by Marge Piercy
When he told him, Jack twitched with fear. “Don’ want to go there. Uhuh. Uhuh.” He moaned, his hand seeking on himself.
To pass the time Rowley pulled out the guitar and squatted against the partition. “Hey, you remember this?
I’m gonna lay down when I’m tired, when I’m feelin’ good I’ll stand,
Gonna ride when I get restless, and I ain’t gonna be your man,
No, I ain’t gonna be your mealticket, I ain’t gonna be your man …”
“That’s mine but you don’t do it right.” Jack rolled his head to and fro. Rowley did not know if he should go on and waited till Jack motioned for the guitar.
Now you want to cry, now you want to crawl
But baby, you been foolin’ me, and I don’t need you at all.
You been foolin’, oooh, you been foolin’ me!
Jack fumbled at the strings. “Pearldiving ruins the hands. Get a cut and it never heals. Get it off of me, boy, too heavy. I can’t catch my breath.”
Rowley took the guitar and Jack lay back with his eyes shut. Time oozed by. He wanted to go down and call again. He played blues and Jack nodded weakly and the bugs skittered up the corrugated walls and through the chicken wire came the sound of men retching and coughing and snoring and quarreling. A couple of men stopped their slow shuffle to the head to push open the door, listen a bit, and stare. Then they shut the door again and went on their way.
“Tell me the words to that song, ‘Noplace left to go.’”
Jack shook his head. “Jelly. Everything inside feel like it going squish.” For a long time he did not open his eyes.
Then he began to laugh and he laughed until blood choked him. “Sure as shit, here I am going down and some honky squat here ready to take my last words. Roll round a recorder and hand me guitar to blow. My, my. Things about coming my way. Success come to Jack, my, my, reprieve on death row with the old chair all lit up.” He was choking and laughing and halfway sitting up with his eyes shining out of his head, the cords in his neck standing straight out.
“The songs touched me. Isn’t that real? I started looking for you, and you weren’t easy to find. Okay, I was doing ninety other things, too, and maybe—”
“They don’t touch me. It isn’t useful. The police been beating on me too long, they whipped me down to the ground. Don’t nothing matter worth a damn but I’m cold. One thing be good for me. To see this supposed to be great city a hole in the ground. Then I get out of bed and dance all over it. White folks always been trying to use me and I seen they never make it. You come up to use me now and you too late. I so full of poison maybe what I do is drag my big old carcass down to Lake Michigan and pollute up the city water supply, so all them nice folks have a little sip of Black Jack and keel right over. Maybe I do that.”
He choked again, brown blood on his mouth, and slid back. His eyes closed and he did not open them again.
By the time the ambulance came, he knew it was useless. He went along to help sign Jack in. That took forever. Then he ate in the hospital cafeteria and sat around the waiting room riffling raggedy Life’s. He called Lucille and she came down an hour later with two of her big boys and her tight-lipped, stiffbacked husband. A young doctor told them brusquely at eleven that Jack Custis’ esophagus was hemorrhaging: common among alcoholics.
Rowley said to the elsewhere face that Custis was not a common alcoholic. Mr. Thompson looked grim while Lucille sighed and rubbed her fat hands on her fat knees. They had coffee from a machine and stared at their feet. At one thirty-five Jack died.
The Thompsons gave Rowley a ride home. He should not have bothered Lucille, for she would be stuck with the funeral and hospital bills. He apologized and she assured him he had done right: Jack was family. But he knew they needed no dying body from Skid Row. He apologized again and a furry silence settled in the car. He held his guitar upright on his lap and sweated.
He woke a couple of hours before dawn to find he had bedbugs. He couldn’t remember at first what the sharp itchy bites were. When he understood he rose, bathed, soaked his clothes in the sink. When he lay down they swarmed from their hiding places. He would have to spray the damn mattress and boil his clothes.
