Cornelius Sky
Page 17
* * *
Soon after marking twenty-five years sober, Connie stopped in his tracks on the street by a newsstand headline, causing his mind to cobble together a memory from a long-ago conversation over the cribbage board. John speaking of his time in Greece, where his mother's husband owned an airport's worth of planes. And how a man on staff, Nick, a Vietnam War hero, a Medal of Honor recipient, would take John up in a sweet little single-prop. An ashtray rigged to the instrument panel for Nick's cigars, behind the seats a hanging plant Nick kept watered. John's mother didn't want him going up, he had to sneak over there. Come on, Nick would say, a Sunday stroll in the sky. The sea a shade of blue you can't find in a paint store. Nick enjoying his cigar, letting the kid fly. Eye on the horizon, John. Dipping, John, straighten us out.
Best thing about Greece, John had told Connie. He mentioned a song Nick loved, and Connie, who loved the song too, started to belt it out, the fervor of his effort superseding technique, and with the stairwell's enhancing reverb he didn't sound half bad. John grinned and chimed in, following Connie's lead on the lyrics:
On the roof, it's peaceful as can be
And there, the world below can't bother me
Let me tell you now . . .
Chapter six
His wife and children came to see him, gathering loosely in an alcove off the corridor.
Maureen stayed on her feet, smoking.
Balled up knees to chest atop the HVAC window ledge, Arthur stared down at the confluence of 11th Street, Greenwich, and Seventh, lest the intersection disappear.
In a gown and foam slippers, Connie sat strange in a green Naugahyde armchair, his hand keeping gentle contact with the pole of his IV tree.
Conversation next to nil, all of them at a loss—except Steven, who hovered over Connie, combing his father's still-wet hair from a shower, playing the World's Greatest Barber, complete with old-country accent, offering the scene some relief.
"Don't-a you-a worry. I'm-a gonna give-a you a good-a cut. Don't be-a scared."
On their exit Connie thanked them for coming and it was Steven again who broke down crying and reached for his father as an elevator spilled open to the floor.
* * *
Those early days a gift, really, the urge lifted altogether, the absence of its calling an almost funny kind of puzzlement. Some tossing and turning, but after a month or two his skin stopped crawling and he began to sleep the night through.
The rooming house and its off-kilter staircase an unsuspected sanctuary.
They talked about everything, he and his new friends, unfolding their secrets and fears before each other, on long walks, across coffee shop tables.
* * *
Milling around, waiting for a meeting to start.
Connie's face: an animal trapped suddenly in a cage that is the world.
An older man named Richard grabbed him by the arm. "Don't run off, we're going out after."
Connie laughed—Richard's tone less invitation than instruction.
In the booth of a diner Richard said, "Do you want to save your marriage?"
"I don't know," Connie said.
"Fair enough. In the meantime we get you back into a job. You set up a standing appointment with the kids, a weekend morning breakfast. Regardless who shows up, you'll be there. Let them count on it. You keep the financial support going. Otherwise you leave it alone. You give time time. And you live in the rooms a while."
* * *
He took the A train out to Rockaway, plunging into the salt water and surf of his childhood.
He climbed up into a gravel barge down the docks of Chelsea to watch the sun set over the Hudson. Coiled against the river's chill, napping on the sunbaked gravel.
On a borrowed pair of skates he caught himself rolling through the city one late August afternoon, eating Bing cherries from a paper bag, the scaffolding of a former self seemingly dismantled overnight, a multitude of interrogations left in its wake.
I am a book unwritten. I am anybody's guess.
* * *
"Younger one?" May said.
"Yes," Connie said.
"Good-looking," May said, touching Steven's face. The boy met her eyes, his nine-year-old consciousness wide open at the top.
"Tell May what you want," Connie said.
"Can I get a waffle?" Steven said.
"Course you can," May said. "You want some bacon?"
Steven nodded yes, he would like some bacon.
When May walked away Connie said, "How's your brother?"
"Chump's there." Steven pointed out the window. Connie saw Arthur leaning against a building on the diagonal corner of 23rd and Eighth. "Looking for money is all."
