After processing several more letters, Rory answered a knock on his door with permission to enter. Studs walked in, tray in hand. Her sleeveless T-shirt, pasted Over her bra-less chest, allowed any stray breeze to flutter her plentiful underarm hair (rendering the requisite sanitary cranial hairnet she wore a mockery) and outlined her nipple rings.
“Hey, Dear Abby, its your lunchtime.” Studs set the tray down on Rory’s desk, canted across the piles of mail, then left.
Rory sniffed the sandwich, leery of any of Beatbox’s experimental recipes. Smelled like good old pastrami. A bite confirmed this, and Rory was lulled into chomping a mouthful of the accompanying seasoned French fries rather too boldly. The potatoes had been dosed heavily with garam marsala and asafoetida. Yuck! Only downing half of his can of cold Dr Brown’s Cream Soda alleviated the disgusting taste.
Having finished his lunch, Rory returned to his epistolary chores, becoming fully absorbed. When, an hour later, another knock sounded, he assumed Studs must be returning for his tray, and grunted admittance.
The door opened tentatively, but no one immediately entered.
“Okay already,” Rory said, looking up. “No games, please.”
But the person who wafted over the threshold like a fay was not Studs.
It was Katie Stearn. Rory’s first love, completely unaged after three decades.
Below his neck, every cell in Rory’s body ceased to function for a small hot eternity. His eyes and mind, as in some bloodless Biercean micromoment, continued however to drink in the vision at his door. The woman standing shyly there, petite, violet-eyed, golden-haired, could have dropped down off the trapeze just seconds ago, circa 1971. Rory fancied for a moment that he could hear the Baroness’s whicker, the shouts of clowns, and Lispenard’s spiel.
After this timeless interregnum, Rory’s metabolism resumed functioning when the woman spoke.
“Hello, you must be Rory Honeyman. I’m Kerry Stearn. Mother always wanted me to look you up if I ever got the chance.”
Somehow they were shaking hands, and Rory was clumsily clearing off a chair for her. Kerry Stearn sat gracefully, as if across the bar of a trapeze. Rory moved a cardboard tongue in a tin mouth to produce something resembling speech of his own.
“I—I am so happy to meet you, Kerry. What—what brings you here to Hoboken?”
“Mister Lispenard doesn’t trust the mails. So once he knew I was coming to New York to get married, he insisted that I hand-deliver this letter to you.”
His head whirling, Rory took the offered envelope.
Greetings & Felicitations to A Revered Alumnus!
How can you stand it, Honeyman! I allude to your existence as a mark, a mere spectator of life’s rich pageant, rather than one of those exclusive devils who animate the farce. Once a carny-boy, always a carny-boy. It’s in your blood! And from what I hear you have come up with quite a sharp little game of your own. Spondulix indeed! Surely those chits with which since time began I have paid my staff exerted some influence and inspiration in your own ruse. This raises, of course, interesting, even actionable questions anent precedents and propriety. But away with all such quibbles and quiddities! The Pantechnicon is flourishing, and I need not press any legal briefs with wild (or not so wild?) hopes of outrageous monetary settlements. But seriously, son, the old show has never been quite the same since your departure. I realize that the death of the Baroness dealt you an implacable blow. But you should know that just this week I purchased a colt who was raised in Nova Scotia aboard a fishing vessel. Trained to herd fish into nets, she shows great promise in the diving line. I am already in contact with Hugo Gürl to secure his services to train her up to the standards of v. H-P (Gürl, you will understand, returned to Austria some time ago and became a high mucky-muck in the Freedom Party, but now verges on retirement and surely must need something to fill his days.)
Return now, and help me train this filly up to the show’s high standards! Bring a valise of spondulix, to meet any conceivable expenditures involved in outfitting your act. Do not hesitate or relent. Board the next bus north. After Shagbark, our itinerary takes us to Bumff, Big Frosty, and Lower Tundish. How to spot us? Just look for the crowds, the searchlights, the pretty women, and,
Yours extravagantly,
Leonard Lispenard
Rory folded the letter into a small thick square while he tried to marshal his thoughts and emotions. At last he croaked out, “Your mother—”
Kerry Stearns radiance dimmed a few watts. “Mom died fifteen years ago, Rory. A fall. You know she always worked without a net. But by then I had already benefited from ten years of her training me to follow in her aerial footsteps. She started coaching me when I was five. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this.”
