Stern
Page 16
There was a time when the house seemed the key to it all, an enemy that sucked oil and money and posted a kike-hating sentry down the street to await Stern's doom. But then Stern imagined himself on the twelfth story of a city apartment building, his house sold, sealed in now by new kike men, with different faces, occupying the three other apartments on his floor. He pictured himself high above the city at night, clawing at the windows. And during what must have been a weekend he told a solemn Swede who'd come to look the house over, “We have to stay here and have changed our mind.”
The Swede, his head among a forest of basement pipes, hollered down, “Is it because I'm looking at the pipes?” And Stern said, “No, I'm too sick to move,” and gave his wife the job of evicting the man.
Late at night, as he clutched his sheets in the darkness, ideas seemed to seize him by the throat, making him rock and cry and pray for sleep. The deep hot valleys of his wife's body frightened him now, and he could remember pulling her awake one night and saying, “You've got to get out of that dance thing. I know you don't go to bed with people, but the thought that you might is driving me crazy. I don't like to do this to you, but it'll just be for now, while I'm going through this thing.”
“All right, I won't go to it any more.”
“But that's not enough,” he said. “What about every second I'm not with you? It would be easy for you to just pull up your skirt for someone. The second I leave the house. Or when you're just going alone somewhere. I'd never know.”
“I'm not going to do anything,” she said.
“I know, but you could. You could just flip up your skirt and open your legs and that would be it. It wouldn't take two minutes. And I don't want any man's thing in you. What would I do if that happened?”
“Well, then, what do you want me to do?”
“I don't know. But it's always going to be that way, all our lives.” And he locked his hand around her wrist, as though only by holding her that way could he prevent her from flying out of the room in a desperate hunt for alien bodies.
He waited those nights for the trembling to stop, the engine to stop pumping. There had always been an end to bad things before—fevers dropped, homicidal dreams were chased by the dawn, and once, when he was a boy, his arm, heavy with a great infection, had suddenly fizzled and gone back to normal. But, now, it was as though he were an automobile with a broken horn, doomed to blare forever in a quiet residential neighborhood, all wiring experts having long been shipped out of the country. Sometimes, writhing and wet on the sheets at midnight, he would tell his wife, “I'm touching bottom,” but it wasn't really true. He seemed to be holding on to a twig, halfway down a sheer, rain-slick mountain. How nice it would be to let go. But he had only $800, and it would be eaten up quickly if he were put in a sanatorium. He imagined himself in such a place at the end of three days, the $800 gone, in a terrible panic, unable even to lie back and be crazy with the other patients. And so he held on to the twig and he clutched at people, too, pulling at men's lapels and women's skirts on steaming city streets, telling them he was in bad trouble.
When it got so bad it seemed he'd have to smash himself against something to make the trembling stop, he would take some stranger's sleeve in the city and say, “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I'm pretty upset here and wish you would just talk to me a second.” It amazed him that no one was perturbed by this. People seemed to welcome the chance to exchange wisdoms at midday with a strangulating young man. And Stern, no matter how banal their words, would attach great and profound significance to them, adopting each piece of advice as a slogan to live by. “I'm going to tell you something that's going to help you, fellow,” an elderly gentleman said to him. “I was in trouble once, too, and I decided then and there never to give anyone more'n half a loaf. You remember that and you'll never go wrong again.” And Stern said to him, “You know, that's right. I can see where, if you follow that, you'll always come out right.” And he went off, determined to stop giving up entire loaves, convinced he had come up with the key to his trembling. A Negro ice-cream salesman told him, “You got to stop lookin' for things,” and a retired jewelry executive, seized in a restaurant, advised him against “letting any person get hold of you.” In both cases, Stern had said, “You know, you've really got it. I'm going to remember that.”
He recalled being in many places and then running, choking, out of them. Once in a darkened, cavernlike restaurant, he ordered six lunchtime courses and thought to himself, “This is the end of it. I'm going to sit here like all the other men and eat, and when I leave this table it's all going to be over.” But the service was slow, he lost his breath, and when the juice came, he gulped it down, threw out clumps of dollars, and flew from the pitlike restaurant, clawing for air. Another time, floundering across the hot city pavements, on an impulse he plunged into a physical culture studio and signed up for a six-year course. “I want to start right this minute,” he said, and was shown to a locker. In shorts, he went into the gym, where the only person exercising was a great, bearlike man with oil-slick hair and huge, ballooning arms. He said to Stern, “Come here. Were you in the Army?”
“I was a flier,” said Stern.
“I took a lot of crap from a drill sergeant in the Marines,” said the man. “He'd stand out there, and the bullshit would come out of him in quart bottles, but do you know the only thing that saved me?”
“What's that?”
“His arms. They weren't even sixteens. I've got eighteens, myself. He'd stand there, and the shit would flow about how tough he was, but all you'd have to do is look at his arms and it didn't mean anything. How am I supposed to respect a man who doesn't have arms?”
“You can't,” said Stern.