"Stevie, do me a favor," Connie said, producing some cash. "Go run give it to him so he doesn't have to wait around."
"Okay, Pop."
"Careful the cars."
* * *
He found a spot working midnights in an art deco house up on Central Park West. The front car buzzed each morning at exactly 4:45 a.m. He retrieved a petite, famous choreographer from the penthouse who nodded a wordless greeting. In the still-dark hour he helped hail a cab which took her to a studio. And from this brief habitual interaction Connie thought, Forget class. It's not about a penthouse. Money cannot buy it.
* * *
That first change of seasons, summer into fall. Being called from a dream to the window of his room by what he thought a storm: there was no storm, just November's fallen leaves, swirling and fighting, chasing each other up and down the block, streaming up and over parked cars, rumbling from sewer to manhole cover and back again, the leaves beneath the streetlamps rendering every known plot—love affairs, screwball comedies, epic war stories. He watched the leaves in timeless wonder on his knees at the window, when he became conscious of himself, felt the quicksilver rush of existence surging through his body, and he was terrified, as if he had never seen a season change.
* * *
"I spoke to David," Richard said. "You're qualifying in two weeks."
* * *
The row of four windows above Lamston's were covered with a sun-repelling silverish material, each marked with a large block letter: B—O—W—L.
"Tell May what you want," Connie said.
"Bacon and eggs," Arthur said.
"Scrambled?" She wouldn't dream of touching this one's face. The hair on him.
"Over easy. And can I get the bacon well done, please?"
"Course you can."
"Also, a small orange juice. And some home fries. And can I get an English muffin instead of the toast?"
With comic exaggeration, May let the pad and pencil drop from her hands onto the table and gave Arthur a look.
He relented with a short laugh. "What?"
"It's the same order I've taken from your father for as long as you're alive!"
* * *
Anticipation of the moment had thrown him into panic and suddenly here it was, the scary hour of revelation.
They read a few things to get started, of which he heard not a word.
What he did hear was a very faint, repetitive sound whose source he never identified (but was the cellophane wrapping of the cigarette pack in his breast pocket and how it crinkled with each apprehensive pelt of his heart).
David looked down the large oak table of Xavier's library to offer an introduction, citing briefly with good humor the qualifier's initial, disruptive appearance 147 days earlier.
The room laughed, and applauded, before settling into silence.
"Connie, alcoholic."
They greeted him, gave him back his name, and he started to speak.
The End
Acknowledgments
I am so very grateful to Laurie Loewenstein for her faith in this manuscript.
And Kaylie Jones, for seeing to its publication, with nudges toward the light.
Johnny Temple, too, naturally, and everybody at Akashic and KJB whose efforts brought the book out, including Johanna Ing
alls, Aaron Petrovich, Ibrahim Ahmad, Susannah Lawrence, Alice Wertheimer, Renette Zimmerly, Lauren Sharkey, Jennifer Jenkins.