This old news of Katie’s premature death, though fresh to Rory and impactful as a wallop from a roustabout’s sledgehammer, was mediated somewhat both by the chronological distance between him and his first love and by the living delightful presence of her daughter. He tried to devote his full attention to the woman before him, knowing that many a sleepless future night would be spent conjuring painful details of Katie’s fatal fall.
“You came to New York for your marriage?”
Kerry glowed. “Yes, I’m marrying a clown from the Big Apple Circus. Belem Nork. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s really famous! We met while wintering-over in Tampa a few years ago. Once we’re married, he’s coming north to join the Pantechnicon.”
Rory found his attention hypnotized by certain of Kerry’s facial features, angles and lines and planes that differed significantly from her mother’s recalled visage. And that ginger tint to her hair—
“Will your father be here for the ceremony?”
Kerry studied her tiny shoes. “I never knew my father. Mom wouldn’t tell me who he was, no matter how much I asked. I figure maybe she didn’t even know herself. She wasn’t a tramp, but you know carny life. Confusing things happen. So after a while, I just stopped asking.”
Doing mental arithmetic with the facts she had given him, Rory wanted desperately to inquire about Kerry’s age, even her exact birth date, but found no delicate way to do so. Maybe if he could be with her for a while—
“Can I show you around Hoboken? Your ancestors all grew up here. There’s this old Brewery your great-grandparents owned—”
Kerry stood. “I’m afraid I can’t spare the time on this trip, Rory. So many marriage arrangements! Why, just coordinating the clowns’ outfits will take forever! No, I mainly came to deliver Lispenard’s letter. Is there a reply I can take back?”
Rory felt crestfallen, but hid it. “Yes, yes, of course. Just give me a minute to think.”
Dear Lennie,
I am afraid I gave up diving long ago and am much too old now to indulge in any such performances. I don’t know about the carnival in my blood, but my head —for good or ill—is no longer quite so full of the ring’s sawdust as it once was. Please accept the enclosed donation for old time’s sake.
Pantechnically yours,
Rory
PS: Thank you for sending Kerry to me.
You are a wise old scoundrel.
Another hundred thousand spondulix joined this brief reply inside a fat envelope, which Rory passed to Kerry. Then he fished out several banded packs of bills, and handed them separately to the bemused woman.
“What are these?”
“You may not believe me, but these notes are as good as dollars, at least in New York. Spend them on your wedding, and consider them a small present from someone who loved your mother very much.”
Kerry’s brilliant smile nearly sent Rory’s heart into arrhythmia. “Why, thank you! You’re just as nice as Mom always said you were.” She leaned across his desk to kiss his hairy cheek, and once more Rory’s cellular machinery went on strike.
Somehow he found himself waving goodbye to Kerry on the street. A promise to keep in touch rang in his ears.
Well, that little blin
dsiding by Fate effectively put a period to his work day. Rory went back inside, gathered up the tub of replies, and left the busily humming store. He stopped at the Post Office to process the envelopes, then went straight home to freshen up prior to meeting Addie for dinner.
But one more letter awaited him.
On the stoop of his apartment building (the French Drycleaners on the first floor was advertising a special: suits—five spondulix—this week only), Rory paused to check his personal mailbox, strictly out of habit. Few people had his home address, thank God, and most days saw nothing but junk mail appear here. He unlocked the little brass door and instantly spotted a hand-addressed letter. The return address was preprinted: Honeyman’s Apiary.
Rory carried the letter upstairs without opening it. Inside his apartment he called out, as he customarily did these days, “Hello Kitty? Hello Kitty? Did you have ’em yet?”
Hello Kitty emerged from behind a chair, mewling plaintively. Now more than three months pregnant, she resembled an engorged python or over-inflated water balloon with legs.
Damn that Cardinal Ratzinger! What the hell kind of mutant genes did he have?
