The owner of the house and lot at seventeen eleven Pierce; of the duplex that backs up to the alley at four seventy-seven Chauncey, formerly the family home and now a house divided . . .
Fender peeked where their glee, in beaded strings, divided: Glick’s fists were turtling toward his knees, the thumbs were heads. . . .
. . . of lots at six oh five North Erie and two twenty-three Scott, both vacant except for ashes, cans, and native weeds . . .
Such a saddens story, sweetie, says Isabelle, such a sorry story . . .
. . . a beaten path across Billswool Place . . .
I know the one.
Do you, dearie? Well . . . renter of dingy office space at ninety-eight South Main near the Central Station and close to the bus . . .
Maybe, thought Fender, he should scream them under, throw a fit, have some sort of frothing seizure. How many peas, Glick, do you suppose are contained in the average pot pie? the beef? He might ask that.
. . . sordid work room . . .
Yes indeedy, says Isabelle.
. . . a ratty-off-hole . . .
Don’t we know it, says Isabelle.
. . . a god damn grave . . .
Oh now, Leo, exclaims Isabelle.
. . . but handy . . .
Very handy, says Isabelle.
. . . to the bus . . .
To the bus, yes, says Isabelle.
. . . and to the railroad . . .
Just as you say, says Isabelle, the railroad.
What was epilepsy, Fender thought, but a struggle with the powers of the air.
. . . holder in fee simple of Leo Glick and Charlie Fender . . .
And also me-oh, says Isabelle.
. . . holder of expired guarantees, depression script, forfeited bail bonds . . .
Eeee . . .
. . . holder of mortgages . . .
How many peas? he might ask that. Go ahead, Glick, guess.
. . . tennis courts, Coke machines, car lots, traffic islands, circus tents, cat houses . . .
Reelee, I wouldn’t know, says Isabelle.
. . . holder of options in addition . . .
Fender had chosen to wallow in the gravy and the steam.
. . . fire escapes, dumbwaiters, clothes chutes, letter drops, elevators . . .
Guess, how many peas? I’m not green like you, Glick, not countably discrete, not caught between tines, not raised, not even bitten through or mashed against the teeth.
. . . pee-bins and squat-closets . . .
Leo, honestly, says Isabelle.
Fender remembered the census had missed him. He’d had to call attention to himself. How bitter he’d been about that.
. . . furthermore landlord in London-like absentia of slums in the country and yard-farms in town . . .
Fender began fumbling for his figures—the gently purple card—and Pearson perhaps would come; please lord to let him.
. . . acres of scrub and eroding gullies, mud flats, river islands . . .
Look, Glick, jesus, stop, cease, end—get off!
. . . erstwhile . . .
Dearie, exclaims Isabelle.
. . . erstwhile, I say, though still at times trader in lamp-wick stock and photo booths . . .
Okay, okay, okay, okay, consider it over . . .
. . . as well as salt swamps in Florida, pine barrens in Canada, sand boxes and cliff sides in New Mexico and Arizona . . .
O-kay . . .
. . . in Kentucky: caves; in Montana: butte tops; all over the country—the appropriate clip; for hire, let, lease, rent, charter, or sale: cattle-tittle ranches in Idaho, for instance (pardon me, Isabelle) . . .
You’re forgiven, honey.
Wait’ll you’re dead, you’ll see. It’s the physical they’ll respect—only right.
. . . yessiree, Pearson of the Pearson Agency and the Pearson Agency itself are all washed up, done for; they’ve gone pop, kaflooey, bang . . .
You sing so sweetly, like a thrush, says Isabelle.
Most bodies outlast the souls that rent them—know that? I read it somewhere. True.
. . . yup, this same Pearson Agency, after years of splendid service to the community, is absolutely bussst (pardon me, Isabelle, but busssssssst!) . . .
Think nothing of it, honey, you were carried away.
You know, Fender, a person gets his living room for a low fee. It’s something to think about. On the nose. Smacko.
