by John Searles
Philip tries to picture this little old man, who looks like a little old woman, getting on a bus and going all that way. “Are you sure about this?” he asks. “It seems like an awful long distance to travel by bus.”
But Donnelly tells him that he doesn’t like to fly. Ever since reading about all those train derailments, he stays away from Amtrak too. “The bus is my preferred mode of transportation,” he says in that overly articulate voice. “I will make my grand exit from the city the same way I made my grand entrance so many years ago. And above all, I will keep my dignity intact.”
With that, he launches into an explanation of the various quirks of the apartment—and there are plenty. The radiator leaks, so it is necessary to keep a pan beneath it at all times. If Philip neglects to empty it once a week, the water will run down to the neighbor’s apartment. In the kitchen, there is a similar pan beneath the refrigerator that needs emptying on a regular basis as well. Next, Donnelly tells him that he cannot run the computer and the record player at the same time or a fuse will blow. If he forgets and it does blow, there are extras in the desk drawer. The fuse box is concealed in the mural, painted to look like the hot dog vendor’s cart. Donnelly opens it and demonstrates how to replace one. Then he shows him how to take the phone wire and plug it into the back of the computer in order to use the Internet, since he will be checking his e-mail from his sister’s in case Philip has questions.
“You have an e-mail address?” Philip says in a surprised voice.
“Of course,” Donnelly tells him. “What do you think I am, a dinosaur?”
Finally, he gets around to explaining the care involved with the pets. Every morning, Sweetie gets a bowl of mashed fruit. Once a week, Baby gets a mouse from a store called Happy Pet on First Avenue—or if Philip is “lucky” there will be a “fresh kill” in the traps beneath the sink. As Donnelly goes over all those details and others, like what to do with the mail, where to send the rent check, what to say if he runs into the landlord, since sublets are forbidden, Philip gets the feeling that he is making a tremendous mistake. But then he looks over at the desk by the window and imagines sitting there, writing his poetry, instead of going to work, and that makes him feel better. Besides, he tells himself that the old guy will probably be back in a few months even though he insists it could be much, much longer.
“Knowing Fauncine,” he says, “she’ll drag this final act out until they have to put me in the ground right along with her.”
When he is done with all the explaining, Donnelly announces that he is going to make himself a martini for the road. He pours one for Philip as well. At first Philip resists, but when Donnelly blasts him about how dull his generation is, he buckles. After only a few sips and a bite of one large vodka-soaked olive, Philip can feel his body relaxing for the first time since the argument with his mother yesterday. The more he drinks, the better he feels. Donnelly turns up the Judy Garland record again and pours them each another. Before Philip knows it, they are plopped down on the Oriental rug, and he is telling the story about Walter and Shish and what happened at the restaurant. When he gets to the part about the tray spilling and all those people clapping, Donnelly glances up at the gold starburst of a clock on the wall and says, “I hate to interrupt when you are on such a roll, dear, but I really should be off.”
Philip is disappointed that he won’t get to tell the part where he walks out the door and keeps going. But his mind feels so wonderful and woozy that he doesn’t care. He asks Donnelly, “Are you sure you want to leave a complete stranger to take care of your pets?”
Donnelly reaches over and pinches Philip’s cheek. “Cupcake,” he says. “I have always lived life by trusting my instinct. And right now my instinct is telling me that you are a very special and honest young man. Now help me with my suitcase.”
It takes them a few minutes to get downstairs. But once they are out on the street, a cab pulls up right away. As Donnelly climbs in, wearing a jacket he pulled from the closet that says Sugar Babies on the back, Philip puts the hard, bulky suitcase into the trunk and slams it shut. He comes around to the open window and asks Donnelly how he will manage getting his bag into the bus station. Donnelly tells him not to worry, that there will probably be a porter waiting to help him. Philip doubts as much, but what does he know about these things? The booze has him feeling melancholy suddenly, and he is sorry to see him go.
