—David?
—What about David.
—David will be with me of course, he’ll be fine. Jack I can’t live with someone I don’t respect.
He stood looking into his glass for a moment and then finished it and put it on the sill and stood there looking down to the street and the sidewalk below.—Well, what do you want me to say, Marian.
—I thought you might . . .
—After a few drinks you used to work me over with your instant psychiatry, growing up without a father guilt feelings about my mother now you’re going to do David the same favor?
—That’s ridiculous, Tom will always be his father.
—Marian you don’t know what the hell a father is.
—I’m not going to . . .
—A father is someone who’s there, someone who . . .
—Jack I won’t have him live that boy’s life for him!
—Oh come on Marian, he turned, hands dropped into his pockets—you don’t really know what you’re, listen. I just had another round with that stale bitch who’s got my daughter penned up out there in Astoria, destroying her inch by inch just, making sure nothing grows, biggest event in that kid’s life is a trip to the dentist, Marian you don’t know what a Christ awful mess everything turns into when these things happen, and it never . . .
—I think Tom and I . . .
—And it doesn’t end. It doesn’t end.
—I think Tom and I will be able to work things out in a more civilized way than you and . . .
—Marian listen! You don’t commit murder in a civilized way! He picked up his glass and looked into it and put it down again.—Sure there are no cigarettes?
—No, Tom was getting some.
—Where is he, I thought he’d . . .
—Jack he goes into that room, he goes into that workroom of his every night and nothing ever comes out.
—You’ve hung on this long haven’t you? aren’t things just starting to break for him again? He’s got this award coming his book’s out again in paperback, he’s got . . .
—Do you think that helps? All he does is swear about splitting a five percent royalty with the publishers, he says the only reason they let somebody reprint it is so they can hang onto the rights themselves he doesn’t even . . .
—Well what the hell Marian, that publisher’s a fatuous bastard you know that, he’s been sitting on that book for how many years? blubbering about his loyalty to it pretending it was what did he tell Tom? very much in print? when the only God damned place you could find it was a rare book dealer’s for twenty dollars a copy after they’d remaindered practically the whole first edition? He didn’t know anything about this new reprint till he saw one in a window and now it’s bringing him some attention he . . .
—He what Jack, he what! He gets letters from Who’s Who and invitations to read from his work, letters from editors and college girls and he just fights them off, he won’t even . . .
—I know that, I know all that but he’s going through a, just trying to readjust after nine years of . . .
—And what about me! What do you think those nine years have been like for me? You won’t give me anything though, will you Jack. That Ninety-sixth Street tenement when you used to come up there for dinner and we had to wait for him to get his typewriter and papers off the card table so we could eat Jack he’s still working on that play, he’s still rewriting it and changing it and rewriting it he won’t let go of it, he won’t finish it because he’s afraid to compete with himself, it’s himself he’s . . .
—Well look Marian what, as Freud said what the hell is it you want.
—Just a man who, who’s happy with what he’s doing.
—You’re not asking much are you.
—Jack I can’t respect a man who doesn’t respect himself, do you know what he’s like about this job? Do you think we ever talk about anything else? from the minute he comes in the door . . .
—How many husbands do you think come home from work all smiles come on Marian, it’s the oldest God damned story there is putting up with the same crap day after day trying to make a living and then coming home to I’ve been slaving all day over a hot stove while you’ve been down in a nice cool sewer, he’s just trying to pull this play together and make a decent living at the same time for you and . . .
—Yes you won’t give me a thing will you! None of you will! How do you think it makes me feel, why do you think we don’t go to parties anymore, because I have too much to drink? Yes why because all of you, you and his friends and these editors asking about his next great book shaking their heads admiring how hard he works to support us, me and David but what a tragedy for American literature how do you think that makes me feel! The great Thomas Eigen’s talent being thrown away in a stupid job because he has to make a decent living for his wife and son he resents every bill he pays, the rent, nursery school he even resents that, paying David’s nursery school and food, three lamb chops Jack, three lamb chops! A decent living standing in that kitchen looking down at that man with no hands and, no face, just a burn scar with holes in it and that coat to his ankles hiding from the wind in that fire exit screwing the cap off a bottle with his mouth and holding it up between his wrists to . . .
—Marian listen! Listen you’ve talked about that man before it’s, you just use him to, I don’t know put up curtains or pull down the God damned shade you don’t have to stand and stare at him but you, you use him to bring things down, like you talked about Schramm’s accident as though he’d done it on purpose just to . . .
—Because all of you, all three of you the way you and Tom and, and Schramm the way you find excuses for each other’s failures and I can’t stand being one anymore I might have done something, nobody thinks of that do they I might have . . .
—There’s your doorbell.
—Everybody’s idea that I’ve kept Tom from his work by being a burden maybe he’s kept me from mine, all these years I might have done something myself I might still if . . .
—Marian Christ, I just met a talented woman who’s never been allowed to do anything and, is there any more vodka?
—Mama? Mama it’s a man . . .
—I’ll be right back, give me your glass.
