Ironweed (1984 Pulitzer Prize)

by William Kennedy

  “Just because you’re drunk don’t mean you ain’t cold,” he said to Rudy.

  “Right,” said Rudy. “Who said that?”

  “I said that, you ape.”

  “I ain’t no ape.”

  “Well you look like one.”

  From the mission came sounds made by an amateur organist of fervent aggression, and of several voices raised in praise of good old Jesus. Where’d we all be without him? The voices belonged to the Reverend Chester, and to half a dozen men in shirt sleeves who sat in the front rows of the chapel area’s folding chairs. Reverend Chester, a gargantuan man with a clubfoot, wild white hair, and a face flushed permanently years ago by a whiskey condition all his own, stood behind the lectern looking out at maybe forty men and one woman.

  Helen.

  Francis saw her as he entered, saw her gray beret pulled off to the left, recognized her old black coat. She held no hymnal as the others did, but sat with arms folded in defiant resistance to the possibility of redemption by any Methodist like Chester; for Helen was a Catholic. And any redemption that came her way had better be through her church, the true church, the only church.

  “Jesus,” the preacher and his shirt-sleeved loyalists sang, “the name that charms our fears, That bids our sorrows cease, ‘Tis music in the sinners’ ears, ‘Tis life and health and peace…”

  The remaining seven eighths of Reverend Chester’s congregation, men hiding inside their overcoats, hats in their laps if they had hats, their faces grimed and whiskered and woebegone, remained mute, or gave the lyrics a perfunctory mumble, or nodded already in sleep. The song continued: “… He breaks the power of canceled sin, He sets the prisoner free; His blood can make the foulest clean, His blood availed for me.”

  Well not me, Francis said to his unavailed-for self, and he smelled his own uncanceled stink again, aware that it had intensified since morning. The sweat of a workday, the sourness of dried earth on his hands and clothes, the putrid perfume of the cemetery air with its pretension to windblown purity, all this lay in foul encrustation atop the private pestilence of his being. When he threw himself onto Gerald’s grave, the uprush of a polluted life all but asphyxiated him.

  “Hear him, ye deaf; his praise, ye dumb, Your loosened tongues employ; Ye blind, behold your Savior come; and leap, ye lame, for joy.”

  The lame and the halt put their hymnals down joylessly, and Reverend Chester leaned over his lectern to look at tonight’s collection. Among them, as always, were good men and straight, men honestly without work, victims of a society ravaged by avarice, sloth, stupidity, and a God made wrathful by Babylonian excesses. Such men were merely the transients in the mission, and to them a preacher could only wish luck, send prayer, and provide a meal for the long road ahead. The true targets of the preacher were the others: the dipsos, the deadbeats, the wetbrains, and the loonies, who needed more than luck. What they needed was a structured way, a mentor and guide through the hells and purgatories of their days. Bringing the word, the light, was a great struggle today, for the decline of belief was rampant and the anti-Christ was on the rise. It was prophesied in Matthew and in Revelation that there would be less and less reverence for the Bible, greater lawlessness, depravity, and selfindulgence. The world, the light, the song, they would all die soon, for without doubt we were witnessing the advent of end times.

  “Lost,” said the preacher, and he waited for the word to resound in the sanctums of their damaged brains. “Oh lost, lost forever. Men and women lost, hopeless. Who will save you from your sloth? Who will give you a ride on the turnpike to salvation? Jesus will! Jesus delivers!”

  The preacher screamed the word delivers and woke up half the congregation. Rudy, on the nod, flared into wakefulness with a wild swing of the left arm that knocked the hymnal out of Francis’s grip. The book fell to the floor with a splat that brought Reverend Chester eye-to-eye with Francis. Francis nodded and the preacher gave him a firm and flinty smile in return.

  The preacher then took the beatitudes for his theme. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.

  “Oh yes, you men of skid row, brethren on the poor streets of the one eternal city we all dwell in, do not grieve that your spirit is low. Do not fear the world because you are of a meek and gentle nature. Do not feel that your mournful tears are in vain, for these things are the keys to the kingdom of God.”

  The men went swiftly back to sleep and Francis resolved he would wash the stink of the dead off his face and hands and hit Chester up for a new pair of socks. Chester was happiest when he was passing out socks to dried-out drunks. Feed the hungry, clothe the sober.

