The New Yorker Stories (8 page)

“I’m not coming home, MacDonald.”

“Well, is there anything you’d like from home?”

“They let you have pets here. I’d like a parakeet.”

“A bird? Seriously?”

“Yeah. A green parakeet.”

“I’ve never seen a green one.”

“Pet stores will dye them any color you ask for.”

“Isn’t that harmful to them?”

“You want to please the parakeet or me?”

“How did it go?” MacDonald’s wife asks.

“That place is a zoo. Well, it’s worse than a zoo—it’s what it is: a dwarf house.”

“Is he happy?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t really get an answer out of him. There’s a giant there who’s starving to death, and he says he’s happier than the giant. Or maybe he said he was as happy. I can’t remember. Have we run out of vermouth?”

“Yes. I forgot to go to the liquor store. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. I don’t think a drink would have much effect anyway.”

“It might. If I had remembered to go to the liquor store.”

“I’m just going to call Mother and get it over with.”

“What’s that in your pocket?”

“Candy bars. James gave them to me. He felt sorry for me because I’d given up my lunch hour to visit him.”

“Your brother is really a very nice person.”

“Yeah. He’s a dwarf.”

“What?”

“I mean that I think of him primarily as a dwarf. I’ve had to take care of him all my life.”

“Your mother took care of him until he moved out of the house.”

“Yeah, well, it looks like he found a replacement for her. But you might need a drink before I tell you about it.”

“Oh, tell me.”

“He’s got a little sweetie. He’s in love with a woman who lives in the dwarf house. He introduced me. She’s three feet eleven. She stood there smiling at my knees.”

“That’s wonderful that he has a friend.”

“Not a friend—a fiancée. He claims that as soon as he’s got enough money saved up he’s going to marry this other dwarf.”

“He is?”

“Isn’t there some liquor store that delivers? I’ve seen liquor trucks in this neighborhood, I think.”

His mother lives in a high-ceilinged old house on Newfield Street, in a neighborhood that is gradually being taken over by Puerto Ricans. Her phone has been busy for almost two hours, and MacDonald fears that she, too, may have been taken over by Puerto Ricans. He drives to his mother’s house and knocks on the door. It is opened by a Puerto Rican woman, Mrs. Esposito.

“Is my mother all right?” he asks.

“Yes. She’s okay.”

“May I come in?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

She steps aside—not that it does much good, because she’s so wide that there’s still not much room for passage. Mrs. Esposito is wearing a dress that looks like a jungle: tall streaks of green grass going every which way, brown stumps near the hem, flashes of red around her breasts.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks his mother.

“Carlotta was on the phone with her brother, seeing if he’ll take her in. Her husband put her out again.”

Mrs. Esposito, hearing her husband spoken of, rubs her hands in anguish.

“It took two hours?” MacDonald says good-naturedly, feeling sorry for her. “What was the verdict?”

“He won’t,” Mrs. Esposito answers.

“I told her she could stay here, but when she told him she was going to do that he went wild and said he didn’t want her living just two doors down.”

“I don’t think he meant it,” MacDonald says. “He was probably just drinking again.”

“He had joined Alcoholics Anonymous,” Mrs. Esposito says. “He didn’t drink for two weeks, and he went to every meeting, and one night he came home and said he wanted me out.”

MacDonald sits down, nodding nervously. The chair he sits in has a child’s chair facing it, which is used as a footstool. When James lived with his mother it was his chair. His mother still keeps his furniture around—a tiny child’s glider, a mirror in the hall that is knee-high.

“Did you see James?” his mother asks.

“Yes. He said that he’s very happy.”

“I know he didn’t say that. If I can’t rely on you I’ll have to go myself, and you know how I cry for days after I see him.”

“He said he was pretty happy. He said he didn’t think you were.”

“Of course I’m not happy. He never calls.”

“He likes the place he lives in. He’s got other people to talk to now.”

“Dwarfs, not people,” his mother says. “He’s hiding from the real world.”

“He didn’t have anybody but you to talk to when he lived at home. He’s got a new part-time job that he likes better, too, working in a billing department.”

“Sending unhappiness to people in the mail,” his mother says.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

“As James says, I’m not happy.”

