“I remember when we made that sign. It was almost thirty years ago, just after you were born. We had such great hopes then,” Phil said.
“You made them all happen, Papa. You have enough money in the bank to live comfortably. It’s time now that you leaned back and took it easy.”
“That’s what I mean,” Phil grumbled. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Joe looked at his father. He smiled. “What does Rabinowitz do?”
“He goes to the beach and looks at the girls.”
Joe laughed. “There’s nothing so bad about that.”
“I’ll kill him,” his mother said. But even she was laughing.
* * *
HE PRESSED THE bell of Laura’s apartment. She opened the door for him. He was carrying two cardboard boxes, which he placed on the foyer floor. He bent over and kissed her.
“What’s in the boxes?”
“Books,” he said. “My mother gave them to me. I have had them since I began to read. She saved them for me because she thought I might want to keep them.”
She looked up at his face. “Are your parents all right?”
He nodded. His face was tight and hurting.
“You need a drink,” she said quickly.
He followed her into the living room and sank into the couch. She poured a heavy Scotch on the rocks. “Drink it,” she ordered.
Silently he swallowed half the drink, then looked up at her. “You know, sometimes you see people but you never really see them. It’s like they have always been there. They always look the same.”
She said nothing.
“Suddenly I saw my father, and I realized I’d never really seen him. And my mother too. Suddenly, overnight, they had grown old. They were not the young and angry parents I had always known. They were old and apprehensive people moving to a world they’ve never known, facing dangers they could never imagine.” He felt the tears welling in his eyes and tried to hold them back. “I don’t know if they really know how much I love them. Maybe I haven’t told them enough times. Usually we were so busy arguing that we didn’t have the time.”
She said softly, “They know, just as you know. Sometimes you don’t have to say the words. Love is just there.”
“I watched my father’s eyes when they tore down the sign over his market. He put it up there when I was born. Thirty years ago. And I saw thirty years of his life blow away.” He looked up at her. “Is that the way it’s supposed to be? Thirty years from now, will I see my life blowing away like that?”
She knelt before him and placed her hands on his cheeks. “It won’t be like that,” she said, gently. “Thirty years from now, the book you wrote two years ago, the book that you’re writing now, and all the books that you will write in the future will still be there. Just as your father will live always in his world, you are a writer and you will always live in your world.”
She drew him down to her breasts and cradled his head against her. “Don’t be afraid to cry, lover,” she whispered. “Tears are part of loving.”
Epilogue
I WAS FIRST in line to debark from the 747 as the passenger hatch rolled open. I had to wait for a moment for the immigration officer to take the passenger list from the chief steward and then step out onto the ramp. An Air France service manager came toward me. “Welcome home, Mr. Crown.” He smiled as he took my attaché case from my hand and led me into the terminal. “Was it a good flight?”
I shook his hand, even though I did not know his name. “Very good, thank you.” I followed him quickly, not using the cane I always carried. It was more than a year since I had been in the hospital with a broken hip.
“If you would give me your baggage claim checks,” he said, “I’ll take you through customs quickly. Your car and chauffeur are already waiting.”
“No baggage,” I said. “I keep a complete wardrobe here in France. It saves time.”
“Very wise.” He nodded. “Then I’ll take you directly to customs.”
The customs officer was a woman. I passed my declaration card and passport to her. She glanced at me. “You’re Joe Crown, the writer?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“I’m happy to meet you,” she said. “I just finished your new book. It’s number one on the best-seller list already.” She laughed. “It’s wild, really wild!” she added.
“A little bit,” I answered.
Then she turned serious. “Where’s your luggage?”
I placed the attaché case on the counter and opened it. “Here it is.”
“Nothing else?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I have all the clothes I need here at home.”
She was silent for a moment, then punched some numbers in the computer in front of her. “Nothing else to declare?” she asked. “Gifts, jewelry, perfume?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I travel light.”
She punched the computer again, then turned to me, returned my passport and initialed the custom declaration. “Leave the declaration at the door as you walk out. I love your books, really I do. They’re very exciting.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She looked at me. “Didn’t I read in the papers that there is a party tonight to celebrate your silver anniversary on the best-seller list?”
“That’s right,” I answered.
“It must be wonderful,” she said. “You go all over the world, with parties and exciting happenings.”
“It could be worse.” I laughed.
“Good luck,” she said.
“Thank you again,” I said and walked out. I thanked the Air France service manager. I looked for my car. LAX air was never the best, maybe 80 percent carbon monoxide on a good day. This was a good day. I choked only a little.
The silver-and-blue Rolls convertible cut into the traffic and stopped in front of me. Larry jumped out and ran around the car to open the door for me. “Welcome home, boss.” He smiled. “I would have been waiting here for you, but one of the cops chased me away from the curb. But it wasn’t bad. Only twice around the airport.”
I got in the seat beside him. “Close the convertible top and turn on the air conditioner,” I said. “The air stinks and it’s as hot as a bitch.”
