Ed suggested they share a ham sandwich. “I’m not the religious kind,” Ed announced, and, though Hugh nodded, it was clear he had no idea to what Ed was referring.
“I don’t really have any Jewish friends,” Hugh explained, lighting up another cigarette. He didn’t look uncomfortable, only direct.
“I don’t really have any Shipley friends.”
With his arm outstretched atop the booth, as if to claim a phantom girl, Hugh said, “You haven’t been missing much.” He was both plain-spoken and distracted. He was always looking around. Ed watched how his gaze followed the waitresses, the cooks in the kitchen, the salt and pepper on the table, and finally a pair of twin girls and their tense-looking dates who passed through the bustling doorway.
Ed finished his beer. “Would you look at them? They’re identical.”
“They’re not.”
“Of course they are. Imagine being one of those poor schmucks. Never knowing which one was yours.”
“You’d know.”
“You can’t tell me you’re able to see a difference.”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“Anyone can see they are different,” said Hugh. “One has a scar on her forehead, and the other one’s chin is more pronounced.”
“They look exactly the same.”
“You aren’t looking in the right way.” Though by all rights this was a condescending thing to say, Ed didn’t feel particularly condescended to. Hugh just seemed as though he really cared what Ed did or didn’t see.
“I’m an observant bastard, okay? Make no mistake about that. Listen, who noticed that the girl from the library—my girl—is cross-eyed.
Who saw that?”
“Oh, she’s your girl now?”
“Well, she’s not yours, that’s for sure.”
“What’s her name?”
“Oh, I have no idea,” Ed said, able now to laugh at himself, at how his ardor seemed suddenly comical.
When the ham sandwich arrived, Ed grabbed his half quickly. He was, as usual, hungrier than he’d realized. As he savored the salty ham, the slightly stale bread, he looked at the twins and their dates waiting for a table. What was Shipley talking about? He saw no pronounced chin, no scar. The only difference occurred when one lit a cigarette, when the fact that her sister had not lit a cigarette made them both that much more exciting because they had made different choices. Her smoking style bordered on theatrical, and Ed wondered if he might have seen her in a Harvard Drama Club production. He had become an avid theatergoer. At first it had been to impress Radcliffe girls, but sometimes he went alone if there was no one with whom he really wanted to watch and (inevitably, afterward) discuss. This semester he’d seen a steamy Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, The Little Foxes, a terrific Pajama Game; he wanted to go to England and meet Harold Pinter and personally thank him for The Caretaker, which he’d recently seen at the Loeb. Though last week’s offering was melancholy nonsense. He’d taken a troublingly tall date to see a play by García Lorca. Everyone had been dressed up like leafless trees, and a screechy cello droned on for hours.
“I always wanted to be a twin,” said Hugh, who had moved on to a third whiskey. “Ever since I can remember.”
“Oh God, no, nothing worse—another Hugh Shipley?”
“It wouldn’t be another of me,” Hugh quietly insisted. He apparently had no interest in lightening up. Did he speak this way with everyone? “It would be the other part, the missing part. Don’t you ever feel like you’re, I don’t know, missing someone?” He looked up from the bright table lamp and squinted into comparative darkness.
“Yeah,” Ed said. “I miss my mother.” It was an absurdly weak thing to say. He wasn’t sure why he’d said something so personal that it approached transgression, but he imagined it was because Hugh Shipley seemed to have forgotten Harvard’s unwritten rule about maintaining a modicum of sarcastic affectation, or at least until one was properly drunk. And he also sensed that Hugh had chosen to confide in him and he wanted to offer something in return.
Hugh nodded. “When did she die?”
“Four years now.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ed poured another sugar into his coffee, though he had no intention of drinking another sip. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, thanks.”
