Hadn’t Eli tricked him? Conned him? Making such a big point about home for dinner only to outbail by eight, to be abed with Marcy’s nice nice body by goddamn nine, leaving the old boy here to swim in the old black coffee sexual misery? Was that an evening at home or was it an eight o’clock date, con man? Conned him, and conned Marcy, and conned the bereaved widow of The Man Crushed By Quarters too, even if not to apparent advantage still a con job …
But this was unfair. This was ungenerous—a bad impulse—and possibly it was untrue. Orrin struggled desperately to clear his mind, to claw his way back to reality; he dearly wished to hold the line. Eli had met him halfway—by what right expect more? Why shouldn’t the lad wish to be alone with Marcy Green, for goodness’ sake? Unfair! the verdict; surely Judge Green the father would concur in Connecticut.
It was not Eli’s fault that Orrin’s powers of concentration had slipped, that his best ideas took such light hold of him. Not Eli’s fault that Elspeth had called, that the call had upset him, that as a result he was currently sloggo. It was the call that had thrown him off his balance, and only because it was so unexpected. Seen in an objective light, the call was a good thing surely, it was progress of a sort.
Orrin was doing it, somehow he was holding the line. He got his teeth brushed, got himself into some fresh pajamas, and tuned in Jack-and-Liz, clinging to these icons of normalcy. He was sure Jack-and-Liz wore fresh pajamas every single night, and why not? Whatever they were paid, they were earning their money this time. He had never enjoyed them so much. Often buoyant, Liz was positively lit up tonight, looking forward perhaps to lobster and white wine after the broadcast, with a new romantic prospect? Yes, food and romance had lit up her evening, which in turn had forced Jack into that sly spectatorial role he did so well …
No, life was never easy, the smooth sailing was never forever. But balance was everything, control was the key, and Orrin Summers was determined to go to bed happy if it killed him.
17
Through days of slush and narrow morning sun, the season moved to spring. The calendar was a deceptive mode, though, for Boston was still a long way from lilac and apple-blossom time. After a few stanzas of deep blue sky, soft gray ice would again gush from above, and the cumulative blackened snows melted slowly, to reveal archaeological layers of swill and dog-droppings. (Dostoevsky once wrote of “the humiliating destiny of a potato”—what might he have done with the Gainesburgers of late November?)
So it was not the uplifting springtime of the Lake District poets, but Orrin took its best shots. He was trying on a new self-definition: he was now a survivor. The status went beyond simple breathing, though. You took the shots and you also kept probing to land a few of your own. He had given up on nothing—not Gail, not Elspeth, nor all the good work he had planned. It would all come to hand somehow.
He took steps toward survival, He retired Elmer Fudd, stowed him away on the topmost shelf behind the glass doors of the dining-room hutch, beyond reach, to shine forth as an emblem of his resolve. Of course some nights were longer than others and then the old patterns might have him briefly in thrall. But when he fell that way, he fell now with full awareness, and with the qualified optimism of the survivor. He might check the News or visit the nippery during work breaks, to take up the neck more from restlessness than from any debilitating thirst. This he likened to any small indulgence (salted nuts, thin mints) where you decide to have one yet inevitably drift back until the serving-dish is bare. Even a survivor was human.
If it happened to be a fine night (and there were many such, by one definition or another) he could stroll Charles Street and pick up a fresh bottle at McAllister’s, in case company turned up unexpectedly. Then, refreshed by night air and a happy browse in the book shop, his limbs pleasingly sore from trudging over messy humps of half-baked snow, he might store a drop in his coffee cup as he worked—but keeping careful tabs, maintaining control, for there remained the possibility you could be nickel-and-dimed to death if you did not stay quite serious about your drinking.
Later on, before bed, it hardly mattered if you took a short one. It was almost medicinal, good for promoting sleep and for softening any annoyance at the Weatherbaby, under whose regime Orrin still bristled. Pacing back and forth past idiotic mockups of the winds in Wyoming and the rains of Ranchipur, the fellow seemed obsessed with upscale hobbies like flying and skiing. Fine flying weather? For goodness’ sake, how many people were waiting to hear that?
