by John Sanford
[“Here it is, then. You been married long enough to have a big belly, if you know what I mean.”]
[“I know what you mean, Dad.”]
“Dapper Dan,” Dan said. “Delicate Dan.”
“I let him alone,” his mother said, “but it troubles me that he’s being independent at your expense.”
“It’s one of my cheap pleasures.”
[“If you know what I mean, why don’t you do something about it?”]
[“A woman just can’t go and get a big belly all by herself.”]
[“By herself! You’re making small of my son!”]
[“I mean, a woman ought to have her husband’s permission to get a big belly.”]
[“Listen. My old lady wouldn’t ask my permission to kill me. She’d tell me to mind my own business.”]
Mrs. Johnson smiled, saying, “I recall when you had the makings of a tightwad.”
“I’ll never be rich,” Dan said. “It costs too much.”
“If you know that, you’ve gone a long way on nothing.”
“I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve only been shamed into being halfway decent.”
“That’s easily a million miles.”
[“We can’t hardly feed ourselves, but I’ll bet if that old girl wanted another kid, she’d get herself a big belly without saying, ‘Boo.’ You ought to do the same. What do you care if my stinker son hollers? The hell with him.”]
[“Some day, maybe.”]
[“I’d sure to God like to be a grandfather without getting me a second child to turn the trick.”]
“I brought along what we had, Mom. Slip this in his britches tonight when he’s dreaming about God hailing him in front of the Ritz and saying, ‘Heaven, bo. Main gate.’”
[“Remember, now. You don’t even have to say, ‘Boo.’”]
Dan went into the parlor, and taking Mary by the hand, he said, “It’s about time we waddled off, big-belly.”
VIVA LA REPUBLICA
Leaving the main highway between Red Bank and Little Silver, Dan and Mary walked along a dirt side-road toward a small golden square showing through the fall evening. A shower had come and gone at sunset, and damp leaves had been left for the stars to nickel-plate, and birds sang late among wet reeds in the ditches. Light from a dooryard window fell on two figures in white, one swinging gently and the other standing motionless against an elm.
“Genio,” Dan said.
“Dan,” Gene said.
Stopping in the line of swing, Dan caught the ropes as Flora floated up to him, and he kissed her and said, “Spanish,” and then he let her float away. He sat next to Mary on a bench under the elm. “Is like a night in Granada, is not?”
“I want to see one of those nights some time,” Gene said. “I have to find out what a night in Red Bank lacks.”
“Genio,” Dan said, “you do not spik like you have eSpain in your blood—only Nev Jersey.”
“Nev Jersey was all right till you queered it with all this kissing-stuff. to hold my own, I have to act like a newlywed, and some mornings I go up with the shade.”
“Such talkings. You are shockingly.”
For a while, then, no one spoke. There was the speech of straining ropes, and there was a barking dog in the dark distance, and now and then a meadow-lark slit the night with a run on a flute, but no one spoke until Gene said, “Who’s kidding who around here? For Christ’s sake, let’s talk about it!”
His wife put her hands on her face and began to cry. The swing swung in shorter and shorter arcs and hung still, and the patch of white that was Flora seemed to be sitting on air.
Gene stall-walked, saying, “It don’t do any good to cry and cry. If there’s anything on our chest, then, God damn it, we ought to open our shirt!”
“What is to say?” his wife said. “What is to say?”
“Anything!” Gene said. “Even if it’s only a curse on that popish pansy bastard of a Franco!”