Larry had it together in a moment; then we moved out into the mainstream of traffic. He looked at me. “You’re lookin’ good,” he said. “How’s the walking?”
“I’m doing good,” I said. “No problems now.”
“That’s good,” he said.
“Where’s Mrs. Crown?” I asked.
“She’s down at the restaurant putting the finishing touches on the party,” he said. “Then she’ll be home. The hairdresser and the makeup man are due there at five-thirty.”
“That figures,” I said.
“Your doctor called you. He wants you to call him the minute you get in,” Larry said.
“Okay.” I picked up the telephone and called. The nurse answered. “Joe Crown returning his call.” There was a click as Ed came on the phone.
“How the hell are you?” he asked.
“I’m alive. And I don’t know how but I made it.”
“You home already?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I’m calling from the car. We’re just leaving the airport.”
“I’ll meet you in half an hour,” he said. “I want to have a quick look at you.”
“Good enough,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
“And by the way,” he said, “congratulations on the new book. I see it’s number one already.”
“I got lucky,” I said.
“Great,” he said. “See you.”
I put down the phone and looked over at Larry. “How’ve you been doin’?”
“Okay,” he said. “There’s not much going on when you’re away.” He glanced at me as he moved the car onto the freeway. “I read in the Enquirer that the girls dancing in the French discos are all topless, that true?”
“That’s true,” I sai
d.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed. “How can you stand it? If I walked on the floor to dance I’d have such a big hard on I’d pop the zipper on my pants.”
I laughed. “I don’t have any problems. Don’t forget, I can walk pretty good but I’m not up to dancing yet.”
Traffic was heavy on the freeway and Ed beat me to the house. He was in the bar nursing a Scotch and water. He watched me as I walked toward him. “You’re walking real good, sport,” he said, standing up and hugging me.
I hugged him too. “I feel good,” I said.
“Why the cane?” he asked, taking it from me and studying it.
“When I get real tired, I ache a little.”
“That’s normal,” he said. He felt the metal head of the cane. “Real gold?”
I nodded. “What would you expect me to have? Stainless steel? It would ruin my reputation.”
“Where did you get it?”
“A girl gave it to me in France,” I said.
“Laura?” he asked.
“Who else?” I answered.
He handed the cane back to me. I walked behind the bar and mixed a Scotch and water for myself, then sat down behind the bar opposite him. “Cheers,” I said.
“Cheers,” he replied. “How was the summer in France?”
“Okay,” I said. “I thought you were going to come over.”
“I couldn’t make it,” he said. “Too busy.”
“I heard you got a divorce,” I said. “Divorces keep you busy.”
“Shit,” he said. “I’m not lucky with women.”
“Maybe you were lucky to get rid of this one,” I said. “Look at it that way.”
“I’d like to find a nice lady and just be happy,” he said.
“That’s easy,” I said. “But you don’t have to marry them.”
“You’re still married. How do you manage with all the trouble you get into?”
I smiled at him. “I always go home to Mama,” I said. “And she knows it.”
“You’re wheezing,” he said.
“Eighteen hours in planes, and the shit they call air at LAX is enough to croak anybody. Especially me with my asthma.”
He took his stethoscope from his pocket. “Take your shirt off and let me listen to your chest.”
“Playing doctor again?” I grumbled.
“I am a doctor,” he said deadly serious. “Now do what I say.”
I took off my shirt and we played the breathing-in-and-out routine. “And by the way,” he said, “I keep telling you it’s not asthma, it’s emphysema. And that you don’t get better. You still smoking?”
“Yes.”
“Stop now and you pick up five years more of living. “I’ll guarantee it.”
“Five years or fifty thousand miles?” I laughed.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re just getting along now. From here on it can get worse.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, putting my shirt back on. “But whenever I begin writing I reach for a cigarette.”
“Relax,” he said. “Work less. You don’t have to do all that. The money isn’t that important now. I know that you have everything straightened out.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “There’s no way a writer can stop working—not as long as there is an idea in his head. And I will never live long enough to write every story I want to write. Not even if I lived to be a hundred and fifty.”
His face softened. “You know you’re crazy, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “But there’s always another mountain I have to climb. Thank you for trying, though.”
“Come into my office on Friday,” he said. “Just for a regular checkup.”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll see you tonight,” he said, getting up. “Try to get a little sleep before the party. You’ve already had a long day.”
I looked through the window and watched his car go down the driveway. Then I went upstairs to the bedroom, lay down and closed my eyes. Sleeping wasn’t bad at all, but I could hear the jet engines roaring in my ears.
* * *
I FELT A light hand on my shoulder. “Hi, baby,” I said without moving. “I’m sleeping.”
Her soft cheek pressed against mine. “I’m sorry, lover, I didn’t want to wake you, but it’s six o’clock and you’ve been sleeping for four hours. I have the barber and manicurist waiting for you. We have to be at the party before eight o’clock when the guests arrive.”
“Fuck ’em,” I said. Then an unfamiliar scent came to my nostrils. “Jesus!” I said. “I wound up in the wrong house.”
