by Stan Hayes
As I drank the surprisingly good coffee, a woman’s low-pitched voice at my elbow said “Please excuse us.” I looked up into deep green eyes in the shade of lush eyebrows. Her hair, cut in a short bob, was chestnut brown,. Thinnish, beautifully crafted lips, unblurred by lipstick. I guessed her age as late twenties; I would find out later that she was thirty-three.
She sat down on my right at the table; the boy, sitting opposite me, looked at me with the same direct gaze as his mother. “I understand Smokey’s looking after your car,” she said. So, even if the voice wasn’t exactly what you’d expect from such a small package, they didn’t all talk like Reba and Smokey.
“Yeah; at this hour, I doubt that I’ll hear from him until tomorrow.”
“Do you have far to go?” As far as I could tell, she wore no makeup at all. A scattering of tiny freckles trickled down the bridge of her nose, across her cheekbones toward a sharp jaw line that would have been handsome on a man. A naturally serious face that softened when she smiled. Her hands would’ve also fit a man; not strangers to work, the fingernails blunt-cut and unpolished.
“Florida. On business. Lookin’ for a new business, actually; I’m not livin’ through one more winter up north.”
“Oh, we know about those winters, don’t we, Jack? He was born in New York.”
“Y’don’t say! So was I. But you’re not from N’yoauk.”
“No. I went to Columbia University; that’s where Jack’s father and I met.”
“I see. And now da two of you manage da hotel.”
She chuckled, low down in her throat. “No. He still lives in New York. He teaches at Columbia.”
“Mom, can I go now?” the boy said. “Tom Mix is on.”
“Sure, honey, go ahead. I should get back myself; Mr. Kubielski’s- did I say it right? His dinner’ll be here any minute.”
“Ya said it just right,” I said. “Could I persuade ya to join me? I’d appreciate da company.”
She had already started to stand; pausing, she looked at the boy. “Go on, Jack; you’ll miss your program. I’ll be up in a few minutes and fix your supper.” The boy ran out. She walked over to Reba, spoke briefly with her, and returned to the table. “I think you’ll enjoy your dinner. We should really call Reba’s cook, Nelson, the chef, but that’s a bit much for this little old town. Thanks for the invitation; Jack and I enjoy each other’s company, but some adult conversation over dinner’ll be a nice change of pace.”
“Of course,” I said. “I hope ya don’t mind my askin’, but how does a young woman like you, wid a child, end up inna hotel business?”
“Easy; my father owns the hotel. When I left my husband I had precious few options, and this was one of them. I like living in the city, even if it’s a little bitty one like this, and I’d rather run a business than just have some job or other. I had to learn fast, but we’ve been here almost two years now, and the hotel’s doing OK.”
“That’s good. And Jack likes livin’ here?.”
“Yes. He’s a great kid, if I do say so. He reminds me now and then that we live in the biggest house in town. He really loves the hotel, and he’s learned a lot about what it takes to keep it going.”
“Maybe he’ll take over one day and build more hotels.”
“Maybe. I wouldn’t rule it out. Although he seems to have his father’s gift for mathematics; he may very well decide, as Larry did, that business is just too grubby for him.”
The food came; she’d ordered the special, too. As we ate, I said, “Izzat what he teaches at Columbia? Mathematics?”
“No. Physics.”
“And you left N’yoauk in ’44.”
“Actually, we weren’t in the city when I left Larry. He had a wartime job that took us away from New York. If we hadn’t left, we might still be together.”
“So ya liked it,” I said, watching her eat, admiring her hands, large for a woman’s, buff-gold skin taut over internal structures as they transformed simple tasks into events worth watching.
“No. I loved it. I went to Columbia because it was in New York. My fine arts major finished second to my interest in a charming young nuclear physicist and his work. Big mistake,” she said, smiling. I’m going back when Jack grows up. Did you live there long?”
“All my life, until I joined the Navy. I was born there, right after my parents moved there from Dublin. Ireland.”
