—Well, I . . .
—Do you think . . . look out! Yes unless you kill me first, you’re going to tell me you didn’t see that limb? Do you think they didn’t notice it? That you picked the dullest part of my lesson to show them and then switched to something else? What. That Glancy at the blackboard? or your scarface friend with the machines? Which one. Or that Miss Moneybags with the social studies and the fake French name and the bazooms, which one?
—But, moneybags . . . he started, and then appeared to concentrate on the prospect of a curve distantly ahead.
—I thought so, with that front of hers that’s all you can look at, those French suits with nothing on under you don’t dress like that on a teacher’s salary. But don’t get worried I’m not asking you for anything, if you think I’d ask for your support on anything at least of all in the arts, not after this performance. Not that it’s anything different than the way you’ve always been, when I was having modern dance . . .
—But those lessons . . .
—And voice culture, singing . . .
—But those lessons . . .
—And painting, when I had it with Schepperman the support I got from you . . .
—But those lessons, I paid him for those lessons . . .
—Paid him! You paid him six months later as if that’s even the kind of support I mean, paid him! I mean some kind of plain understanding of somebody that wants to express themself and he had more inspiration in one finger . . .
—Finger . . . muttered diCephalis, maneuvering the curve.
—What? Yes, mock me, go ahead. Just repeat what I say, go ahead. If you knew how childish it sounds this jealousy of yours, because that’s all it is. Jealousy. You’re afraid somebody else may try to do something, aren’t you. With your book, just because you’re having trouble writing your book, you’re afraid somebody else may do something creative, aren’t you. Aren’t you . . .!
—But no, my book . . .
—Aren’t you. Can’t you answer me? Aren’t you?
—But my book, no. It isn’t. Creative I mean, it isn’t supposed to be it’s just on measurement, measuring things, it’s nothing to do with creative, my book . . .
—My book! My book! That’s all we ever hear from you my book, well let me just tell you something that’s to don’t be surprised if soniebody else has a book, that’s all. Just don’t be surprised! And she fixed unflinching on the passing gantlet of apartment house existences dismantled and laid out side by side on aprons of grass affording the embattled privacy of city stoops, sheltered by awnings of rippling yellow plastic blazoning heraldic initials in old world black letter, mounting names discreetly hidden a bare year since in the Brooklyn telephone directory on sentry carriage lamps, ships’ lanterns in authentic replica, a livid pastel wagon wheel swooning at a rustic angle, a demented wheelbarrow choked with stalked memories of flowers, a family of metal flamingoes, of ducks, of playful elves, till with a narrow miss for the cast iron potbellied stove painted pink and sporting a naked geranium stem from its lid the car left the pavement.—Just don’t act too surprised.
—Yes, well, we’re home, he said motionless.
—Home! The car wavered into silence. She sat staring out, long lashes sticking at the corners.—If you’d ever, even, just given me that.
He hesitated, swallowed, and got out, to round the back of the car in no hurry until, approaching the other side of it, he opened her door in a lively manner as though he might have been waiting here to deliver her from a drive with someone neither of them cared for.—That young man, he said briskly now,—the one I brought over? You were going to give him some pointers before he went on, did you . . . see him? His lesson, I mean . . .?
—I certainly did not. I was getting my own ready. Do you think there’s nothing to it but standing in front of a camera? Why.
—Why? what . . .
—Why what! You asked me if I saw his lesson. No. Why. I suppose you’re going to tell me he could have given me some pointers.
—No in fact, I didn’t see it either and I heard, I heard there were some technical difficulties.
Safe ahead, she stopped.—I could have told you that, the minute they see talent or sensitivity they sabotage it with technical difficulties and from talking to that young man if you look at his eyes, you can tell a person by their hands haven’t I said that? And he has more artistic sensitivity look out, if you step on this . . .
—In one finger, he muttered behind her on the flagstone path, restraining the umbrella.
