“I can get up on the three?”
“Quarter after. Say it right.”
“Quarter after,” I said.
Marge went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. I lay for awhile, listening to the slow hiss of the radiator beneath the wintry windows, the slow tick of the heavy walnut clock, the sounds of pots and pans and running water coming from the kitchen. I lay on my back, watching the last of the afternoon light swirl upon the frosted glass, the gauzy curtains above the radiator drifting like angel wings on the pale, dying sun.
When I was sure that Marge was fully occupied in the kitchen, I kicked off the Afghan and pulled on my cowboy boots. With the pig book under one arm, I ran to Leo’s chair and climbed up on the arm. I jumped across to the top of the radiator and clomped along the hot iron ridge until I reached the sitting board at the end. I squatted down next to the steam valve and inspected the fitting; the regulator cap was gone, and, in its place, Leo had locked a pair of vice grips about the stem. I propped the book against a window and, grasping the grips in both hands, twisted them back and forth, opening and shutting the valve, laughing as the steam chambers popped and groaned and hissed.
Finally, the grips sheared from the soft metal and fell clanking behind the radiator. They came to rest wedged between the iron and the wall. I beat hard on the radiator with the heel of my boots until the grips shook free and clattered to the floor.
“Teddie! What on earth …!” Marge called from the kitchen.
“Nothin’!” I shouted.
“Little nap ain’t going to kill you! Don’t make me come in there!”
I waited for a moment, standing still as stone on the hot iron, eying the distance to the couch in case I needed to make the leap. But, when Marge did not appear, I removed the book from the window sill and sat down cross-legged on the radiator board. Opening the book, chin in my hand, I ran my fingers over what was left of the shedding pig on the first page.
The heat rose, creaking upward and beat upon my face and chest. My place at the sitting board would have been too warm but for the cold seeping through the windows, cooling my shoulders and the back of my neck. The bottom of the glass behind me was beaded with condensation; long trails of sweat ran and gathered along the length of the sill. At the top of the windows, high above the rising heat, arches of frost glistened upon the glass, framing the pale-streaming light like church windows, laces of silver hanging like tiny crystals at the melting places.
As the living room settled into the smooth grey of early evening, I traced the words before me with my finger, whispering the comforting litany while burrowing into the cocoon of pigs and wizards and quiet winter windows. Then, welling up from the silence came something new. A sense of … acceleration. A broad, wide-spreading ease. An unfastening. At some moment within the sweet forever of the afternoon, I perceived the wholeness of the page before me: each letter revealed in some archetypal form, razor-edged, quickened by a new voice which came whispering within my mind. As my fingers passed beneath the words, there came, for the first time in my life, a sense of order.
Pigs leapt from the page, squealing with pigness, kicking up clouds of dust as they fled down country lanes; a scarecrow farmer ran after them, jeans flapping madly about his boots, the wind sending his straw hat looping high over fields thick with tasseled corn. For, out from what had been a march of black, ant-like scrawlings, came an integration of form and sound and meaning.
I sat for a long while within the glory of this moment, unmoving, listening to the radiator groan and the wind rattle the glass at my back. I read greedily, head bowed, until the room became dark and the afterimage of the letters burned upon my eyes. It would be many years before I realized the enormity of the gift: I had discovered a place to abide unhindered by my life.
I wanted to run to Marge and tell her what had happened. But I wondered if she would think me stupid that I had not been reading all along. So I watched from my perch on the radiator as her short, stocky body winked back and forth before the distant kitchen door. If I cocked my head and listened deeply, I could hear the splash of water poured into cast iron, to the sizzle of the dripping metal as it met the flames.
I jumped down from the radiator and moved through the darkness with the book tucked under one arm, boots softly scuffing across the thick hook-rugs and hardwood floors. I stopped at the kitchen door and hunkered in the shadows.
Marge stood at the counter next to the stove, the hem of her blue print dress dancing beneath her white apron as she cut and peeled and filled pots to overflowing. I watched her take the chopping knife and cut the string on a fat package of hamburger, pull the meat into fist-sized pieces, and drop them into a bowl heaped with onions and celery. She kneaded the meat and vegetables together, adding spices and chunks of bread, all the while pinching and tasting the raw mix.