“Ireland. Well, you sound absolutely New York. I lived there long enough to pick that accent out of a crowd. But your name’s...”
“Polish. My father was from Danzig. Now Gdansk. He met my mother while he was teachin’ at University College in Dublin. And I thought th’ N’Yoauk accent’d worn off a little durin’ my time in Balamer.”
“Oh. Where’s that?”
“Balamer; uh, Baltimore. Maryland.”
“Oh, yes. Well, not that much, really. Anyway, I like it. And now you’re headed to Florida. What kind of business are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure. I managed a neighborhood theatre in Balamer, but I’m a film projectionist by trade, and I oughta be able to find work almost anywhere. I thought I’d just go down and live for a while; see what life’s like down there, and what the opportunities might be.”
“I see. Film projectionist- you run the projector in a movie theater?”
“Yeah. Projectors. There’s two in a projection booth. Ya transition from one to the other as th’ reels run out.”
“Hm. I never thought much about how that’s done. Or who did it. Do you like it?”
“It’s not bad, if you’re inna union. One a’da things I’ve thought about is buyin’ a small theater. I could handle a projection room shift myself while I got things goin’.”
“Um-hm, that would help with your overhead at first. I imagine that the movie business is growing down there, but I think you’re wise to take a good look for yourself before you make a move like that,” she said, finishing her coffee. She looked up at the clock above the restaurant’s cash register. “Oh, God. I’m talking your ear off; I’d better get upstairs and take care of Jack. Tom Mix’s off by now, and he’ll remember that he’s hungry. Thanks for the interlude; I love talking about New York, but you must be ready to collapse; if you need anything, just call the front desk and they’ll take care of you.” She stood, extending one of those incredible hands. I stood up, taking it, imagining biting into the flesh between her thumb and forefinger.
“It was my pleasure. I hope to see ya again before I go,” I said.
“Yes. Please have me paged if I’m not at the desk. Sleep well.” She walked away quickly, leaving me to conclude that the little extra switch of the trim set of hips was for my benefit, and to imagine their sweet resilience. And I wondered who might now be taking pleasure in them; this was not a woman who’d go willingly to seed.
Reba was waiting for me at the cash register. “Can I charge this to da room?” I asked.
“You could,” she said, brushing back a wisp of damp red hair, “but it’s been took care of. Miz Mason tole me to charge it to the hotel. Didja enjoy it?”
“Sure did. I’m lookin’ forward to breakfast awreddy.”
“If you really want to sleep good,” she said, “you oughta come with us to prayer meetin’ taniit. It’s riit across the street over there, at the First Babdist Church.” A little shake of her head toward a large red brick building that commanded the view through the window at her left. It sat under a tall white spire, broad steps running the full width of the building.
“Thanks, but I’m way too tiyud. But thanks for da invitation; I’ve never been in a Baptist church.”
“You ain’t? My stars. What faith’re you?”
“Jewish, more or less.”
“Oh. Well, th’ain’t no Jewish church in Bisque. Not that I know of. Just not that many Jewish livin’ around here.”
“We call ’em synagogues, or temples. Thanks for da invitation, anyway. How do ya get away from da restaurant durin’ dinner?”
“Oh, meetin’ don’t start ‘til eight, and we’re pretty much done servin’ dinner by then. Well, sleep tiit, Mr.....?”
“Kubielski. Moses Kubielski.”
“Yes,” she said, looking closely at me, as if remembering my face would help her negotiate this mouthful. “Mr. Kabeesky. Well, be seein’ you for breakfast, he-unh.”
I walked past the register and onto the street, around the corner from the hotel door. As I did, I heard a shrill “Watch out!” from my left. A blow hit the back of my thighs, and just like that my ass was jammed into a big wire basket. I’d become the cargo of a bicycle. We wobbled down the sidewalk; two little girls who’d just rounded the corner, seeing this tangle of humanity and machine bearing down on them, scrambled up on the hood of a parked car just before we hit the bumper and went down. The rider, a nigger boy, was on his feet immediately, big round eyes looking at me. He was about fifteen or sixteen, wearing a too-big army shirt with corporal’s chevrons. Looking up, I saw the circled A of Third Army on the left shoulder. “You OK, mistah?” he asked.