“Well, I'm going to do some arm work,” the man said, and began to curl a great dumbbell into his lap. Stern watched his arms expand and said, “I can't seem to get started today.” He dressed and then ran, gasping and unshowered, for the daylight.
Once, when the sound of Belavista's slippered footsteps down the hall sent him spinning into the streets, he ran into a telephone booth and called Fabiola.
“This thing isn't getting any better,” he said. “It's like I swallowed an anthill. I'm jumping through my ass. You've got to send me to someone.”
“Psychiatry's up in the air,” said Fabiola. “There's the cost, too. Take a grain of pheno when you feel upset this way.”
“I don't care about any expense. I don't think you know what's going on with me. It isn't the ulcer any more. I'd take a dozen of those compared to this new thing.”
“All right, then,” said Fabiola. “There's one good man. He's ten per session, and he has helped people.”
“I really want to see him, then,” said Stern.
The psychiatrist was a rail-thin man who talked with a lisp and whose office smelled musty and psychiatric. It bothered Stern that he had only one tiny diploma on the wall.
“Can it hurt me?” Stern asked.
“No,” said the man. “Sometimes you dig down and come up with something very bad, but generally it helps.”
“There's probably something lousy like that in me,” said Stern. “How much is this going to cost?”
“Twenty a session.”
Stern began to choke and said, “I heard ten. Oh God, I can't pay twenty.” He gasped and sobbed and the man seemed to panic along with him.
“Maybe there's something about money,” said the lisping psychiatrist. “Some people think it's dirty.”
“No, no, it's the amount. Oh God, don't you just want to help people?” He got up, gasping, sucking in musty, psychiatric air, and the psychiatrist, gasping and white, too, said, “Maybe you think money has a smell. We could go into that.”
“No, no,” said Stern, “we're not going into anything. Imagine how you'd feel expecting ten and then hearing twenty.” And with that he ran, crouching, through the door, with the panic-stricken psychiatrist hollering after him, “You've got a money neurosis.”
Toward the end of it, he went everywhere with his arms folded tightly in front of him, as though he were naked in the snow. He bit down hard on things then, whatever was available—the drapes, a coffee cup, the corner of his desk—and yet there came over him, too, during this time, a kind of wild and gurgling courage he had never had before. Once, he ran with teeth clenched through a crowded train station, as though he were a quarterback going downfield, lashing out at people with his elbows, bulling along with his shoulders. One man said, “What do you think you're doing?” And Stern hollered back, “I didn't see you. You're insignificant-looking.” When a cop stopped him for running through a stop sign, Stern heard himself saying, “Is this your idea of a crime? With what's going on in this country—rape and everything?” It was a perspiring, released kind of feeling he had when he was at his most desperate, and it gave him courage one day to seize a girl in his building who had seemed unapproachable. Tall and blond, with hornrimmed glasses, she had a tight-skirted, whiplike body and spoke with a shrill, slightly hysterical British accent. Stern saw her in elevators for the most part, talking to a girl friend, a book on some declining civilization always pressed against her high, intellectual bosom. The word “problem” seemed to crop up in her every sentence.
“That's one of my problems.”
“The man undoubtedly has a sexual problem.”
Stern thought she was maddeningly intellectual and wanted to be with her in her small, book-lined apartment, kissing her hair as she discussed declining civilizations, spending long hours working out sick, tangled sexual problems.
One day outside the building, he took her arm and said, “This is crazy, but I don't know any other way to do it. I've seen you a lot in the elevator, and I'm in pretty bad trouble now, and I wonder if you'd mind my just walking along awhile with you.”
“I have to meet someone,” she said.
“I'm in pretty bad shape,” Stern said, holding on to her arm. “I've got a whole bunch of problems and I have to just tell them to someone.”
“Yes,” she said, freeing herself with a shrill little laugh. “But I don't like men's hands on me.”
At the tail end of it, with courage forming along the bottom of him like vegetable shoots, it pleased him to make detailed and shocking phone calls to his mother and sister.
“I actually chew on drapes,” he told his mother at midnight. “I pull at my skin and I won't have my job for long. I expect to go into an institution and not come out of it.”
“I haven't had that in my life?” she said. “I haven't had much worse? I've had the same thing. You can't scare me.”
“How would you like to see your son peeled off the fender of a speeding car? It's going to happen, you know.”
And to his sister, long-distance, he said, “Oh, it's a breakdown, all right. Dying doesn't scare me in the least. It'll be in about a week or so. They're going to find me in a tub. I'll bet you're amazed that I can discuss it so calmly. Bet it really shakes you up to think it's happening to your own brother, who used to tell all those jokes.”
He expected that if it ever did end, it would peter out, with a little less trembling and choking each day, but it surprised him by finishing up abruptly in a quite unexplainable way after a talk with a Polish woman who had come to clean his house.