Trying to sleep he found himself awake on the livingroom floor, awake and echoing like a big cold hall. He was going to scrap the show he had taped for tonight. He found himself planning a program to be a memorial as mean and angry as he could make it. Jack, he died of anger, he died of that bitter toothless laugh that scraped his throat raw. His blood turned to lye and ate him. Alcohol was the gentlest poison that he swallowed. Waste. The meatpackers used to boast that they used all of the pig but his squeal, and the workers swore that Gustavus Swift used to go snooping around where the packinghouse sewers dumped into a creek, on the prowl for traces of escaping fat. But a man could go out with the garbage whole, nothing of the good and talent in him spent, all his wanting and needing and loving turned to bile and acid. A man could be wasted as well as spent.
Who mattered? Who was needed? Cannon fodder every ten years? Would they have automated wars? The kids on the corners were not needed, the two million Indians, the tenant farmers, the unaffluent old and the students in humanities and the saints in canyon communities and out of work miners and poets and roustabouts were not needed. He did the show live.
He called from the studio and asked for Leon. Anna said he wasn’t there, she didn’t know when he would be back. He thanked her and hung up. Fifteen minutes later he parked out front. The metal of the knob felt cold through his driving gloves as he gripped it, waiting.
“Oh. It was you who called.” But she let him in. Her hair was loose and slightly damp, spread tentlike on the shoulders of a wool robe with Leon’s initials on the pocket. On the floor beside her chair a transistor FM was tuned to the next program on his station. Pad of paper covered with her scrawl.
“Did you like it?”
She looked for a moment as if she would pretend she did not understand. Then she shrugged, swinging the heavy dark hair. “Yes. You were good.”
“Even though I sang?”
She would not smile. “Have you been in an accident?” She peered into his face. Hers shone with washing across the high cheeks.
“Caroline’s boyfriend, out back of Woody’s.”
“She told him, then?”
“Behold!”
But she was wrinkling her forehead, plotting the curve of some private thought. “She promised Leon she wouldn’t.”
“She makes pacifier promises. What does Leon care?”
She smiled with her mouth sucked in. “Oh, he does.”
“And what do you care about?”
“Him. Evidently.”
“Anna, you are one big fake.”
Her hair swung wide in indignation. “Why you son of a bitch! I don’t come bouncing into your livingroom to make derogatory remarks on what you feel!”
“I’ve known Leon a lot longer than you have—”
“But I know Leon better.” She was swishing around in anger. Was she wearing anything under the robe? Not much.
“Is that by way of rent?”
“I pay cash and Leon’s out of work if you want to know.”
“Jesus, Annie, what have you jumped into? You’ll be supporting him before the winter’s over.”
“Not on my job,” she said and smiled. “Because Leon has trouble making it in the world doesn’t mean he’s a worse person than those who thrive. Maybe he’s better.”
“How come you got mixed up with him? Why Leon?”
“Because he was nice to me, you nitwit! About time somebody was. He tries—believe it or not—to be good. He cares about people. He worries, he feels. He takes responsibility.” She paced, one hand holding the robe shut and the other inscribing angry arcs.
“I want to see him being good to you and Caroline at once.”
“Oh go stick your head up the chimney! He’s my business, and what do you mean coming in here and trying to upset me?”
“You know, you have a worse temper than I do.”
“Who says so?” In honest indignation, staring. “I have a sweet, yielding disposition. Ask Leon.”
“Provoke me just a little more.”
“You egotistical jackass! All you mean is tsooris. What did you come here for?”
“You.”
Her breath stopped in her and she looked him full in the face with surprise. Before she could react he caught her by the arms: firm, warm, tensing under the wool. As he bent to kiss her, she stiffened and thrust forward to bite him on the chin. She pulled back, half expecting to be struck. He jumped with surprise and pain but held on. It was hard for her to hurt someone, and he took that moment of recoil to get a better grip. She tried to turn from under his kiss, writhing in the loose wool. Full and longbodied she struggled against him, her expressive earthy body and shuddering hair against him.