The twins and their dates were seated at the next table. It was difficult not to stare. They had the same auburn hair parted to the side, the same pearl earrings and cherry lipstick. If there was one girl, she would have been noticed solely for her solid good looks, but their twin-ness was even more striking than their prettiness. The smoker laughed and the other did not. Ed wondered if a joke had been made at the un-laughing un-smoking one’s expense, though neither of their dates was smiling.
“In Mali,” Hugh said, “twins are the only ones who are considered complete. The rest of us, we ‘re walking around as halves. We ‘re half people, all of us. No wonder we ‘re all about to be destroyed by nuclear bombs.”
“Goddamn right. I keep thinking I should follow every urge, every stupid idea in my head. Because who knows, right?”
“What is it that you want to do?”
“Oh hell, I don’t know. I’m just talking. It’s a goddamn unsettling thought that there are nuclear missiles off the coast of Florida. Can you argue with that? No news flash there. None at all. Where in Africa is Mali?”
“West.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s where I’m headed.”
“No kidding?”
Hugh nodded. “I’m going to take pictures.”
“Well, I’m going to Wall Street,” Ed said, and he couldn’t stop his voice from sounding proud. “Different jungle.”
“I’d say so. Save yourself. Come to my jungle instead.”
“To Africa?”
“Sure. Why not? At least no one is sending nuclear bombs there.”
Ed laughed and drank the rest of his tepid sweet coffee. “What are you after? You want to be eaten by savages, like Rockefeller? You want to—what?”
“He wasn’t eaten by savages.”
“So they say. Let’s put it this way: Such a trip is not in my future.”
“No? What is?”
“I want to make some real dough.”
“Real dough?”
“Yes, indeed. Not a fashionable thing to say around here, I know. But I want to work hard and make money. Money like your oldest, richest Mr. Shipley made.”
He tried not to sound fanatical, he truly did, but when he imagined a day that he wouldn’t have to worry over how many times he could clean his dirty shirts before they fell apart, he tended to sound—he realized this—like an advertisement for the wonders of capitalism. He wanted the freedom to buy a new shirt if he was too goddamn lazy to take his to the cleaner’s. Cardboard strip around the starched front—a new shirt, nothing like it. All that cardboard. He loved tearing it apart like wrapping paper.
Ed asked, “Why shouldn’t I have certain pleasures in life if I’m willing to work harder than everyone else?”
“Why, indeed?” Hugh replied, but this time it was condescending. “But, just so you know, my family doesn’t have any real money anymore.”
“Believe me, your family has money.”
“No, I mean it. It’s all but dried up in our branch of the family. There was some kind of issue with the trusts. I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I mean I don’t care.”
“You might start to care when you get malaria in West Africa and need to be evacuated and flown back to this fine country, threat of nuclear missiles or not. You might care if you need to get a job.” He felt his neck tensing up, and he forced a smile.
Hugh nodded. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Not really.”
“Okay, I don’t. I don’t. You got me.”
“That’s right.”
“So will you give me a job then?” Hugh asked. “When I’m har
d up and desperate?”
“You think it’s a joke?”
“I don’t think it’s a joke, but I know too many people who have plenty of money, and they’re wretched. They’re also incompetent. Talk to me when you know more people with money.”
“I will.”
“Just so you know,” said Hugh, sitting up straighter, “I hope you do.”
“What about Romulus and Remus?” Ed blurted. “They were twins. No love lost there.”
Hugh took his last bite of sandwich. He was the slowest eater that Ed had ever seen, with the exception of his aunt Lillian. He chewed every bit of that bite and finally, finally swallowed. “They were raised by wolves.”
“Many great men were.”
“Were you?”
“My mother—she was a peach. But my father has some wolflike tendencies, you bet.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know—he never wanted to have children, so that probably has something to do with it.” Ed laughed, but he could tell he sounded strained. “He wanted my mother and he wanted to make her happy, but he’s made it clear, especially now that she’s gone, that being a father wasn’t what he was after. And where I’m from, children are everything. It’s all about the children. It’s just what they think about and talk about and live for, and I think all that fuss—it really got him riled up. I only figured out that children were such a focus—who notices such a thing when you are one of those children?—since he would point it out so frequently, deriding this one and that one because they talked, they thought, they bragged, about their kids too much. God forbid someone bragged. It was like his cause, how people gave kids too much attention, and what was implied was that it sure as hell wasn’t going to be like that in our house.”