“Good-bye,” he says.
“Farewell.” Donnelly reaches his jeweled hand out the window and squeezes Philip’s arm. “By the way, the answer to your question is dying.”
“What?” Philip asks.
“Earlier you wanted to know what I was afraid of. I have always been afraid of dying, which is not such a good thing when you are my age.”
Philip doesn’t know what to say so he stays quiet.
“It’s a smart idea for you to face your fears, Philip. That’s why taking care of a bird is not such a bad situation for you to be in. You’ll see. And if you’re afraid of death like me, I suggest you come to terms with it too. Because it’s going to happen to all of us eventually.”
With that, he tells the cabdriver to step on it already because he has a bus to catch. As the car rolls forward, Donnelly blows a big movie-star kiss from the window. Philip stands in the street watching the taillights round the corner until they are gone.
Once he is alone, Philip takes a breath and stares up at the dark windows on the fourth floor as the streetlight comes on in front of the building. Free from the whirlwind of the last few hours, his sense of melancholy grows stronger. It is always this way with drinking, he remembers now—a surge of happiness followed by a dip of sadness—which is why he doesn’t do it very often. Instead of feeling glad that he has just secured his first apartment for very little money, he feels down about the prospect of caring for that bird and snake. Part of him thinks about going to the store and getting some Windex and paper towels, but he decides the cleaning spree can wait until tomorrow when he is sober. Instead, Philip heads over to St. Mark’s Place, where he parked his car. He opens the door and takes out his poetry portfolio and Madonna tapes from beneath the seat, then locks the car again. Before walking away, he glances up at a sign that tells him he’ll have to move the vehicle before eight o’clock tomorrow morning or else it will be towed. Since there aren’t any spots on the other side of the street, he leaves the car where it is for the time being and returns to the studio.
Inside, the bird is quiet behind the bathroom door since Donnelly draped one of his scarves over the cage before he left. Judy Garland is still singing about all the sounds the trolley and the bell make. Philip turns off the record. He sets his Madonna tapes down, wondering why he bothered, since there is not a tape player in the place. As he stands in the middle of the room, or the parlor as Donnelly called it, Philip reviews the events of the past two days that led him here. He thinks of everyone at the Olive Garden in Wayne right now, where the dinner shift is getting under way. He thinks of his father somewhere in Palm Beach, probably playing golf or tennis with Holly at this moment.
Then he thinks of his mother at home by herself.
The thought makes Philip go to the phone and dial the number in Pennsylvania. It rings three times before she picks up. “Hello.”
“Mom, it’s Philip.”
There is a long pause. Outside, on Sixth Street, a police car whizzes by with its lights flashing and sirens wailing. She asks, “Where are you?”
“New York City.”
“What? But I thought you were working at the Olive Garden last night, and then, I don’t know, you didn’t come home.”
“I was, Ma. But I hate that place. I hate my life in Pennsylvania. I hate living with you and fighting all the time. You’re just too mean now. That’s why … that’s why I’m not coming back.”
He waits for her to say something, but she doesn’t. The only thing Philip hears is a click. At first, he cannot believe what she did. He stands there so long holding the phone to
his ear that the recording comes on the line saying, “There appears to be a receiver off the hook…” After that, Philip puts down the phone and steps away from it, telling himself not to give into the sadness rising up in him.
Philip wants that happy feeling he had on the floor with Donnelly back again. He pours himself another martini—without olives or vermouth this time—but it is in the funny-shaped glass, so he considers it a martini just the same. After only a few sips, though, he gives up on the drink because it is not working anymore. He goes to the desk instead. As best he can in his fuzzy mental state, Philip looks over his work in the portfolio. But he does not try writing anything new tonight. Mainly because he still feels drunk and he knows the words won’t come. But also, because sitting here is more or less a kind of rehearsal for him. Philip is practicing what it will be like to live this new life as a poet in the city—away from all the sadness of the past. Finally, he looks up at the desk and sees a stack of envelopes and a roll of stamps beside the computer.
