Women and Men (89 page)

So that Jim left the porch, stepped down the steps one by one, went down the walk, and heard his mother’s words and then his own eardrums pounding his brain. And turned away down the sidewalk but stopped to look back at his grandmother and grandfather’s house and a figure standing now in that window Jim had been snooping through. And the figure, just some townbody like anyone known, or on the other hand the Hermit-Inventor of New York whom Jim had always heard of but never before seen except now when (if it was one and the same and it possibly wasn’t) he was very sick but had a nephew, he’d been heard to say at the beach (though Margaret had said precious little about the funny old guy in his khakis and his sneakers with a concave chest and long white eyebrows). He was the Hermit-Inventor of New York, and after Jim with irritation stood his ground and stared back without real connection at the face he couldn’t see, he broke into a run back toward his own house but slowed up when two late cars passed slowly like Sunday up the wide street in the direction of, perhaps, the race track or beyond it Lake Rompanemus in the woods where the "piners" lived in poverty. He stopped and found himself walking as if nothing had happened, and the cars passed, and he heard his mother’s words again and looked back at Margaret’s house and then the other way at his own, which he could just make out the lights of. And he looked at one and the other, back and forth. Until he heard a slight ringing in his ears like when he drop-kicked a field goal, smelled horse manure on the cool fall air, heard pounding feet not blocked out by Ira, the Indian halfback from the other, not the race-track, end of town—and got hit in the head as if he were ball
and
runner by the little enemy guard who moved like crazy, the one weapon the visiting Toms River team had, but the ball was on its way, a tremendous drop-kick field goal which actually Windrow didn’t need in order to win—a day when Jim’s father stood on the sidelines and never made any response when Jim looked at him in those days before protective face masks, but when he came to, he found his father above him with the same look on his face. And so, wandering between the two houses of light in the quiet street, he got around his mother’s awful words to what it was that had first woken him. It had been the phone and he knew his mother was saying, downstairs, what he had heard her many times say but couldn’t remember what, except that it meant that his father was just leaving the newspaper and was walking home and would be home presently though some part of his home he would never reach.

And hearing his grandmother Margaret call his name down the street, for he was almost home now, he kept walking and didn’t turn back toward her and the Hermit-Inventor of New York, never guessing then that his father had phoned Margaret but assuming rather that the Hermit-Inventor had seen him at the window and Margaret had come out on the porch.

So that, understanding what had first woken him up, Jim said out loud the words that were trying to forget their utterer: his mother had said, and said to him who was the son she could depend on to look out for himself she said and whom she loved, and loved maybe
more
but not the
way
she loved Brad, her only other child: "I have to get out of all this. I just want to die sometimes. I could just disappear into the sea. You look at me as if you could kill me. Don’t worry. It’s not your fault; it’s not your responsibility; it’s not your life."

"What do you mean?" the boy asked. "Oh your grandmother said she had to talk to me tomorrow," said Sarah. "So what?" replied Jim. "You’re right," said his mother.

But the dashing, languid interrogator lest those words of a generation ago forget themselves if not their utterer asks,
What
wasn’t his "responsibility"?—to kill her or to keep her alive?—the words let’s make no bones about it cut two ways if we should wish to implement them, the interrogator adds with the century’s signal neutrality at his fingernails knowing that the torture he can give for fucking around in the words that we use to answer him gon’ hurt us more than him.

So that, on an evening with two young people still young enough to be "his own," Mayn spots at a resounding city intersection a foreign face that tells him what it could never guess it bore; for, a generation ago, on that night so many months before Jim’s mother did disappear into the future of the sea, the father who phoned Jim’s grandma Margaret downstreet to check that the boy racing whitely across the lawn and down West Throckmorton Street like some thief (but which one?) was headed her venerable way, had been in his slow-moving, only apparently hard-working (right?) march toward the void (not like me or any of
my
family, was Sarah’s line) so unlike his son Jim in Jim’s sharp eyes that Jim imagined some alter paternity; but then the returning walker saw his father watching from the porch and understood that his father had come home, as usual late, and was no doubt taking a pleasant breather thinking about things, maybe concisely separate news of other people’s lives, before penetrating the awful suspension of his own house—a reliable person, "kind of like a brother to me," Jim’s mother said; and Jim felt (though it then got thrown away—a shadow—into the future of a New York intersection and beyond) that if between two dimly lighted silent porch fronts he himself had no alternative parentage, he must have something in common with that impassive father.