“What can I do?” MacDonald asks.

“Go to see him tomorrow and tell him to come home.”

“He won’t leave. He’s in love with somebody there.”

“Who? Who does he say he’s in love with? Not another social worker?”

“Some woman. I met her. She seems very nice.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“How tall is she?”

“She’s a little shorter than James.”

“Shorter than James?”

“Yes. A little shorter.”

“What does she want with him?”

“He said they were in love.”

“I heard you. I’m asking what she wants with him.”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. Is that sherry in that bottle? Do you mind . . .”

“I’ll get it for you,” Mrs. Esposito says.

“Well, who knows what anybody wants from anybody,” his mother says. “Real love comes to naught. I loved your father and we had a dwarf.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” MacDonald says. He takes the glass of sherry from Mrs. Esposito.

“I shouldn’t? I have to raise a dwarf and take care of him for thirty-eight years and then in my old age he leaves me. Who should I blame for that?”

“James,” MacDonald says. “But he didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I should blame your father,” his mother says, as if he hasn’t spoken. “But he’s dead. Who should I blame for his early death? God?”

His mother does not believe in God. She has not believed in God for thirty-eight years.

“I had to have a dwarf. I wanted grandchildren, and I know you won’t give me any because you’re afraid you’ll produce a dwarf. Clem is dead, and Amy is dead. Bring me some of that sherry, too, Carlotta.”

At five o’clock MacDonald calls his wife. “Honey,” he says, “I’m going to be tied up in this meeting until seven. I should have called you before.”

“That’s all right,” she says. “Have you eaten?”

“No. I’m in a meeting.”

“We can eat when you come home.”

“I think I’ll grab a sandwich, though. Okay?”

“Okay. I got the parakeet.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“It’s awful. I’ll be glad to have it out of here.”

“What’s so awful about a parakeet?”

“I don’t know. The man at the pet store gave me a ferris wheel with it, and a bell on a chain of seeds.”

“Oh yeah? Free?”

“Of course. You don’t think I’d buy junk like that, do you?”

“I wonder why he gave it to you.”

“Oh, who knows. I got gin and vermouth today.”

“Good,” he says. “Fine. Talk to you later.”

MacDonald takes off his tie and puts it in his pocket. At least once a week he goes to a run-down bar across town, telling his wife that he’s in a meeting, putting his tie in his pocket. And once a week his wife remarks that she doesn’t understand how he can get his tie wrinkled. He takes off his shoes and puts on sneakers, and takes an old brown corduroy jacket off a coat hook behind his desk. His secretary is still in her office. Usually she leaves before five, but whenever he leaves looking like a slob she seems to be there to say good night to him.

“You wonder what’s going on, don’t you?” MacDonald says to his secretary.

She smiles. Her name is Betty, and she must be in her early thirties. All he really knows about his secretary is that she smiles a lot and that her name is Betty.

“Want to come along for some excitement?” he says.

“Where are you going?”

“I knew you were curious,” he says.

Betty smiles.

“Want to come?” he says. “Like to see a little low life?”

“Sure,” she says.

They go out to his car, a red Toyota. He hangs his jacket in the back and puts his shoes on the back seat.

“We’re going to see a Japanese woman who beats people with figurines,” he says.

Betty smiles. “Where are we really going?” she asks.

“You must know that businessmen are basically depraved,” MacDonald says. “Don’t you assume that I commit bizarre acts after hours?”

“No,” Betty says.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Thirty,” she says.

“You’re thirty years old and you’re not a cynic yet?”

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Twenty-eight,” MacDonald says.

“When you’re thirty you’ll be an optimist all the time,” Betty says.

“What makes you optimistic?” he asks.

“I was just kidding. Actually, if I didn’t take two kinds of pills, I couldn’t smile every morning and evening for you. Remember the day I fell asleep at my desk? The day before I had had an abortion.”