At the familiar returned feel of her he half wanted to laugh and kept trying to draw her closer. Then under his mouth hers grew warm and she stood still against him, leaning slightly. He had her, yes. Her loose hair spilled over his arm. He had her again, her mouth gone soft and warm and open to him. Then abruptly with angry strength she wrenched free and ran behind the couch, yanking the robe tighter.
“Bastard, bastard! Every time I find a man to live with, you start wanting me. What kind of demented loving is that?”
“If you’re living with him, you’re putting up with a hell of a lot. What made your neck so stiff with me? With poor sticks like Asher and Leon, you make allowances and excuses till you fall over.”
“Because he needs me. Ever think of that?”
“Nobody past fifteen and under eighty needs anybody.”
“A warm body, that’s all you want.” She looked about to cry. “A cunt who knows how to cook.”
“I haven’t had a decent meal in four months—”
“Choke! Starve!”
“And if I don’t care who it is, what am I doing here, getting bitten and yelled at?”
“I don’t know.” She shook out the folds of her robe. “What are you doing here?”
Why didn’t she make him angry? Because he had regarded her as his and perhaps had never quite stopped. He came around the couch. She drew herself up with her bust out, glaring. “Don’t you come mauling me again, I’ll kick you in the balls.”
Of course she wouldn’t. Instead she stood her ground trying superior moral force. “No. I will not be touched.” Suddenly her face froze and she leaped backward saying “Shhh.” And smoothed at the robe, her hair, the robe again.
Leon unlocked the door. “Hey?” he called wearily. His face was screwed into a grimace of despair or disgust. Then, seeing him, Leon grew rigid. He stood near the door pulling off his gloves, rubbing steam from his glasses, smacking the gloves then into his other palm. “Long time. What brings you by?” Leon looked hard at him and hard at Anna. Very hard at Anna. Around the room once and back to him.
“I wanted to see Annie.”
“You see her. Take a good look. Next time come around when I’m here.”
“That doesn’t seem to happen often.”
“Did you ask him over?” Leon glared at her.
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“I was by a week ago. Didn’t Annie mention it?”
“I forgot! Everything’s been so hectic.”
“You forgot.” Leon’s face was drawn tight with mistrust and annoyance. Slowly he got out of his coat and dropped it on the couch in front of her. She went at once to hang it. Leon watched with coldeyed annoyance. Rowley did not like that look at all. Leon said flatly, “Look, man, you’ve done your time with her. If she doesn’t want you hanging around, don’t bug her.”
“That’s my business. Hold on to her if you can.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Leon walked into the bedroom and shut the door.
He took his jacket off the chair. “Goodnight, Annie.”
She looked as if she would speak but did not. As he went out she stood behind the couch leaning forward on its pitted back with her elbow crooked and her hair cascading forward. Her eyes shown large and dark and wary above her heavy cheekbones. For a while afterward as he drove to his new empty apartment, he thought he could feel that dark unfriendly but not incurious regard.
Caroline
Monday, January 5
THE SCIENTIFIC TERMINAL SYSTEM IS NOW OPERATING
“What do you want to see her for?” Leon asked. He was holding her hand, it was young and gentle with the snow coming down. The afternoon had been beautiful. They had watched Moonblood and Grokking twice. Maybe he did have talent. Maybe she should grow her hair again but keep it very blond. They had talked and talked, Leon had told her his plans for going back to school and putting his life together. He spoke to her in such a warm sure fashion that she thought in his own way he was strong. Really he lived in a hole, but as long as they stayed there she felt wrapped in a cocoon of nurture and care, and she’d hated to leave. He wanted to take her to a steakhouse to eat that was almost nice, but she was afraid someone would see them.
UNDEFINED DATA REFERENCE
“Why do you have to go to Vera’s tonight?” he repeated.
“She’s an old friend, baby. I can’t hide. She was very understanding when I told her.” And Vera might know where Rowley was hiding. She might even be seeing him. Vera could be stubborn.
