Pennsylvania Station

by Patrick E Horrigan

  “New York?”

  “You live in New York now?” his mother asked.

  “I’ve lived there since 1934. When I entered Columbia College. I’ve been there for twenty-six years, Mama.”

  “Twenty-six years! That’s a long time! You must like it there.” The aunts and even Fred Sr. laughed in spite of themselves. “Fritz, don’t you remember the World’s Fair in New York? They said in fifty years, trains will be obsolete and everyone will drive automobiles at speeds of—”

  “You know the main train station in New York, Penn Station?” Frederick interrupted, hoping a little story might focus her attention. “Thursday evening as I was going to catch my train, there was a protest in front of the station. The railroad plans to tear it down, so a group of architects were protesting—”

  “Is that right? D’you have a girl?”

  Patience. “No, Mama, I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I guess I haven’t met the right person yet.”

  “Oh, now, a nice young fella like you? I guess it’s hard to meet the right kind of girl in New York.”

  “I don’t know about that, it’s just—”

  “All kinds of girls in New York,” Fred. Sr. said with a mischievous twinkle.

  “But not the right kind for Freddy,” Clare defended her son.

  “What about that woman we met the one time we came to the opera?” Fred Sr. said. “What was her name?”

  “You mean Deborah?”

  “I always thought you and she—”

  “Pop, she’s a married woman.”

  “I’m sure when there’s a girl, we’ll find out,” Clare said as if to reassure him.

  “Sure, Mama.”

  Then his father asked, “Ever hear from your friend Jonathan?”

  “Jonathan…” he said tentatively as if he were trying to place the name. He needed to take his time on this one.

  “Jonathan Pryce.”

  “Yes—I—no, I haven’t.”

  “Used to be good friends, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but…we lost touch.”

  “Isn’t that a shame,” Clare said.

  Uncertain where the conversation was headed but sensing the need to stall, “What is?” he asked. The aunts seemed to hang on each word.

  “That you don’t talk to your friend anymore.”

  Everyone sat quietly. He feared they were thinking the truth and had known it forever. “Just one of those things.”

  “I’d like another glass of wine,” Clare said.

  Peggy said she’d better wait until dinner, she seemed tired.

  Raising her voice, “I am not tired, I want another glass!”

  Fred Sr. told Frederick to get her another glass but whispered, “Water it down.”

  Frederick went into the kitchen and asked Marge where she kept the white wine. (Forty-eight hours, he said to himself.)

  “If it’s for Mama, I’ll take care of it.”

  “We need to add water.”

  “I know. One glass and she hardly remembers her own name. Do me a favor, will you? Check on Markie. He’s up in the spare room.”

  Glad to have a reason to absent himself from the party, and thinking how they would all just croak if he ever came home one day with someone like—well, someone like Curt on his arm (but that wasn’t reason enough to keep their appointment tomorrow night), Frederick went upstairs to his old room. It had been refurbished as a guest room but was otherwise given over to storage, old appliances, out-of-season clothing. The only remnants from the days when it was his room were his tiny bed and a painting made by his father of the Pagoda on Mount Penn. He used to love that picture. He and everyone in the family always referred to the Pagoda as “Freddy’s Pagoda.”

  Markie was splayed on the floor surrounded by Legos. He approached the child gingerly, at first not saying a word, and Markie, accordingly, felt no need to acknowledge his uncle. Frederick sat in the old rocker and watched for several minutes, fascinated by the child’s absorption. At length, he asked what he was making. Markie said it was supposed to be a castle. What kind of castle? Frederick asked. A castle for my soldiers, came the answer. And what are they going to do in the castle? Frederick asked.

  “Just…” Markie seemed to mull it over. “…play by themselves.” He told a convoluted story about three soldiers who ran away from battle and found a castle in the woods abandoned by the king who was killed in the war. The soldiers killed the king and destroyed half the castle, which was why it lay in pieces all over the floor, so now they had to rebuild the castle, only this time they were going to make it better. They each wanted to have their own room and their own kitchen and a big room where they could keep their weapons and then a lookout post on top where they could see the enemy whenever they were approaching.