Thank you also: Donald Brandoff, Shereen Brandoff, Andrew Schwartz, James Bosley, Paul Kolsby, Joe Kolias, Steve Shainberg, Curtis Bauer, Jennifer Acker, Brook Wilensky-Lanford, Gary Clark, Bob McIlwaine, Jimmy Gilroy, Michael Little, Amos Poe, Claudia Summers, Jeanne Dorsey, Seth Zvi Rosenfeld, Andrea Callard, Tom Foral, Anne McDermott, Andy Sapora, Michele Remsen, Matt Hoverman, Katie Atcheson, Joe Danisi, Stephanie Cannon, Andrea Cirie, Eric Goss, Liz Carlson, Rachel Casparian, Jason Nuzzo, Val Brown, Michael Mastro, Marcia Lesser, Eugene Buica, Marie-Helene Bertino, Chris Genoversa, Holly Myers, Julie Tesser, Lynn Holst, Steve Dansiger, Marilyn Downey, Matt Keating, Emily Spray, Michael Thomas Holmes, Dylan Lorenz, Regan Wood, Kyle Garner, Heather King, Elisabeth Seldes Annacone, Maud Simmons, Terry Carr, Horace Martin, Hannah Logan, Jim Farmer, Susanne Columbia, Ghana Leigh, Donna Vermeer, Melanie Bishop, Luis Salmon, Edith Schwartz, Andy Epstein, Thomas Anderson, Gosia Pospiech, Jennifer Neely, Barbara Rick, Joe Barbaccia, Tony Coniff, Marcy Einhorn, Chris Stack, Doug Summers, Richard Lichte, Shannon McMahon Lichte, Jeff Sheehan, Thomas Libetti, Allen Zadoff, Michelle Casillas, Allison Janney, Dion Flynn, Amy Corrigan Flynn, Emmy Gaye, Firedean Schilling, Lindsey Brown, Sharon Lomofsky, Dana Watkins, Rebecca Irizarry, Julia Murphy, Topper Quinn, David Gross, Ned Van Zandt, Shelley Stenhouse, Jerry Mundis, Larry Tompkins, Quincy Long, Elias Colombotos, Anna Marrian, Bill Curran, Alex Figueroa, Martine Bellen, Bob Silverstein, Jimmie James, Neil Chambers, Ylfa Edelstein, Carter Jackson, Kathryn Davis, Eleanor Feldman Barbera, Maureen Burns Shannon, Pamela Lawton, Allison Mackie, Reuben Radding, Tony DiMurro, Eric Zencey, Daniel Reitz, Matthew Carnahan, John Harrington Bland, Patrick McGrath, Michael Howley, Harvey Huddleston, PJ Sosko, Carol Cannon, Larry Vazeos, Jane Elias, Ian Caskey, John Greer, Tom Luckey, Tavia Kowalchuk, Branwynne Kennedy, Hal Strickland, Ricky Buckley, Ingrid Belqaid, Patrick O'Connor, Margaret McMullan, Lily Zauner, Dennis Gagamiros, Lola Scarpitta, Rick Moore, Tessa Borbridge, Dean Imperial, Elliott Green, Margo Katz, Kate Lardner, Wally Johnson, Candace Martin, Allison Lichter, Eric Svendsen, Greg Joseph, Svetlana Kitto, Jess Hale Lombardi, Doug Rossi, Tom Bozell, Paul DeBoy, Andrea Ramirez.
To these people—placeholders in spirit for the countless others—my deep gratitude.
And I want to express heartfelt appreciation for two sustaining communities: the Vermont Studio Center, where portions of the book were written; and Naked Angels' Tuesdays@9, where much of it was read.
TIMOTHY BRANDOFF received a BA from Goddard College and an MFA from New York University. His fellowships include the Sundance Institute's Screenwriters Lab, the Chesterfield Writer's Film Project, the Vermont Studio Center, and Yaddo. Cornelius Sky was a runner-up for the James Jones First Novel Fellowship. Brandoff operates a bus for the New York City Transit Authority. Photograph by Reuben Radding
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher.
Published by Akashic Books
©2019 by Timothy Brandoff
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-708-2
eISBN-13: 978-1-61775-727-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018960629
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ABOUT KAYLIE JONES BOOKS
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The increasingly commercial nature of mainstream publishing has made it difficult for literary writers to find a home for their more serious, thought-provoking works. Kaylie Jones Books will create a cooperative of dedicated emerging and established writers who will play an integral part in the publishing process, from reading manuscripts, editing, offering advice, to advertising the upcoming publications. The list of brilliant novels unable to find homes within the mainstream is growing every day.
It is our hope to publish books that bravely address serious issues—historical or contemporary—relevant to society today. Just because a book addresses serious topics and may include tragic events does not mean that the narrative cannot be amusing, fast-paced, plot-driven, and lyrical all at once. Our flagship publication, Unmentionables by Laurie Loewenstein, is exactly such a novel. The book takes place in 1917 Illinois, on the verge of US involvement in WWI. While the larger topics are race and women's suffrage, the characters and their courageous stands against oppression and reactionary bigotry could not be more relevant today.
