Marge was there to meet him at the Outer Station. Almost the first words from her lips were, “How is your friend?”
“My friend? Oh, you mean—”
“Curt.”
“He’s not my friend. I mean, he’s the son of my friend…” He quickly repeated the story of why Curt had been living with him, how he’d come to New York, and so on. Marge had called him my “friend,” he thought. Right back where we left off at the funeral.
“How is he?” she asked again.
“I wouldn’t know. Fine, I guess. He’s not staying with me anymore. He found a job and a proper place to live rather than living—rather than my living room couch. And you know how young people are. Here today, gone tomorrow” (he tried to pick the cuticle on his thumb but the bandages on his fingers made it impossible).
“Markie always asks about him,” was all she said before Frederick changed the subject to Clare. There were three nursing homes in the vicinity of Reading. The next morning they made their rounds. What quickly emerged was their differing perceptions of Clare’s needs and capacities at this point in her life. Frederick was sure she would hate the Phoebe Home, way out there in Wernersville, at least half an hour from downtown Reading, because, as he reminded his sister, this is a woman who’s spent her entire life in the same town, in the same place. Practically the same neighborhood. It’s all she’s known. But in fact, Marge corrected him, she hasn’t been living in Reading for the last six months, she’s been living in Shillington, and she’s used to it. Frederick wanted to ask, then why are we moving her yet again, but he knew Marge would protest. And again, at the Topton Home, when they learned their mother would almost certainly have a roommate, Frederick said to Marge as they were leaving, well that rules out Topton. Why? she asked. Because Mama will never tolerate a roommate. She’ll want her privacy. Not at all, Marge countered. You should see how much she loves having people around now. I think she might actually prefer it.
Frederick wasn’t in a position to argue—Marge ought to know. She took a businesslike attitude towards the proceedings. Her decision had been made and now it was just a matter of finding a place good enough for Clare. She was ready to move on with her own life. Next week she would be starting her new part-time job as bookkeeper at a radio station in town. Markie was in middle school and seemed to be finding his way with some new friends. The baby was eighteen months, old enough, she said, to leave her with her friend Dorothy in the mornings and not feel guilty. She was dating someone (she didn’t say much about him, as if the subject weren’t fit for Frederick’s ears, or as if she assumed he wouldn’t be interested), but she’d also begun speaking to Chuck again, who spent every other weekend with Markie.
Indeed, she was moving forward with her life. Amazingly so, Frederick thought. Just six months ago she was headed for rock-bottom. And maybe she did hit rock-bottom. Maybe that’s where one has to go before coming up again to the surface (he thought how long it had been since the last time Curt phoned). Anyway, that was what he understood people to say who’d suffered through some great difficulty in life. He wouldn’t know, he told himself, his life, his temperament had been, on the whole, so steady, so even-keeled (again he tried to pick the cuticle on his thumb and was prevented by the bandages—he pressed his thumb instead with his forefinger and felt pain). And it was fine if Marge didn’t want to tell him about her new beau. Best to keep away from intimate subjects all around. She doesn’t talk about her personal life, I don’t talk about mine. We don’t ask questions. It’s cleaner that way.
That night at Marge’s house, Frederick couldn’t sleep (he was sharing Markie’s room, and Markie, it turned out, was a snorer). He went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Turning on the light, he found Clare sitting on the sofa in the living room. She turned her head like an owl but kept silent. It wasn’t clear if she knew who he was or even if he was there.
“Mama?”
“Yes?” she grunted, as if jolted out of sleep.
“Mama, are you all right?” He entered the room, sat down next to her, and repeated his question.
Now she looked him square in the face. “Where’s the man of the house?”
“Who do you mean?”
“The man of the house. Where is he?”
“I don’t know… There is no man of the house.”
“No?” She seemed worried.
“I’m the man of the house, I guess.” He took her hand and began to stroke it. He noticed her fingertips were crusted, the fingernails bitten away. They sat in silence for a few moments. “I’m having a glass of milk. Would you like one? How about if I warm it up for you?”
While he prepared the milk in the kitchen, he heard Clare murmuring.
“Were you talking to someone?” he asked as he brought the glasses of milk into the living room.