His hands abruptly searched pockets as he turned back to the window, one to come up with matches, the other empty, and he returned the matches and stood there staring down at the sidewalk.
—Jack?
—David, oh. He turned to the somersault off the sofa’s arm into the laundry heap.—I thought you were getting pajamas.
—Jack when the Chinese people look at television, are the people they see on television Chinese?
—Why of course, and the . . .
—Lift me up.
—Hold on.
—Higher, hi . . . what are you doing?
—Trying to see how you’d look on Chinese television.
—Would I be upside down? Why would I be upside down.
—Because you’d be on the other side of the world wouldn’t you? Get into your pajamas I’ll finish that game with you, were you playing with Mama?
—No. Don’t drop me.
—Oh, she was playing by herself.
—No with Papa, before the policeman came.
—What policeman.
—The one that came and got him when he peeked. Jack?
—When he, what policeman, Marian . . .?
—Do you know what I’d like to do Jack?
—What . . . he reached up to free his throat from an embrace suddenly so close he faltered.
—I’d like to go right up to the sky and disappear, and then come down like the rain. Jack?
—What, Marian what . . .
—That was Tom’s orders arriving by special messenger. She held out a glass.—Tomorrow he . . .
—But where is he? David just said a policeman came and . . .
—I was just going to tell you yes, David I told you to go get your pajamas now get down, go to your r
oom and find your pajamas, now hurry . . . Then she turned.—It’s Schramm, she said,—something about your friend Schramm . . .
—Well what, what about him?
—I don’t know, Tom was talking to him and he . . .
—Tom’s at Bellevue now? Why didn’t you . . .
—No that was, that was it, Schramm got out and came to Tom’s office and Tom brought him down here and then the, I don’t know, the police came, they thought he’d, maybe he’d jumped, they thought somebody’d jumped and they wanted Tom to . . .
—But where is he! Where are they!
—Tom went with them, they took him up to Ninety-sixth Street to see if . . .
—Why didn’t you tell me! he turned for the hall,—why the hell didn’t you tell me when I got here?
—I thought, she said following him—I just wanted . . .
—You just wanted the God damned spotlight a minute longer didn’t you, looked like Schramm was grabbing it with the last thing he’s ever done but you . . .
—But Jack if it . . . they’d reached the door and he pulled it open.—Jack if Schramm’s dead? And, I’m here . . .?
—I, Christ I, you’ve got to have soap opera, Jack I’m going to leave Tom, Ginger I’m going to leave Tony the minute something real happens you have to star in your own God damned soap opera . . . The door slammed, and she’d scarcely turned from it when it shook with his pounding on the other side.—Marian?
She got it open.—What.
—Tom was going to lend me twenty I’ve got to get a cab up there, did he leave it for me?
—No.
—Well he, could you . . .
She turned to the kitchen, put down her glass and opened a cupboard there.—I have ten.
—Fine and, fine thanks, he took it, holding the door,—and Marian one last thing if you think you’re going through with this, you can pull that on anybody else just don’t ever try to tell me again you’re doing it for him, you can lie to Tom, lie to yourself lie to David but don’t ever try to . . . the door came closed flat in his face and he turned sliding one foot toward the elevator, slipped and made for the stairs, down them and out hailing traffic before he reached the curb.
—I’m off duty buddy, see the lights? Where you going.
—Straight uptown, look I’m in a hurry I . . .
—Do you a favor. Get in.
—To Ninety-sixth Street, he fell back as they started,—near Third . . . they moved into the traffic and came to a halt. The meter was silent. Another half block, firmly embedded between trucks, the driver tilted the rearview mirror to embrace his own immediate vacancy, plugged a cord into the cigarette lighter opening on the dashboard, and watched his hand course ineffectively up and down one cheek with an electric razor.—Listen I’m in a hurry, can’t you . . .
—Look at the traffic, what am I supposed to do.
—You know what Third’s like, why didn’t you take Park.
—Same shit over there.
—Like hell it is, you got trucks and buses on Park? He was thrown against the arm rest.—Now where the hell are you going.
—Try First . . . Up one cheek and down the other, each nostril flared with a heavy thumb, this earlobe, tragus and antitragus, that one, down one cheek and up the other, finally looking back unchanged,—which building.
—Up there right past Second, there, where those police cars are . . . and he was out holding the ten.—How much?
—That’s right.
—Wait . . . it was gone,—wait a minute, you . . .
—Look buddy you didn’t have no meter, I did you a favor right?
—Stop! Wait, you . . . God damn you! He kicked, it swept away, window open, and he stood there for a moment with one stockinged foot on the street before turning to push through backs and elbows toward the door.
—Wait a minute buddy, where you going.
—Listen officer I have to, I live here, second floor front right up there he pointed,—Eigen? he shouted past the uniform up the dark stairs,—you up there? Tom . . .? Tell them to let me come up there!
—Go ahead.
—Thanks . . . he pushed by, his one shoe reaching three steps at a time—where’s . . .
—Jack I’d talked him out of it! I’d just talked him out of it Jack!
