A Man to Conjure With

by Jonathan Baumbach

  “I’m going for a walk,” he said as she came into the room.

  “Why don’t you?” she said softly, without bitterness, a martyr’s frail irony. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, not moving.

  “Good-bye.”

  He took a cautious step.

  “See you,” she said, her hand at her throat, a curious gesture of despair. “If you leave now, I won’t be here when you get back.” She went by him into the bathroom at the other end of the long room, locked the door.

  He grabbed his lumber jacket, rushed to the door, stopped, turned back, a shriek inside him unspoken. He didn’t want to go. He had to. He plunged out, slamming the door—always problems—walked quickly around the block and came back.

  She was still in the bathroom. “Lois,” he called, thinking she was gone.

  “What do you want?” She stuck her head, turbanned in a violet bath towel, through the opening in the door. “I’ve been washing my hair.” A tender smile for him, faintly pitying.

  Were they both mad? “I’ve come back,” he said foolishly. And added, “It’s pretty raw out,” as though it explained something.

  Later she was sitting on the bed in her slip, a weed of a girl, her chest undernourished—a wistful, hard-nosed little girl. She puffed on her cigarette with secret pleasure, as though it were against the law. He was back at his book again, his spirit restive, wandering.

  “I don’t want to have a child,” she said.

  That again. It was their most abundant, most fruitless topic of conversation. He closed the book, impatient with his life, losing his place mark, his place. “I‘m sorry,” he said. “You know that I’m sorry to death that you don’t want it, but it’s done. It can’t be undone.”

  “You know it can.”

  He stood up abruptly, a reflex gesture of protest.

  “Peter, the truth: apart from the fact it’s a fait accompli, you don’t really want the kid, do you? Do you? If it were wholly a matter of choice, would you want a kid now?”

  “Why not?” He was sitting again, the bile-green-walled squalor of their basement apartment moving in and around him—no life for a kid. For whom then? For no one. “It’s not such a tragedy,” he said. “We’re married.”

  That gave her a laugh. “What happens if we split up? What happens to the kid then? Oh shit, I’m out of cigarettes. Do you have any?” She knew he didn’t.

  He shook his head, standing again, though he hardly remembered getting up. “It’s unreasonable to predicate everything on the worst happening. Why should we split up?”

  She shrugged, blew the hair out of her eyes. “You know.”

  He did and he didn’t.

  “Lois …”

  “I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to have it.” She was up and past him. “I’m going out for cigarettes because I can’t depend on you to …”

  He grabbed her arm as she went by. “You know I love you,” he said.

  A faint smile, sad-eyed. “It doesn’t make any difference, Peter. We don’t have any money—not enough—and we can’t take any more from my parents, not after what you said to my mother. You could at least have apologized, but you wouldn’t, would you?” She glared at him, goading her irritation into anger: ‘For God’s sake,” she said, “don’t make me say everything.”

  What could he say without making things worse; he had a knack for stepping over the weeds and trampling the roses. “I’ll call your mother and apologize.” It hurt him to say it. He added for his self-respect, “but she won’t accept an apology from me. Do you think she will? Do you want me to call? I’ll call if you want me to.”

  “That’s not the only thing, Peter-rat. There are other reasons.” In a great hurry, she got her coat from the closet.

  He only watched. “What other reasons?” he said.

  “Oh …” She threw her arms up in a gesture of helplessness, her glance coy, knowing. “I’ll tell you when I get back. Don’t crowd me, Peter. Please!” Her hand on the door.

  He turned away, turned back. The door was swinging shut. “Fuck you,” he muttered to himself. He didn’t care if she had heard, though a few minutes later, when she still hadn’t returned, he began to worry about her absence, blaming his rage, regretting it. He stewed and worried, wandering the room, cursing himself, calling Herbie, who said, What do you need her for? He could depend on Herbie for the right question. Just when he had given her up, she came back. It was always like that.