And the skiing seemed such a sop to the puffy parka set, such a slam to the pale gray poor. Orrin imagined the poor, huddled in front of their endlessly repossessed consoles, taking in this jolly elf on the subject of base and powder, and was gripped by such moral revulsion as could best be eased by a short one.
He worried about Jack, who had been looking pallid and lumpy of late, big sagging circles under his eyes. Jack was so clearly a good egg—what would become of him if they took away his job reading the News? It depressed Orrin to think Jack might be forced to go into sales. He would switch over to see how Chet was looking on Channel Five and find him pallid and lumpy too, inside his banker’s suit. But Chet had always looked pallid and lumpy, it almost became him …
So it went. Slipping and sliding through to midnight, taking in too much bright light, doing his level best at sleep, often waking less than spry. But Orrin was fifty-nine, perhaps there was not so much spryness to be had. There were plenty of good mornings, certainly, but they only led him to believe that health departed in just that fashion, good days and bad days rather than all at once.
Nothing terrible, just a difficult passage, and the control was always there. If Sarah looked a bit concerned (at his appearance or his tardiness, he could never tell which) Orrin was quick to reassure her: “Oh no, I’m feeling very well, my dear. Fine flying weather over the next few days I hear.”
He even planned a trip. Orrin rarely enjoyed travelling and he did not necessarily plan to enjoy it now. But to do it seemed right and timely; a week in the Great Elsewhere might very well do him the mythical wonders. So he settled on the idea of flying to the west coast of Mexico with Eli.
The case for going with Paperman was simple. He hated travelling alone, and he could not reach Gail on the phone, much less sign her to double occupancy. Eli would never lavish money on a frilly tropical vacation, yet he surely could use one, and deserved it. So Orrin offered to treat, and was more surprised than he ought to have been when Eli politely declined. Looking back over a fortnight in which Eli had averaged two Filbert hours per day on Orrin’s new and absolutely reliable Papermeter, he might have guessed the younger man’s priorities lay elsewhere.
Nevertheless, he went ahead and passed an hour at Crimson Travel with a pleasant southern girl, plotting day trips out of Cancun and canvassing all the best places to stay. It was remarkable to Orrin that this girl could and unbegrudgingly would place a dozen calls to Mexico on his behalf. An absolute genius with the telephone, she could dial anyone anywhere and get through on the first ring. Watching her brilliant fingers at work, Orrin was tempted to ask if she would mind ringing Gail for him; it seemed it really might do the trick.
In the end he was forced to cancel. He was hardly about to pay the single rates (twice as high as the per person double occupancy!) and he could not supply the second occupant. It was one thing to fund a friend, quite another to piss away the money on unmunched salads or unindented beds. Orrin didn’t really mind. As dull as his days and nights were, he was the happy willing slave of inertia. Beyond the obvious (that Gail might call in at any time) home was worth something to a man of fifty-nine years. Just to travel to the travel agency had been a little unsettling, sufficient adventure.
So he continued to tour only locally, in and out the small alleys and warrens of the neighborhood, like Lime Street, and Beaver Place. Lime Street, a nice address but dank (“Oh the sun never shines/ on Liii-iii-ime Street,” he composed and sang), and Beaver Place, site of a small women’s college (“I for one
do not think a women’s college should locate here,” he commented in passing to no one in particular), and Whitefish Lane, where the Mayflower rats kept their townhouses.
Meantime, he had found it useful to redefine Eli too, or to hearken back to an earlier definition where his roommate was purely a boon. It was futile to ask of Eli more than he could give, and surely it was counterproductive to resent him, as had happened once or twice by chance. Moreover, it was unfair placing all the burden on Eli if it was social occasions Orrin sought. This was the reasoning which lay behind his decision to join Eli and Marcy at the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge late on a wet afternoon.
Carried practically door to door by the Red Line, Orrin ate his popcorn while Bogey smoked his Camels, then bumped into them outside, under the awning on Brattle Street. He offered a round of beers, and they all hustled through a silver slanting rain to the Wursthaus. There they drank not one beer but several, and laughed together for more than an hour.