Alias Missing Conversation

On this noisy night corner of New York he would say her name out loud almost, but to whom? Did not Chekhov the doctor say a He and She is what you need? How well he knew love’s labor.

Clara, the mind calls, so clear it’s felt inside the mouth. Clara. Without his wife, he grows specific here on this giant night corner of New York in a fashion that could put her in still more danger were she here. The equal, his Clara, of some Shakespeare lady stronger than all the others if the mysterious stagehand had lived to write her down out of the light in his eye.
Clara,
he hears Shakespeare call, as if to offer them help here in New York City, or
(chuck
the
husband)
help only the brave dame. He had seen it all by the time he passed fifty, fifty-one, more scenes than one might slake a shtick at: yet if he could steep the globe of his teapot to dimaxial Carib tempests, why not a pastoral history of some
Chilean
kingdom by the sea? Used Verona, Venice, Vienna—a very used
Vien
indeed (and wasn’t there a Polack in there somewhere?)—so why not
The Damsel of New Netherland,
why not
Fluellen of New Yorkl
The great stagehand, spurred by a moment’s clairvoyance or by his own warlike name, Shakespeare, replies that, Ay, he has visited New York some time after Hotspur’s rejuvenation and while composing simultaneously those "Co-supremes" the Phoenix and Turtle-dove and a major work
Gertrude s Revenge
and in fact had named that small island village of Canarsie Indians New Ork (a few short years later mispronounced by Hal Hudson as New
York
but in any case ignored by his Dutch employers just as the Florentine John Verrazano’s "New Vera" had been ignored by his French employers) but anyhoo has visited New York but does not know it well, his time was limited and he desired to visit the Painted Desert, the Mesas, and those terrible Mines that when you’re not looking move their mountains from place to place not with kettledrum or bray of traffic but by rumor and dangerous richness of vein, and on returning a few short weeks later to that strangely crenellated East Coast had had to get back to London for rehearsals, though America was a great place to visit . . .

Clara: he wants her here with him on this street corner across from Penn Station. So he could nod west toward the glimmer-glass colony escalator’d like some insect civilization and cylindering in light the sports-arena complex: and say to Clara who holds his whole history in her heart collapsing or extending time at will, "Scale model" ... or "Do insects
play?"
So she, a citizen of his exile very watchful lately, answers whatever will bring what he drily sees more to life.

But she should not be here. Not tonight. Not right here, where it is unclear. Unclear if something superfluous or terribly risky wants something of him—help, even. He would like to speak to someone and fears the dizziness as if it comes to lone tourists endlessly self-conscious in foreign parts. Silence is the real crime against humanity. "Here the Earth still shakes from the old battle—" oh, that Russian lady Akhmatova and her friends they
really
had it bad, dizzy inside the stomach of the monster capable of accommodating even them, or dizzy just from hunger. Phone Clara to tell her that. But no; make not a phone call.

He takes up position alone out among the night lights of New York City, never in all his visits only a tourist; and now a resident for—four years, is it?, years measurable even as minerals are measured whose sale might (as the Americans say) "fund" the noble Doctor Allende’s posthumous terrorism or so thinks its putative recipient Pinochet whose name Clara plays on, on and on, her only tedious habit.

Now tonight a tourist again, when anyone you run into tonight might be a visiting limb of your lamented nation’s intelligence that’s changing its name—going through Changes, as they say here in New York—so even the Chilean navy is getting into the act tracking down the doctor’s son Pascal.

He takes up position to receive a letter from a man in a New York State prison: Foley, who always has a thing or two to say but this time is passing it through a private mail service.