MacDonald’s stomach feels strange—he wouldn’t mind having a couple kinds of pills himself, to get rid of the strange feeling. Betty lights a cigarette, and the smoke doesn’t help his stomach. But he had the strange feeling all day, even before Betty spoke. Maybe he has stomach cancer. Maybe he doesn’t want to face James again. In the glove compartment there is a jar that Mrs. Esposito gave his mother and that his mother gave him to take to James. One of Mrs. Esposito’s relatives sent it to her, at her request. It was made by a doctor in Puerto Rico. Supposedly, it can increase your height if rubbed regularly on the soles of the feet. He feels nervous, knowing that it’s in the glove compartment. The way his wife must feel having the parakeet and the ferris wheel sitting around the house. The house. His wife. Betty.

They park in front of a bar with a blue neon sign in the window that says
IDEAL CAFÉ
. There is a larger neon sign above that that says
SCHLITZ
. He and Betty sit in a back booth. He orders a pitcher of beer and a double order of spiced shrimp. Tammy Wynette is singing “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” on the jukebox.

“Isn’t this place awful?” he says. “But the spiced shrimp are great.”

Betty smiles.

“If you don’t feel like smiling, don’t smile,” he says.

“Then all the pills would be for nothing.”

“Everything is for nothing,” he says.

“If you weren’t drinking you could take one of the pills,” Betty says. “Then you wouldn’t feel that way.”

“Did you see
Esquire
?” James asks.

“No,” MacDonald says. “Why?”

“Wait here,” James says.

MacDonald waits. A dwarf comes into the room and looks under his chair. MacDonald raises his feet.

“Excuse me,” the dwarf says. He turns cartwheels to leave the room.

“He used to be with the circus,” James says, returning. “He leads us in exercises now.”

MacDonald looks at
Esquire
. There has been a convention of dwarfs at the Oakland Hilton, and
Esquire
got pictures of it. Two male dwarfs are leading a delighted female dwarf down a runway. A baseball team of dwarfs. A group picture. Someone named Larry—MacDonald does not look back up at the picture to see which one he is—says, “I haven’t had so much fun since I was born.” MacDonald turns another page. An article on Daniel Ellsberg.

“Huh,” MacDonald says.

“How come
Esquire
didn’t know about our dwarf house?” James asks. “They could have come here.”

“Listen,” MacDonald says, “Mother asked me to bring this to you. I don’t mean to insult you, but she made me promise I’d deliver it. You know she’s very worried about you.”

“What is it?” James asks.

MacDonald gives him the piece of paper that Mrs. Esposito wrote instructions on in English.

“Take it back,” James says.

“No. Then I’ll have to tell her you refused it.”

“Tell her.”

“No. She’s miserable. I know it’s crazy, but just keep it for her sake.”

James turns and throws the jar. Bright yellow liquid runs down the wall.

“Tell her not to send you back here either,” James says. MacDonald thinks that if James were his size he would have hit him instead of only speaking.

“Come back and hit me if you want,” MacDonald hollers. “Stand on the arm of this chair and hit me in the face.”

James does not come back. A dwarf in the hallway says to MacDonald, as he is leaving, “It was a good idea to be sarcastic to him.”

MacDonald and his wife and mother and Mrs. Esposito stand amid a cluster of dwarfs and one giant waiting for the wedding to begin. James and his bride are being married on the lawn outside the church. They are still inside with the minister. His mother is already weeping. “I wish I had never married your father,” she says, and borrows Mrs. Esposito’s handkerchief to dry her eyes. Mrs. Esposito is wearing her jungle dress again. On the way over she told MacDonald’s wife that her husband had locked her out of the house and that she only had one dress. “It’s lucky it was such a pretty one,” his wife said, and Mrs. Esposito shyly protested that it wasn’t very fancy, though.

The minister and James and his bride come out of the church onto the lawn. The minister is a hippie, or something like a hippie: a tall, white-faced man with stringy blond hair and black motorcycle boots. “Friends,” the minister says, “before the happy marriage of these two people, we will release this bird from its cage, symbolic of the new freedom of marriage, and of the ascension of the spirit.”

The minister is holding the cage with the parakeet in it.

“MacDonald,” his wife whispers, “that’s the parakeet. You can’t release a pet into the wild.”

His mother disapproves of all this. Perhaps her tears are partly disapproval, and not all hatred of his father.

The bird is released: it flies shakily into a tree and disappears into the new spring foliage.