They had filtered out into a now needling dark mist when he did make the one mistake. They were heading off and Orrin did try to detain them, suggesting they continue the party “back home” but also employing the delicate physicality of a lightly grasped sleeve.
“The doctor has just one question,” he said, grabbing on. “Why does the lawyer never entertain the teacher at home?”
Cutting Orrin some slack, Eli gracefully transformed the indiscretion into a brief manly embrace and said,
“Partly so we don’t impose on you, Orrin. Or vice-versa, I suppose. But we know you do work there at night.”
“Sure, but it’s your home too. I don’t want you to think otherwise.”
“No problem,” said Eli.
In Boston, the expression ‘no problem’ had no meaning; it was for dead air, a filler. But it gave them a note to close. Eli and Marcy were welcome at Filbert Street whenever they chose to be there, and in the meanwhile they were guarding Orrin’s privacy. Perhaps sensing that this was not quite enough, Marcy stepped forward and kissed Orrin on the cheek.
“Thanks for the beers. We had fun,” she said.
“You’re entirely welcome,” he replied, and sensing the value of a clean clear exit, this time he made one.
But it was early still, and they hadn’t eaten anything. Rather than forage far and wide, Orrin simply walked back inside the Wursthaus and ordered a corned beef sandwich at the bar, with one last glass of beer to rinse it down. The place was filling up with its mixed clientele—couples, groups of students, an occasional representative of the old Harvard Square gentility—and Orrin cast an eye about the room for familiar faces. Then he had an idea.
In the telephone cubicle, he looked down through the Adamses, found no Tias or Dorotheas, but saw a D. on Kinnaird Street and guessed it was the number he wanted. Pushed in his quarter and carelessly dialled, without a trace of nerves. Then heard a boy’s voice. Mickey, was it?
“Hello. I’d like to speak with your mother, if I may.”
“She’s out.”
“Oh, I see. Out on a date?”
“Who is this?”
“Just a friend—”
“Any message?”
“No, no thank you. I’ll just—ah—try again, why don’t I? Tomorrow.”
The child could tell as well as he could, Orrin felt, that he would not very likely try again tomorrow.
He had to be careful, for pushing too hard did push Eli away. It had done so the day of the Bogart film, just as it had in relation to the Mexican excursion. Likewise he discerned a trace of same at a now rare Paramount breakfast, when he offered to accompany Eli to the courthouse. Another round of the political trial, charges of unlawful trespass against the demonstrators at Brace Chemical this time, and Orrin had an auspicious cancellation from Sinclair-Fugard, his hyphenated lady. Yet he was easy when Eli balked. Not to press.
“But you will have to solve the problem for me. What is the distinction between lawful trespass and unlawful trespass? In the eyes of the law-full?”
“A good question. Reminds me of all the references in the basketball rulebook to something called a ‘made basket’. Obviously it’s either made, and therefore a basket, or missed, and therefore not one at all. No?”
“I guess that sometimes language wants so badly to be emphatic that it turns to redundancy for its effects.”
“We’ll have to start another list, won’t we?”
Though Eli sometimes seemed a little distant now, he never made any reference to Orrin’s unpalatable lapse that night in Cambridge. He had imagined Eli expressing his annoyance, though, and had even gone so far as to imagine Marcy’s intercession, as they lay tranquil on her bed later that night: “Oh Orrin was a little high and feeling lonesome, why blame him for expressing it?”
Why indeed, and no one had. Getting away with things was easy enough on the surface, not only because there was always apology, but also because the bourgeoisie felt a desperate aversion to social discomfort of any kind. Two dozen indiscretions slid by, surely, for any one that was called to account. But that was on the surface.
With Eli these days he felt almost on trial, somewhat like a lover who senses that perfect balance shifting. At times it seemed he had nothing to offer Eli except lodging, and Marcy Green was providing rather a soft safety net on that front. It was Marcy, in fact, who tended Orrin’s needs more than Eli now, by arranging an occasional threesome.