Still bent double in the basket, I grabbed his hand and crabbed myself out. “Yeah, I think so,” I said, straightening up. “Where ya goin’ in such a hurry?”
“Down de sto,” he replied, waving an arm languidly toward the street. “D’livry.”
“Well, be careful, willya?. That thing’s a lethal weapon.” I’d seen bikes like it in Baltimore, with a small front wheel to make room for the big basket. “Whacha deliverin’ in such a hurry?”
“Growshry,” he said, standing on the pedals and pulling away, turning sharply right and disappearing up the street.
The girls, who looked to be about Jack’s age, still sat, motionless, watching me with solemn faces. They were twins, brunettes, in identical blue dresses.
“It’s OK, ladies; just a little accident, nothin’ to worry about. You can come down now,” I told them.
They dismounted, continuing to look at me as they did. “A car almost hit ’im one time,” said the one on the left.
“Sho did,” said the one on the right.
“Spilled growshries all over th’ place,” said the one on the left.
“Sho did,” said the one on the right.
“Well, no harm done this time,” I said. “See?” I did a little time-step to show them I was really all right.
They nodded, skeptically and in unison. “But you already broke a leg one time,” said the one on the left.
“Yeah, Pedro, you better be careful,” said the one on the right. Sliding down off the car, they walked to the corner, and stood waiting for the traffic light to change. I stood in my tracks, wondering if I’d heard what I heard.
“You all right?” Reba’s voice said from behind me.
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks. He came out of nowhere.”
“That’s Ziggy, all right.”
“Ziggy?”
“Uh-hunh. ’Cause he’s always ziggin’ an zaggin’ on that ole bicycle. He delivers groceries for Archer’s Market down the street. When you see that Ruptured Duck a-comin’, best just get out of the way, like them Bishop twins done. Sure you’re OK?”
“Yeah. Thanks. What’s a Ruptured Duck?”
“That’s what they call that bird inside th’ wreath on the front of Ziggy’s shirt. Makes it OK to wear it after you been discharged, I think.”
“Oh, I see. And who are dose little girls?”
“Them twins? Big Boy Bishop’s kids. I seen ’em talkin’ to you; funny, th’ way they almost sound like one person sometimes. Niice girls, though.”
“Sure; well, see you tomorrow.” I walked around the corner, turned into the hotel and headed for the elevator, spooked about the twins calling me “Pedro,” and that crack about my leg. I’d had enough Bisque for one day, that was for sure. The elevator man, who I’d seen doubling as bellboy, shut the door and pulled the control bar to take us up.
“That little nigger coulda hurt you bad,” he said, looking straight ahead. A tall, stringy man somewhere in his sixties, he sat bolt upright on the little seat, his voice bouncing off the elevator door back to me. A series of deep creases, like suddenly-healed scalpel cuts, crisscrossed the back of his neck under strings of oily hair. “Sumbidy oughta fix his ass ’fo he rilly hurts sumbidy.”
“Fix him? Sounds a little strong for a sore butt,” I said.
He stopped the elevator at the fourth floor and opened the door. He turned to me, his muddy brown eyes, close-set into his bony brown face, looking straight into mine. He had the breath of a fucking cannibal. “I said befo he hurts sumbidy,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. I got out, hoping this lizard hadn’t spawned.
Chapter V. The Town
The phone rang, bringing me out of my handstand against the door. “This here’s Smokey. You gonna need a new raddiator core, awriit. Yores is purty well rotted out. I’ll show ye when ye come down. New one’ll run seb’mty-two dollars, and thutty-five labor ta put it in.”
“Hm. Well, if that’s what it takes...”
“Hit is. Th’old one’s split from shit to shinola. Th’ other thang is, ’at two-cobbarater motor takes a heavy-duty core, and I ain’t found one yet. Hit may be a day er two ’fore I kin gitcha goin’.”