  “Are you ready for peace of mind and heart?” the preacher asked. “Is there a man here tonight who wants a different life? God says: Come unto me. Will you take him at his word? Will you stand up now? Come to the front, kneel, and we will talk. Do this now and be saved. Now. Now. Now!”

  No one moved.

  “Then amen, brothers,” said the preacher testily, and he left the lectern.

  “Hot goddamn,” Francis said to Rudy. “Now we get at that soup.”

  Then began the rush of men to table, the pouring of coffee, ladling of soup, cutting of bread by the mission’s zealous volunteers. Francis sought out Pee Wee, a good old soul who managed the mission for Chester, and he asked him for a cup of soup for Sandra.

  “She oughta be let in,” Francis said. “She’s gonna freeze out there.”

  “She was in before,” Pee Wee said. “He wouldn’t let her stay. She was really shot, and you know him on that. He won’t mind on the soup, but just for the hell of it, don’t say where it’s going.”

  “Secret soup,” Francis said.

  He took the soup out the back door, pulling Rudy along with him, and crossed the vacant lot to where Sandra lay as before. Rudy rolled her onto her back and sat her up, and Francis put the soup under her nose.

  “Soup,” he said.

  “Gazoop,” Sandra said.

  “Have it.” Francis put the cup to her lips and tipped the soup at her mouth. It dribbled down her chin. She swallowed none.

  “She don’t want it,” Rudy said.

  “She wants it,” Francis said. “She’s just pissed it ain’t wine.”

  He tried again and Sandra swallowed a little.

  “When I was sleepin’ inside just now,” Rudy said, “I remembered Sandra wanted to be a nurse. Or used to be a nurse. That right, Sandra?”

  “No,” Sandra said.

  “No, what? Wanted to be a nurse or was a nurse?”

  “Doctor,” Sandra said.

  “She wanted to be a doctor,” Francis said, tipping in more soup.

  “No,” Sandra said, pushing the soup away. Francis put the cup down and slipped her ratty shoe onto her left foot. He lifted her, a feather, carried her to the wall of the mission, and propped her into a sitting position, her back against the building, somewhat out of the wind. With his bare hand he wiped the masking dust from her face. He raised the soup and gave her another swallow.

  “Doctor wanted me to be a nursie,” she said.

  “But you didn’t want it,” Francis said.

  “Did. But he died.”

  “Ah,” said Francis. “Love?”

  “Love,” said Sandra.

  Inside the mission, Francis handed the cup back to Pee Wee, who emptied it into the sink.

  “She all right?” Pee Wee asked.

  “Terrific,” Francis said.

  “The ambulance won’t even pick her up anymore,” Pee Wee said. “Not unless she’s bleedin’ to death.”

  Francis nodded and went to the bathroom, where he washed Sandra’s dust and his own stink off his hands. Then he washed his face and his neck and his ears; and when he was finished he washed them all again. He sloshed water around in his mouth and brushed his teeth with his left index finger. He wet his hair and combed it w
ith nine fingers and dried himself with a damp towel that was tied to the wall. Some men were already leaving by the time he picked up his soup and bread and sat down beside Helen.

  “Where you been hidin’?” he asked her.

  “A fat lot you care where anybody is or isn’t. I could be dead in the street three times over and you wouldn’t know a thing about it.”

  “How the hell could I when you walk off like a crazy woman, yellin’ and stompin’.”

  “Who wouldn’t be crazy around you, spending every penny we get. You go out of your mind, Francis.”

  “I got some money.”

  “How much?”

  “Six bucks.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “I worked all the damn day in the cemetery, fillin’ up graves. Worked hard.”

  “Francis, you did?”

  “I mean all day.”

  “That’s wonderful. And you’re sober. And you’re eating.”

  “Ain’t drinkin’ no wine either. I ain’t even smokin’.”

  “Oh that’s so lovely. I’m very proud of my good boy.”

  Francis scarfed up the soup, and Helen smiled and sipped the last of her coffee. More than half the men were gone from table now, Rudy still eating with a partial mind across from Francis. Pee Wee and his plangently compassionate volunteers picked up dishes and carried them to the kitchen. The preacher finished his coffee and strode over to Francis.