“Cursing is not change the Badajoz thing of the bull-ring,” Florencia said, “no, and not prayer, because is no espression of the mouth that will espress the cruelness of killing four thousand peoples, eSpanish peoples, for the crime of nothing—nothing! They wish a form of governament, and they vote for that form of governament, and they win the vote, and for this nothing is come Franco with Moros and shoot like dogs. Is no espression for this, not even in the tongue of a peoples that have much suffering in history. The eSpanish peoples are poor like the poorest in all the time of the world—work and die, work and die, that is España—and they go like that for a hundreds of years, but they cannot go forever, and so they stand up once and chase away this sick and unspeakable disgrace on the country, this Alfonso with his dirty blood, and they make the Republica, and after so long of misery, they are a little happy. But is more of sickness that is not chase away. Is the sickness of the rich and the landlords, and is the sickness also of the bad peoples of the Church, but these sick things the Republica tolerate to remain, because the governament is not a Red governament, as so many falsely say. A Red governament would not have chase away Alfonso; it would have shoot him to death. It would not have leave the rich bishops and the rich to remain and work against itself; it would have espose them and put the hand on their riches. I am a Catholic, and I will always be a Catholic, yet I say is wrong, is a sin, for my Church to be in the business, and is wrong for my Church to be fat and rich, for the best Church will be the most poorest, the one that will take in much and espend more, and it will not have gold possessions while is hungry children give money for candles. But these sickness remain in the Republica, and soon the bad ones bring the Moros, and you have the affair of the bull-ring in the name of God and Jesus Christ, and now is clear for always that not only the bulls have been bred to die in the dust, but the peoples of the country much more, and now is clear that all eSpanish life has been one great bull-fight always. The matadors are everywhere, in the smallest village, even where is the ground made of stone that would not grow the smallest thread of grass. The matadors are everywhere, and they have all the times been there, but they have not until now been recognize, for they have wear on their backs not the gold-lace embroiderings of Belmonte, but the black of the Church. And the picadors come riding over the peoples not on weak old horses, but on the hundreds of horses of their Isottas, and the peoples are crazed with the banderillas of hunger and impoverty, and they die on the sword of work in their own dung and the dirt, like the dumb bulls. All my country is one bull-ring, one Badajoz, and many more of my peoples will die as dumb bulls before is change this condition—but it will be change! Bulls too kill some time, and they will yet make a great cornada in those that come murdering them, crying, ‘Viva El Christo Rey!’”
Dan put his arms around her, saying, “What is to say, Florencia? What is to say?”
IBERIA
On a wall of the flat hung a map of the peninsula, with Portugal in pale brown and Spain in green. The green area was inhabited by pins, black for the Insurgents and white for the Loyalists, and a double row of them, one black and one white, wound through the country like an ant-trail. Towns had been punctured out of existence, like chances taken on a punchboard, but while few of these lay behind the white line, many, in swarms and scatters, lay behind the black.
“What’re you thinking about?” Mary said.
“Nothing,” Dan said.
“It didn’t look like nothing.”
“I always look serious when I think about nothing. It’s a serious subject.”
“It must’ve been a faraway nothing.”
“You really want to know what I was thinking?” he said. “I was thinking how much I love you.”
“You make better speeches all the time.”
“They’re no better. They only sound better.”
“Much,” she said. “I’m beginning to believe them.”
“You should. I’m beginning to mean them.”
“Didn’t you ever mean them before, Dan?”
“Y
ou’ve become the opposite of Julia. When I first knew her, I could see nothing beyond her, but she dwindled by the hour. When I first knew you, you were only part of the landscape, a near part and a sweet-smelling part, but just part. You’ve taken up more room every day. Every day I see less of the world and more of you, and the time’ll come when there’s no world at all, only my Mary.”
“You could get me to do anything you wanted, Danny,” she said.“Anything.”
“Meet me on the bed.”
“Just one thing first. Loving me isn’t what you were thinking about before, is it?”
“No,” he said.
“I didn’t think so,” she said, “but I’ll meet you all the same.”
THE WATER’S ALWAYS COLD
“Well, Smile at him and send him in,” Dan said to the switchboard-operator, and a moment after he hung up the receiver, his door opened. “Tootsie-boy! Park your chocolate ass and tell me what you’re doing in this barracoon.”
“Playing hookey,” Tootsie said.
“Not just to see me. I’m not that popular.”
“You’re popular with me, or I wouldn’t be here. I came to say goodbye.”
“To say goodbye?” Dan said, and he watched smoke rise from the cigarette he held in his hand. “Where are you going?”
“Spain.”
The one-word answer took a long time to die away in Dan’s mind; it seemed to be audible again and again, and each renewal came with almost the same frequency. “Spain,” he said, and now he turned to the window and a late-fall rain. A train went past, its runners striking purple fire from the wet third-rail. “I think I knew all along that you’d go.”
“You knew more than I did, then,” Tootsie said. “I didn’t know it till an hour ago, when I signed the papers.”
“When do you leave?”
Tootsie said, “They didn’t tell me,” and then he shook his head. “They did tell me, but I can’t tell you. I shouldn’t’ve let on even as much as that.”
“But, Jesus, you might be pulling out tomorrow.”
“Might.”
“Won’t Mary have a chance to kiss you goodbye?”
“I won’t have a chance to kiss her. That’s more important.”
