The Ballad of West Tenth Street

by Marjorie Kernan

  “I have to talk to her doctor,” Sadie said. “You all have a good chat, after all, I saw her only a few days ago. Gretchen, I’ll talk to you later, we’ll have a natter about something Mr. Palek told me. You tell Brian everything. And you, Brian, don’t steal her meds.”

  “Meds, Christ,” Brian said to Gretchen when Sadie had left. “Don’t you know that drugs are for recreational purposes? What’re you doing in a place like this? You can’t actually like being treated like a zombie. You should be running around in a scrap of a dress and doing drugs with boys in bathrooms, off the porcelain altar.”

  A nurse who’d been helping a patient nearby straightened up and stalked over to stand in front of Brian. “That sort of talk is no help at all,” she said. “It’s the sort of talk that gets them all confused, it’s disgusting!” The righteous rage in her made her face scarlet.

  “Them?” Brian said. “Who the fuck’s them? And take a look at yourself, you’re the one all fussed up and acting irrational. Our Gretchen here’s enjoying herself.” He waved his hand toward her and she did indeed have a small, sly smile on her face. “Get along with you, scat!” Brian said to the nurse, who attempted a dignified outrage as she turned and walked off. Brian made a cross with his fingers and aimed it at her back.

  “That bitch tries anything on, you just tell Uncle Brian,” he said to Gretchen. “Only supposing you could get your shit together and talk again. Don’t you find talking useful? Miss it a bit? I know how silence is the best defense, but listen, lass, aren’t you going a bit overboard?”

  “I brought you a book,” Deen said. Gretchen took it and touched its cover. “It’s Jane Eyre. I just read it and got you a special copy. I mean, I didn’t read this one—I got soup on some of the pages of mine. There isn’t any soup on this one, I checked.”

  Hamish offered her a small drawing he’d labored over during the week. It was square, done in bright colors on hard, polished paper, of a foot in a night sky, and on each toe was a ring with an animal carved in semiprecious stones.

  “It’s a design for an album cover,” he said. “The band would be you, me, and Liall, maybe Deen on the keyboards, with Uncle Brian producing. You haven’t met Liall yet, he’s cool. He has a fake leg and they ran out of black legs so they gave him a white one. I mean, it’s really the color of a Band-Aid, nobody’s color.”

  Gretchen smiled, touched one finger over the drawing, then put it inside the book. Her family sat, thinking, with varying degrees of articulateness, the same thing, how she hadn’t simply stopped talking, she’d stopped participating. How she let things happen around her and was still sweet, but didn’t seem to be part of it.

  Outside the long bank of windows the sun shone obliquely across the endless meadow, tingeing the edges of the trees with red and making every leaf and blade stand out. Deen stared out at the Kodachrome landscape, wishing she were not there.

  8

  Deen’s piano teacher, Elizabeth Schaper, was a very nice young woman who’d finished her master’s degree at Juilliard three years earlier. She shared quarters with another young musician, a rather dirty girl named Fred, in a tiny apartment on Grand Street.

  Nice is a damning word in many cases, but in this instance the most accurate way to describe Elizabeth’s essential nature. Tall and narrow of shoulder, she had large brown eyes and always ascribed to people better motives than they actually had. In fact, because of her faith in people’s goodness, she was often treated well by others, even loved, though rarely the love that a man feels toward a red and thriving woman. For her part, Elizabeth fell in love often and hard, staggering from one abyss of unrequited passion to another, spending many lonely nights in tears.

  Deen did not love Elizabeth. She liked her well enough and sometimes was thrilled when she praised her work, but Deen had a tough little soul and instinctively knew that being nice wasn’t enough to excite her respect. She privately thought that to be a great musician one needed many things, things like ruthlessness, intellect, and tenacity, and that being kind to people probably didn’t rate very high on the list. Though of course you had to pretend to be kind to certain people, in order to get them to do what you wanted.