  “So you have to build the castle so the enemy can’t attack.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How about if we build a strong base with sloping walls? That way, the castle won’t collapse if there’s an earthquake.” They set about collecting all the white pieces they could find.

  “And let’s make a wall at the top with openings so the soldiers can drop stones down on any intruders.”

  “Okay!”

  “And then we can put the bedrooms and the kitchens and the meeting rooms on top.”

  “And a lookout post on the tippy-top!”

  Handling plastic bricks with his nephew felt strangely energizing after hours of conversation with the adults. He was intrigued by Markie’s concentration, broken every now and then by a stream of babble about the wars and the soldiers and trucks and dinosaurs, all the while the sloping walls of the castle rose, row upon row of toy bricks, until it was time to lay the platform for the keep on top.

  Markie asked what a keep was.

  “That’s what you call the private residence on top of the base. It’s called the castle keep. It means a safe place to live. It keeps you safe.” Frederick looked at the child and wondered what it would be like to have someone like Markie to take care of—to love and keep safe—all his life.

  The sound of applause could be heard from downstairs. Frederick checked his watch and was surprised to see that he’d been with Markie for almost half an hour. Aunt Theresa was playing the piano. He used to love when she performed for the family.

  “Wanna come downstairs with me?”

  Markie said no as if he only half heard his uncle’s words.

  Frederick said he’d call him when it was time for dinner, and Markie gave no reply.

  In the parlor Theresa was showing the young people how she used to play piano for the silent movies.

  “The lovers,” she said, and played a sentimental air with loads of arpeggios and trills. Her large hands moved easily up and down the keyboard. As she played she turned her head to her audience to explain what happened next.

  “Then in comes the villain!” Slashing minor chords interrupted the lyrical melody.

  “Shock!” Two sharp dissonant chords, and her hands flew up from the keys, tracing an arc through the air, and fell to her lap.

  “What to do? Where to go? We must run!” A galloping series of chords as the lovers fled the villain, first on horseback, then a speeding train.

  “But the train hits a broken rail on the viaduct and goes tumbling over the edge!” Her fingers slid down the scales from the top of the keyboard to the bottom.

  “Where are the lovers? Did they survive? Are they dead?”

  Then the sweet, sentimental melody.

  “The lovers! They were safe in the station the whole time, while the villain plunged off the viaduct with the train. And they lived happily ever after! The end!” A final flourish with chords pounded out at opposite ends of the keyboard. The entire house erupted in wild hoots and applause.

  “Play the lovers again!” someone shouted.

  “No more lovers,” Marge said, wiping her hands on her apron as she entered the parlor, “we’re eating in fifteen minutes. Fred,
where’s Markie?” He assured her he was fine, playing upstairs with his Lego set, and then she asked him to start the exodus to the dining table.

  When everyone was assembled, Chuck Parisi clinked his glass and stood up. “Aunt Hilda has asked me to say grace,” he announced, and Frederick felt a twinge of jealousy. “Bless us, oh Lord…” Chuck began, and to Frederick’s surprise the entire family immediately joined in, “…and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

  “Here’s to Uncle Fritz,” Sally said, and everyone raised a glass. A dozen “happy birthday’s” bubbled up from all corners of the table.

  “And thanks for bringing Freddy home,” Aunt Barb said to shouts of “Hear, hear!” and “Cheers!” all around. “Your parents are so happy to see you,” she whispered in his ear as the family dove into the meal. “Your mother misses you a lot. You know that, don’t you, honey?” He looked at Clare. There she sat between Peggy (boasting how she could eat, talk on the telephone, and watch the Andy Williams program simultaneously) and Chuck (doing his best, derisive impression of President Kennedy), eating small bites of food and sipping her wine from a glass that trembled in her hand. He felt a tidal wave of sorrow for her. She was feeble. Alone. He should have made a point of sitting next to her to help her through the meal.