“Too bad he couldn’t have just come on over to our neighborhood. Don’t laugh. He and my father—despite appearances to the contrary, I’m sure—would have plenty in common.”
“Is that right? Well, I don’t know about your father, but mine didn’t like everyone lavishing attention on the children, because he always wanted to be at the center. See, he’d had a taste of it, a real taste of attention. Worst thing that could have happened to a guy like my father. He was a boxer, okay, and I guess a pretty promising one—”
“Your father was a boxer?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.” Ed tried not to sound frustrated, but he knew that if he didn’t keep talking, he’d lose steam. This was the first time he’d told anyone at Harvard anything about his father. He’d guarded these stories, kept them close. It was as if telling them too frequently would dull their power. To Ed, the very existence of these tales proved that his father wasn’t solely a bitter, drunk steamfitter. That there was some spark to his past. Some interest.
Hugh said, “I’ve never met a boxer.”
“Yeah, well, unfortunately, he got knocked out early in his career. He lost his hearing in one ear and broke a few of his vertebrae, and I guess the recovery really took it out of him and his boxing days were over quickly. He went from being some kind of local hotshot to having not much of an education and a lot of aches and pains.”
Ed thought about stopping, but he couldn’t stop now, not when Hugh looked so genuinely interested. It was as if Hugh was counting on him, relying on Ed to deliver a good, engaging story. What else could he do?
“My mother always told me that was when he changed, although who knows. She met him right before he got knocked out. I guess by the time he was injured, she was sufficiently impressed. He was greeted with respect when he took her out and she was just a kid, she was from an extremely strict family, and when he showed her a night out in Boston—y’know, cocktails and dancing, the whole bit—she was charmed. He was handsome then, even after the injuries, a genuinely handsome man. I don’t look like him—in case you were wondering—though I did get his shoulders.” Ed sat up taller, grinned. “Not too bad, am I right?”
Hugh laughed, as if he couldn’t believe anyone would say something so vain. “Hmm. Especially for your height.”
“Ouch,” he said. “Ouch. At any rate, my mother saw him through his recovery and he never forgot it. He loved to talk about how patient she was and also how tough. And how, after having me, my mother never gave him that kind of attention again.”
“So he’s a real tough guy.”
Ed nodded, grinned. He told Hugh how—after eight straight amateur victories—during his father’s first professional fight in downtown Worcester, he was felled by a roundhouse curse of a punch. How the press clippings stated that he’d been knocked out cold, but this was not the case. How he’d stood up by the count of eight. How those who’d been there that miserable night still sometimes stopped him on the streets of Dorchester to insist that he’d been robbed.
After an appropriately solemn shaking of the head, Hugh piped up, “Did he teach you to fight?”
Ed paused before nodding. “In the basement.”
“That must have been … something.”
“Oh, it was great. It was the best time we ever had.”