—Finger. Yes in one finger. You’re doing it again and it’s childish, a child could see through you the way your jealousy sticks out because you’re afraid of everything aren’t you, afraid of life, living, anything that lives and grows . . .
—Finger, he muttered reaching for the aluminum frame door that bore his initials in the large as it slammed with the sound of a shot.
An elderly dog eyed him from under the table but did not move.
—Hello Dad, he said, and hooked the umbrella to a room divider supporting the old man and several sculptured primitives, all eminently male, that locked that wistful gaze beyond the silent rise and fall of fingers parading the sweeter for being unheard melody up and down the saxophone, propped erect in this mad pursuit of whatever men or gods those were to prompt a halt with—She has a dirty mind.
—Who? diCephalis asked vaguely, his hands now filling with the contents of an inside pocket, a tape measure, an automatic pencil calibrated in centimeters, a notebook thumb indexed with attached pen bearing magnifying glass or, as it turned in his hand, magnifying glass bearing pen, digits, holes, and the legend Do not fold or mutilate borne on a green card, an orange card, on two, three, four white cards, a length of string, a length of twine, a wallet glazed with soiled attentions, a linen counter, a perforation gauge, a letter with a four place number as its return address.
—I wouldn’t let her bring things like that into any house of mine, muttered the old man shifting from one ham to the other beneath the belittling thrust of a primitive insistence particularly African.—Nobody’s built like that. They couldn’t walk around. What . . .? He looked up,—yes the dog, the dog smells something terrible today, don’t he . . . and he settled back to the spirit ditty of no tone struggling to escape his fingers on the saxophone erect, as diCephalis started a round of turning off lights. Foyer, hall, bathroom, foyer, closet, side door, snap, snap, snap snap he made his way along stuffing his pockets again with everything but the letter and a newspaper clipping stuck to it, snap, snap, into the bedroom.
—What are you doing?
—We don’t need all these lights on in rooms nobody’s in.
—All these lights, she said to her streaked image in the glass, removing lashes.
—Are you using the typewriter?
—Do I look like I’m using the typewriter?
—Well no, I meant, just these papers . . .
—Just these papers! Throw them out. It’s just my project summary for the Foundation grant throw it out! What are all those papers you’re dumping there.
—Nothing. A questionnaire I’m filling out.
—Nothing. I’ll bet nothing. For a job? Your name must be as well known in personnel offices as Santy Claus.
—But in this one there’s no name it’s, they use computers. He brandished a flyer carrying a man’s face eradicated by punched holes and numbers.—They use, they call it coded anonymity, where they can make more meaningful evaluations of qualifi . . .
—What do you need to put your anonymity in code for?
—Respecting the dignity of the private individ . . .
—Nobody knows who you are anyway. Noral Stop that racket! what in God’s name are they doing, can’t you stop them? And what’s this, right in with my face creams. More papers.
—Oh that, I’ve been looking for that.
—Well this is a good place for it, nobody would steal it here.
—Who would steal it anywhere? It’s fo
r refinancing our mortgage.
—Refinancing? What’s that, you’re borrowing more?
—We have to, we owe . . .
—We? That last time they hauled the car in? She looked up to catch him in the mirror but he clung to a shoulder strap.—Or the time before, every time. Is that we?
—No I didn’t mean, what I meant, I meant to ask you, do you remember that last towing charge? how much it was?
—Fifty cents? something . . . ow!
—It couldn’t have been that little, it . . .
—So maybe it was four fifty, six fifty, I distinctly remember the fifty cents Nora, stop it! What in God’s name are you doing? Nora! Can’t you stop them? Instead of standing in here arguing about fifty cents? This thing you have about money you have a real thing about it. The way you plunge the house into darkness the minute you walk in going around turning off all the lights, turning down the heat every time you pass it, fifty cents! You get a break you’re scared to keep it, like that tax refund for three hundred dollars, and you send it back.
—Daddy! Dad . . .!
—No, it was three hundred twenty thirty-six and the refund I filed for was only thirty-seven ten so I couldn’t . . .