Why put off till tomorrow what you can cross off your to-do list today?
Philip turns on the computer, opens a blank file, and retypes his “Sharp Crossing” poem, making a few minor improvements. Next, he types a separate cover letter addressed to each of the journals on Conorton’s list. After all the pages are printed and sorted, the envelopes stuffed and stamped, Philip stops short of licking the seals because he wants to check for typos when he has a clear head in the morning.
At the moment, there doesn’t seem to be anything left to do. And since he has to get up early to move the car, Philip stands and pulls down the Murphy bed the way Donnelly instructed. Next, he finds an extra set of sheets in the closet and changes them. He considers using the bathroom to pee and wash up. But even though Donnelly said it would be a good idea for him to face his fears, Philip is not ready to face them at the moment.
He turns out the light and climbs into bed.
With only the street lamp shining in through the window and the glow of the computer screen to see by, Philip lies there, repeating a mantra to himself that he must wake up at seven-forty-five. He has always been good at making himself get up this way, but it takes concentration, and he cannot seem to concentrate at all tonight. His thoughts keep shifting and moving, but what he comes back to again and again is the way Donnelly asked if Philip had a brother, and what he said about being nice to him. Then Philip thinks of that last time he saw Ronnie, standing on the front lawn with his girlfriend and her sister and Chaz. Their mother snapped pictures and their father told a story Philip had heard a thousand times before about his watch getting stuck in his mother’s veil at their wedding. Philip remembers that he felt an incredible sense of isolation and loneliness as he drove away in his Subaru toward the restaurant, leaving them all on the front lawn. It seemed to him then that everyone had someone: Ronnie had Melissa, Chaz had Stacy, his parents had each other. Even though that is not true any longer, the same feeling hollows out a part of Philip’s heart right now.
When the ache becomes too much, he gives up on sleep. Philip gets out of bed and goes to the desk again, where he reaches around to unplug the phone cord and hook it to the back of the computer. Next, he logs onto the Internet the way Donnelly showed him. Philip has never done this sort of thing before, but he knows all about it from Deb Shishimanian and her stories about the various women she has met this way over the years. And tonight, for the first time, Philip wanders into a chat room the way some lonely soul might wander into a bar in any other time and place. It doesn’t take long for him to learn the strange language of this place.
lol…
brb…
what ru in2?
stats?
brwn, brwn, 6’, 165, 22
And it is only a few nights later that he works up the courage to invite someone over. As he waits, Philip sits by the window with a cup of coffee in his hands, staring out at the tall brick buildings of the housing development across the street. When he hears an unfamiliar voice call a made-up name from the street, he looks down at the stranger in the shadows and wonders one last time if he should go through with this. Finally, Philip wraps the key in the same towel Donnelly had used. He reaches his hand out the window and lets go. Soon, he hears the clomp-clomp-clomp of shoes on the crooked old stairway.
The closer they get, the faster the beating of Philip’s heart.
chapter 11
BECAUSE OF THE DIFFICULTIES HIS CAST AND CRUTCH PRESENT, IT takes Philip a good five minutes to get into the bathroom, drop his pajama bottoms, and do his business. So when the telephone rings, he is not about to jump up and go running to answer it. As he sits on the toilet in the small bathroom beneath the staircase, Philip listens to the answering machine pick up on the extension in the kitchen. After the mechanical, recorded voice instructs whoever is calling to please leave a message, his mother’s voice echoes through the house. “Philip. It’s me. Are you there? Pick up.” Filtered through the machine, she sounds softer than usual, stripped of her harshness. He might actually mistake her for a sane, decent person with manners if he didn’t know better. Then she says, “Okay, well, I just want you to know that I’m on my way to Melissa’s house. I plan to settle this whole thing once and for all. By the way, I got you a book from the library. I think you might like it. Well, okay. Bye now. See you when I get home.”
