Maggie Cassidy (16 page)

From sweet Lowell Maggie came to sour New York in a rosy gown.

Corpse ridden Hudson rounded about the Glitter Isle of dark New York America as we raced to the April Prom in a taxi cab across Central Park. The preparations, events, all enormous—She'd come with her mother, stayed with her aunt, was staying the night of the Prom at Jonathan Miller's family's rich apartment, arrangements I had made in earlier attempts to save as much money as possible and probably suggested by Jonathan in the first place as in his brief profound friendship with me he directed my affairs and influenced my mind.

Now we raced across town in a cab—I was all dressed in white tie and tails. During that winter the uncle of Gene Mackstoll a London Man About Town Sam Friedman: “Here you are, Jack”—giving me the suit from his closet as nephew Gene grins “you ought to wear it for the Spring Prom. Take it. It's yours. Here.” He gave me other things—To make myself handsome for the Prom I'd got a sunlamp sun tan in the Hotel Pennsylvania with a shave for about two dollars, like a Cary Grant I wanted to walk into the barbership clacking on heels head stiff courteous and cosmopolitan and have myself led to a chair saying something tremendously witty—or and with a feeling of rich security—instead it was a lonely walk among empty mirrors along the backs of empty barber chairs with an at-attention towel-wristed barber waiting at each one and I chose none in particular and was pulled up by no Ricardo Riduardo to my authority chair. The lamp burned and gave me a terrible lobster red face for the ball.

Maggie has put on the best thing she has—a pink gown. A little rose in her hair—the perfection of her moonlight magic Irish sorcery suddenly seeming out of place in Manhattan, like Ireland in the Atlantis World—Trees of her Massachusetts Street home I saw in her eyes. All week just because G.J. had jokingly written “My hand still burning from having been sat on by the perfectly rounded buttocks of M.C.”—this made her so valuable I wanted her to sit on the hand of my hope—I held her tight; felt suddenly protective in this big cab crossing the glittering Manhattans.

“Well, Maggie,” addressing her through all her troubles getting down from Lowell and everything ready, “there it is—New York.” Beside us, Jonathan, himself bemused on the skyscrapers with those seventeen-year-old intellectual first thoughts weighing him in and everything to me inconceivably glamorous because of his addition to the scene—

“Humpt—t'aint much to
be
in—looks nice,” says Maggie—her lips curled—I bend down to kiss and hold back, feeling myself too importantly dealing with Maggie's proper reception tonight to be just kissing—the two of us miles apart in social fear, minds wandering to other matters like the ease of pain in the breast that wants out—not as in our sweet river's nights—not as in love—but to little paranoiac wonderments in the complications of gowns, evening clothes, the corsage I had to rush and get—tickets, furlibues—to make you sigh—in brief, we were doomed to an unsuccessful night, I would never know altogether why.

Her little shoulders had freckles, I kissed every one of them—when I could. But my face was burnt from the lamp and I kept wincing and sweating so I worried what Maggie thought of me. She was too busy being snobbed by the wealthy lavishly gowned girls in there who'd not struggled 250 miles from a railroad brakeman's old house by the tracks in day coaches of the railroad with the necessary striven-for free pass the gown in a box—but had had checks for half a thousand dollars waved under their noses by indulgent millionaire fathers who'd said “Go down to Lord & Taylors or someplace and get yourself something real nice impress the boy invited you—” For their shoulder blemishes and freckles they had sorceries of powder, boxes of shield-soft, sweet nascent poofs of puffs to dab all over and the best stuff available—Maggie didnt even know it was done or how to do it or how to know. Snowily they swam around her like swans, her tawny shoulders with touch of pink from last summer's sunburn and freckles of Ireland were bedazzled by priceless necklaces and earrings. Their snowy arms were advantaged and powdered and glittered; her life arms were hung.

I sneaked her down to a little bar downstairs, in the basement of the Hampshire House, Jonathan was with us, for a moment we were like gay people in an Irene Dunne comedy took over a lounge and no one's around and Jonathan officiated to make drinks and we giggled and talked and I thought we were in some wood panel New York of carpeted luxuries and Maggie felt better being alone and snuggled up to me—

Jonathan (in tails, behind bar) “All right, Jack, if it's not Tom Collins I shall have to expel you from our haunt, all I can make is an exorcization dont ask for more—” I look proudly at Maggie for her to see these big words. She's looking around skeptically. Her gardenia hangs sadly. My face is on fire, stiffly in whitetie collar I'd bent to a hundred conversations upstairs feeling that as I inclined my nose politely to the speaker's nose it would reflect red on his face a big flush of silly heat—

“Oh fer krissakes Jonathan get it over with!” Maggie's yelling as John tried to joke and goofed—Finally we were discovered by others, the parties floated in, we went upstairs again. A dazzling affair. A horde of young generation in white tie with promflower girls attending a melee, a gathering, in a building, a tower—crowded—rousing applause, speeches, music inside. Greed oozing from the Oos and Aas of false hellos and dreary compliments and presumptive conceited good-bys. Dancing, talking, looking out the window at Central Park and the lights of New York—all of it horrible—we were lost—our hands clutched but with empty hopes—just fear—empty chagrin—longfaced party in real life.