“I told him I wanted more children but he wouldn’t allow it. Mama and Daddy didn’t approve, you know. ‘Something about the Baileys,’ Daddy used to say. ‘Something cold about Fred Bailey.’”
“You told—who?”
“Mama used to sing to me when I was a girl. Did you know I had long, brown hair?”
Now she seemed on steadier ground. “You were always so pretty.”
“I’m not pretty anymore.”
“Yes, you are, Mama.”
“I’m bent and ugly.”
“Everyone changes as they get older.”
But she continued to insist on her ugliness, and he continued, gently, to contradict her.
She looked at him. “You just say that ’cause you’re biased.”
“Maybe I am.”
They sat in silence and sipped their milk. Clare’s hand shook as she brought the glass to her lips. Frederick reached to help her steady the glass.
“I can do it.”
He withdrew his hand. He asked her why she was awake at this hour. She answered by saying how glad she was he’d come home. There followed a familiar series of questions and answers about where he lives, what he does for a living, how long he would be visiting.
“I’m just here for the weekend.” The thought of telling her the real reason for his visit, and for its short duration, nauseated him.
“Why can’t you stay longer?”
“Mama, you know I have my work.”
“You’re an architect.”
“Yes, Mama.”
She thought for a moment. “I could have worked. I could have gone to college. Traveled. Seen other countries. But when you find love you take it no matter what.”
He wondered what the connection was between not working, not studying, not traveling—so much deprivation, as he saw it, so much self-sacrifice—and finding love.
“I could have designed dresses,” she continued. “I had a flair for fabric.”
“I didn’t know that.” Frederick figured she was lost in pure fantasy.
“But I never pursued it because of the children. When I die I want you to tell everyone I could have been a dress designer.”
“Okay, Mama, I’ll—”
“Say it at my funeral.”
“Let’s not worry about your funeral, that’s a long way off.”
“If I die before you, make sure you leave something for the children.”
“Mama, I don’t—what children?”
“Our children. Freddy and Margie.”
Was it possible? “Mama, I’m Freddy.” Pointing to himself, “this is me, it’s me, Freddy. Your son.”
She looked at him. “No. Freddy’s an architect. He lives in New York.”
“That’s right. I’m Freddy!” He felt a burning in his sinuses.
“Fritz!” She uttered the name like a burp.
“No, Freddy. I’m Freddy.” He laid his head in her lap and saw their reflection, turned sideways, in Marge’s television set. He closed his eyes. “Remember, Mama, I’m your son. I’m Freddy.”
She fell silent for a minute.
“Where is your friend? The young man you brought to the house last
time.” How could she have remembered? “Where is he?”
In a voice almost inaudible, he said he didn’t know.
“Did you lose him?”
It sounded like her customary black humor, only she didn’t chuckle as she used to do after making a dry remark. Yes, he wanted to say, I’ve lost him. He went away and he’s never coming back.
“He’s fine” was all he could say. He tightened his lips.
She waited, then asked, “What was his name?”
It was all he could do to say it without choking.
“He was a nice young man. You seemed very fond of him.”
Frederick smelled the fragrance of her sweater, the nightgown underneath, her belly, her lap.
“Yes,” he said, his face buried in his mother’s lap, the word sounding a mile away, even to himself. “Very fond of him,” he said to stop the heaving of his chest.
On the way into town on Sunday morning, Frederick and Marge went over once more their impressions of the nursing homes they’d seen the day before and came to a tentative agreement on which would be best. The Phoebe Home in Wernersville seemed to get the highest mark—the staff was professional but kind, it was clean, however modest, the grounds well kept and pretty, and it wasn’t so very far out of town if you thought about it—Really, what’s half an hour? Marge asked.
They embraced in front of the station, said their parting words, and Frederick watched as Marge’s car disappeared down Spring Street. Why he didn’t want her to know he was going up to the Pagoda, he couldn’t have said, exactly. After depositing his case in a locker at the station, he continued south on Sixth Street, then east on Washington Street to City Park. He headed for the water fountain in the middle of the park. He took a draft and looked up. There was the Pagoda perched on the side of the mountain. His Pagoda. He hadn’t visited it since the war.
