My mother away at my sister, Rita’s, and my father at the firehouse, Gainor, T.J. and I kept counsel with one another over the few days in Woodlawn. Gainor giving more than the mere impression of having to hide out, as we went through the names of all those who, having given help in the past, might again do so. He represented that he still had his job and income. But he was in fact without any money at all. Having upon repayment of his loan from me to reborrow a dollar. In his room he maintained he would sleep the night soundly. But then I would find him throughout the day, coming into my room and then lying on the old four-poster bed, taking naps. His head propped up on pillows, and his injured leg from his fall into the subway tracks stretched out resting. On the bedside table, he kept a pan of water, lemon juice squeezed into it. From which he would anoint his brow and then cover his eyes with the cloth. I would, as the downstairs clock could be heard to strike three, serve tea and bring Gainor a cup and plate of crackers. At the sound of the tolling chimes, Gainor slowly blessed himself in the manner of a Catholic. On a note I wrote,
AS AN
AGNOSTIC
WOULD-BE PROTESTANT, WHY DO YOU
BLESS YOURSELF
“Mike, as I lie here in the marvelous, soothing comfort of your hospitality, back in Ireland on the north Liffey Quays at exactly this time it is eight in the evening. Night has fallen. It’s cold and misting. The mail boat is casting off. Embarking across the fretful Irish Sea to Liverpool. I make this observance of blessing myself in memory of such voyage and of all those who upon this very night may be about to take it. As I have done so many heartfelt times in the past. Standing as a third-class passenger, on that stern deck. Watching the gray granite quays pass as we floated away down the dark waters of the Liffey. Attempting, as I would invariably be, to vanish from Dublin. And gone in the wan hope that I would, having done so, find better times. Then, my affairs straightened out and jingling a few coins in my pocket, be able to return. But alas such latter dream never attained.”
With no one other than myself and T.J. knowing where he was and with apparently many people looking for him, Gainor continued to totally relax in the sense of safety he felt in Woodlawn. Other than to disappear in the utter wilds of the west, it was in many ways as close as one could get in America to being cut off. And especially in a house where one could hold out with a basement fruit cellar stocked full with a variety of home-bottled vegetables, including carrots, corn, tomatoes, peas, sauerkraut and string beans. And fruit such as apples, peaches, plums and pears. Also there were potatoes from my father’s gardens, and whole-wheat bread and homemade butter from the country. Not to mention the still unemptied crates of whiskey which arrived at Christmas. And it was crystal clear that whatever heinous thing had befallen him, that Gainor had not lost his appetite nor his palate to enjoy alcoholic beverage.
“Mike, believe me when I say that even as I appear to be somewhat in a recuperative state and supine much of the day, that I am in fact experiencing enormous contentment in being here.”
Although the menu was haphazard enough at dinner in the kitchen and sometimes held in the dining room, Gainor would, in the most quietly elegant but deliberate way, devour whatever appeared in front of him. T.J. and I would watch, astonished, as two massive helpings of beans with two large potatoes immersed in melted butter and accompanied by endless pieces of bread, would be polished off, to be then followed by two thick plate-sized hamburgers, each crowned with melted cheese and fried egg on top. But one watched him eat with immense relief, Gainor having lost weight, and making one concerned for his health. And his gusto in eating, and the white of his eyeballs brightening again, became one of the few positively encouraging things that I could see happening in his life. Or indeed in America.
Sobriety being now one of my absolute priorities, I was surprised that I did not seem to mind when Gainor quaffed back his evening whiskeys. But rather than inebriating him, it seemed to bring an incisive quickness to his speech and brilliant strategy into the long chess games that were waged late into the night. I was even enjoying washing dishes and got in a dispute with Gainor as to how this was properly done and in what sequence were cutlery and dishes to be cleansed. From my mother’s advice, I opted for cutlery first, for she had also taught me how to break bread in smaller pieces before buttering it, and I thought, although she had for sometime had a cook who did so, she must also know about washing up after meals.