  “I do, Aunt Barb.”

  He thought of how his father tended to her needs every morning, noon, and night (“You’ve gotta be there to help”). There the old man sat in silence on the other side of his sisters, who were talking about their parents, and how they found Grandmother in the bathtub the morning after she’d had her stroke.

  He looked down to the opposite end of the table at his sister. She, too, sat quietly in the midst of an animated conversation among Sally, Liz, and Catherine. They were talking about movie stars. Occasionally Marge would nod or make a one-word reply, but mostly she kept to herself. He wondered if it was exhaustion from all the preparation. But no, he thought, she’s been sullen since she arrived.

  And so there you have it. The Frederick Bailey Sr. family. Disjoint, at odds and ends, none of us particularly enjoying ourselves, each of us ultimately withdrawn and unhappy (he wanted to bite his nail but thought, Not in front of the family).

  Now Marge was gone from the table. Frederick asked Sally where she went.

  “Outside to…” She mimed the act of smoking a cigarette.

  He discreetly absented himself and found his sister alone in the backyard, sitting on a discarded lawn chair.

  She gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. She apologized there wasn’t another chair, but he said he didn’t mind, he’d sit on the ground.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, but tired. I think I wasn’t quite ready for this party.”

  “You’ve done a lot.”

  “Mom can’t do anything. You see what it’s like to be with her? She needs constant attention.”

  “It must be a huge burden on you.”

  “And Pop’s not getting any younger, is he? One of these days I’m gonna find them unconscious with the gas turned on, or God forbid—” She burst into tears. Frederick got up to put his arm around her.

  “It’s okay, I’m sure they’re not—”

  “I’m pregnant.” She turned her face away from him.

  He shook her gently as if to cheer her up. “Well, that’s wonderful!”

  “It’s terrible. I don’t think I love Chuck anymore.”

  He was stunned. So he wasn’t the only one in the family whose loves were painful and broken. “Did something happen?”

  “No, I just don’t love him anymore. I married him because he fought in the war and was handsome and funny, but he’s not so handsome anymore and everyone else seems to think he’s a laugh riot. All I see is a former high school football star who doesn’t have any idea what I feel.”

  “How is he with Markie?”

  “Markie, thank God, is in his own world half the time. Chuck’s not a terrible father. He loves Markie, I guess. I’m not sure what love means.” She looked at her brother now. Her eyes were full of tears. “I used to admire him. I respected him. I don’t anymore, and that breaks my heart because…I’m afraid it’s really over between us.”

  “Have you thought about what you want to do?”

  “I don’t want this baby. I know it sounds crazy, but I have to make a decision. I’m nearly one month pregnant.”

  Frederick was silent. Never had his sister confided in him like this about her own life, her own decisions.

  “Is there something I can do?” he asked, not expecting she’d have an answer.

  “You could be more a part of this family. You’re never here. You live completely for yourself.”

  “I think we both live the lives we want to live,” he said, suddenly defensive.

  “Yes, we know, architecture is the love of your life!”

  Now he was indignant. “My life is more than just architecture.” It was the first time he’d heard himself say it.

  “I don’t know anything about your life.” She gave him a confrontational look and his blood went cold. Was she about to…? “I write to you, I keep you informed about what’s happening here, and…I guess I always hope you’ll respond or, I don’t know, share something in return.” But rather than give him a chance to do so now, she put out her cigarette in the grass and stood up. “I’m sorry for saying this. Don’t hate me and stay away another whole year. I have to help get dessert.”

  She turned and went inside.