Hailing a taxi, he found himself, ten minutes later, leaning against the railing at the edge of the cliff. He felt the enormity of the drop. The city of Reading spread out beneath him. There was Penn Street running through the middle of town, crossing the Schuylkill River, continuing through West Reading, Wyomissing, and Wernersville where eventually it would head out west across the state of Pennsylvania into Ohio and the Midwestern plain. It was strange to think of his humble little hometown, nestled at the base of the mountain, as the first step towards anything so magnificent as the wide open spaces of the American Midwest or, further on, the seething, jutting canyons of the Rocky Mountains. His mind roved further—out over the Pacific, to Hawaii, Japan, Korea, China, India, Arabia, Africa, then across the Atlantic, over Hudson’s Bay, the rail lines crossing into New Jersey, and then further, into Pennsylvania, and back again to the Outer Station in Reading. He spotted the station amid blocks of red-brick factory buildings and tangles of cables and innumerable tracks converging. There was St. Joseph’s Church, a few blocks from the train station, its yellow stucco glowing as if lit from within like a lantern. His parents were married in that church. He was baptized in that church. He’d gone to grade school in the building next door to it. From there he could easily trace a path along Eighth Street, up Perry to 13th, to the house he grew up in. It was like looking at a child’s model train yard, a miniature village where everything was shiny and new and clean and there was no sorrow or pain or anger. Mom and Pop gave me life, he thought, nursed me, raised me, educated me, and he had taken it all and made something of himself. Did he now owe it to his mother to care for her at the end of her life? He looked down over the edge of the cliff. He’d never asked to be born. Honestly, he’d never felt particularly grateful to be alive. Once he’d thought of killing himself, after the breakup with Jon. Curt couldn’t hold a candle to Jon. He looked at the Pagoda, its stone base and white portico, its red-tiled roofs, the yellow trim and golden lion heads at the corners, its brick chimney, the dragon dolphins on the roof.
“Great view from the observatory. Sixty miles on a clear day.” He turned. Standing before him were a young man and woman holding the hands of four little girls—it was Jack McCoy, the owner of the house in Wyomissing, and his family. “I thought I recognized you! What a coincidence! Dolores, this is—sorry I’ve forgotten—”
“Bailey. Frederick.”
“Yes, Mr. Bailey.”
“How do you do?” Dolores seemed shy.
“Lisa, you remember Mr. Bailey. And this is Lucy, Wendy, and Charlotte. Oh, say, you mind taking our picture?” He handed Frederick his Kodak and lifted the smallest of the girls onto his shoulders. Dolores was visibly pregnant. “Try to get as much of the Pagoda in the background as possible.”
Curt was right, Frederick thought as he snapped the picture, he was handsome in his gawky, unselfconscious way. He had a gentle demeanor, and his wife was sweet. Even the children were appealing, like little lambs. For some reason, the sight of this young family, out on a day like today enjoying the sights, filled him with sadness.
“Let’s go, princesses,” Jack said as the girls ran toward the Pagoda. “Watch the steps!”
“Okay, Daddy!” Lisa chirped, already disappearing down the stairs toward the entrance with the others right behind her.
“Your friend not with you today?”
There was that word again.
“No, he’s…” But what to say? “He’s not with me.”
“This sure is a coincidence! Well, enjoy the day. Maybe we’ll see you up top.” And they went inside the building. A minute later, Frederick followed.
“Like to visit the observatory?” the elderly desk attendant asked. She must have been older than Clare but obviously still had her wits about her.
“Yes,” he said, hearing already the girls stomping up the stairs, their mother admonishing them, Be careful, no running. “Tell me, do they still blink the lights of the Pagoda on Christmas Eve?”
“Beg pardon?”
“On Christmas Eve, when I was a child—this is going back a ways—they used to flash the lights of the Pagoda on and off at 9:00 PM as a signal to the children of Reading that Santa was on his way and it was time to go to bed.”
She thought for a moment. “I believe they do.” Then looked at him and smiled.
The observatory was small, made all the more so by the large bronze bell mounted over the stairwell and the presence of four excitable children.
“You made it!” Jack said to Frederick.