Marge’s small, pale fingers dived lovingly into the bowl, her gold wedding band catching the light, her hands working as though she were creating the food rather than preparing it.
Ted had come quietly behind me. I had heard the click of the latch on the front door, the creaking of the hardwood floors as he crept toward the kitchen. I knew his footsteps, his uneven, drunken gait; I recognized his soft curses as his shins found a dining room chair in the darkness.
I tensed as he knelt behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders, pressing his cheek against the side of my face. His skin was sweaty, and it was cold from the chill of the night. Silent as thieves in the darkness, we studied Marge’s back as she pulled out a chair and lowered herself into it with a tired sigh, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.
“Look-it here, Ma,” Ted said. “Ever see such two good-looking men in your whole damn life?”
Marge started, and her chair creaked as she threw an arm over the back and looked at our faces peering around the door jamb.
“You could scare the Jesus right out of a person,” she said, but she smiled and waved us in.
“Didn’t mean to,” Ted replied.
“Never know’d a man so full of ‘didn’t mean to,’ and so little ‘I’m sorry’,” Marge answered. “Come and sit.” She rose and pointed to her chair. She pulled a cup from the hooks in the cupboard and brought the coffee pot from the stove.
Ted hugged her around the shoulders and gave her a loud, sloppy kiss on the cheek. He sat down and took me onto his lap.
Marge placed the cup and a spoon on the table in front of us. She pointed to the sugar bowl next to the wall, and Ted reached for it.
“Went and woke my Teddie, didn’t you,” she said, as she poured the coffee.
“He already was.” He ladled two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his cup. He swirled his little finger in the coffee, then dipped it to the knuckle into the sugar. He held his sugared finger to my mouth, and I sucked it clean.
“Boy’s got plenty ideas on his own,” Marge said. “I don’t know who’s the biggest kid.”
She walked to the dining room for an ashtray, and Ted opened his pea coat, taking a pint from the breast pocket. He poured until the cup was brimming, and, just before Marge returned, put the bottle back. Marge placed the ashtray next to his cup.
“Little early for that, ain’t it, Ted?”
“Don’t miss much, do you, Ma. Hell. It’s colder’n a witch’s teat out there.”
“Teats,” I said.
“Monkey see …” Marge said.
“Okay,” Ted said. “A well digger’s ass, then.”
“Teats,” I said.
Ted ruffled my hair. “That’s enough, Mutt.”
“Lorraine told me she won’t have Teddie talking like that.”
“There’s some more Lorraine won’t have.”
“She won’t let me keep him, he comes home with a bad mouth.”
“This here’s Teddie’s home. Lorraine can kiss my ass.”
“Ted.”
“Both cheeks.”
“She’s got him mostly at her place now. He’s over here only on her say-
so. She don’t got to let him stay over. He goes back with a bad mouth …”
“She pops her kid and goes back to work, Teddie’ll be back here where he belongs. What the hell else she going to do?”
“Somebody’d keep their pants zipped, there wouldn’t be half the misery.”
“Shit. That one ain’t no one of mine. I don’t know who the hell …”
“That’s enough, Ted!”
“Prob’ly some s.o.b. over at the mill.”
“You shut it! That girl loves you!”
“Sure as hell wasn’t that bull-dyke of hers.” Ted laughed.
Marge pulled out the chair next to Ted. She sat down and folded her arms across her breasts.
“Teddie, go out to the front room and turn the porch light on for your grandpa. Get his paper off the stoop and turn on his lamp. Get Swazey on the radio. You know how to get Swazey.”
I made no effort to move.
Ted gulped his coffee and pushed me off his lap. “Do like your grandma says.”
I stared up at him, but made no move to the door.
Ted shook a cigarette from the pack and lit it. He blew smoke to the ceiling. “Don’t fuck with your old dad, Teddie.” He said this slowly, carefully. He winked but did not smile.
I ran from the kitchen and out to the front room. When I came back, Ted was sitting with his hands behind his head, his chair tipped back on two legs. Marge had set out two plates and was pouring more coffee while holding Ted’s empty bottle at arm’s length. I climbed into a chair and pulled the sugar bowl toward me, wet a finger, and dipped it in.