. . . and Pearson, in arrears up to his assets . . .
Oh Leo—that’s good, that’s always good, says Isabelle.
. . . in bitter shame, in low despair, all sour-mouthed and quite thoroughly quinced, has fallen not on the sword of his lodge . . .
Not, wonders Isabelle.
. . . but on the—on the impertinent pick of an icicle . . .
What, exclaims Isabelle.
. . . so when it’s melted itself from the puncture, everyone will wonder—like in the mystery books and pictures—
Oooo, says Isabelle.
. . . as much at how he lowered the lid on his life . . .
Closed the cover on his career . . .
Hush now, honey—let me . . . so I say that everyone will wonder, when it’s melted itself from the puncture, as much at how he let the air out of his life as they ever had before at how he’d pumped it in her.
Leo, you’re simply fabulous, I mean really fabulous.
Yeah, you’re one of the wisemen, Glick, you know? one of the wisemen.
3
As Fender slowly approached, they got out of their car and waited for him on the sidewalk. She seemed terribly small and muffled up, and when he drew near he saw that she was both. Her hat was covered with fur, she wore a fur coat that seemed to have been stained mahogany, and there were tattered strips of fur around the tops of her overshoes that had been dipped in a similar color. Her hands were hidden in a fur muff that almost matched her coat and she stood very formally, the muff at her middle, like a figure in a print or display in a shop. She was even smaller than he’d thought: the furs of her coat were long and coarse, the collar closed across her chin, her over-shoes had high thin heels. The man said something. Fender greeted him; his words were gay. The moist lips, the movement of the arm, the grip, the crinkle at the edge of the eye, the bob he gave to his head—all were there, performing for him, working their spell as he liked to think, for even if it was Ringley he was selling, he owed it to Pearson, and after this morning he felt his loyalty more deeply, perhaps, than he ever had before. He gratefully acknowledged his debt, because Pearson was far better than . . . far better than Glick and all the other people who regularly jeered at him. He was better absolutely. He had a beautiful belief. And although it was true that he sold badly—he had too much momentum, it carried him past the sale—still . . . Fender smiled at the woman, who blinked. She had swollen eyes, and her nose, which surprised Fender by being huge and angular, was raw beneath the nostrils. That’s the way it goes, he thought, turning away; she’s got the flu or something, and I’ll catch it. Fender couldn’t blame people for hating Pearson. Pearson was a bully. Fender had felt his anger and contempt often enough; had heard him brag at length and failed his challenges. With a pencil pulled suddenly from his pocket, Fender wrote figures in the snow. Needs a bit of paint of course . . . but sits well back. These fine old homes . . . there’s no other way to purchase space these days, the space one requires for gracious living. It was true: he sold badly, he bragged, well, yes, he lied too, he was a bully. He was impossibly vain, an incurable gossip. But he could drive a street and tell its fortune like a Gypsy. Your body owns you; another house, isn’t it? Old souls in them, old souls like aged widow women, watching through the windows Pearson coming, helpless, unable, even, to crawl their stairs. There’d be embalming in the basement if it wasn’t damp. He threw the woman a ferocious glare but she seemed quite oblivious to him, swallowed in her animal. Fender led the way up the unshoveled walk, gallantly raking his feet from side to side to make a path, and as he
mounted the steps a breeze moved up beside him and the sun bloomed so brilliantly that the snow seemed to leap with the light. Icicles hung from the high eaves of the house, fantastically twisted, enormously long, and all around the porch smaller ones grew in great profusion. They certainly disfigure a place, he said, and the key was still cold in his pocket. Prop-purr-tee. A lovely sound. He hauled the door open.
Another thing I do—I always remember to bring along a coat hanger.