She laughed. “I was trying out a new perfume. Now, stop faking it and get your ass out of bed.” She took my hand and placed it between her legs. “Now, tell me that you’re in the wrong house.”
I pulled her down and kissed her. “Hello, Mama.”
“You awake now?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
She got up. “Then get started. After all, it’s your party.”
I followed her into her bathroom. She was nude. I stared at her. “What did you do to yourself?” I asked. “I saw you only three days ago in France and suddenly you got skinny.”
“I didn’t get skinny,” she laughed. “I got bloated in France from eating too much and drinking too much. So I had a couple of body wraps. It’s magic—I sweated out nine pounds of water. Do you like it?”
“Do we have time for a fuck?” I asked.
She laughed. “After the party,” she said. “Now get over to your bathroom and let the barber and manicurist work on you.”
* * *
UPSTAIRS AT THE Bistro all was silver and white. Even the flowers were sprayed silver. The place cards at the tables were embossed in silver, and silver-and-white ribbons covered the ceiling. In the large barroom outside the dining room silver letters were painted on the mirror behind the bar. SILVER ANNIVERSARY—JOE CROWN—25 YEARS ON THE BEST-SELLER LISTS.
Gene, who directed my public relations, smiled at me. “It’s going to be the best of all of your parties. We’ve got two bands, one rock, one middle-of-the-road. After dinner we have a show with a dozen girls we brought in from the Casino de Paris in Las Vegas. And we’ve got the best guest list in town. All A’s. From movies and TV to politicians and socialites. One hundred guests. And I even squeezed in two tables of press. We’ll be covered all over the world. Newspaper, radio and TV. Laura and I broke our asses to set the place cards at the right tables. Do you like it?”
I laughed and hugged him. “Don’t you even say hello?”
He looked at me and laughed. “You look great,” he said. “What did you do to yourself?”
I smiled. “Makeup,” I said. “But you are right. It’s just the greatest.”
Three-quarters of the way through dinner I looked across the room. Gene was right—everyone was there. And my voice was hoarse and almost gone, what with the greetings and all the interviews I had hurried through. But I was getting tired. The long day was catching up with me.
Across the room I could see Kurt Niklas whispering into Gene’s ear, then Gene came toward me. He bent close and in a low voice said, “Kurt tells me there’s a very distinguished old black man downstairs. He said he was an old friend of yours. He also said that the old man is wearing a beautiful tuxedo and the largest diamond rings and cuff-links this side of Sammy Davis. He said he was from Jamaica or something.”
“Jamaica?” I asked curiously.
Gene nodded.
“Bring him up,” I said.
“He’s got a wild black chick with him,” Gene said.
“Bring them both up and have the waiter bring two chairs over here beside me,” I said.
“What is it?” Laura asked me as Gene walked away.
“A very old friend of mine,” I said. “I don’t remember whether I had ever mentioned his name to you.”
The waiters were placing dessert and coffee on the tables as Gene led Jamaica and the girl to our table
. I was on my feet already. We hugged each other. I looked into his face. Scarcely anything about him had changed—not a wrinkle showed. But the full head of kinky black hair had turned to white. I looked into his eyes. He was crying. “Jamaica,” I said.
“Joe,” he said softly. “Joe, my man. I didn’t even know if you’d remember me.”
“Crazy bastard,” I said. “How could I not remember you?” I turned to Laura. My voice was really almost gone. “Laura, this is my old friend, Jamaica. Jamaica, this is my wife, Laura.”
She stood up and held out her hand. Gently he took it in his and bent to kiss it. “Laura, thank you for doing good for my man. He was a good boy an’ I loved him truly.”
“I’m happy to meet you,” Laura said. “Please sit down with us.”
“No, no,” Jamaica said. “I don’t want to butt into your party. I just wanted to see my man once again and tell him how proud I was of him.”
“Please, sit down,” Laura insisted. “Besides the lights are going out and the show will be starting. Sit right down there right next to Joe.”
Jamaica bowed. “Thank you, Laura.” He gestured to the girl with him. “This is my youngest girl, Lolita.”
“Hi,” the girl said.
I remembered the edge in Jamaica’s voice. Time hadn’t robbed it from him. “Now, Lolita,” he said softly, “you say a polite how-de-do to my friends, just like your mama taught you.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Crown, Mr. Crown,” Lolita said. She made almost a half-curtsy.
I was smiling as they sat down. All the lights in the room went out. Then a young man in white-and-silver tails came out on the small stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, since Mr. Crown has just arrived this day from France, the Casino de Paris of Las Vegas has the pleasure of bringing their girls here tonight to perform a genuine version of the Can-Can.”
The orchestra struck up the music and the girls came flying out on the stage. Joe whispered to Jamaica, “Where the hell did you come from?”
“I retired to Cleveland,” the old man whispered back. “I have an apartment in Honolulu for the winter. These old bones cain’t take the cold weather. I jes’ heard about your party on the television in the hotel. I was here on the plane layover.”
The Storyteller Page 27