Not the one he has conceived that would compete favorably with the U.S. Mail. But one that’s operating now just for privacy, or so this privileged (foreign) correspondent here on the outside figures, standing steady 20/20 but, on this huge avenue corner, always looking out for a dizziness inside himself he would rather leave in the doctor’s office diagnosed by its French name, a distinguished dizziness if the doctor’s right.

Standing like a domestic tourist from Akron or Tulsa, or a scholar from San Antonio surveying river cities of the world, now on a Sunday night in the nation of New York having taken up position where agreed, he commands Seventh Avenue and Thirty-third Street. This is it. He wishes he were in Boston, in Cambridge, for a moment in a Chilean friend’s house discussing skiing. Why did he permit this mail drop to be private to the point of clandestine? It might tell the wrong people if they are watching that he communicates secretly with a prison where in
turn
there is someone
they
are interested in, though not this merely "interesting" Foley.

"20/20" the prison inmate Foley ranks his own insight into life and the world, and seems to expect his correspondent the economist to think constantly like an economist—which is how? But one was moved by Foley. He got to one. There in some margin of life where life occurred and political acts aimed at stabilizing things instead doubled or locused that great margin where NATO Nixon thinks of Einstein as just home folks playing classical violin and Einstein while thinking only of his own vast difference from God descales his model universe and, at a stroke, decreeing this Far to be equal to that Near, sees it whole, we are told.

On this side of the street the enclosed subway stairs into the ground generate people—that’s what they do—to eat the cardboard-contained fast-fodder at the adjacent chrome door in order then to be seen by family groups in pastel-colored ready-to-wear (already-/?^mg-worn!) garments slowly issuing out of the hotel under lights of a rehearsal they are self-consciously half aware of. Across the street a hundred functions housed all under the massive complex: mainly, though, the sports arena and the railway terminal you would not know by sight—all seen through signs that say nothing of a mighty athlete, a discus thrower, an ancient pugilist, and now an African giant bombing a net-skirted rim Americans call a basket—signs that also tell nothing of a night sleeping-train smelling of comfortably used steel and carbon afloat in the dreams of passengers upon steam buoying out under the platform—all hidden by the complex—taken for granted, like home.

Solid people are cutting through three, four lanes of Sunday-evening cabs and cars, ruling out risk like hunters, daring the world’s in all probability mad reflexes, occupying sudden positions against the will of yellow horsepower southward.

He has the tweed cap on, he’s exposed, and he’s at the northeast curb as agreed—where the voice on the phone said to stand. Tweed cap, his idea, English. As he sometimes in the past has quite been. Though never to look at. Though you do get English who’re Latin-looking, tall, moustached, because he’s seen them. Walking the fields, from a train. Dangerously private. Walking streets in black suits and capped, bird-crest fashion, by black knobs of bowlers.

Folding his arms he surveys whatever could be watching him wait, his consciousness strolling on and on yet lingering, worded. But this is no such place. He can just about feel the slide of home fingers after dollar bills in his trouser pocket, his Clara against him telling him to pick up a stick of butter if anything’s open on his way home, and did she wonder tonight if it was just their neighborhood he was heading for? Tonight she is further away from him than she would wish. Younger than he, slightly and magically; less foreign to New York—is it because she’s a woman?—though half-English, which is also foreign, yet not like Chilean.

So fresh and trustworthy: oh, he wants to phone her and say so.

He found her this afternoon half-dressed posed in the mirror. He came back from nowhere, alone on a Sunday—feeling official and uneasily at home but especially childless, walking with the river, sitting on a bench. Two little girls were hugging and hugging each other, giggling, and those gross apartment towers across on the New Jersey palisades are the "settlements" you get today.

Inland to Broadway, he had found the pay phone free that he had been directed to in a previous letter by Foley’s in all probability gratuitous code which was just close enough to real thoughts so you must pay heed to it, though it seemed to invent life when we had discovered enough to work on already surely: and then received the call right on time from a man called Efrain. And then went home to Clara feeling technically unfaithful.