“We both got a big brother. What he want?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Well…” Hondo hesitated. “Tell him I was here.”
“And Glora’s looking for him,” Carlyle added. “You want scotch?”
Hondo nodded; they both ordered scotch.
“Why didn’t you ask Cooley?”
“She’s not his mama; she’s mine.” He stopped, grunted. “She just raised him. Stepbrother sure stepped on me. He wouldn’t give me no money because the doctor said the operation probably wouldn’t work. Cooley said he don’t gamble. He’s cold.”
“Ice.”
“Hey, man, close that God damn door!”
The door to the Grouse stood open. Snow-carrying wind sweeped down the steps from the Avenue, gusting cigaret butts toward the rear of the long room.
“Too cold to pull this now. What’s wrong with you?” Nods shouted across the bar at the door itself, then stooped, disappeared—stood up on the patron’s side. “What’s the trouble? Break your hinge?” He grabbed its chrome handle, tried to force it closed.
“Hey, man, cool that chill!”
Nods let go, shrugged, explained to the patrons near him that the door seemed frozen open. “Chicken-hunter sure after Chicken Little tonight. I ain’t seen a night this cold since…” He looked up the steps, squinting against the wind. “Hey, you a bear?”
It did look like a bear, coming down the stairs, feet appearing first and fur-covered. But after shaggy calves and thighs had passed below the top of the door, the suit’s zipper began. Someone wearing a great big baby’s snowsuit of fur—a woman of European descent, at least sixty years old, her hair recently curled into tight, blue-white rings—shuffled into the Grouse, and stopped beside Nods. “Hi, Johnny.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nods pointed Carlyle’s way. “A nice stool at the bar?”
“Stow a stool! Show me a private little booth.”
“Hey, Carlyle? Seem like I seen her. She some politician’s wife?”
Celebrities from downtown did visit the Grouse. “Maybe. What kind of fur she wearing?”
She passed their backs, cold coming off the damp suit, her curls shining steel-pink in the Grouse’s light.
“She do look familiar, Carlyle. Wait a minute.”
“I wouldn’t wait a second.”
“Don’t whisper, Johnny. Speak up.” She stopped, turned to them. “My ears is just a little bum, but this hearing aid was developed for Arctic use. See?” She pushed her ear, the snail-like aid, into Carlyle’s face. She wore good perfume. “I picked it up in Norway just before the expedition sailed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stood up. “It looks like you paid good money for it.”
“I didn’t pay a thing for it, Johnny.”
“You stole it, right, Ma?” He looked at Hondo, snorted.
“Why’d you call me Ma?”
Carlyle smiled. “You remind me of a mother.”
“The boys on the expedition called me Ma.” She looked at him, her eyes watery and level with his, and showing him her new set of teeth, offered to buy them a drink. “Let me tell you about the expedition, Johnny. We went right to the top of the world. You can’t imagine.”
She wore mittens of fur—reached out and grabbed his arm, pulled him to the rear of the Grouse, pushed and followed him into a booth. He did not resist; he valued the suit at $250 on the resale.
Hondo sat across from them.
“Now, Johnny, just call me Ma, full name Alice F. Buster.” She leaned on him. “I’m an explorer is what they call me. But Ma just wanted to look around.”
“What at?” He winked at Hondo. She reminded him of his homeroom teacher the first year after his family had moved from Harlem to the Bronx.
“Now, no making fun of Ma, Johnny. I travelled with the best of them, to the top of the world and back.” She talked to him alone, her breath strong, cold and minted.
“To the North Pole?”
She squinted. “What’s your name, Johnny?”
“Bedlow.” He answered before he realized he did not want to tell. “Juan Bedlow.”
“Let me look at you.” Her mittens rose to grip his shoulders; he hoped it did not mean an extra trip to the cleaners. “Yes. You look like him.”
“Who?” He wondered if the smoke in his brain confused him.
“Your Uncle Wallace.”
People still telephoned his house to ask about his uncle, who had sung. “You knew him?”