  “Glad to see you staying straight,” the preacher said.

  “Okay,” said Francis.

  “And how are you, little lady?” he asked Helen.

  “I’m perfectly delightful,” Helen said.

  “I believe I’ve got a job for you if you want it, Francis,” the preacher said.

  “I worked today up at the cemetery.”

  “Splendid.”

  “Shovelin’ dirt ain’t my idea of that much of a job.”

  “Maybe this one is better. Old Rosskam the ragman came here today looking for a helper. I’ve sent him men from time to time and I thought of you. If you’re serious about quitting the hooch you might put a decent penny together.”

  “Ragman,” Francis said. “Doin’ what, exactly?”

  “Going house to house on the wagon. Rosskam himself buys the rags and bottles, old metal, junk, papers, no garbage. Carts it himself too, but he’s getting on and needs another strong back.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “Green Street, below the bridge.”

  “I’ll go see him and I ‘preciate it. Tell you what else I’d ‘preciate’s a pair of socks, if you can spare ‘em. Ones I got are all rotted out.”

  “What size?”

  “Tens. But I’ll take nines, or twelves.”

  “I’ll get you some tens. And keep up the good work, Franny. Nice to see you’re doing well too, little lady.”

  “I’m doing very well,” Helen said. “Very exceptionally well.” When he walked away she said: “He says it’s nice I’m doing well. I’m doing just fine, and I don’t need him to tell me I’m doing well.”

  “Don’t fight him,” Francis said. “He’s givin’ me some socks.”

  “We gonna get them jugs?” Rudy asked Francis. “Go somewheres and get a flop?”

  “Jugs?” said Helen.

  “That’s what I said this mornin’,” Francis said. “No, no jugs.”

  “With six dollars we could get a room and get our suitcase back,” Helen said.

  “I can’t spend all six,” Francis said. “I gotta give some to the lawyer. I figure I’ll give him a deuce. After all, he got me the job and I owe him fifty.”

  “Where do you plan to sleep?” Helen asked.

  “Where’d you sleep last night?”

  “I found a place.”

  “Finny’s car?”

  “No, not Finny’s car. I won’t stay there anymore, you know that. I will absolutely not stay in that car another night.”

  “Then where’d you go?”

  “Where did you sleep?”

  “I slept in the weeds,” Francis said.

  “Well I found a bed.”

  “Where, goddamn it, where?”

  “Up at Jack’s.”

  “I thought you didn’t like Jack anymore, or Clara either.”

  “They’re not my favorite people, but they gave me a bed when I needed one.”

  “Somethin’ to be said for that,” Francis said.

  Pee Wee came over with a second cup of coffee and sat across from Helen. Pee Wee was bald and fat and chewed cigars all day long without lighting them. He had cut hair in his younger days, but when his wife cleaned out their bank account, poisoned Pee Wee’s dog, and ran away with the barber whom Pee Wee, by dint of hard work and superior tonsorial talent, had put of of business, Pee Wee started drinking and wound up on the bum. Yet he carried his comb and scissors everywhere to prove his talent was not just a bum’s fantasy, and gave haircuts to other bums for fifteen cents, sometimes a nickel. He still gave haircuts, free now, at the mission.

  When Francis came back to Albany in 1935, he met Pee Wee for the first time and they stayed drunk together for a month. When Francis turned up in Albany only weeks back to register for the Democrats at five dollars a shot, he met Pee Wee again. Francis registered to vote twenty-one times before the state troopers caught up with him and made him an Albany political celebrity. The pols had paid him fifty by then and still owed him fifty-five more that he’d probably never see. Pee Wee was off the juice when Francis met him the second time, and was full of energy, running the mission for Chester. Pee Wee was peaceful now, no longer the singing gin-drinker he used to be. Francis still felt good things about him, but now thought of him as an emotional cripple, dry, yeah, but at what cost?

  “You see who’s playin’ over at The Gilded Cage?” Pee Wee asked Francis.

  “I don’t read the papers.”

  “Oscar Reo.”

  “You mean our Oscar?”

  “The same.”

  “What’s he doin’?”

  “Singin’ bartender. How’s that for a comedown?”