  Fred she hated. Fred often banged in before the lesson was over, strutting about, her untidy little body made worse by sloppy gray corduroys and shapeless sweaters. Fred was a clarinetist and believed that classical music, social hierarchies, and capitalism were evils that must die, long live the avant-garde.

  That afternoon, Fred made a great scraping of keys in the lock, then shoved the door open. She barreled in, tossing her clarinet case on a chair. Elizabeth and Deen were playing some Schubert pieces for four hands. They finished the final piece but without the same enjoyment, knowing that Fred was there, smirking at them.

  “Ooh, lovely,” Fred said as the last notes died. “Pretty-pretty, so dainty and tied up with pink bows. Music to soothe the rich, they clap, saying, aren’t our lives just one big spun-sugar cake. God, what shit! What’s with you people?”

  She flung herself into a ratty armchair and lay back wearily. “Deen, what would your father think if he could see you sitting there like some little fucking Marie Antoinette, playing lovely little tinkling tunes? I bet he’d shit a brick.”

  “Stop it, Fred,” Elizabeth said. “You know perfectly well he’d be thrilled his daughter was a musician, like him. And that was not a tinkling tune, that was Schubert. Here, I’ll get you a cigarette. There, take a nice big puff, isn’t that better? Really, don’t you think Deen’s playing has come along remarkably?”

  “Yeah, great. Hey Deen—good thing your daddy made so much money, so you could carry on the capitalist fantasy that each generation aspires to greater culture. God, rich people!” She got up and went to her room, slamming the door.

  “She’s a bit on edge these days because she hasn’t had many jobs lately,” Elizabeth said as Deen prepared to leave. “She really likes you, just isn’t very good at expressing it.”

  Huh, Deen thought as she went down the stairs. Huh and double huh. And why doesn’t she clean her fingernails—it must gross people out, watching her play. I should’ve told that dirty little beast to go to hell. Pops would be glad I wanted to be a musician. And he’d probably find me a better teacher than Elizabeth. I’ve got to talk to Munster about that. What a dirty little sow Fred is. Always acts like I’ve done something bad just because we aren’t poor. People like that always have no idea what they’re talking about anyway, think everyone who has the taste not to wallow in vulgarity is rich. And Elizabeth’s so dumb she can’t see that that grubby little warthog’s in love with her. Just acts like they’re sisters or something. At least it’s driving old Fred nuts.

  Passing by hip little cafés with well-dressed, chattering young people, looking in at them as she trudged the sidewalks, Deen felt woefully outside of everything, like a ghost wandering unseen. A girl with dyed yellow hair wearing a striped coat with a high collar leaned across a table to kiss a man’s cheek. Outside the café a dozen patrons smoked and talked into their cell phones. Deen wondered when she would ever be on the inside, laughing and flirting. God, being almost fourteen was about the worst thing that could happen to a person.

  When she let herself in the front door she heard her mother’s voice in the living room. Sadie was sitting on the sofa, serving tea to an old, fat man with a beard.

  “Darling, this is Colonel Harrington,” Sadie said. “Colonel, my daughter Deen.”

  “Delighted, my dear,” he said, rising to bow to her. The effort made him grunt.

  “Stay and have some tea,” Sadie said, patting the cushion next to her. “Colonel Harrington’s our new neighbor next door.”

  Deen had been about to make an excuse but when she heard that she sat down abruptly. Imagine Munster pulling this rabbit out of a hat. Sadie poured her a cup and handed it to her with a wink. Deen noticed she was using the new tray he’d sent a few days earlier, a splendid thing in lacquer with fritillaries that matched the co
lor of the room, that had real silver handles.

  “Yes, well, New York City, my word,” the colonel said, obviously returning to what he’d been saying. “Quite a change for me, born and bred in the South as I was. Don’t know quite how it came about but seemed like a voice rang out, said go to New York, my son. Sounded like the voice of a very old man I knew once, a man who’d been my grandfather’s coachman. An authoritative voice, if you know what I mean. Had to listen, and here I am. Find New York a bit of a poser. Thought I might get to know my neighbors, old habits from the homeland and all that. Must say, the people on the other side seem far from friendly. Left my card there yesterday morning. No response whatsoever. She’s a psychiatrist, I’m told. Pity, I have some interesting questions I should like to ask her.”