Not only did she include him, she flirted with him, more or less. In the puerile mock debates he and Eli staged for fun, she generally sided with Orrin. They might be arguing the merits of day-old bread, or pornography as free speech, or pure bred dogs versus the mutt. Whichever, Marcy was apt to press her delicate blade of ridicule against the Papermaniac position, and at such times she seemed to edge closer to Orrin physically, often making a point to rest her hand briefly on his forearm as she spoke. Was it his cynical satanic imagination, or were these her instinctive means of keeping Eli a little greedy for her, of bringing him back to the mark?
In any event it was kind of her to include him, and Eli didn’t seem to mind. He and Orrin had always had their best fun bantering, and levelled only the best-natured satire at one another. There were skirmishes, inevitably, for whether or not he was a reformer, Eli did seem to expect some kind of fealty to his decrees. Once or twice Orrin heard the iron in his voice (drained of any pretense at humor) on the subject of bottles.
No child at fifty-nine, sipping for simple relaxation within the walls of his own home, Orrin could sally back with a little iron of his own. One night he rolled an empty across his room-mate’s threshold into the darkness beyond. This was wrong, he realized, yet no more so than Eli’s presumption. The other side of the same coin, in fact.
Eli won this particular round by having the good sense never to mention the bottle at all, thereby magnifying the offense while at the same time reducing its perpetrator in size.
On the first day of April, Orrin left a whimsical proposition (“Come live with me and be my love”) on Gail’s whoosis. When she did not call back, he left a short sequel the next morning: “April Fool”.
He was quietly in combat with her, a wrestle for dominion that was the less satisfying for her abstention. It was not so different in his relations with Eli, come to think of it. To an extent, Orrin could not avoid the adversarial aspects of dealing with affection at close range, nor could he lure his intimates as close to him as he was to them, quite. The best construction he could put on it was this: I try to be good to people and sometimes I fail. But maybe the same was true of them, in regard to him; maybe it was the essence of two versus the essence of one in a nutshell.
In the midmorning dark of April the fifth, Orrin endured a terrifying dream of suffocation, in which he felt a great weight pressing on his heart. Coronary, for sure!—but it wasn’t that. Bolts of firewood were raining down on him, hefty chunks of maple and ash like the ones his father kept stacked on the brick hearth at Grand Avenue. Several had already crashed against his ri
b-cage and now they were falling so thick and fast they obscured the sky. His bones, his whole skeleton sagged under the burden and was surely about to snap, dumping the wood onto soft aching organs.
Orrin woke shaking with horror, and came back slowly, after ducking his head under the kitchen spigot. Soon after, though, came understanding and compassion—for Eli Paperman and for The Man Crushed By Quarters. For that was the basis of course, and the dream did bring the poor wretch a continent closer. There were people on the surface of earth who had an inkling what that man had gone through—not just death, but the widening horror, the microquick flash of consequence as one foresaw the bereaved survivors, all the unfinished labors, and faced the stunning realization that death was more than possible, it was now.
Sweating in the darkness of his expensive bedroom, Orrin had become one of those who understood, not so much as a victim himself (MAN CRUSHED BY LIFE) but as one magically infused, viscerally linked to the rest of mankind. Paperman had this capacity, born with it apparently. He knew what it was to be poor, though he never had been. Knew what it was to be persecuted and felt a calling to address such instances personally.
Really Eli was more like a minister than a lawyer (Paperman’s Hyperactive Conscience!) and like a minister might sometimes overlook the individual for mankind in the round. His concerns, as keenly felt as the weight of wood or the crush of coins, might necessarily preclude a few of the mundane bourgeois emotions. He could very well lack the capacity for an exclusive love and still remain an admirably affectionate man.
When Orrin posited that there were “two sides” to Eli Paperman, he did not intend the usual dichotomy. He meant that there was Eli’s side and there was Orrin’s side-Eli would say “Enjoy your morning” (as he inhaled a blueberry muffin and bolted for Cambridge on his bike) and to Orrin it seemed the hollowest throwaway phrase. Yet Eli may have meant it quite literally: I hope things go well for you in the next few hours.…
Postcards from Pinsk Page 15
