushed from her hand which she whacked against the seat. A second later she took the boy’s hand and rubbed it as if he had gotten on fire as well. She should be careful.

  Trevor quietly repaired his injured drugs. The boy could not tell if he was angry or not. He did not say a word but made a humming sound like Jed Schitcher who sold deer meat in the fall. Jed Schitcher’s name was on the packets in Grandma’s freezer but now the boy was thinking of J
ed’s skinning knife, him breathing through his mouth, the steaming blue-white stomach never seen by eyes before.

  I’ve got a kid here, the mother said.

  Hello kid, said Trevor. You’re with feral hippies, Trevor said. How does that feel, kid? His voice went high as he held the smoke.

  The boy did not like being teased.

  A branch dropped on the roof and the mother sort of squeaked.

  Number one rule, Trevor said, never pick up SMs.

  The boy did not know what SM meant, only that it must be rude to his mother or himself.

  You mean single mother, right? Dial asked.

  Trevor picked his teeth.

  Just take us to a shelter, OK?

  This is a shelter, said Trevor. There isn’t a better shelter than this.

  Please, the mother said. I know it is a drag for you. I’m sorry.

  I think you should take us to the town, said the boy.

  That made a great big hole of silence in the car. The boy waited with his heart banging in his ears. Then the engine started and Dial squeezed his hand real hard. The car scraped back out into the road. In a short time they got to the little township of Yandina where nothing lived but violent dark. Leaves and branches everywhere, the street looked skinned, rippling like melted tin.

  No shelter here, babe, said Trevor.

  But then they found a bright light burning.

  There you are, said Trevor. Star of fucking Bethlehem.

  The Rabbitoh poked the yellow headlights into the drive of the Yandina Caravan Park. You want to kill your kid, go right ahead.

  We’re fine, the boy said. Thank you very much.

  He felt the mother hesitating. Then he understood what she was seeing through the windshield-a grandma and grandpa with bare legs and black raincoats, poor people, mooring their shuddering trailer to the toilet block. The grandpa had varicose veins. He also had a long blue nylon rope-weightless, glistening, threading through the storm.

  A sheet of yellow paper slapped the windshield and when it departed there appeared one more man-red face, one-hundred-ten-volt blue eyes, long white hair stretching up into the night.

  The mother lowered her window and the storm rushed in like a tomcat, occupying the backseat and spraying the inside of the windshield.