  Peter started work the next day, through Herbie’s influence, at the Sun-Spot cab company. His photograph (his mug shot) managed to look like all the photos he had ever seen from the back seats of other cabs, which permitted him, in a limited way, a sense of belonging. While he was trying on his chauffeur’s cap, a wizened, white-haired little man who resembled his paternal grandfather gave him some friendly advice. “Kiddo,” he introduced himself, “you want some friendly advice? Listen to old Barker.” He cocked his head as he talked. “I’ll tell you something. These other drivers”—he made a deprecating face, an all-inclusive gesture—“if you was a blind man, they wouldn’t give you honest change. They’d steal from you on your deathbed. That’s the honest-to-God truth. If you want to get along, boychick—listen to me—you gotta screw ‘em first.” He made the appropriate gesture with his finger. “You got to stick it to ‘em before they stick it to you.” He glanced around the locker room to see if anyone was listening; when he turned back he winked. “Trust nothing and no one,” he said.

  “Don’t believe a word Barker says,” a voice warned from the other side of the lockers. “He’s a dirty old man who plays with his clutch.”

  “What’s a matter, Sclaratti,” the old man shrilled, nudging Peter with his elbow, “pee your pants again, boychick?” To Peter: “When he gets excited Sclaratti pees his pants. Dope!”

  A grunt from the other side. “Keep it up, Barker, and I’ll call the zoo and have them take you away.” He snorted and stuck his head out—bald, squat, fiftyish, his face pocked, gentle under the scars, a man who would kill you only if it was absolutely necessary. He shook hands with Peter. “Watch out for Barker, he’ll steal your hub caps if you let him.”

  Barker turned his head, nodding ironically, contemptuous of slander. “I’m a crook, huh? Sure. What then? And you’re a member of the Mafia. Yah! If I was one-third the thief you are, I’d turn myself in for the reward.”

  Sclaratti snorted, poked Peter. “Do you hear that? In the old country, a man talked to you like that was as good as dead. It’s a lucky thing for Barker I’m civilized. Hey, Barker, drop dead.” He laughed. “Look at him. You ever see anyone uglier in your life?”

  They were still at it when Peter left. Depressed, nostalgic, he remembered, as a kid, listening to arguments just like this one—the love and hate almost indistinguishable—where Herbie and his father raged at each other, at the world in general, a running battle for weeks on end. Just like home. Who needed it? He was continually being brought back to things he wanted to forget, which was a dirty trick, but whom could he complain of and whom to?

  He cruised around the city for a while, getting the feel of the cab, reticent about picking up someone he’d never met before, a total stranger. What would they talk about?

  Finally, tired of fleeing from passengers, he stopped for a middle-aged, tweedy woman on Broadway and Ninety-seventh Street, a woman with a sympathetic face, who looked to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

  “Twenty-six Sutton Place,” she said in an imperious whisper, “and take the shortest route. I was supposed to be home ten minutes ago. You people are never around when you’re needed.”

  Unsure of the address, he asked her to repeat it, embarrassed at having let it slide out of memory. She whispered it again, slowly this time, with the martyred patience of a woman who was used to talking to imbeciles. “And hurry, please.”

  He got caught by the first light, and could hear his passenger muttering to herself—he kn
ew the feeling—but after that he made pretty good time, made only one wrong turn. Trying to cut his way diagonally through Central Park, watching the scenery (a lovely day), he got lost and came out again on the West Side. Abashed, he glanced in the rear-view mirror, awaiting reproof, but the lady didn’t seem to have noticed. Her eyes closed, her face whitish, she looked to be dozing. Or was she sick? Whatever it was, he worried; she was his passenger, his first, a personal responsibility. To make up for getting lost, he gunned the cab across the park at Seventy-second Street, passing a Cadillac on the way—a score for his side. At the next light he glanced in the mirror again.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded impatiently, her eyes opening, closing, a crease of pain across her forehead.

  “Are you sure?” Another taxi cut in front of him and he was forced to slam on the brakes. She fell forward, nearly off the seat. “If you feel sick,” he said, “I can stop at a drug store. Do you want me to stop?”