  Frederick sat in the back yard a few minutes longer as the kitchen filled with people and plates and silver clinking. He saw Marge through the kitchen window starting to rinse the dirty dishes. He bit the nail on his right index finger. Was it true he only lived for himself? He thought of Curt and their conversation in front of the theater two nights ago and their date tomorrow night in Washington Square Park. His family had so little notion of what his life consisted of. What he cared about. What he wanted. Perhaps he would meet Curt, if only to say he didn’t think it was a good idea, their seeing more of each other.

  He went back into the house. The aunts remained at the table, and his mother sat distracted as they now recounted stories about their childhood, about Fritz and how he was the apple of everyone’s eye. What a beautiful child he was. How spoiled he was. What a fancy dresser he was. They laughed to think how they spoiled their precious baby brother.

  Philip carried the cake into the dining room, having already started singing “Happy Birthday” from the kitchen. Little by little, the rest of the family picked up the song. Fred Sr. blew at the candles weakly and a chorus of “Oh!” came up from the table.

  “Make a wish!”

  “It’s too late, the candles are out.”

  A crush of people moved from behind Fred Sr. to take their seats, including Frederick, who decided there was no harm in having one drink or a meal with Curt, but he would see that it went no further—no sex, no second date, he would be firm about that, when suddenly a chair toppled over and Clare fell to the floor face-first, her wine glass flying from her hand and shattering clear across the kitchen. There was a collective shout as everyone heard the crash.

  “Help! Fritz!” Clare cried.

  George and Tim dove towards her.

  “I’m dying!”

  Frederick advanced towards her as well, but Chuck pushed through from the kitchen and thrust out his arm to bar the way, telling Frederick and the others to stand back, don’t touch her. He knelt down and gently placed his hands on either side of her head. “It’s all right, Mama,” he said, “it’s just a bump, you’re gonna be all right.”

  “No, I’m not! Fritz!”

  “He’s right here,” Chuck said.

  “I’m here, Clare,” Fred Sr. said but couldn’t get near her for all the people crowding around.

  “Where’s Fritz? I’m dying!”

  Frederick watched the room rearrange itself, watched
his brother-in-law turn his mother over onto her back, saying, Mama, it’s all right, you’re gonna be all right. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Fritz!” she called again. Then softer, “I’m dying.”

  Frederick looked out the dining room window. He heard his mother’s voice. Freddy, telephone for you. Nothing has to change between us. You and I will always… It’s just that with Rachel…

  “I’m dying,” she whimpered.

  “It’s okay, Mama,” Chuck said. He called her “Mama” and he wasn’t even her real son. And his wife was planning to abort his child.

  “We just want to sit you up. Someone get some ice. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  Frederick looked at his mother sitting on the floor with blood on her face.

  “I’m dying.”

  He would have to take a later train to New York tomorrow, he couldn’t leave his mother like this. He bit the hangnail on his index finger. The question was, could he still make it to Washington Square Park by 8:30?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Frederick didn’t like to think he’d chosen Curt, a perfect stranger, over his own mother. Really, he thought, walking down University Place towards Washington Square Park, he’d done everything he could for her. Hadn’t he? She’d bruised her head, so they rushed to the emergency room at St. Joe’s where they waited an hour, Frederick holding the ice pack to her forehead, reassuring her, Don’t be afraid, it’s only a bump on the head, the doctor just needs to check to make sure nothing else is wrong. It turned out to be a fractured rib, nothing more. For the next couple of weeks it was going to hurt when she breathed, the doctor explained, but the real danger was, to compensate, she might take short, shallow breaths, and then her lungs could become infected. Her homework for the next month was to breathe deeply through a breathalyzer every twenty minutes. The bump on her forehead would take care of itself, but, he warned, it’ll get worse before it gets better. Her face would turn black and blue.

  “I’ll just tell people Fritz beats me.” Clare smiled, gripping Frederick’s hand on one side of the bed and his father’s hand on the other. “If it hadn’t been for these two fellas, my husband and my son, Freddy—he lives in New York—”