Marge took the bowl away and looked at Ted. “You better slow down you want Teddie tonight.”
“That’s it for me. Just something to take the edge off. I got work in the morning.”
Marge walked to the trash can and stepped on the pedal; the lid popped open and she buried the bottle in the trash. Going to the refrigerator, she brought a package of baloney, a bottle of catsup, and a jar of mustard to the table.
“They’re feeding us at Jerry’s,” Ted said.
“You sure his wife’s home? I heard they was having their troubles.”
“She’s back. It was her asked me and Teddie over. Fried chicken or some damn thing.”
“Let me fix you two half a sandwich, tide you over. Teddie’s got to eat pretty quick, or he’ll start bouncing off the walls.”
“We’re heading straight over.”
“You know how wound up he gets he don’t eat.”
Ted looked at me and smiled. “We’ll make’er, won’t we, Mutt?”
I nodded.
“Miriam ain’t going to be there, is she, Ted?”
“I don’t hardly see Miriam no more.”
“I mean it. I’m sticking my neck out lettin’ you take Teddie out of the house. Lorraine told me a hundred times you wasn’t to have him out of the house. She ever gets wind you had him around Miriam …”
“Fuck Lorraine.”
“I told you you wasn’t to speak bad of Lorraine in front of the boy. I mean it!”
“Okay, Ma. Don’t get your nose out of joint. There ain’t going to be no Miriam, and I’m having Teddie back ‘bout bed-time. Just pisses me off. Who the hell she thinks she is can tell me what I can and what I can’t with my own kid.”
“Lorraine’s comin’ for him first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll have him back ‘fore bedtime. We’re having chicken and playing some cards. They got kids for Teddie.”
“Lorraine ever gets wind …”
“Nobody’s telling nobody nothing. Right, Mutt? Just old Mutt and his dad having a night out.”
“Well,” Marge said, “if you’re going you better git. Leo’s home pretty quick.”
“Makes me no never mind.” Ted stood and pulled on his coat. “Listen, Ma, I’m short ‘til payday. Could you cut me a couple of bucks for gas money?”
Marge nodded and walked out of the kitchen.
“I ought to take something over!” he called after she disappeared through the door. He sat back down. “A buck for a couple of beers or something!”
Marge returned with her handbag and rummaged until she found her small change purse. Unzipping it, she removed some bills that were folded and crumpled together. She separated three dollar bills and held them out toward Ted. He looked at them and put his hands behind his head.
“You wouldn’t have a fiver, would you, Ma? They’re feeding us dinner, I ought to take a little something over out of polite, don’t you think?”
Marge shook her head. “You want Teddie tonight, you’ve had enough, Ted.”
“I was thinking a couple of beers, is all. A six-pack or something. No more hard stuff. Hell, even Jerry’s old lady’ll have a couple beers. What’s that? Two beers apiece?”
Marge held his eyes.
Ted shrugged.
“Hell, it don’t matter to me.” he said, looking away. “I thought I’d take a little something out of polite, is all. Them feeding us, and everything. Hell, it ain’t no skin off my nose.”
Marge sighed. “Just beer.”
“I thought a beer, is all.”
She removed a five dollar bill from her purse and returned the ones. She put the bag on the table, away from Ted.
“Thanks, Ma.” Ted threw his arms around her and gave her a hug. He kissed the top of her head, and she looked up at him, her eyes shining.
“Behave yourself, Mr. Ted. You’ve got your son tonight.”
“I always behave,” he answered.
She pushed him away. “No sense the lightning hitting us both.”
“Ma …” he said.
Marge folded her arms across her breasts. “What?”
“Could I maybe borrow one of Leo’s hankies? Feels like I got something coming on. And for Teddie, too. Case he needs his face wiped or something.”
She nodded and left the kitchen.
“Not one of yours!” he called after her. He walked around the table and picked up her handbag. Removing her purse, he checked the doorway, and shouted. “One of them big ones of Leo’s, okay?” He took the three dollars she had returned to the purse and added it to the five, put the purse back into the handbag, and replaced it exactly as he had found it.