“Mommy, can you see all the way to China?” Lucy asked.
Frederick pivoted in place to look out the windows on all sides in one sweeping glance. In every direction undulating mountains of green, gold, orange and red spread out and away into blue horizons. Majestic Mount Penn, the mountain of his childhood, with its Pagoda raised high above the city, a beacon and perpetual point of reference, was sunk in waves of color that carried him over, erasing borders and names and places and people, a shimmering golden world. Down in the valley, Reading looked more miniature, more negligible than ever, and yet at the same time, riding the back of this great particolored beast, like the whole world carried on the back of an elephant standing on top of a giant turtle swimming through space, it seemed greater than any place on earth. He hadn’t wanted to come to Reading this weekend, had looked forward to his departure all the while he was here, but now, inexplicably, he hated the thought of going back to New York. At that moment he could almost have cried.
Two days later a letter arrived from Curt. “THE LAST FEW MONTHS HAVE given me a chance to get things clear. I phoned you back in September to tell you about a picket I helped organize at the Whitehall Induction Center to protest the military’s exclusion of homosexuals. It was very small. There were six of us, plus a woman none of us knew pushing a baby in a stroller. Crazy! There were no spectators. I tried to phone you because I hoped you might be willing to participate or at least be an observer. Frederick, I know you are the only man who has ever really mattered to me, but what I want is not ‘marriage’ but something more free. I do not belong to you and you do not belong to me. If we
ever get back together, it will be by choice. We are free to be involved with other people, but that doesn’t change the way we feel about each other.”
Complete nonsense. Almost word for word what Jon had said! Did he really think such an arrangement could ever work? Had he no understanding of human nature? Wasn’t it obvious he just wanted to come back to a lovely, comfortable apartment, live like a prince, dinners out, nights at the theater, trips abroad, and the guidance, the wisdom of an older man—Frederick looked at himself in the mirror—who isn’t at all bad looking for his age?
But he couldn’t escape the thought of Curt and the words of his letter. It was hard to concentrate at the office. That night he took himself to see the new motion picture version of My Fair Lady at the Criterion in Times Square. He had ordered his ticket weeks before, and the timing couldn’t have been better. Curt’s letter had thrown him off balance. He needed an escape, and this promised to do the honors. The line of ticket holders outside the theater wound around the corner. Anticipation was in the air. In front of him stood a young man with wavy auburn hair, smoking a pipe and chatting with a pretty young woman holding a parasol. He couldn’t help overhearing their conversation—she worried her husband didn’t earn enough money to support their lifestyle in the city. He, meanwhile, had just lost his job but thought it all for the best as now he had time to pursue his real love, jazz music. Every now and then he looked Frederick’s way, and Frederick wondered if he might be flirting. At one point, however, he locked eyes with Frederick and frowned, dampening Frederick’s attraction (anyway, the nose was too blunt) and embarrassing him on top of it.
Inside the theater, the seat next to him remained vacant until moments before the lights went down. Patrons to his left stood up as someone pushed his way through the row—he looked up as if miracles really did happen—but an elderly gentleman excused himself and took his seat.
The opening credits were extravagantly beautiful, a montage of giant close-ups of peonies, daisies, and carnations in rich satiny creams, pinks, purples, yellows, reds, and blues. But the fantasy fell to pieces as soon as Audrey Hepburn opened her mouth to sing (bad enough, he thought, she was utterly unconvincing as a cockney girl of the streets): her singing was dubbed, and the voice was shrill. Competent no doubt, hitting all the high notes, but without warmth, without luster, without soul. And there was no concealing the fact, not only was the voice not really issuing from Hepburn’s mouth, but Hepburn herself possessed no real musical instincts. The body was the singer’s instrument, and what Hepburn lacked was body. She was a thin, breastless, ladies’ store mannequin. That, apparently was why women and men alike adored her: they could imagine dressing her up like a doll. For every moment he thrilled to the elegance of the production, the beauty of the songs, the complete expertness of Rex Harrison’s performance (a perfect replica of the one he’d given on stage)—for everything one could put in the asset column, there was Hepburn racking up the deficits. And the tragedy was, she was good, but with Julie Andrews he’d seen great.
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