“Jack let's get out of here, let's go away—” She wanted to go to secret bars, ballrooms, be alone—I thought of Nick's in the Village—But the arrangements had been made for a gay party of cars to go downtown, uptown, places—She sat in a corner sofa, against me, almost crying—“Oh I hate it here—Jacky let's go back home and sit on the porch—I loved you much better with your skates—your earmuff hat—anything but this—You look awful—watsamatter with your face?—I look awful—everything's awful—I knew I shouldnt of come—I guessed it—Something was wrong—My mother wanted me to. She persuaded me. She likes you, Jack. She says I dont appreciate a good boy when I see one—The hell with it—Give me home any time. Jacky,” taking my chin and turning my face to her, looking swimmingly, littly into my eyes with her small perfect eyes here lost in the hurrahs, white roars, chandeliers, “if you want to marry me ever dont ever try to have me come to this New York—I couldnt stand it—There's something about it I don't like—Oh let's get outa here—The hell with all these people—”

“They're my friends!”

“Friends?—Pah—” She gave me a scornful look, as though she never saw me before, and surreptitious—“Buncha no good loafers—Some day'll be begging at their backdoors and they wont even give you a crust of bread you know that as well as I do—Friends—for now friends—later it's good-by Jack—You'll be on your own, you'll see—They wont throw shirts at ye when it starts raining in the mountains. And isnt she the huffy puffy one in her dress cut low enough to show her breasts to the lot of us the hussy she must have more sass than my sister Sissy and seventeen others—”

“You're all s's,” I said.

“All s's and dont give a shit. There! I wanta leave. Come on. Take me to a burlesque. Take me anywhere.”

“But we're supposed to go to the cars after—lots of plans made up by a whole bunch—”

“I like that Knowles playing the piano—he's about the only one I like—and Olmsted—and Hennessy I guess because he's Irish and you dont catch
him
here do you? Humph: I've had my see, my fill of your famous New York. You know what you can do with it. You'll know where to find me from now on, Bub. Home. Good old home . . .” Dizzy, sweet, all the combined ankles of your raving beauties couldnt measure against the atom of Maggie's flesh in the crook of her underarm, all their eyes, diamonds and vices no competition on the keen point of Maggie's Stardust Personal Me.

“I'm not even looking at
any
of these other women—”

“Aw go on—there's that Betty everybody's been telling you about all night—Why dont you go dance with her—She
is
beautiful—You'll make out in New York—crap's paradise—”

“What are you mad—?”

“Oh shut up—Oh Jacky come home have Christmases with me—never mind all this charivary—fancy fanfares for nothing—I'll have a rosary in my hand at least—to remind you—Little snowflakes'll fall on our pretty roof. Why do you want these French windows? What are the towers of Manhattan to you that needs love in my arm every night from work—Can I make you happier with powder on my chest? Do you need a thousand movie shows? Sixteen million people to ride the bus with, hit the stop—I shoulda never let you go away from home—” Rich lips brooded in my deaf ear. “The fog'll fall all over you, Jacky, you'll wait in fields—You'll let me die—you wont come save me—I dont even know where your grave is—remember what you were like, where your house, what your life—you'll die without knowing what happened to my face—my love—my youth—You'll burn yourself out like a moth jumping in a locomotive boiler looking for light—Jacky—and you'll be dead—and sink—and you'll be dead—and lose yourself from yourself—and forget—and sink—and me too—and what is all this then?”

“I don't know—”

“Then come back to our porch of the river the night time the trees and you love stars—I hear the bus on the corner—where you're getting off—no more, boy, no more—I saw, had visions and idees of you handsome my husband walking across the top of the America with your lantern—shadow—I heard you whistle—songs—you'd always sing coming down Massachusetts—you thought I didnt hear, or I was dumb—You dont understand the dirt—on the ground. Jacky. Lowell Jacky Duluoz. Come on home leave here.” She saw aces of spades in my eyes; in hers I saw them glitter and shine. “Because I'll never come to this New York to live you'll have to take me at home and as I yam . . . You'll get all lost around here, I can just see you—You shoulda never left home to come here I dont care about anybody says about success and careers—it wont do you no good—You can see it with your own eyes—And lookit her with her fine and fancy ways, I bet she's as balmy as the day is long and they have to spend thousands a dollars on bug doctors for her—you can have em brother—so long.—Huh,” she concluded, through her throat, which throbbed, and I kissed her and wanted to devour her every ounce of her mysterious flesh every part hump rill hole heart that with my fingers I'd never even yet known, the hungry preciousness of her, the one never to be repeated altar of her legs, belly, heart, dark hair, she unknowing of this, unblessed, graceless, dull-eyed beautiful. “They can put me away any time, I'm ready,” said Maggie, “but dont let the birds sing in
this
hole—”

Out of her eyes I saw smoldering
I'd like to rip this damn dress off and never see it again!