—Quick, a penny! Gimme another penny quick!
—I couldn’t keep it, and I couldn’t just . . .
—Quick!
—What for, Nora?
—Quick. Donny is this machine which I have to put a penny in him to make him go, to make it go.
—What it would have done to their records if I’d cashed it, what kind of machine?
—A jumping machine. Didn’t you hear it? Quick I have to put in another penny before he rims out.
—Wait! Wait a minute, to put in where? What do you mean another penny, where!
—In his mouth, this penny I found on your dresser it . . . wait! Wait . . .! What are you . . . what are you doing to him? Look out, you’ll break him! You’ll . . . upside down, he’ll . . . Mama! Mama! . . . There, see? I told you!
—Well, don’t . . . don’t step in it! Get a rag. Donny! Come here, don’t touch your mother’s . . .
—My God! and all over my sari! Let go, let me go! Nora, take him! Can’t one of you take him? The smell will never come out. Don’t just stand there Nora! Get a rag!
—Daddy, I got your penny back. Here . . .
—A rag I said, don’t wipe it on your dress! And look at my sandals! she got past them, rounded the corner and shook the bathroom door.—Dad! Are you in there? A rude sound responded promptly from within, and here she came again.—All of you! You’re all against me, all of you . . .!
The side door banged. Somewhere a clock with a broken chime had a try at striking the hour, and Mister diCephalis hurried to the telephone resetting his watch, to dial and stand looking out the window at something his wife had said was a snowball bush hidden openly against others as shapeless as they were nameless she’d said only needed trimming, ignoring the tug at his trouser leg,—See, Donny? Daddy’s not mad, he just wanted his penny back . . . for the recorded remonstrance he listened to through to the end before lowering his eyes from that hostile spectacle of growth to dial again, and raise them again to his wife out there scrubbing her sari with water from the garden hose squatted like some Gangetic laundress, numbed stare fixed on the remotely male privilege of the hunt as it prospered, here, past frilled ironwork made of aluminum to appear new and new lengths of post and rail treated to appear old, in the form of Bast near a gallop behind prey in a heedless trot more secure, with each step, in the protective drab of black patterned on gray, frayed, knotted, and unshorn in other details, as the intervals between bayberry keeping mown distance from mimosa alerted by Insurance, Chiropodist, This desirable property For Sale, God Answer’s Prayer, gave way to depths of locust long stunted in internecine struggle now grappling with woodbine, and the sidewalk itself finally disappeared under grass at the designated site by God’s grace of an edifice for worship by the people of Primitive Baptist Church on a sign about to be reclaimed by the undergrowth.
—Stop!
—What?
—I said wait a minute . . .!
—No you said . . .
—Where’s that money you, you stole.
—I what? Oh. Oh, hi.
—Where is it!
—In that paper bag, that? That was our class money.
—It was Miss, Mrs what’s her name . . .
—Joubert, Mrs Joubert. That’s my class, six J.
—Well where is it!
—The money? his shoulders hunched in the shift of books, a black zippered portfolio, a newspaper and mail in assorted sizes from one arm to the other.—I told you, I had to hurry up to class from that rehearsal thing with it, he said stooping for a dropped envelope, pausing down there to add a knot to the lace in his sneaker.—You can ask her.
—You . . . you’re sure?
—Sure ask anybody. Hey wait, I mean you’re not mad are you hey? Books and papers threatening to right and left, he trotted up beside Bast.—Where you going.
—Home.
—Oh. You live out this way?
—Yes.
—Up the main road?
—Yes but . . .
—I’ll walk you.
—I’m in a hurry.
—That’s okay. He hurried along bumping Bast’s thigh with his armload.—How far up do you live, past that big corner?
—Right off it.
—Like across from where they’re building this here new shopping center, right?
—They’re not building anything.
—I mean like where they’re going to.
—Going to what. Who.