  As the old man rambled on, Deen stopped listening to observe him closely. He was old, he was fat, his beard and hair were white streaked with gray. His hair was rather long for an old man. She could see that Munster found him delightful—Munster loved eccentrics. Especially eccentrics with nice manners, which this one had in spades. He wore a real suit, the kind made with a waistcoat. A gold chain fell across his round stomach. He had very clean fingernails. Fred would go simply mad if she were here, Deen thought happily, get so incensed she’d lose it and bite him, sinking her teeth in. Then they’d call 911 and the police would have to shoot her.

  “All been in storage for decades,” he was saying, “while I roamed the world. Can’t say exactly what I was seeking, never found it. Decided to make a home again, get all the family furniture out of mothballs. Naturally planned to live in the town where I was born, but then my grandaddy’s coachman told me to come here. Must say, I find New York peculiar. Everything seems to be a matter of price. Found a wonderful woman to help me with the house, perhaps you’ve met her? Mrs. de Angelo. Wanted me to call her mizz but simply cannot, too damn old. Yes, thank you most kindly, I will take another cup of your excellent tea. I think you must’ve spent some time in England, Mrs. Hollander.”

  “Yes, my husband was English.”

  “Ah, a mystery unraveled. But you say was?”

  “Yes, he died.”

  “I am most deeply sorry.”

  “That’s all right—it’s been over twelve years. Please go on about your house.”

  “Had an idea. To re-create my family home. Right here in New York City. Looked at a number of houses uptown—you see, I’m learning the lingo. Nothing suited me there, they somehow didn’t feel like real houses. Now mine, I instantly recognized as a home, as I understand it. Do many New Yorkers live in their family houses?”

  “No, not many. Most live in apartments, as a matter of fact.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “Well, I suppose they can’t afford it. Most of the old houses are broken up into apartments, some of them quite small.”

  “A pity. I can’t quite see why. Still, it’s a place I am a complete foreigner to. In any case, I asked Mrs. de Angelo to try to re-create the home I was raised in and she did a most admirable job. I have rarely been so pleased. I imagine that as an Eye-talian, she has a keen nose for the refinements of old families. Don’t you find this is always so? They come to this country, observe our ways, and, in a flash, are better at them than we. Must say, this is a very fine room. The paintings are curious, are they African? I spent some years on the Dark Continent and formed a profound admiration for the boldness of their patterns.”

  He craned his neck and looked about the room, like a turtle peering from its shell. At that moment Hamish came skidding in, slid to a stop, and stared open-mouthed at the colonel.

  “Who’re you?” he said.

  “This is my youngest, Hamish,” Sadie said. “Hames, see if you can recall your manners and say hello to Colonel Harrington.”

  Hamish went over and put out his hand. “Glad to meet you, my boy,” the colonel said. He fumbled about to reach Hamish’s hand.

  “He’s the one who moved in next door,” Deen hissed to him as he sat. Hamish responded with an amazed and gratified look.

  “Are you really a colonel?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Deen wants to know what kind of piano you have” was his next question. “Do any other people live in the house with you? The last people who lived there called the cops once when Munster had a party. Munster says New Yorkers don’t get to know their neighbors. She says they wait to get to know them in court.”

  “I fear your mother is correct, my boy. The piano is a Chickering. My cook Ettie lives in. Now, I must leave you. Mrs. Hollander, you’ve been wonderfully kind in breaking the rules and asking me to tea. Assure you I haven’t had such excellent tea in a long while. Don’t fear that I’ll be bothering you often, one must be circumspect, but please call on me should you feel the wish to. At my age I am often at home.”

  With that the colonel heaved himself up, bowed to Sadie, and marched out with a curious gait, his steps precise but his feet staying close to the floor. Before they knew it he’d taken up his hat and let himself out.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all,” Sadie said, sinking back into the sofa.