This is the entrance hall. We are diseases entering it. We are three diseases. We differ among ourselves: which of us shall be the reigning sickness in this grand old body —the muff, the muff’s man, or I? The corners of the ceiling have risen since I saw them last. Note please the grandeur of the stair. Because it curves. Curvature has grandeur. The pillar is Corinthian. And see the lathe-carved gewgaws. Now then if Pearson has the power to predict for streets and houses, for all sorts of property, reading their futures from the patches to their paint and shingles, couldn’t he . . . couldn’t he do it for a face for instance, maybe, or an elbow—Fender’s own, he realized, was caked—for an employee? This is a window seat. You don’t find many of these any more. And Fender sat heavily. Of course one’s nose seldom got its name in the papers—no clue there. Kids love window seats. The seats come up. Lids—look. Lots of storage underneath. But Fender didn’t budge, mastered by his overcoat. In Pearson’s face, morning after morning, when full of lordly entrance he had leaned over Fender’s phone and basket, what had Fender seen but just such a judgment? There’s no one to help you, Fender, you have no history, remember? Log in the stream. The house was so empty, so silent, he could hear them breathing, and their three breaths, in lease to the spirit, drifted across their collars and spilled on their sleeves. The poisons of pneumonia are heaviest. Fading in her furs like a mist in a forest. So the Agency would fold; perhaps it had, for it was bound to—when had they sold something? And here is Ringley—the walrus-jawed. And here was his responsibility. He rose wearily. Sizes! He stretched out his arms. A tape measure magically spanned the doorway. Unkinked, the masterful metal presided.
And this is the living room. See the high windows. He drove up the shades and the sun flashed through, frightening the woman in her furs, whose hairs, Fender now noticed, were split at their ends and raggedly combed. Fine floors. He stamped his foot thunderously, flouring snow around his shoe. Should a mouse run up the wall or a wasp appear from the attic, what would she do—disappear in her skins? He ran his pencil rat-a-tat-tat along the radiator. Nothing beats steam. He placed a reverent finger on the paper. Fleur-de-lis, he said. It wasn’t a mew she made, but she moved to touch her husband. Royal, he said, and rapped the wall with a knuckle. It was true: he sold badly; he was a braggart and a liar. He had cheated his clients, often dodged taxes, falsified documents, behaved like a fool in front of Isabelle, like a child, like a . . . Were they coming along? What did they want, for the love of god, what did they expect? When you think what the owner’s asking, he said, twisting his neck . . . well, it’s a shame. Romance, was it? was that the cat at the bottom of the basket? Can you recall those better days, madam and mister, when the chandeliers blazed here, and down that stair the hostess dragged her gown? With all the sliding doors drawn in, the Ringleys danced.
This used to be called the parlor. They read in here on Sundays from edifying books and during the week practiced the piano, but you could use it as a family room: hobbies, card games, the TV, toys—have a regular romp. Because of a torn blind, a splintery tree. He turned slowly, lifting his arms. Isn’t it wonderful—what a place for kids! The left hand had come from the muff and was caught now on the coat sleeve of the muff’s friend and male companion. Very suddenly there were alarming quick steps on the porch. Fender lifted the front shade and a small boy turned toward him and stared in, an icicle every bit as big as he was cradled in his arms. By god, Fender gasped, running toward the door, the nerve! The boy was standing in the snow looking at the house apprehensively when Fender burst upon the porch. Whatdoyoumean, whatdoyoumean, he yelled, as the child made off. Those icicles, boy, you ought to know, they come with the house! They’re a part of the property! Fender gave chase, but at once lost his quarry behind the garages. The child moved quickly, and in the deep snow and on the slippery drives and terraces, Fender, awkward under the best of circumstances, fell twice. Worst of all, the thief had held on to his prize. Fender returned slowly, winded, brushing his coat and trousers. The way kids carry on these days—they’ve no respect—why they’ll do anything—imagine—right under our noses—with our sign out front, too—THE PEARSON AGENCY, big as life—but what do they care? not these kids —they steal the signs—you’d be surprised. Fender shook his head. By george what nerve, he said. However when Fender looked up he could not see either of his clients, and after a moment when his eyes sought them wildly everywhere, he discovered them entering their car, which almost immediately, though the rear wheels whined, moved rapidly off.