Later my sister said “Did Maggie wear her hair off the face?—or in bangs?—She has a small face—Did she wear rose? That would go good, she's so dark.” She wore bangs—my little bangs of Merrimack.

Somewhere in the vast jewelry of the Long Island night we walked, in wind and rain—Sunday night—the week end over—the drives, cocktail parties, shows, scheduled arrangements, all fulfilled, without fun—her gown long packed back in the box—She pouted as I conducted her sheepishly across those unknown darknesses of the city—Her aunt's house was somewhere across an empty lot, down a street—The gloom of Sunday night—the wind blew her sweet hair against my lips; when I tried to kiss her she turned away, I groped for the lost kiss that would never come back—In the house the aunt had prepared a big Sunday dinner for us and for Mrs. Cassidy who'd sat out the week end and humbly—helping in the kitchen—a trip to Radio City.

“Did I hear Jack say his belly was empty. You feel weak?—come on, here's soup—”

“Well kids did you have fun?”

Maggie: “No!”

“Maggie! aint you got better manners than that.”

I helped her off with her coat; she had a cotton dress underneath; her sweet shape made me want to cry.

“Maggie
never
liked Boston or any place,” Mrs. Cassidy told me, “pay no attention to her, she's a devil—She likes to wear her old sweaters and shoes and sit in her swing—like me—”

“Me too Mrs. Cassidy—if I didnt have to play football—”

“Come eat!”

A huge roast beef, potatoes, mashed turnips, gravy—the kind Irish lady plying me with double helpings—

After dinner heartbrokenly I sat across the parlor from Maggie and watched her, half sleepy, as they talked—like home, dinners, drowsy in the parlor, the sweet legs of Maggie—Her dark eyes scanned me contemptuously—She'd said her piece—Mrs. Cassidy saw we werent getting along—The big expedition, plans, the big prom, flowers,—all down the drain.

They went back home on Monday morning after a night's sleep, Maggie to her porch, her kid sisters, her swains coming a-visiting down the road, her river, her night—I to my whirlpools of new litter and glitter—standing in the corridor of the school Milton Bloch who later became a songwriter introducing me to Lionel Smart (“Nutso Smart” to the math professor) who later became my great sweet friend of the modern jazz generation, London, New York, the world—“This is Jack Duluoz, he thinks Muggsy Spanier has the greatest band,” and Lionel blushing, laughing, “Count, man, Count”—1940—rush to the Savoy, talks on the sidewalks of the American Night with bassplayers and droopy tenormen with huge indifferent eyelids (Lester Young); school paper articles, Glenn Miller at the Paramount, new shoes, graduation day I lie in the grass reading Walt Whitman and my first Hemingway novel and over the campus field I hear their rousing applause and valedictories (I had no white pants)—

Spring in New York, the first smell of woodsmoke on Third Avenue on the first unfrozen night—parks, loves, walks with girls, styles, excitements—New York on the lyrical perfect shelf of America in the Night, the Apple on the Rock, the green blur of Coogan's Bluff over the Polo Grounds firstweek May and Johnny Mize of the St. Louis Cardinals poles a new homerun—Bill Keresky's sister Mickey in black silk slacks in a penthouse, her red lips and rings of sixteen under eyes, soft initial on her breast—Duke records—Wild drives to the Yale campus, around and around Mount Vernon at midnight with hamburgers and girls—Frank Sinatra incredibly glamorous in loose hanging suit singing with Harry James
On a Little Street in Singapore
not only teenage girls digging him but teenage boys who'd heard that sad Artie Shaw clarinet in California on the quiet perfect street in Utrillo—The World's Fair, sad trombones from the shell, over the swans—Pavilions with international flags—Happy Russia—Invasion of France, the great Pow! overseas—French professors under trees—Mad Marty Churchill reaches into subway and knocks man's hat on floor as train pulls out Har Har Har!—we race on El platform—Waking up one Sunday morning in David Knowles' Park Avenue apartment I open up the Venetian blinds, see young husband in homburg and spats conducting beautiful dressed wife with baby in carriage through rippling golden suns, beautiful not sad—A
crème de menthe
at the Plaza,
vichyssoise, paté
, candlelight, gorgeous necks—Sunday afternoon in Carnegie Hall.

 
Spring dusk

on Fifth Avenue,

—a bird

Midnight talks over Brooklyn Bridge, freighters arriving from Montevideo—Wild generations jumping in a jazz joint, hornrimmed geniuses getting drunk on brews—Columbia University ahead—Borrowers of binoculars in Mike Hennessy's bedroom looking at the Barnard girls across the green—

Maggie lost.