“Grandma’s money,” I said.
“She don’t care, Mutt,” he whispered, holding a finger before his lips. He pushed the sugar bowl in front of me and removed the lid.
“Ain’t suppose to touch her purse,” I said.
“It’s okay when they love you,” he said.
I licked my finger and dipped it into the sugar.
“When they love you, they don’t care, Mutt.” Ted stuffed the bills into his shirt pocket. “When they love you, everything’s okay.”
Ted and I drove across town in the cold winter night. Cinders sprayed the pickup’s undercarriage as we crunched along the furrows of frozen slush. Ted had one hand on the suicide knob and one arm thrown over the top of the seat, cigarette smoking between his fingers. I sat on his lap, holding the wheel, pretending to drive. The radio played low, Sinatra barely audible above the steady blast from the heater.
“Boys’ night out, ain’t it, Teddie.”
“Faster,” I said.
Ted depressed the accelerator, and the back of the truck fishtailed on the ice. He worked the knob back and forth, tearing the steering wheel from my grip, pumping the brakes until the truck straightened. We laughed.
“Slicker’n pussy pie.”
“Pussy pie,” I said.
“Don’t say ‘pussy’, Mutt. And don’t say nothing to your mom about us going. She won’t let me let you drive no more.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t even say nothing about we was gone from your grandma’s.”
“She won’t let me drive no more.”
“Yeah. Your mom’s pissed at me anyhow.”
“You’re a boozer.”
“She say that?”
I kept my eyes on the road. Snow fla
kes began to fall in the headlights and stick on the windshield. A car passed going in the opposite direction, and the bleat of snow chains rose then faded behind us.
Ted leaned toward the dash and turned on the wipers. He turned down the heater and the radio.
“She say that? I was a boozer?”
Snow gathered and thickened alongside the swath cut by the wipers. I squinted over the top of the steering wheel and made driving sounds.
“Bitch,” he said. “Fucking bitch. That what she’s telling my kid? His dad’s some kind of goddam boozer?”
We turned down an alley and slid to a stop in the lot behind the Blue Horizon. Ted opened the door and flicked his cigarette out into the snow. He pulled my sock hat down over my ears, and lifted me from the car, hoisting me onto his shoulders. I threw both arms around his head, and he ran for the bar door. The wind was blowing off the lake, and the snow was cold and wet against my face. I bobbed at the back of Ted’s neck as if I rode a fast-trotting pony. The slush in the parking lot was packed and slippery, and, as Ted struggled to keep his footing, I squeezed hard.
“Christ, Teddie!” He pried at my arms, laughing. “Ease off. How the hell am I supposed to see where I’m going?”
There were a number of cars and trucks parked at the back of the tavern, old beaters pulled in at crazy angles where drunks had left them. All were mired in drifts of dirty snow; huge clumps of ice, turned black by coal dust and cinders, hung from their wheel wells and bumpers. And, not a single one had come unscathed. There were cracked windshields, broken headlights, crumpled fenders.
A bright orange BAR sign flickered on our faces as we ran for the back door. The play of the neon on the dirty snow made the cars appear more like snowbound beasts, dug in for the winter, capable of rearing up from their filthy pen to feed. Ted dodged among them, slipping and cursing, pulling at my arms as they fastened in a death-grip around his throat. I ducked as he threw his shoulder into the back door, and we lurched inside.
Ted lifted me over the top of his head and put me on the floor. He stamped his feet and brushed the snow from his jacket. I pulled off my hat and began stamping my feet in the melted trackings, twirling my hat in the air like a propeller.
“Knock it off, Teddie,” Ted said, after I had splashed his shoes and pants. We stood in the dim back hall between the rows of empty kegs stacked floor to ceiling. Ted pulled a comb from his back pocket and moved in front of the wired glass at the top half of the office door; he stood before his weak reflection, running the comb again and again through his straight blond hair. His hair was slicked with oil, and he shaped and patted it along the sides and in back, making a ducktail. He pulled a small lock down over his forehead.
The Violent Child Page 7