Rory picked the gravid cat up tenderly and sat down in a chair, transferring the animal to his lap. “There, there, girl, don’t worry. Any day now.”
While he petted the purring time-bomb he read the letter from his mother.
Dear Son,
Your father’s arthritis is much better since he started taking those new drugs. The doctor says the affliction is hereditary, and of course you remember how bad Grandpa Horst had it. I guess you can look forward to the curse, too. Anyway, the old bear seems to have no trouble getting around on the farm. But expect a “flare-up” whenever I mention another trip to New York to see you! It’s been too long since we came out there. What’s showing at the MOMA these days?
As for yours truly, I cant really complain. My figure’s not what it once was, that’s for sure! I took my wedding dress out of mothballs the other day—in green, of all colors! What an impulsive girl I once was! Anyway, I couldn’t even button it above the first two buttons. I’m afraid it’ll have to go back in the cedar closet until a new generation’s ready for it.
Do you think you’ll ever get back together with that Netsuke girl? I’m sorry your father said he didn’t want his grandkids to be “little Nips.” I hope his rude comment didn’t have anything to do with the breakup. I’m sure he didn’t really mean it. He’s got a lot of bad memories from the War. She seemed like a lovely girl, if a little ditzy. I’m sure if you two ever got married, Daddy would soften right up. If not, I’d sock him one! Anyway, I’m sure a green dress would really compliment her exotic complexion. Or if there’s someone new now, how about letting your old Mama know!
Listen to me, lecturing a son as old as you! But fifty today is like thirty once was, and plenty of people get married at thirty! Maybe I’ll be a grandmother yet!
We just increased production again, for the fourth year in a row. My brother’s so busy building us new hives that he had to let his lawn-ornament sideline slide. You know, those plywood cutouts that look like fat ladies bending over. We should have no trouble meeting the increased orders from the sandwich shop. I get so excited thinking about our Iowa honey being enjoyed out there in New Jersey, so close to Manhattan!
Don’t forget that it’s easier than ever to visit here, since they built the new airport in Independence.
Well, I’ve got to sign off now. You-know-who wants his supper.
Love,
Mom (and Dad too, of course)
PS: I still haven’t spent any of that “funny money” you insist on sending. Too “far-out” for me. But just the other day an equipment salesman from Chicago took out his wallet to get his business card for us and I saw some “spondulix” inside!
Rory folded the letter carefully and reinserted it into its envelope, then set the envelope on a side-table. He cradled the back of his head with his interlaced fingers and looked up at the ceiling. The old bump from the time he had whacked his head on a practice dive felt sore today. And his finger joints ached, as if incipient arthritis were ramping up.
His parents. God bless ’em. They just wanted him to be happy. He wondered what his mother would say if she knew that in all probability she had been a grandmother for the past thirty years? Better not to tell her, at least until some kind of scientific certainty about Kerry Stearns parentage could be obtained. Rory thought a while about being a parent.
Roz and Rudy might not have always understood their odd son and his incomprehensible lifestyle, but the loved him unreservedly nonetheless. That summarized parenthood. What was more vital than this unquestioning acceptance? Only Addie supplied anything similar. Addie. What a sweet and unique and sexy woman. He’d better get hopping if he wanted to be on time for their dinner date.
As Rory slid Hello Kitty to the floor, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Rory, my shell, where you been?” Earl Erlkonig sounded both elated and irritated. “I tried the office but you had vamoosed!”
“Earl, listen closely. I don’t punch a timeclock. I’m my own boss. I got sick of answering those stupid letters, so I left. Okay by you?”
“Oh, yeah, sure, moll. I’m not checking up on you or anything. I just wanted to inform you about an unscheduled meeting of the Board tomorrow.”
“On Saturday? How come we need another Board meeting? We had one just last week.”
“Big changes, moll. Trust me, you’ll find out mañana.”
“All right. I assume we’ll meet at the Bank.”
“No, the Brewery. I want everyone to see what’s going on here at the ol’ HQ.”
“When?”
“Noon. We’ll order in some platters. From Honeyman’s Heroes, natch. Be sure to get your tail here by twelve, shell.”