He wasn’t sure why he’d said that or how the lie had come so easily. He imagined the basement, where no lessons had occurred. The furnace was in the basement, and it had been Ed’s job to put the hand-painted sign (COAL!) in the window so that the delivery truck would stop. The coal man rigged a series of steel chutes from the truck to the furnace, and the coal had crashed through the chutes and shot its way into the coal bin. He had grown up accompanying his father down to the basement, watching him shovel fresh coal into the steel door, fit the crank into the middle of the furnace, and slam that crank left to right as if his life were hanging in the balance and depended on the force of the slam. His father had brought him down to the basement to ostensibly train him to one day take over the task of the furnace, but Ed always felt that his father relished doing it himself and the real reason he wanted Ed to watch was to demonstrate just how strong he still was, despite his life-defining injuries. His father slammed that crank until the ashes of the burned coal came through the grate, onto the furnace floor, and, as soon as Ed could sweep, it became Ed’s job to sweep the ashes into the ash can. Several weeks after Ed’s bar mitzvah, his father had sent him down to the basement to get ash for the icy sidewalk. When he’d come up with a bucketful and stood at the top of the dark moldy stairs, the door had been locked and no one would answer. At first Ed thought his father had locked it out of habit, by mistake, but he soon realized his father was playing a joke on him, the kind of behavior that would come up with more and more frequency until his departure from home, and Ed would always be left to wonder just what was it that he had done wrong. But his father wouldn’t admit it was a punishment. “It was a joke,” he’d said. “You gotta learn to lighten up.”
His father had not taught him to box—not in that basement, not anywhere. Ed had asked his father to do the honors, and at first he’d said of course he would, but after asking repeatedly and having his father say he was tired or in no mood or watching the game, it became clear that, for whatever reason, his father didn’t want to. Ed had learned boxing from other teachers; they were never hard to find: his gym teacher Mr. Coleman; “Big Sully,” who cleaned the monkey house; his gambling friend Schwartzy, who had good form as a boxer but lacked the nerves to compete. Ed was a good student in general; he knew this now. He was certain his ability to learn quickly was going to help him later in life, and more than boxing ever had. When his father was in his prime, he’d saved three Jewish boys from a bunch of Irish thugs. People had said how brave he was, how he looked out for his own, how he’d always be known as a hero. But this was no longer.
“My father’s a decent man,” Ed said, as if it was pity and not anger that consumed him.
The waitress cleared their plates away and Hugh said he’d pay.
“No,” Ed insisted. “I offered. Besides, I thought you didn’t have any money.” With whom, Ed couldn’t help but wonder again, did Hugh usually spend his time?
“I said real money. There’s still a bit. The dregs. I’ll buy you beer, coffee, and half a sandwich with the dregs.”
“No,” said Ed. And that was that.
They went to Adams House and drank gin with limes, and Ed met the head of the drama club and a Crimson writer whose work he admired. Ed watched as girls approached Hugh and Hugh ignored their not-so-subtle invitations. Ed marveled at how, like preening birds, they offered their pale necks, their bosoms, arranged their jewelry to catch the light as if lighting were the issue. He knocked back more gin; he drank until he forgot to add the lime. Ed and the girls listened as Hugh spoke softly about the Dani tribe of West New Guinea, how their culture was based on a never-ending war between neighboring clans, an ongoing quest to avenge the fallen, to pacify ancestral ghosts. Hugh talked about how human cruelty was paralyzing but compelling and that maybe these specific warriors could be seen as a microcosm for all warriors and that maybe, if people really paid attention to them, some positive change for our own culture—no matter how small—might just result from it. When Hugh was done speaking, the girls didn’t stop listening. They listened to Hugh’s silence and eventual progression into playing impenetrable jazz piano, which only invited them to settle in. One of the girls started listing all of the jazz greats who’d been taken from this life too early, who must have been too pure for this world.
“The fact that they were drunks might have also had something to do with it,” Ed pointed out, and there was a collective sigh of indignation, though one of the girls did laugh before running out of the room to be sick.
“Let’s go,” Hugh said. “I need some air.”
And on the banks of the Charles, Ed asked Hugh if he meant what he’d said about bringing change to America through studying savages in New Guinea. “There aren’t any Negroes in Fenway Park. Hitler almost succeeded in wiping Jews off the planet. Do you actually think people are open-minded enough to see themselves reflected in completely primitive people? Do you think you are?”
“I’m not sure,” said Hugh after a moment. “But, yes, I do think so.”
“Okay,” Ed said, skeptical. “We’ll see.”
The Outside of August Page 31