“Couldn’t you have supper with us tonight? I’ll call Newark, and she’ll meet us anywhere we say.”
“I wish I could, boy, but I’m all promised out. I’ve got to see my folks and break the news. They don’t know about me signing up yet. After that, I’m going to hunt up Julie, and after that—well, after that, there’s a lady.”
“No! You never told me about a lady, Tootsie!”
“Wasn’t much to tell till a while back. I only met her in September, at the beginning of the term. We teach at the same school.
“It’s the real thing, though, Dan.”
“Everybody’s getting married! Mig, and now you!”
“I didn’t say I was getting married.”
“Then it can’t be the real thing.”
“It can be God damn real—especially if you’re going to spend your whole engagement ducking hot lead.”
“But it might be a year, two years, who knows how long.”
“It might be never.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Dan said.
“Why only think like it? Some guys aren’t coming back, and I could be one of them.”
“All the same, I don’t want to hear about it.”
“I’m sorry. I only thought I’d be able to work up a little more courage if I told you how scared I was.”
“You won’t work up anything talking to me. I didn’t sign any papers; you did. Whatever you were before, you aren’t scared now.”
“Signing the papers all of a sudden made me a brave man—is that what you think? A scared man sat down and wrote Tudor Powell, and a brave man got up. Where’s the sense in that? The same man got up that sat down—and he was scared both ways.”
“What’re you trying to do—make me feel good?”
“I’m trying to make myself feel good,” Tootsie said. “I don’t want to die. Any day in the week, I’d sooner live than die. It would’ve been great if signing those papers made me immortal, but I don’t feel immortal. I feel wide open for death. I don’t like that feeling, but I’ve got it.”
“You can’t tell me it doesn’t take courage to risk your life.”
“This’ll sound queer, but that’s the last thing it takes. There’s brave guys all over the lot—guys willing to climb steeples, put out fires, or just show off for their broads in a street-fight—but damn few of’em are going to Spain. It’s us scared guys, mostly—and you know why? Because we know what it is that we’re afraid of, not only over there, but right here.”
“I know what I’m afraid of. Why don’t I go?”
“The war isn’t over yet, boy.”
“I’ll never get there, Tootsie.”
“I didn’t think I ever would, either.”
“But we’re different,” Dan said. “At the worst, you’re only scared. I’m yellow. You understand? Yellow!”
“The things that’ve got to be done are all dangerous, every one, but they’re going to be done all the same. You, though, you’ve got the dumb idea that a doer can only be a real red-blooded hot-shot, a fire-eating piss-cutting son-of-a-bitch that’d sass God and sit in His chair. But, boy, you should’ve seen what I saw when I signed my life away this afternoon. A roomful of guys like myself, a dozen of’em, and not one but wasn’t shaking in his pants, or worse. Plain guys, little guys, poor guys, a couple of Hebes, another skinny nigger—and all worried about holding steady long enough to sign their names. I didn’t see any fire-eaters around. I didn’t see any Frank Merriwells, or Tom Swifts, or whoever you get your notions of bravery from. I only saw a dozen shivering punks from Intervale Avenue and Bay Parkway and Delancey Street. There wasn’t a decent suit in the bunch. A flashy one here and there, kibo-cut, but none that cost a dime over twenty bucks. And there wasn’t much college, and there wasn’t a drop of blood bluer than yours or mine. But what we had instead of Harris tweeds was the knowledge that this is everybody’s fight, and that if some of us go first, the rest’ll follow. It’s no harder to go first. It just looks harder, but it’s hard all the time, first and last—the water’s always cold. I know. I’m in it. “Tootsie came to his feet now.” How about a handshake, partner?”
Dan rose too, and ignoring the black and pink hand, he put his arms around Tootsie and hugged him, and then he kissed him on his black and pink mouth. “I don’t know what to say,” he said, “except that I’ll love you as long as I live.”
“I hope that’s the last thing I think of if I die,” Tootsie said. “G’bye, boy.”
* * *
When Mary reached home, she found Dan lying face-down on the bed in the dark. “Don’t you feel well?” she said. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Yes,” he said. “If you happen to have a gun in your pocket, aim it at the back of my head and fire.”
She took her coat off and sat down next to him. “What’s wrong?” she said.
“I’m wrong—dead wrong.”
“Tell me about it. Maybe I can help.”
“Blow my brains out,” he said, “and you’ll be helping everybody.” He righted himself and sat up. “I had a visitor today—Tootsie Powell. He’s going away. Guess where to, baby. Guess.”