“Known all the best. I find them and take them on.” She released him.
“Is that so?” Carlyle sat up straight. “And you knew my Uncle Wallace?”
“Got close there for a while. In Hollywood.” She smiled, not at him. “What a hot one!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She sighed, looked away. “Johnny, I’m awful glad I met up with Wallace’s nephew. Makes it a damn sight easier on me.” She patted her curls, drew her upper lip away from her teeth. “This hair-do’s not me. I just had it done to make me look more modern. The real Ma Buster doesn’t pussyfoot around.” She stared at him. “I got money and I want a man.”
He waited until she looked down at her mittens. “How much money?”
“Outside in my car I got twenty thousand dollars.”
She surprised him with the exact figure; he had expected resistance, but it did not matter.
They had not ordered and so just left the Grouse, Ma Buster first, Hondo and Carlyle, climbing the stairs into the fresh snowstorm. Her limousine waited, parked at the corner near Deed’s Funeral Home. A chauffer stood in the sole-deep snow ready to open the door.
“Say good-bye to Hondo, Wallace.” Ma Buster trudged at his side, had taken his elbow.
“He’s going, Ma.” Only the money interested him.
“You’re horsing me.”
“Hey, man?” Hondo stopped walking.
The chauffer bowed, opened the back door.
Hondo fell farther behind them, and Carlyle slowed, waved him closer. “Come on. We riding tonight.”
Hondo did not move. The snow falling settled on the bill of his cap. “Hey, man!”
“What?”
“I know where I seen her. The chauffer, man. That’s him.”
“Who, man?”
“Him.”
21
“WAIT A MINUTE.” He knocked, pressed his ear to the door of the padded room. “Didn’t you hear what he said?”
“Sure, Mr. Dunford. But slavery’s been abolished for a hundred years. They’re probably just criminals, you know, making a joke.”
“A joke?” He tried the door, but Wally’s slam had tripped the lock. “A joke, Wally?”
“Sure. And we better go before somebody comes. They’re probably not allowed visitors.” He took Chig’s arm. “This way, Mr. Dunford.”
They retraced their route to the cabin, Wally leading the way. “It was dirty down there.” He opened the cabin door, let Chig pass in. “Did you notice, Mr. Dunford?”
Chig shook his head. “Can I sit on your bed?”
“Sure, Mr. Dunford.” Wally began to unbutton his shirt. “I’m changing my clothes. It was real dirty down there.”
Chig pulled the sheet over Wally’s rumpled bunk, and sat down. “I’ll wait until you leave, then I’ll get ready for my date.” He hoped Wally would catch his hint. “All right?”
“Huh? Sure, Mr. Dunford.” He kicked off his loafers, changed from chino pants to faded blue jeans, buttoned his fly. “I got it. They’re sailors who mutinied.” He smiled. “Sailors still mutiny, Mr. Dunford. We used to read about them in current events class.”
“But when did they mutiny?”
Wally ran the thick end of his comb through his red hair. “Probably a couple days ago.”
“
Before we got on the ship?”
“Sure, Mr. Dunford. Why else are they locked up?”
“But didn’t you hear…” He stopped to wonder if he had actually heard the words. He had fears concerning his hearing. “He said they were slaves. At least that’s what I think he said. I mean, meant.”
“Ya. Maybe that’s what you mean, Mr. Dunford. I saw that happen before.” He nodded his head. “We don’t like to think about it, but mutineers and people like that are still going around.” He rolled up the sleeves of his clean, pale-blue button-down shirt, stuffed a handkerchief into his back pocket, snapped to attention. “Well, I’m ready to go. Do I look all right?”
Wally’s question surprised him, but Chig looked him over, found the handkerchief protruding, pointed.
“Thanks, Mr. Dunford.” Wally patted all his pockets. “You know, it may sound funny, but sharing this cabin with you has really hit the nail on the head far as my TYO Team Year in Europe is concerned.” He rocked from foot to foot. “And thanks for helping me with Lynn.”