At home, for that is where Fender, in a panic, had taken himself at once, he first shoveled the walk. It was pleasant work, his body was accommodating, and its movements made him calm. He would frequently rest to watch his icicles, the whole line, firing up, holding the sun like a maiden in her sleep or a princess in her tower—so real, so false, so magical. It was his own invention, that image, and he was proud of it. The walk completed, he sat at ease in his window, examining them carefully from that side, observing their spiral rings and ridges, the cloudy, the grainy, the cellular places, as well as the fair new ice and its queer, surprising turns, the warts and dimples which appeared on some, the threadlike quality of others, in short, every particular of their formation, imagining himself suddenly to possess a most piercing scientific eye, cold and ruthless as a knife, yet in warmth and kindness as philosophic as a blanket, taking everything in and absorbing their natures as wholly as warmer weather one day would. The melting snow ran down them, cooling as it went, until, little by little, it froze, though a drop might collect at the point sometimes and make its escape from there. Across considerable distances they bent, on occasion, to touch, or they threw out lateral shoots like vines, with minuscule fingers eagerly crooked. When he saw the postman coming, Fender hurried out and stood in front, painfully screwing a smile on, terrified lest the man push by him suddenly and knock them off. Humbly he received his mail and when the postman seemed well on his way and there was no chance he might have forgotten something and turn back, Fender, worn and sighing, thought it safe to go in. He idly shuffled through the letters—bills, ads, nothing much. You’ve no job, Fender, he said, and you haven’t eaten lunch.
The beauty of the icicles was a sign of the beauty of their possessor, Fender thought. They were a mark of nature’s favor like fair skin, fair hair, blue eyes. Only the icicles mattered. What was lunch when he was nourishing the spirit? If he could grow them inside himself, if he could swallow them like a carnival performer and put their beauty in his body . . . He dreamed, but he was disturbed, fully and honestly anxious. The sun itself would destroy them, or they would be torn off in the night by the wind, or fall helplessly in the weight of their armor. But property endures . . . . Pearson doubtless had his cemetery lot all paid for. He would attend first to his last address—that would be like him. This crypt is the site of the great man’s grave. Within, a casket, bronze, with scrolling handles, holds a plastic coffin like a Thermos liner. Rolled in a sling of satin, even beneath the earth, in his hollow body cavity, the embalming liquids sway. Momentarily Fender didn’t give a damn; he put a kiss on the glass and saw the paper boy approaching. Ah, god, he would smash—Then Fender went to the door again to greet the boy with his best hypocrisy, but the boy passed sullenly, thank heaven, with scarcely a nod. He, Fender, would not be in the papers. No blue line would pass over him. But on the front page was a picture of a grimacing, pork-cheeked little girl no more than three or four who was the measure of an immensely twisted, knotty, threatening icicle like the root of a tree, and it did what it
was meant to—it engulfed her. SOME PLEASURE IN ICE THAT GRIPS CITY. Egh. Disgusting.
But Fender, what foolishness are you believing about yourself? These laws that build beauty out of change, what have they to do with you? In a dull way, you’re ugly, certainly deceitful, cowardly and disloyal, cheap and thin like the overpressed and cleaned out clothes you’re standing in. But Fender did not feel the remorse of the guilty. There is another law, he said, the law that passes beauty into me, for I am growing like them, I am coming to deserve them, I have lost my job today and had no lunch. Fender, these are icicles. Perishing is the word for them. He flew the paper to a table and paced about the room attempting various formulations. Well then, he said, my soul shall have to grow agreeable to its end. How grand, Fender, how grand you are, trembling so badly you can scarcely stand, to speak like this. What have you done with your life? With a vulgar houf, Fender sank wearily in a chair. They should be spectacular tonight, he thought. He would see them from all sides, observe from every angle. They could capture his eyes, for all he cared, and grind them like lenses. What would color be like? He’d put a rosy bulb in the porch light.
In the Heart of the Heart of the Country Page 17