Gainor said he was going to write a book. Something I was the first to realize would be marvelously fascinating, if his adventures were anything to go by. But I felt, knowing how much discipline was required and how much dedication it demanded, that in both cases it would be more than Gainor had at his disposal. I wondered too, aware of his readiness to socialize with all, and especially random, strangers, if he could muster the sometimes grim resolve to suffer long bouts of isolation. I also now began to notice some of T.J.’s observations. That there were qualities of the spoiled child in Gainor, of expecting to get what he wanted. And becoming petulant in not obtaining it. Also noticeable now in his behavior was an element of ruthlessness. That it was a time to abandon ship, and every man for himself. For there seemed to be a growing indifference to the many of those who made a sacrifice of some sort to help him. However, I did take his conduct as being more a reaction to the doom-laden desperation to get out that we were both suffering. And to be away from the atmosphere of informers, accusers and denunciators who were alleging, insinuating and bearing false witness across the land. But none of whom pointed a finger at Gainor whose recently accumulated adversaries were of a different aggrievement and variety, and who were now added to those who had chased him to America in the first place. And it would have had to be concluded, as it was by an American embassy official who had once, in Dublin, when Gainor was anonymously accused of being a communist spy, examined an inch-thick file on Gainor, and who said as he closed it, “Mr. Crist, there is no doubt that you have committed numerous indiscretions and incited numerous claims against you, but there is nothing here in this file to indicate that you have at any time ever been disloyal to the United States.”
The weather briefly not too cold these few days in Woodlawn, Gainor and I again went for enormously calming walks in the cemetery and sat on the benches along Van Cortlandt Park East. Gainor seemed now not to be drinking much. And certainly watching him eat was in itself an entertainment and altogether optimistic event. T.J. saying it was like witnessing the fueling of the boilers of a great ship and that one could nearly sense the massive drive shafts turning and sending gargantuan neurological energy up into Gainor’s brain. And this in turn he certainly used later in the evening in our struggles over the chessboard. It was evident too now why an alcohol-free mind was of such importance. For Gainor took his chess playing very seriously. But had yet to win a game from me. I in turn would write my gamesmanship comments on my usual scrap of paper and slip them in front of him as he would after long, agonizing deliberation finally make a move.
AH YOU HAVE BLUNDERED
YET AGAIN AND YOU
ARE SOON FINIS KAPUT
It was now three months since I had finished the manuscript of S.D., or at least what one could term the first final draft. And there was nothing to monitor one’s days or help in weathering bouts of angst. Except to force myself out to walk. And by evening it occasionally distracted to watch boxing bouts on television. Gainor and I continuing to carry on our longer communications, me by typewriter and printed capitals and he by his verbal response while twiddling his thumbs. And sometimes he would inquire after my health.
“Mike, how are you feeling.”
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS I HAVE BEEN ABLE TO
SIT, LOOK DOWN AND NOTICE THE WEAVE OF THE CLOTH
IN MY TROUSERS AND THE SHAPE OF MY ANKLE IN
MY SOCK AND SHOE. BUT SINCE VALERIE LEFT, MY
LIFE HAS BEEN JUST ONE LONG JOYLESS BLANK. HAVE TO GET
BACK TO WRITING AGAIN. SOME PROJECT THAT WILL
TAKE
MY MIND OFF MYSELF. IN AN ENTIRE YEAR
IN AMERICA ONE HAS ONLY FELT GLADNESS ABOUT
FOUR TIMES FOR PERHAPS TEN MINUTES ON EACH OCCASION.
THERE IS NO LONGER THAT PALMY PROSPECT OF FAME AND
FORTUNE THROUGH S.D. ALTHOUGH DEEP WITHIN ME, I STILL
BELIEVE THERE IS. THE FAME DOESN’T INTEREST ME.
NOR THE FORTUNE. BUT PROTECTION DOES. AND THE
LATTER COMES MOSTLY IN A FINANCIAL GUISE.
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE, I NEED A
LITTLE DREAMBOATING.
“Mike, it’s all dreamboating anyway, no matter whether the dreams come true or not.”
WHEN ARE THEY GOING TO STOP POLISHING THEIR CARS
“Never.”