  “No, no, go on, please. Please. And look where you’re going.”

  He hurried, the lights against him, glancing nervously at his passenger in the rear-view mirror, her mouth trembling, fretful—his responsibility. Waiting impatiently for a light to change, he saw the lady, as in a movie he had once seen, turn old before his eyes, wither in a flash of time into dust. It was just his luck. What could he do with the remains, heaped like ashes in the back seat of his cab? Though he knew he was hallucinating, he turned around to get a look at his passenger without the intercession of reflection. She seemed all right, her eyes meeting his, staring as if she knew him, as if she expected something from him. A horn honked. He drove off in a rush.

  “This is it,” he said, finding a place next to the curb in front of her house. He got out, not sure whether he should or not, and opened the door for her—a personal service for first customers only. “Are you all right?” he asked when she made no move to get out. She looked up, smiled, looked at her watch. “So we are,” she said. “That was fast.”

  Fussing with her hair, she slowly, tremulously, made her way out of the cab.

  “That will be one eighty-five,” he said, trying to strike the right professional tone, holding the door, embarrassed.

  She fiddled with the clasp on her purse, stumbled, clutched his arm. “A little faint,” she said. “The fumes.”

  “Do you want me to help you to the door?”

  “No. Thank you. I’m all right.” She took a step, turned, and in a convulsion fell back against him, muttering, the words unintelligible.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, worried. His arm around her shoulders, he clumsily led her to the house, a modernized brownstone, the door black, a brass knocker set on its chest like a jewel.

  “Let me go, please,” she said, struggling as if he were holding her against her will. When he took his arm away he was afraid she would fall down, the full weight of her body balanced against his chest. She remained in precarious suspension against him for minutes, then without a word rushed into the house. Peter stood outside awhile, a well-wisher, hovering about awaiting reports, appreciation, the small change of acknowledgment. After five minutes of lonely vigil he climbed back into his cab, curiously dissatisfied, and drove away. It struck him, as he was approaching the park, that he had not collected his fare.

  Reluctantly, he went back. All he wanted, he told himself, was what was due him, which had nothing to do with the woman being sick, which wasn’t his fault anyway, and besides, he had a wife and unborn child to think of—also to feed.

  Knocking with his fist on the door, unable to find the bell, Peter waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, strangely uneasy, as if he were doing something indefinably criminal. When no one answered he knocked again, using the ornamental brass handle, which made a delicate, hollow clack like the clearing of a throat.

  “Yes?” A slight, delicately pretty girl, a child of a girl, her blond hair in a plaited rope down her back, peered whimsically at him from the doorway. “Are you looking for someone?” He was. “I’m a cab driver,” he said—a matter of introduction.

  “I guessed that you were,” she said, keeping a straight face, amused. “Do you want to come in? We’re having a party.”

  “Thank you,” he said, “but as you can see I’m on duty.” He turned to look at the cab, to see that it was still there; it was, two little boys sitting on the bumper to keep it from floating away. “I delivered a lady here about fifteen minutes ago,” he explained. “She wasn’t feeling well and forgot to pay her fare.”

  “Now, who could that be?” the girl said, balancing her chin on the forefinger of her right hand.

  ‘Well, she was wearing a kind of brown …”

  “Delilah,” a voice trilled from inside, “who are you talking to out there?” The woman appeared, looking much better, imperious as ever, the death of a smile on her face.

  “Hello,” Peter started to say, relieved that she was no longer sick. “You forgot …”

  When she saw him the woman blanched, fiercely pulled the girl behind her and with a look of unmistakable contempt slammed the door in the face of his explanation.

  Defeated, numb with the invisible possibilities of guilt, he retreated to his cab, chased the kids off his bumper and then, feeling the injustice of his position, went back to the house, fired with rage. Kid hater, they called after him. Mean man.

  A man answered the door. “What do you want?” he asked, belligerent, nervous. “Are you looking for some kind of trouble?”