“He might be going anywhere.”
“He’s going to one particular place—the only place.”
“Spain?” she said.
He looked at her and tried to say, “Spain,” but the word was too big for his mouth, and it jammed. “He made believe only the scared ones were going. to me—the brave one!”
“I don’t think he was making believe. It’s possible to be scared and go and to be brave and stay.”
“I must be the last English-speaking man. I say the brave go and the scared don’t, and I’m answered with grunts and gibberish. If a scared man does a brave thing, he isn’
t scared: he’s brave!”
“I’ve been saying that all along, but you never listen. Brave is what you are when you do a thing, not what you were while you made up your mind.”
“Don’t try to save my feelings any more. The chips are down, and you’d better try to save your own. I’ve got you to show for my life, I’ve got you to be proud of, but what can you show?”
“Why do you say the chips are down?”
“For God’s sake, Mary!”
“Maybe the time hasn’t come for you to prove anything.”
“The time comes and goes like a train,” he said. “Trains pull in, and trains pull out, and I’m still standing on the platform. You know damn well what train I’m waiting for—the safe train!”
“I don’t believe it,” Mary said.
“When I look at that beautiful plain puss of yours,” he said, “I could croak myself for being such a piss-ant to you. The least you’ve had a right to expect is the truth, and I’ve never even given you that, not till it was too late to matter. There’s no merit in being honest when it would hurt you more to lie, but for what it’s worth as part of the case-history of your husband, here’s the big secret of his life: Florida. You know all about Florida except the one thing that explains the rest. Before those sheriff-bastards took me to jail, one of them, an animal named Ash, beat the whey out of me and gave me a sanding. A sanding is this: you put on a glove, coat it with wet sand, and then punch the grains at the face you’re trying to fix; the first few times, you’ll only make the skin raw, but that’s what you want, because now the sand has something to stick to; you coat your glove again, and again you slug away, and now sand is grinding on sand that’s grinding on flesh, and with a bloody beard of sand to work on, you’re off; you keep on loading the glove and punching, loading and punching, five minutes, ten minutes, who knows and who cares? and then you let the face scab over, and by morning it isn’t a face but a bag of pus, and it stays that way for days, till finally it breaks open and blows out the grains, but only a few at a time, some now, some next week, some next month. That was Florida, but don’t go away yet: there’s more. What happened to my mind was even worse than what happened to my face. Lying there in that cell one night, I found out once and for all what I was up against. I couldn’t fall asleep, I remember—couldn’t let myself, I mean, because I was afraid to. I was afraid I’d think something out that I wanted to avoid knowing, and I thought I’d be safe if I stayed awake. I was wrong. I’d’ve been happy all my life if I’d beaten down that one dangerous thought, and I’d’ve been a good husband to you, Mary, not a disappointed crumb, and you’d’ve been as proud of me as I am of you, and we’d’ve had something better to look forward to than more bile and gall. But it was like throwing myself on a bomb: the fuse’d been lit, and it went off. What I was up against was America—the American train. It’s hard to say now why I put it that way. The tracks of the Florida East Coast were alongside the jail-yard wall, and maybe a train was going by at the time, or maybe it was natural for me to think of America as a train, because trains’ve always fascinated me—but whatever the reason, I saw the Big Train that night. Forty-eight cars long, it was, a golden train on golden rails, and it was running on time from Heaven to hell. Inside, with their fat on the plush, were the Silk-hat Harrys; outside, on the roofs and the rods and riding blind, were the Happy Hooligans. Now and then, someone on the right-of-way tried to stop it with his words and his hands, a Debs, a Lovejoy, a Lincoln, a John Brown, but it hit him at a hundred miles an hour, and he died. Except for a few, everybody rode the Dipsy-Doodle, the silly slobs, the saps, the schmucks, the dopes and dupes, the dumb Dannys. They were all up there on the American train—cleaning it, servicing it, repairing it, feeding it, manning it, guarding it. Guarding it! Guarding what others owned—and for scraps, for nickels, for buttons, for a handout, for promises, for a six-foot grave! There they were, ready to ride you down if you opened your mouth, ready to beat you, shoot you, kill you, defame you—the have-nots protecting the haves! the hungry defending the stuffed! the lowly upholding the regal! The many had the feet, and the few had the shoes, and I thought: My God, what people do for a dollar a day and a dream! Do you know me now, Mary darling…?”