WHEN ARE THEY GOING TO STOP MAKING GODS
OF THEIR CHILDREN AND THEN TELLING
THEM PATRONIZING LIES
“Never.”
I LEAVE HERE A BEATEN MAN. BUT VICTORIOUS BECAUSE
I WILL HAVE GOTTEN OUT. IT WOULD BE IRONIC IF
THE TWO OF US RETURN ON THE SAME BOAT
“Dinnlay, in our time here, many of the pieces of the puzzles of our lives have fallen into place. Our futures have been ordained. We shall for better or worse henceforth conduct our lives upon the other side of the Atlantic. We shall live there as we can. We shall die there and be buried there. And you may take it as an article of faith that I shall be aboard the good ship Franconia when it sails.”
Gainor was leaving that night for Queens to attempt to get his mail from Mutt and Jeff and in the morning to head for Woodstock. And behind he left with my mother his calling card. Amazingly expected by this lady who through any fuss or tribulation always observed elegant decorum. And who was as impressed by Gainor as he was by her. She had of course before her marriage spent her life in the suites of great hotels and in the luxury of private railway carriages. She had earned and learned a diplomatically courteous behavior on top of the wisdom that she had brought to the United States as a simple country girl. And it was never lifelong forgotten by any of my friends who had ever met her and were inspired by the attention she gave them. But now the time had come of leave-taking. T. J. about to drive Gainor to the train and who now stood in my room as I put on my coat to accompany him. And with the sadness of departure he was at his most charmingly benign.
“Mike, in Dublin’s Grange Gorman, where such as Sean O’Sullivan, Ireland’s greatest portrait painter, went to escape the scourges of drink, he said Trinity College men not only get preferential treatment but that they also piss in Wedgwood pots, upon which is emblazoned the college’s heraldic insignia and which are then taken to be emptied, poured on the tulips in the garden which then bloom in Trinity’s colors. And, Mike, I feel you have afforded me a similar privilege to be with you here this too little time in Woodlawn, and let me tell you, I have immensely enjoyed the solace and respite it’s given me. And meeting your mother and father, both of whom I found most charming. And talking and listening to your brother, T.J., and his music and indeed seeing his extraordinary pots and paintings. All has helped renew my faith in mankind. I only wish my chess play was more deserving of your expertise. However, I am now feeling fully fit to go for a few days to round off my continued rest in Woodstock. Mike, you’d like it up there very much, and I do hope as soon as I appraise things that you will come up and join me.”
IN WHAT
SURELY IS BOUND
TO BE
CHAOS
My reply was not meant cynically. For Gainor’s words were not the flowery words that they might seem. They were words spoken in the most heartfelt and warm manner with tears obscuring the slightly haunted look in his eyes. And as he was deposited at the lonely elevated terminus of the last stop of the Lexington-Jerome Avenue line, he stood there a desolate, bereft figure, clutching in his cold hand the same paper bag with which he had arrived. Above us, the chill winter winds were blowing under the steel girders and snow beginning to fall. On one side fading into the darkness were the stretches of Van Cortlandt Park woods. And on the other side were the night-haunted mausoleums and graves of the cemetery. I had given Gainor a sweater to wear under just a jacket and scarf. His blue Aran Islander’s cap on his head. And for footwear, he was in white socks and sandals. He had recently in a subway station and in his usual manner, lost his temper over a vending machine which failed to produce, and as he kicked it to pieces it also did the same to his shoes.
A premonition was overcoming me that this was to be the last time I would ever see Gainor. As if he were being set free to be abandoned amid wintry ocean in an open boat. Snow forecast for the whole night and the next day. And T.J., having made Gainor a sandwich to take with him, knew what was in the paper bag. Refusing at first to tell me but then admitting that within the brown crumpled folds and crusts of bread along with a few bits of stale cheese was also a long, curled-up piece of rope. And it told me more than anything else ever could of Gainor’s solemn desperation. And I knew that if he did not get up that gangway and out. That the rope he had was long enough.