“Don’t tell everybody. You’re making yourself trouble.”
“Of course I won’t But Vera never gossips.” Too true. Vera wasn’t interested enough to remember what was told her. Vera would say offhand that she had bumped into so-and-so—the very man Caroline was crazy about. She would ask Vera, what did he talk about? Did he say anything about me? Vera would wrinkle her nose and try and try, but she really could not remember. Maddening. Though Vera did notice clothes. She could be a designer, but she just shrugged off suggestions with a closed face. Meaning that Vera thought being colored she couldn’t make it, but you had to fight handicaps: think of her hips, after all.
END STATE COMPILE
She gave a squeeze of Leon’s hand to show she hadn’t forgotten him, and his hand tightened around hers hard, too hard, till she wriggled her fingers to let him know.
“You’re still wearing that ring. How come?”
“I haven’t had a chance to straighten things out with Bruce.” She would never expect Leon to give her one, after all, but she did wish he would be a little more specific. He created such a warm cocoon of understanding she just couldn’t ask questions.
UNDEFINED STATEMENT IN DO LOOP
“Don’t go into the present situation. Just tell him you don’t want to marry him. That’s what you ought to be taking care of tonight.”
She sighed. “All right, I’ll go over there later.”
“Call me when you get home.”
“If it’s not too late.” She patted his arm.
“You think I’ll sleep? I said call me.”
He wanted to come up with her but she managed to say goodnight in the lobby. Past the ghastly spot where it happened she hurried before he changed his mind. Could running upstairs cause a miscarriage? Too much to hope for. Things had been going smoothly till the accident, her family satisfied for once …
Vera opened the door and Caroline bussed her. “It’s been days!”
“What a day this was. I think they’re worse after vacation, always.” Vera was wearing a loose tent dress in a soft green, one of those sheet wools she liked.
“Really, I’m going to have to start wearing dresses like that all the time. I can’t bear to look in the mirror.”
Vera scrutinized her. “Doesn’t show yet. Why don’t you just marry your fiancé a little early?”
“Is that fair? It isn’t his, and all …” She had been avoiding Bruce, a wee bit frightened of him since that Saturday. “I think he’s mad at me.”
“Well, no wonder.” Vera gave a small tired smile.
“What does Rowley say about me? Is he sorry?”
ILLEGAL CHARACTER RECEIVED
“How would I know?” Vera sat up quite straight in the rocker.
“I thought, if you’d run into him?”
“I told you I wouldn’t deal with him any more.”
“I haven’t seen him in ages. He moved, and I don’t even know if he hasn’t skipped town.”
“He wouldn’t.” Vera stopped abruptly.
She wanted to ask how Vera knew but did not dare. If she could find out where he was hiding. If she suddenly appeared there wearing her new winter white, what they were calling naked white, calm this time, yes, very calm, understanding …
VARIABLE GIVEN CONFLICTING TYPES
“By the way I have to leave by eight. I have a meeting.”
“A meeting? I didn’t think you went in for things like that.” Caroline felt thrust out, uncared for.
Vera made a light hopeless gesture. “It’s about my school. I promised a friend to go with her.”
“Leon has been a real sweetie. A friend in need.”
“He does seem a friendly type,” Vera said with such acid she was startled.
“I mean, I think he’d marry me. Of course it wouldn’t be like marrying Bruce. My family wouldn’t be pleased—”
“Your father would drop a hydrogen bomb.”
In a way. However she’d realized from Bruce’s conversation that Leon’s father was a respected man. Bruce seemed to value contact with him, though he made fun of Sheldon and called him an oldtime shark with no understanding of the importance of consensus. But Bruce said he was wellregarded even in Washington and that he had a kinetic approach to the problems of containing slums and building buffers. She made a genuine effort to listen to Bruce sometimes. She had understood that Leon’s family though Jewish would prove acceptable.