“But I don’t think I—”
“For talking to her, Mr. Dunford. I knew she’d respect your opinion. You were swell.”
Chig accepted the compliment without comment, and Wally, his freckles stretched into a smile, left him alone to realize again that he and Wendy were on the same ship. Could he accomplish anything before they reached New York? What did he want to accomplish? He thought about that question a long while, remembered himself searching Europe for her and decided finally that he wanted to marry her. That was his dream; he wanted to marry—Wendy.
“Wally? Wally? I know you’re in there!” The man began to pound the door, and shout over the sound of his fist. “Come on, Wally! Open up and meet your fate!”
Chig opened the door.
“Lookout, huh?” He pushed his way into the cabin, a boyish face on a large body. “Where’s Wally? I’m Oglethrope.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Oglethrope.” Chig smiled from the door. “He just left. You lead the tour he’s on, don’t you?” The name Oglethrope had made him imagine an older, thinner face.
“Bull’s-eye.” He patted the upper bunk. “This Wally’s?”
Chig indicated the lower. “My name—”
“He been in it every night so far?”
“I think so. Would you like to leave a note for him?”
“If you want to know the truth, bud, I thought I’d find them right here.” He patted Chig’s bunk again. “Going sneakers.”
“Excuse me?”
“The both of them. Sneakers.” He hammered one fist into the other palm. “I better not catch them, all I can say.” He nodded his head, vowing, took a deep breath. “Not that I mind personally. I’m not blanketyblank prude.”
Chig nodded.
Oglethrope frowned. “Going sneakers like that. They signed up knowing the rules. And the rules say no mixing between the sexes.”
Chig tried a question. “You mean like talking?”
Oglethrope cocked his head. “You don’t know about TYO Team Tours, do you.”
He shook his head. “I’ve been in Europe, I guess.”
“You guess.” Oglethrope rested his shoulder against the upper bunk’s side. “How long do you guess you were there?”
“Eight years.” He thought, added, “But I was going back and forth. But I think I’m going back for good now.”
“And tell me, bud, how did you make the money to do this?”
“Scholarships. I was a student.”
“For eight years?” Oglethrope reddened. “Listen, if you want some friendly advice, you look like a guy at loose ends. When you get to New York, get in touch with your nearest TYO Team Organizer. She could really help you.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Oglethrope, but before I could join TYO, I mean, I’d have to know more about it.” He laughed. “I might not even qualify for membership.”
“Don’t worry, bud. We’re not like those Eastern clubs. You can join if you get the right frame of mind.” Oglethrope’s chest expanded under his open-necked dull-yellow sportshirt. He sat on the lower bunk, on Wally’s pillow. “Come here.”
Chig did not know how to ask Oglethrope to leave. He stepped away from the door, but left it open.
“Come here,” Oglethrope ordered again. “Do I look funny to you?”
Chig shook his head.
“At one time, I used to go sneakers, just like them. I was an athlete, you see. I got three pro offers.” He stared up, his gray eyes flat. Around his neck on a metal chain hung an acorn. “The night we beat the team from Clearwater, Jerry Orloch bet me five hundred dollars I wouldn’t pull out my eye. Well, there was a lot of booze around that night, and I was kidding and he was kidding, but when I started I said to myself, stop when it starts to hurt. But it never did start to hurt.” He reached into his face, fingered his left gray eye out of its socket. “They had to stop me. See for yourself.”
“Yes. I…”
Oglethrope replaced his eye, went on: “I learned something that night. I was at the bottom of the tree. Wrecked my whole future in sport. The scouts didn’t come around anymore.” He lowered his head. “You might think it shames me to tell you something like that, but it doesn’t. I get stronger every time I tell it. I know I crashed through with TYO.”
Chig nodded. “I guess so.”
“TYO has representatives in all the hospitals, little women to mend the men and send them back to battle.” He laughed. “The Rep at Gully City General was a little cutie of about five foot three. Today that little cutie is called Mrs. Oglethrope.”