“Well- OK. Just gimme an idea of how long it’ll be when you can.”
“So that’s a hunderd and seb’m dollars all told, an thas ’greeable to ye?”
“Yeah. Thanks for your help.” I hung the phone up and looked out the window at Bisque in August. Eight-fifteen, and the heat was already building. It shimmered off the traffic’s blistering steel, stopping and starting at the light on the corner. A lot of it was long-haul trucks, belching and farting their way up and down the north-south artery of U.S. Highway 1. Five stories above the noise wasn’t high enough.
I short-cut my calisthenics and lay back down, suddenly wanting my dream of last night back, looking over Serena’s shoulder down the greenest of slopes into a blue lake, stroking her back, from the nape of her neck to the shady parting of her cheeks, bending to kiss her, willing the slick drool out of my cock. But what came back was Sarah, face down, arms above her head, waiting, cool morning light on the nape of her neck, the curve of her back, the twin hollows above her cheeks, sweet places in soft shadow, the dancer’s calves, the slender feet and toes that I’d never suck again. Instead I’m here, deep in Erskine Caldwell country, dreaming about a new woman. They’re like marker buoys in a channel. “Ding-dong, steer to port; ding-dong, steer to starboard.” Except for that rotten fucking radiator, I’d be at least as far south as Jacksonville by now, next stop Miami, and Havana on the horizon.
I was in the restaurant by 9:15 in my last clean shirt, sitting down at the same table as last night. Reba sat at the counter; seeing me come in, she went behind it and picked up a coffee pot. “Mornin’, Mr. Kabeesky,” she said. “You musta slept well; you missed our mornin’ rush. You feelin’ OK?”
“Oh, yeah, just fine. What’s his name? -Ziggy? He left me in one piece.”
“Sometimes I think we oughta call ’im ‘Crash’. He’s a sweet boy, but he ain’t got but one speed on that biike- wiide open. What am I gonna feed you this mornin’?”
“I dunno; maybe some scrambled eggs’d be good. And sausage. Whole wheat toast.”
“You want regular or hot sausage, Hon?”
“What? I don’t know. How hot’s the hot kind?”
“Pretty hot. I liike the regular m’sef; with sage and black pepper. But we get lotsa calls for the hot, with them little flakes a’red pepper in it.”
“Too early in the morning for me, Reba; make it regular.”
When she brought it, the sausage was in patties, like little hamburgers, and very spicy. As I ate, my mind drifted back to Serena. I was looking absently across the street at a slowly rolling barber’s pole when Jack materialized at my elbow. “Hi,” he said, green-eying me.
“Oh. Hey, Jack. How you doin’?”
“Fine. You goin’ down to Smokey’s this
mornin’?”
“Not right away; he’s gotta find some parts to fix my car. Izzat where you’re headed?”
“No, sir; I don’t usually go down ’ere ’less I’m with Ricky- remember him from yesterday? We stop by sometimes to get a Coke and watch what they’re doin’. But I thought if you were goin’, maybe I’d go with you- if you didn’t mind.”
“Well, he told me this mornin’ dat he didn’t have the part he needs yet, so I won’t be goin’ ’til I hear back from him. Won’t be long before you’re back in school, will it?”
“No, sir.”
“What grade willya be in this year?”
“Fifth.”
“That's a good-lookin’ belt buckle you got there, buddy.” The buckle was a massive chunk of what looked like hand-carved silver, a lump of turquoise embedded in the middle.
“Thanks,” said Jack. “My dad sent it to me for my birthday last year.”
“I know you're proud of it.”
“Sure am,” he said with a grin. “He got me this belt to go with it when I went up to see him this summer.”
“Well, I'd say you might never need another belt buckle in your life. Somebody built dat one ta last. That's a nice piecea turquoise they put in it, too. Say; as one N’yoauk boy to anudda, if you’re not gonna be too busy this mornin’, howdja like to show me around town a little? If yer mother wooden mind.”
He grinned. “N’yoa-uk boy. Wait a minute and I’ll see.”