  Fighting with customers discouraged by the company, Peter presented his case, his sense of injustice making him incoherent.

  “Why don’t you just go away,” the man said, his well-fed face animated by nervous indifference. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but you’re not getting any more money. Now go away.”

  “I want my fare,” Peter said. “I’m not going until I get a dollar eighty-five, which is what the lady owes me.”

  “The lady doesn’t owe you a thing, buddy. Mrs. Townley paid you for the taxi; she told me so herself.”

  “She may think she did, but she didn’t.” He explained again that the lady had fainted and had to be helped to the door.

  “That’s not the story I heard,” the man said, looking behind him for support. “Wait here. I’ll find out if you’re lying or not. Everyone thinks I’m made of money,” he muttered as he disappeared inside.

  Peter hung on, resurrecting his dignity, thinking of the things he should have said, like “who’s a liar, you sunnava-bitch.” “A buck eighty-five is not going to break you, you bastard.” It was just as well he hadn’t said anything.

  “Hello, cab driver.” The girl, looking older, looking like Alice in Wonderland, had reappeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry that you’re having so much trouble,” she said. “Really.”

  Peter grunted, in no mood to be charmed, charmed in spite of himself. “All I want is my fare,” he said. “What’s the matter with everyone here?”

  “Everyone’s crazy in this house,” she said blandly. “Haven’t you noticed that yet? My name’s Delilah, if you must know.”

  “You don’t look like Delilah,” he said, passing the time.

  Delilah pouted in mock anger. “Please don’t be witty. It’s unbecoming in a cab driver. Really, it’s gauche.” She stuck her head inside. “They’re still arguing about you.” Then out again, appraising his face. “What’s it like, being a witty cab driver?” she said, leaning casually against the door frame, her hand on her hip.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “What do you think?” A challenge.

  “I think about fifty,” he said.

  She didn’t smile. “That’s about right,” she said, listening inside again.

  “Are they going to pay me?” he asked.

  “I would,” she said, “if it were up to me. However, my mother says that she distinctly remembers having given you your fare, and that it’s not money you’re
after, anyway.”

  “What does she think I’m after?” He was almost afraid to ask.

  “Don’t you know?” She winked at him, a parody of insinuation.

  His face burned. “No,” he said, “I don’t know.”

  “I think you know what I mean,” she said. “My mother says that you touched her with lewd intent, that you wanted to rav-age her. It’s probably not true at all, though you look like the type. If you want my opinion, I think my mother has delusions of grandeur. She thinks that every man who sees her wants to rav-age her. Did you … want to?”

  Sweat leaked from his forehead. “I didn’t do anything like that,” he said. “She was sick. I tried to help her into the house. I didn’t …”

  “Well, don’t look so sick about it if you’re innocent.”

  It was true; he felt guilty, as if in his worst imaginings he could conceive of making a pass at a middle-aged woman. “She’s crazy,” he said.

  “Didn’t I say so? Do you want to know my secret, whatever-your-name-is? My secret is, I always look innocent even if I’ve just rav-aged an old lady.” She blushed.

  The man was back, imposing himself between Peter and the girl. “Lila, your guests are looking for you,” he said.

  “Oh damn!” She smiled specially for Peter. “I’m always losing people before I get to know them.”

  “Lila, go on inside,” he ordered. “Your mother’ll have a fit if she finds you’re out here.”

  “Yes, Uncle Alex,” she said, wide-eyed, mocking. “I certainly don’t want Mother to have a fit.”

  When he was sure that Delilah was inside, Alex slipped two bills into Peter’s hand as though he were bribing a cop. “There’s no reason for you to hang around now, is there?”

  Peter dug in his pocket, offered the man fifteen cents’ change.

  “That’s your tip,” Alex said, a delayed smile on his thick face. “You’ve earned it—one way or another.”

  Peter threw the fifteen cents at him and walked off, curiously tired. He had the feeling, without knowing why, that he had been defeated in the exchange.