“Oh?” For some reason—perhaps Wally had suggested it—Chig had believed Oglethrope an unmarried man. “Is she with the tour?”
“Not on your life. She’s home with my brother, running the store, hardware.” He paused, found his place. “You see, TYO taught me that some things are more important than money. Like devotion to duty and sacrifice. Look at all our famous men and the thing that marks them is how much they sacrifice. TYO gave me that. And it can give it to you too.” He put his hands on his knees, pushed himself to his feet. “Do me a favor.”
“If I can, Mr. Oglethrope.”
“Keep an eye on those kids for me.” He looked for, found the open door. “Let me know if you see anything that smells fishy.”
Chig thought he understood, but wanted to make certain. “What do you mean by fishy, Mr. Oglethrope?”
“Come on, bud. We’re all grown-ups here.” Oglethrope scolded, winking his left eye. “Just look into Wally’s mug, watch him walk. The kid’s face is a raspberry bush.” He took Chig’s arm, guided him toward the door. “Let me have a report at dinner.”
“If I see anything.” Chig waved good-bye, shut and locked the door, looked at his watch. If he did not hurry, he would arrive late for his date.
He stripped to his skin, checked his chin, finding that his shave would last another day, then washed and deodorized himself. He decided to wear his gray summer suit, a white short-sleeved shirt and a dark wool tie. The result did not excite him. He had not aimed for excitement, rather for a certain scholarly solidity, the appearance of a man who taught Comparative Literature at a small Eastern college for $9,000 a year.
Wendy waited, a queen in the center of a curving corner seat, when he stepped over the doorsill of the third-class lounge. Her smile lit his way through the tables separating them; he did not mind that some old ladies tucked their cards to their bosoms and pinched their brows, watching him and Wendy meet.
“Chig. How are you?” She raised her chin, offered her hand the moment his thighs bumped her table.
“Hello, Wendy.” He took her long, soft hand. “I’m fine.” He wanted to add the word: now, but could not.
“Do sit down, and tell me what you’ve done.” She had taken up her hair, knit it into a large soft black bun.
She wore a neat tweed suit, white blouse, bunches of silk at the collar. “Please do.”
He slid into the seat beside her, feeling the beat of his heart in his temples. “There’s not much—” He cut himself off, made himself look into her eyes. “I’m very happy to see you.”
She seemed surprised, blinked once, looked away. “That’s very kind, Chig.”
He wanted to repeat himself and make her understand all he had tried to say, but the right moment slipped by and instead, he asked where she had spent the year.
“In Africa.” Her face did not move.
“North Africa?” People did sometimes take the boat over from the Spanish Islands, or Sicily.
She smiled. “No. Central Africa.”
He nodded. “That sounds like a nice trip.”
“Yes, it was.”
He turned toward the bar. He would have to go fetch their drinks, but wanted to waste no time waiting. The bar steward stood idle, but Chig did not leave her. “I bet you got a lot of sun.”
“It was wonderful. Noon for twelve hours each day.” She straightened her back. “And you stayed in Europe?”
“Yes. But I travelled around…”
She closed her eyes, opened them. “I suppose you’ll say you were tracking me down.”
“In a way.”
She sucked her tongue. “Well, why don’t you really tell me that?”
“Excuse me?”
“I asked you why don’t you tell me you searched for me all over Europe? I might like that.”
The crystal of his watch needed tightening. “Yes. Wendy. I was looking for you.”
“Dear Chig, you haven’t found me yet.”
“Why did you leave like that, Wendy?”
“Because you took too long.”
22
“NOT HIM.” He inspected the chauffer, a little man with bowed legs on black shoes, dark wool car-coat over a barrel stomach, a round Southern European face under a black cap with a shiny water-beaded visor. Carlyle could not see the chauffer’s eyes in the shadows, through the falling snow. “Come here, Hondo.”
In the middle of the sidewalk, dancing from one foot to the other, Hondo shook his head. “I already made my appointment.”
Dunfords Travels Everywheres Page 10