—Where is he.
—No they just cut him down Jack, don’t . . .
—Don’t what! the door gave already splintered,—let me . . . oh Christ. Oh Christ.
The sprawl flung there on the linoleum gathered shape as the uniform rose slowly and the policeman turned toward them, stood there wiping his mouth.—We didn’t make it . . . he started to button his tunic, and then he looked around and took his hat from the policeman standing near the sink, put it on and squared it.—You be around for a few minutes?
—Yes, yes we’ll, Jack listen . . .
—You a friend of his too Mister?
—Me? Yes I’m a friend of his too Mister I’m, we’re both friends of his too Mister what the hell do we look like? Like we’d let this happen to him? What the hell do we look like we’d let him . . . who’s she?
—Jack listen . . .
—Wait, wait who’s she? Who are you?
—You better get your friend out of here.
—Who the hell are you! he pushed toward her pressed back against the sink there, back behind the policeman now opening a pad, raising it to bar his way.
—Look try and get hold of yourself Mister, you . . .
—Jack wait she’s just a, just his girl Rhoda, her name’s Rhoda.
The policeman with the pad looked at his watch, and turned to her.—How old are you, Rhoda? She just looked at him.
—Kind of a funny guy anyway, wasn’t he.
—Funny . . .!
—Hanging up pictures of dead kids on his wall like this, the policeman went on across the room straightening up from photographs taped up over a card table and looking over the clutter there, papers, books, a scarred typewriter, soiled bandages, a box of teabags, some loose change.
—Funny! He’s the, he was the funniest . . .
—Jack listen let’s, we can go next door and . . .
—The funniest guy you could, look at his feet could you do that? Something that funny with your God damned feet, look at them!
—Okay Mister, just go next door with your friend here and . . .
—No wait I want to tell you those pictures, those were children killed in Belgium he put them up there because he, he, he . . . Christ can’t you, here . . . he pulled a robe from a hook behind the door and flung it—just . . . cover him up?
Caught by a sleeve, the robe spread between the policeman’s hands.—What’s all the blood on it.
—It’s mine.
—Know something about this, Rhoda?
—I said it’s mine.
—I heard you. What else happened here Rhoda? She just looked at him.—You want to tell us what happened?
—You live here Rhoda? said the policeman beside her.—Keep your things here? Your clothes, your robe, your . . .
—It’s not my robe.
—You just said . . .
—It’s my blood.
—You want to tell us what happened Rhoda?
—I was supposed to meet him here but, her voice caught,—like I was late that’s all, man.
—You were here at the door when we got here, weren’t you Rhoda? You want to tell us about this blood?
—Like I came to get some things of mine, I mean just let me get them okay?
—You can get them later, you want to tell us about this blood?
—We were screwing, okay? I had my period and I put the robe on after, okay?
—You live here with him Rhoda?
—Officer for the love of Christ what are you trying to, of course she lives here look at the, you think a man puts dishes in the dish rack backwards like that? collects all the dirty ashtrays and then leaves them in the sink? leaves the cap off the toothpaste? the cap off everythin
g? And the, that coat hanger look at that God damned coat hanger, you ever know a man who’d do that to a coat hanger? Go look in the toilet you’ll see the paper’s on the roller backwards too, one will get you five the paper’s . . .
—Look Mister the both of you better wait next door. Rhoda, you want to tell us . . .
—I just want to get my things, man.
—You can get them when . . .
—Get them when shit, when you get through cleaning the place out? There was thirty-seven cents on that table there you just put in your pocket you prick, I saw you you . . .
—How do you know it was thirty-seven cents Rhoda?
—Because it was my thirty-seven cents you . . .
—We’re taking his wallet and his watch too, they can be claimed at the office of the chief property clerk, everything else here gets locked up. How old are you Rhoda?
—Officer for, what God damned business is it of anybody’s how old she is, she . . .?
—Because if this keeps up she’s on her way to the juvenile shelter where they’ll give her a bath, now just take it easy . . .
—Easy! what do you, stand here asking stupid questions while . . .
—Look Mister we’re waiting for the medical examiner, just go next door with your friend here we might want an identification on him.
—All right but look, that cabinet over the dishes . . .
—I said you can’t take nothing out of here.
—Well can you just open the God damned thing and look? There, bottle back there says Old Struggler see it?
—It’s that scotch bottle officer, the Old Smug . . .
—Take it, here. Now go with your friend will you?
—And wait, wait on the floor there by his, that pack of cigarettes must be mine because he didn’t, doesn’t smoke . . .
—Here take them, can you handle him Mister?
—Yes he’s, wait Jack let me carry that . . .
—Okay Rhoda, now you want to tell us . . .
—Hardly see where I . . .
—Here get the railing let me get the door open what’s, no wait, wait Jack there’s mail all over the floor out here just let me get in and get the light, this damn door’s falling off its . . .
—Sound like the torrents of spring in there what’s . . .
—Light a match will you? I, no I got it damn it look don’t just kick that mail in can’t you pick it up and . . .
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