Kaylie Jones
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January 2014
NOW AVAILABLE FROM KAYLIE JONES BOOKS
Unmentionables, by Laurie Loewenstein
"Exceptionally readable and highly recommended."—Library Journal (starred review)
Unmentionables has been selected by the Midwest Independent Booksellers Association as a Midwest Connections pick for January 2014!
"Engaging first work from a writer of evident ability." —Kirkus Reviews
"Marian Elliot Adams' . . . tale is contagiously enthusiastic." —Publishers Weekly
"Unmentionables starts small and expands to touch Chicago and war-torn France as Laurie Loewenstein weaves multiple points of view together to create a narrative of social change and the stubbornness of the human heart." —Black Heart Magazine
"A historical, feminist romance in the positive senses of all three terms: a realistic evocation of small-town America circa 1917, including its racial tensions; a tale about standing up for the equitable treatment of women; and a story about two lonely people who overcome obstacles, including their own character defects, to find love together." —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
"Unmentionables is a sweeping and memorable story of struggle and suffrage, love and redemption . . . Loewenstein has skillfuly woven a story and a cast of characters that will remain in the memory long after the book's last page has been turned." —New York Journal of Books
Marian Elliot Adams, an outspoken advocate for sensible undergarments for women, sweeps onto the Chautauqua stage under a brown canvas tent on a sweltering August night in 1917, and shocks the gathered town of Emporia with her speech: How can women compete with men in the work place and in life if they are confined by their undergarments? The crowd is further appalled when Marian falls off the stage and sprains her ankle, and is forced to remain among them for a week. As the week passes, she throws into turmoil the town's unspoken rules governing social order, women, and Negroes. The recently widowed newspaper editor Deuce Garland, his lapels glittering with fraternal pins, has always been a community booster, his desire to conform rooted in a legacy of shame--his great-grandfather married a black woman, and the town will never let Deuce forget it, especially not his father-in-law, the owner of the newspaper and Deuce's boss. Deuce and his father-in-law are already at odds, since the old man refuses to allow Deuce's stepdaughter, Helen, to go to Chicago to fight for women's suffrage.
But Marian's arrival shatters Deuce's notions of what is acceptable, versus what is right, and Deuce falls madly in love with the tall activist from New York. During Marian's stay in Emporia, Marian pushes Deuce to become a greater, braver, and more dynamic man than he ever imagined was possible. He takes a stand against his father-in-law by helping Helen escape to Chicago; and he publishes an article exposing the county's oldest farm family as the source of a recent typhoid outbreak, risking his livelihood and reputation. Marian's journey takes her to the frozen mud of France's Picardy region, just beyond the lines, to help destitute villagers as the Great War rages on. Helen, in Chicago, is hired as a streetcar conductor surrounded by bitter men who resent her taking a man's job. Meanwhile, Deuce struggles to make a living and find his place in Emporia's wider community after losing the newspaper.
/> Marian is a powerful catalyst that forces nineteenth-century Emporia into the twentieth century; but while she agitates for enlightenment and justice, she has little time to consider her own motives and her extreme loneliness. Marian, in the end, must decide if she has the courage to face small-town life, and be known, or continue to be a stranger always passing through.
LAURIE LOEWENSTEIN grew up in the flatlands of western Ohio and now resides in Rochester, NY, where Susan B. Anthony was arrested for voting in 1872.
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Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night by Barbara J. Taylor
Named a Best Summer Book for 2014 by Publishers Weekly!
Named a Pick of the Week for the week of June 30th by Publishers Weekly!
"An earnest, well-done historical novel that skillfully blends fact and fiction." —Publishers Weekly
"A profound story of how one unforeseen event may tear a family apart, but another can just as unexpectedly bring them back together again." —Publishers Weekly, Best Summer Book for 2014
"A fantastic novel worthy of the greatest accolades. Writing a book about a historical event can be difficult, as is crafting a bestseller, but Barbara J. Taylor is successful at both." —Downtown Magazine
"Taylor's careful attention to detail and her deep knowledge of the community and its people give the novel a welcome gravity." —The Columbus Dispatch
"One of the most compelling books I've ever read . . . a haunting story that will stay with the reader long after reading this novel." —Story Circle Book Reviews
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