To
End his life
By
27
THE FUTURE had finally seemed to come. With only a matter of ten days left now till three P.M. on the Wednesday that the Franconia was due to sail. Prematurely packed and ready and with less and less to do, I was wondering each hour if I could survive and hang on. With all shades pulled tight closed on my front three bedroom windows, I hoped to avoid aimed bullets and the accident of stray ones. I had little desire to go to Woodstock and Gainor in giving me an invitation merely made me feel that I would risk putting myself into even greater jeopardy. I had not met any of his considerably literary and artistic friends and had no reason to think that they would be anything other than kind and friendly as had been their messages to me sent via Gainor.
Gainor, when leaving at the train terminus, said his Aran Islander’s hat, flowing pink scarf, white socks and sandals, in making him look stranger than ever, plus a slightly manic demeanor he had recently adopted, had the sidewalks clearing in front of him and people moving away to distance themselves on public transport, and he was enjoying his newfound elbow room. He seemed now to be seriously hiding out from creditors. One knew that he was about to abandon his address at Queens Boulevard and could go to stay with a girlfriend who worked at the airport. A convenience he chose to avail of, since his one problem he did not have in America was attracting women, who would do anything for him. But one remained skeptical over his joining the Franconia despite his saying Pamela was sending him his boat fare and it was on the way. But he did seem doubly concerned now that word might leak out in any direction that he was decamping.
“Mike, even in your silence, mum’s the word.”
I had put my last things in my big steamer trunk and it was already awaiting in the sun porch of the old white house atop East 238th Street to be taken down to the pier. Not only the hours, but one was now counting away the very minutes as they went by. Mornings the worst for feeling an overwhelming sickening tension. And having been told about the length of rope in Gainor’s bag, my anxiety was increased as to what new news I might now hear of him. I did force myself out for a walk and to return library books. Which was one of the things I was blaming Gainor for not bothering to do. My reading matter now was the History of Ireland and the Reptiles of the World, along with casual references into Boswell’s Johnson. Gainor in Woodlawn had been reading Sean O’Casey’s autobiography, which I now noticed was missing. As I went on my stroll, kids were sleigh-riding on the steep hill, as I once had done. And dangerously zooming out where traffic passed at the very foot of the incline. Where on the main street of Katonah Avenue, I met Mrs. Kuntze. And as I was about to leave Woodlawn for good, it seemed as if it were preordained. For this pleasant, attractive woman of outspokenness and character was the mother of Alan, Donald and of my first girlfriend, Carol, all of whom had been part of my most impressionable years growing up in America. And for this nice lady, I briefly
broke my silence and croaked out a few words.
The Kuntze family, Donald, Carol and Alan, in front of where they lived in Woodlawn. Alan, my closest childhood friend, and Carol, my first serious girlfriend. Donald, later a distinguished physician in the field of obstetrics, was a brilliant boxer and later a collegiate wrestling champion. And with Alan and I belting away at each other with gloves, Donald taught me my first rudiments of boxing as well as Greco-Roman grappling.
Returning now to the house, I was surprised to find myself missing Gainor’s presence. It had all seemed strangely like a leisurely weekend in a country mansion, albeit small and located in the suburban Bronx. But when one read the Sunday newspaper and we all sat around thumbing through sections of the massively thick New York Times, Gainor and T.J. talked and I listened. Gainor still taking an interest in anything and everything. Especially paying rapt attention to the macabre stories told by T.J. about when he was a cemetery salesman. Gainor’s recalling being informed by his stepmother concerning the expensive burial of his father, whose coffin was encased in atom bomb-proof grave liner, the price of which at the time could have salvaged Gainor’s future. But T.J. cheering Gainor with an account of his making an on-site pitch one hot summer’s day to a prospective customer in the cemetery about mausoleum burial above ground and the pre-need contentment this provided. And just as T.J. felt he had closed the deal and was about to produce a contract for signature, there came from just behind, and but a stone’s throw away, an unholy explosion. A recent mausoleum blew up along with the recently interred contents of a coffin, a gas concentration having become explosive in the heat caused by the day’s hot rays of the sun, and this previous customer, who had already availed of his pre-need contentment, was sent sky high.
The History of the Ginger Man: An Autobiography Page 36