  “Oscar Reo who used to be on the radio?” Helen asked.

  “That’s the fella,” said Pee Wee. “He blew the big time on booze, but he dried out and tends bar now. At least he’s livin’, even if it ain’t what it was.”

  “Pee Wee and me pitched a drunk with him in New York. Two, three days, wasn’t it, Pee?”

  “Mighta been a week,” Pee Wee said. “None of us was up to keepin’ track. But he sang a million tunes and played piano everyplace they had one. Most musical drunk I ever see.”

  “I used to sing his songs,” Helen said. “‘Hindustan Lover’ and ‘Georgie Is My Apple Pie’ and another one, a grand ballad, ‘Under the Peach Trees with You.’ He wrote wonderful, happy songs and I sang them all when I was singing.”

  “I didn’t know you sang,” Pee Wee said.

  “Well I most certainly sang, and played piano very well too. I was getting a classical education in music until my father died. I was at Vassar.”

  “Albert Einstein went to Vassar,” Rudy said.

  “You goofy bastard,” said Francis.

  “Went there to make a speech. I read it in the papers.”

  “He could have,” Helen said. “Everybody speaks at Vassar. It just happens to be one of the three best schools in the world.”

  “We oughta go over and see old Oscar,” Francis said.

  “Not me,” said Pee Wee.

  “No,” said Helen.

  “What no?” Francis said. “You afraid we’d all get drunked up if we stopped in to say hello?”

  “I’m not afraid of that.”

  “Then let’s go see him. He’s all right, Oscar.”

  “Think he’ll remember you?” Pee Wee said.

  “Maybe. I remember him.”

  “So do I.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “I wouldn’t drink anything,” Pee Wee said. “I ain’t been in a bar in
two years.”

  “They got ginger ale. You allowed to drink ginger ale?”

  “I hope it’s not expensive,” Helen said.

  “Just what you drink,” Pee Wee said. “About usual.”

  “Is it snooty?”

  “It’s a joint, old-timey, but it pulls in the slummers. That’s half the trade.”

  Reverend Chester stepped lively across the room and thrust at Francis a pair of gray woolen socks, his mouth a crescent of pleasure and his great chest heaving with beneficence.

  “Try these for size,” he said.

  “I thank ya for ‘em,” said Francis.

  “They’re good and warm.”

  “Just what I need. Nothin’ left of mine.”

  “It’s fine that you’re off the drink. You’ve got a strong look about you today.”

  “Just a false face for Halloween.”

  “Don’t run yourself down. Have faith.”

  The door to the mission opened and a slim young man in bifocals and a blue topcoat two sizes small for him, his carroty hair a field of cowlicks, stood in its frame. He held the doorknob with one hand and stood directly under the inside ceiling light, casting no shadow.

  “Shut the door,” Pee Wee yelled, and the young man stepped in and shut it. He stood looking at all in the mission, his face a cracked plate, his eyes panicked and rabbity.

  “That’s it for him,” Pee Wee said.

  The preacher strode to the door and stood inches from the young man, studying him, sniffing him.

  “You’re drunk,” the preacher said.

  “I only had a couple.”

  “Oh no. You’re in the beyond.”

  “Honest,” said the young man. “Two bottles of beer.”

  “Where did you get the money for beer?”

  “A fella paid me what he owed me.”

  “You panhandled it.”

  “No.”

  “You’re a bum.”

  “I just had a drink, Reverend.”

  “Get your things together. I told you I wouldn’t put up with this a third time. Arthur, get his bags.”

  Pee Wee stood up from the table and climbed the stairs to the rooms where the resident handful lived while they sorted out their lives. The preacher had invited Francis to stay if he could get the hooch out of his system. He would then have a clean bed, clean clothes, three squares, and a warm room with Jesus in it for as long as it took him to answer the question: What next? Pee Wee held the house record: eight months in the joint, and managing it after three, such was his zeal for abstention. No booze, no smoking upstairs (for drunks are fire hazards), carry your share of the work load, and then rise you must, rise you will, into the brilliant embrace of the just God. The kitchen volunteers stopped their work and came forward with solemnized pity to watch the eviction of one of their promising young men. Pee Wee came down with a suitcase and set it by the door.