Philip tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling. Even though he doesn’t believe in God, he shouts a frustrated question up to the heavens, “Why can’t she just leave the poor girl alone?”
After he flushes and washes his hands, he hobbles to the kitchen with the help of his crutch, picks up the telephone, and punches in *69. “M,” Philip says when the call rings through to voice mail. “It’s me. I don’t know how you even found out where Melissa lives. But please don’t drive over there and rail on her about last night. Call me back when you get this. Or better yet, just come home.”
He hangs up and sits in one of the stiff ladder-back chairs at the kitchen table, exhausted from what little sleep he had the night before and jittery from all the coffee he drank today. Ten cups was a lot, even for him. After his mother woke him this morning then went upstairs to her room following their lovely mother-son talk, Philip tried to focus on reading his book or writing in his journal between watching the occasional scene from whatever old movie happened to be on television. It was then that he began to feel utterly stir-crazy for the first time since he came home. A feeling that returns to him now. Since he didn’t exactly make contingency plans for his life beyond that night on the fire escape, the question of what to do next has slowly begun to creep up on him. He can’t envision himself staying in Radnor forever, or even a few more weeks for that matter. Likewise, he can’t imagine going back to New York—not after the way things ended there.
Five minutes pass.
Five minutes during which Philip sits at the table doing not much of anything except ponder his lack of options. And still, his mother has yet to call back. Finally, he stands and picks up the phone, hits *69 again. Voice mail. He repeats an abbreviated version of the message he left last time, telling her not to bother Melissa, that she should call him or simply come home. After he hangs up, Philip considers putting on another pot of coffee. Then he thinks better of it and goes to the sink to see about cleaning those pots and bowls that have been there for days.
Back in the city, Philip never would have dared to leave out a dirty dish even for a second because of the mice problem. Between those mice and cockroaches, plus that bird and snake, Philip lived a life that was something akin to a zookeeper’s. With the exception of those strangers who came clomping up the staircase late at night to ease his loneliness, those rodents and pets—if you could call them that—were his only company.
Four and a half years of living in the city and Philip had spent almost every single day alone. In the mornings, he sometimes went to Aggie’s Diner on Houston Street, not far from where he lived, and treated himself to breakfast on his fathe
r’s credit card. As he sat at the counter, sipping his coffee and picking at his oatmeal with a spoon, Philip often spotted a guy about his age sitting at a booth with a blond woman and her baby. There was something about the three of them that drew Philip in. Throughout the years, he eavesdropped on their conversations so often that he knew the details of their lives. She was a novelist and he was her student. She taught a writing class at NYU and he taught one at a Senior Citizens Center. They had traveled to California and Key West together. Like Philip, they had each lost a sibling. While they talked and laughed and gave each other advice on everything from their writing to where to get the best Tarot card reading, the baby—a beautiful blond boy with bright blue eyes—fussed in his seat. Sooner or later, one of them would sweep him up and lift him over the table until he was laughing and giggling too. Meanwhile, Philip looked on and wished for a friendship like theirs to save him from his loneliness. On so many of those mornings, he envisioned getting up from his stool and introducing himself, but he could never go through with it. If his mother’s personality had exploded in the aftermath of Ronnie’s death, Philip’s had im ploded. There in the city, among all those millions of people, any of whom might have become his friend, he grew more isolated than ever.
After he hunts down a stray S.O.S. pad beneath the sink, Philip begins the insufferable task of scrubbing the dried green gunk from all the pots and bowls. The residue from his mother’s pea soup concoction is attached so firmly that Philip may as well be scraping barnacles off the hull of a ship. As he scours away, it dawns on him that even if his mother gets his messages (an iffy proposition at best, considering she’s not the most technologically savvy person around) there is no way in hell that she is going to listen to what he said. In fact, Philip would be willing to bet money that at this very moment she is defying his every word. He can just see her fat fist knocking on Melissa’s door, her big mouth opening as she lays into her the way she did last night.