—You live in that big old place right after that old empty farmhouse if you turn left, right? This here old house with these little pointy windows and this like big barn in back by the woods? with this big high scraggly hedge out front like?
Bast’s steps had slowed as a small clearing opened abruptly on their right where mangled saplings and torn trunks and limbs still bearing leaves engaged a twisted car fender, a split toilet seat, a chair with one leg and a variety of empty tin cans surrounding a sign Clean Fill Wanted with a telephone number.—How did you know that.
—That’s the only place up there, right? And like right across from it where that guy that raises flowers which used to live in the farmhouse, where he has all those flowers that’s where they’re having this here new shopping center, you know?
—No. Who told you that.
—It’s right in the paper here about the zoning change . . . and in his effort to keep stride and dig into that armload, everything went.—I . . . oh, thanks. You don’t have to help me, I mean I just wanted to show you . . .
—Damn it!
—What. The mud? It brushes off when it gets dry. I just . . .
—Whose is all this? said Bast stooped, picking up Gem School of Real Estate, Amertorg International Trading Corp., Cushion-Eez Shoe Company, National Institute of Criminology, Ace Match Company,—this mail.
—It’s today’s. I just went to the post office.
—This is yours? your mail?
—Sure, you just send away, J R said without looking up from the skidding surfaces of the magazines he was pulling together, Success Secrets, Selling, Success, the abrupt appearance of a bared breast crowding a full page,—it’s mostly free, you know? He gathered in the breast without a glance, and stood.
—What are those magazines? Bast said, staring.
—Just things where you get to send away, you know? Like I thought I had the town paper here but it’s the wrong one, about zoning this improved property and all.
Bast stood slowly, cleared his throat muttering—improved! and kicked an empty catfood can at the twisted fender.
—Like all they need here is fill and they, hey wait up . . . J R dug in a pocket, came up with the handkerchief wad, the pencil stub.—They pay like seven dollars a yard for clean fill, you know hey? he said looking at the sign, scratching the
pencil stub on a magazine margin.—Have you got a pencil?
—No, and here. Bast handed over the mail and turned away.—I’m in a hurry.
—But just, okay but sometime could we, hey . . .? J R stood by the mangled clearing biting at the point of the pencil stub, trying it for a mark, biting again.—Hey Mister Bast? he called, and Bast half raised an arm without lifting his eyes from his lengthening steps toward the main road opening ahead, where the voice barely reached him as he crossed its unkempt shoulder.—I just mean like maybe we can use each other some time, okay . . .?
Pursuing nothing, unpursued, a police car appeared, sheared past him, its siren tearing the day to pieces out of sight beyond the firehouse and the crumbling plaza of the Marine Memorial behind him as he turned up the highway and crossed, stepping over ruts, tripping against cragged remnants of sidewalk in block lengths allotted by rusted poles still bearing aboveground indecipherable relics of street signs that had signaled a Venetian bent real estate extravaganza in the twenties, until even those limbs of rust lay twisted to earth and naked of any sign of place, of any suggestion of the tumbled column and decollated plaster Lion of St Mark’s moldered smooth there in the high browned grass where he turned in, any memory at all but these weeds recalled by the aged as Queen Anne’s laces lining ruts which led back into the banks of oak, no cars but those seeking seclusion for the dumping of outmoded appliances, fornication, and occasional suicide, and those far fewer and on foot who knew it for a back entrance to the Bast property.
—Those woods were filled with people that summer, ’twenty-five was it, Julia? or ’twenty-six? You recall Charlotte was just back from Europe, men dressed up in gondoliers’ hats they actually had a gondola too, down at the creek at that little bridge. A white pitched bridge going absolutely nowhere and how she laughed, she had just come from Venice.
—She stopped when she saw James out in the midst of it, selling waterfront lots to those poor people. They’d been brought out from town on special trains free.
—Waterfront . . .?
—They were told it would be waterfront, Stella. With docks for ships coming in from Europe and canals like Venice, and they believed it.
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