Through it all, amazingly, he had never thought once of the kike man. Sliding down the mountain, he had been too busy casting about for things to clutch to think very much about who had pushed him. If the man had stopped him on the street, Stern, hunched over, fists planted in his waist to quiet the erupting, might have brushed on by and said, “I have no time to fool around.”
On the night that it ended, his wife had gone to the movies, and Stern, a crawling, bone-deep shiver coming over him, had flicked off the television set and found the Polish woman on her knees in the broom closet. A small, pinched wrinkle of a woman, she seemed to have been made from a compound of flowered discount dresses, cleaning fluid, and lean Polish winters. She shook her head continually and muttered pieces of thoughts, finishing none of them. Stern talked to her for two hours and found her scattered, wise-sounding incantations soothing.
“You just can't,” she said, rolling her head from side to side. “I mean you just don't go around. … You got to just … sooner or later. … I mean if a man don't. … This old world going to. … When a fully grown man. … Rolling up your sleeves is what…”
To which Stern said, “Oh God, how I appreciate this. I think I'm going to be able to get hold of myself now. I really do. Sometimes you just get together with a certain person and it really helps. I think I'm going to be all right. And, you know, as long as I live, I'm never going to forget this and the help you've given me. I really think I'm going to be able to stop it tonight.”
“Sure,” said the woman, rolling her head from side to side. “Of course. I mean you just … you got to. … There comes a time…”
And that night, when Stern's wife came home, he said, “I think I'm out of it.” In bed, he relaxed his grip on the headboard, and then, just as swiftly as it had come over him, it more or less disappeared.
He told someone in his office, “I had the mildest nervous breakdown in town. I didn't miss a day of work. It was pretty lousy, but all of a sudden you just come out of them.” The two phrases “hanging on to desks” and “jumping through my tail” had great appeal to Stern, and he used them often to describe what had happened to him. He remembered a hairless boy with moonlike jowls who years back had worked for his company and had begun one afternoon to run into the water cooler. For two years, the boy had disappeared, taking mute and vacant vacations with his wife, renting clapboard houses and just sitting in them; Stern remembered seeing him on the street, looking white and clean as though someone had sponged him down. He looked up this boy's phone number now, called him, and said, “I just came out of one like yours. No water cooler, but I did a lot of hanging on to desks. I had to do it to keep from jumping through my tail. What are you doing with yourself these days?”
“Just sitting around,” said the boy.
Stern had not thought of time or weather or clocks and dates and punctual changes of underwear, and he was certain that great clumps of dust had settled over his life; somehow, though, as he had choked and skidded and clutched at people's arms, he had managed to mail things, too, and pay dry cleaners. He expected to find his son making far-off, wistful comments about “new daddies” he would like to have, and yet the very first of the new evenings the boy tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Now can we play?”—as though he'd been waiting for Stern to finish tying a shoelace. “Yes,” said Stern, falling to the floor. “I'm down here on the floor trapped and the only thing that can get me up is if someone touches a secret place on my ear three times and then taps me with a banana.” The boy followed instructions delightedly, and Stern leaped up to shake his hand, saying, “Thank you for saving your daddy. I now owe you one hundred giraffe tails.”
Stern looked at a calendar and saw that it had all worked out fine, ending on the first sharp and crackling day of October; now he would be able to draw winter down on himself and his family like a shade, huddling in his house and taking soups for strength. He had been too agonized and out of breath to think about his stomach, and it amazed him that it was not leaping with a fresh crop of ulcers; it seemed to be doing all right, the glue holding firm on a cracked china cup. Maybe that was the trick. Go into a tumbling, frenzied period and your stomach simply wouldn't have time to concentrate on ulcers. The idea was to set up small, diversionary troubles
in other parts of your body, way out on your fingers or inside your head. But what if now, with things quieter, a new batch got under way?
He wanted to take the previous weeks in his hands, crush them down to snowball size, and examine them close to a light bulb so that he would understand them if they happened again. It seemed a time to talk, finally, about dramatic central things, death and wills and horrible, long-buried family crises from which lessons could be drawn. First he called his insurance man, who said, “Before we go any further, remember, you can't dictate from the grave.” And then he called his mother, telling her, “I really want to have a talk now. You don't know what hell I've been through.”
“I know what you've been through and, believe me, I could tell you a few things. I could tell you things that would stand your hair on end.”
“All right, tell me them then”
“Don't worry,” she said. “I could tell you plenty. I could fill up books if you really wanted to listen.”
“Meanwhile you haven't said anything.”
“Someday, when you're ready, I'll say plenty. Then you won't wonder why I take an occasional drink. And then, years later, you'll tell people, ‘I had some mother.' “
He met his father for dinner in the city, and much of the conversation had to do with the machinery of the meeting. “How long have you been waiting?” his father said, outside the restaurant. “I thought I'd take a cross-town bus, get myself a transfer, and then walk the extra two blocks over to Sixth. If I'd known you were going to be early, I'd have come all the way up by subway and the hell with the walking. How'd you get up here?”
“I just got here” said Stern. “I want to talk over some things with you.”