Rory had to stand under a cold shower for a full minute to calm down after Erlkonig’s call. The man’s imperious nature grew more pronounced day by day. He plainly fancied himself the George Soros of Hoboken. Somehow Rory wouldn’t have minded his arrogance so much if Erlkonig had seemed to be enjoying himself. But the more reins of power he consolidated in his grip, the wider he cast his tentacles (to mix horses and the sea), the unhappier Erlkonig looked. Nothing satisfied him anymore.
Where were the carefree beer Nuts of yore? Everyone touched by spondulix seemed to be going a little crazy. A crying shame. All Rory had originally hoped to accomplish was to stave off the wolf at the door for a month or two. Instead he had given birth to a paper demon.
He had boasted he could spin straw into gold, and now he had to pay Rumplestiltskin’s harsh fee.
Buck up, chief! He couldn’t let this despair get to him, as it had in the Cloisters. Tonight, the best night of the week, a Friday, he and Addie would have a grand time, free of cares.
Rory set out whistling for Miss Swinburne’s apartment, leaving Hello Kitty munching a giant bowl of kibble.
At Addie’s door he buzzed. No response. Rory checked his watch: five-thirty. She should be home from work by now. He knocked this time, called her name, then tentatively let himself in with his key. No Addie. Slightly baffled, he went outside again and sat down on her steps to wait.
An hour later he spotted Addie a block away, making long strides toward him on coltish legs. Rory got up to meet her halfway.
Anger and nervousness blended uneasily across her generally cheerful features. She seemed reluctant to meet Rory’s eyes. Poor thing, worried the famous Honeyman temper would flare up at her lateness. He would show her no such ruckus was possible. He grabbed her up and hugged her tight. After the embrace Addie still seemed awkwardly uptight.
“Train troubles?” Rory guessed.
“I wish. It’s that damn Mister Caesar! He just wouldn’t let me go tonight. Impressing me with the importance of his big new project. Oh, Rory, I’m so sorry!”
“Hey, we’re just heading to dinner, not our wedding! We don’t even have reservati
ons anywhere, although I did have a certain place in mind.”
Addie visibly refocused her attention on their date. “Really? Where?”
“The Clam Broth House. It’s kind of a Hoboken tradition.”
Addie’s smile dispelled any clouds. “Sounds wonderful. Just let me change.”
Within minutes they were walking down Newark Street by the waterfront. The Clam Broth House boasted an inconspicuous facade, a wide window half-curtained and filled with placards advertising local events. A carnival, a prizefight, KofC bingo nights—”f 500 in Prizes!!!The spondulix decal had earned a prominent position near the entrance.
Rory held the door open for Addie. The interior of the restaurant, a big, low-ceilinged room, harked back to another era, filled with padded vinyl booths and small tables. Celebrity photos covered the smoke-suffused walls, Sinatra in his place of honor. But unlike the similar gallery in Honeyman’s Heroes, these framed headshots represented an older generation, forgotten mayors and ballplayers, faded and dusty in tarnished frames. Most of the customers were elderly, in their sixties and seventies. The waitresses seemed even older. Dim yellow-globed lanterns barely lighted the whole scene.
Addie paused immediately over the threshold. “Is there anyone living here?” she whispered.
“C’mon, Addie, please act nice. Gee, I think that old guy heard you.”
“How could he? His ear-trumpet’s lying on the floor.”
The hostess shuffled up, smiling through misapplied make-up, her hair lacquered into a tall beehive. “Two?” she asked.
“Could we have something in the non-wheelchair section?” Addie inquired.
The hostess seemed to be operating on automatic, for she took no notice of Addie’s irreverence. “How about a booth, dearie?”
Rory hastened to say, “Fine,” before Addie could offer another insult.
Sitting on the slippery leatherette seat, Rory said, “Gee, you big-city girls are tough to please. You should consider yourself lucky to be dining in such an historic place. In olden days this used to be a stevedore’s bar. They didn’t even allow women in here until nineteen-seventy-two.”
Spondulix: A Romance of Hoboken Page 28