  Sadie was walking across Washington Square Park a few days later, returning from a rather grisly session with her accountant. She passed the dry fountain filled with street performers shouting to the crowd. The park had its own peculiar population: druggies and pushers, stoners with masses of hair piled under knitted caps, old women getting exercise in ancient cloth coats buttoned to their chins, crazy people, bums, chess players, folk guitarists, and demonstrators. The same old crowd, many who spent each day there. Until they disappeared suddenly, jerked up on some invisible wire to meet their fate.

  On a bench beneath the oak once used for hangings she saw a large figure strapped up in a sheepskin coat, his gray beard spread over its lapels.

  She slowed and he looked up, smiling at her. “Good day to you, Miss,” he said, taking off an imaginary cap.

  “Excuse me, but are you…?” Sadie couldn’t say his name, what if the children had made it up? It was a most improbable name. “Do you possibly know my children? A boy and girl with caramel-colored hair?”

  “Why yes, Deen and young master Hamish?”

  “That’s them. I’m their mother, Sadie Hollander,” she said, offering her hand.

  Corporal George Meens, late of the U.S. Army, rose. “Cap’n Meat,” he said. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance. Would you like to sit?” he asked rather hesitantly. It had been a long while since a pretty woman had been civil to him.

  “Thanks. My children seem to have taken a shine to you. They told me—they didn’t want to but I wormed it out of them—that you chased away an older boy who’d been taunting them. They didn’t want me to know that part, you see, they value their freedom to roam the neighborhood. I really appreciate your coming to their rescue.”

  “Oh, who wouldn’t look out for such nice young ones? The boy was just being mean-spirited, taking it out on them for being white. I haven’t seen him about since. It’s a sad truth that simply by being large I carry a certain amount of threat. But I have to admit, it’s a help on the streets.”

  “You don’t have anywhere to stay?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that—of course I do,” he lied. “I stay in a shelter at night. I merely meant that I’m on the streets until it opens. They go to great efforts to turn us out to seek work each morning.”

  “And do many?”

  “Of course not,” the Cap’n said.

  “Well, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to think the do-gooders do that much good. The world would be terribly boring if everyone did what they were supposed to.”

  “Do you mind that I talk to your children? I’ve taken a bit of a shine to them myself. But if you’d prefer it, I could remain friendly but not chat with them.”

  Sadie was distressed. She wondered if he thought she’d stopped to warn him to stay away from Deen and Hamish. “Oh, no,” she said. “I just wante
d to meet you because the children had said such nice things about you. I’m very pleased that you’re their friend.”

  “But you don’t know if I’m safe for them to be around, what made me what I am.”

  “I think I know a little bit. And the person to be asked that question is called McNamara. You were probably a straight-arrow kid before you got drafted, weren’t you? My father fought in World War Two, he thought it was the biggest lark of his life. He never understood that Vietnam was a mess.”

  “It’s the smells that come back the strongest, the ones that came creeping in under the tent flap.”

  Sadie looked at him, at his crazy, still-black eyebrows over innocent gray eyes, and his broad, sandblasted face. It was a good face; it had grown into his character and represented his travails and his cheerfulness in spite of them. She’d think of a word to describe those crazy eyebrows, a word that she knew would come to her eventually.

  “Listen,” she said. “Would a twenty be a help?”

  “Oh, that’s far too much. I mean, I couldn’t take anything, well, a ten wouldn’t be refused.”

  “Consider it simply business, among friends,” Sadie said, folding a note in her handbag and discreetly slipping it into his hand. “I hope we’ll meet again. Are you often here?”

  “Yes. It’s become my bench, as it were. They say they used to hang people from this oak, back when hangings were a matter of public entertainment. I like to keep the tree company, see only what a fine old tree it is.”

  As Sadie walked away she reflected on yet another life broken on the merry carnival show of pop-up rhetoricians playing their fake battles with words and toilet plungers for lances, in that nest of liars in Washington.

  Suddenly the word to describe Cap’n Meat’s eyebrows came to her—roadkill.