“Well?”
“It wasn’t the same man, Pa. The picture on the badge was a picture of his brother who died two years ago. They worked together. Herman lost his own badge and he’s wearing his brother’s until he gets a new one. Guess what? I told him to smile when they take his picture.”
“I think I’ve had enough of you for a while.”
“Mr. Whipple was right. I’ve been on the wing since I left him. I think I’ll fly over and tell Peggy the good news.”
Peggy was waiting for me on the porch step. She smiled and the light in her eyes whispered an invitation to be sweet and then cruel and then sweeter still in the night. An excitement gripped me as though I heard the sudden pounding music of a parade. I started to talk about the silver of moon and stars beyond the smoke. She interrupted to talk about my new job.
“I heard about it,” she said. “It sounds very nice.”
“Doesn’t it? He’s putting me under this course of training. It won’t be long now. He says he’ll have me off the streets in no time.”
“It’s a job with a future.”
“I’ll end up as the manager of one of those Big Deal stores.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Neither do I. I really don’t. They may even send me to open a store in Mexico or South America. Come with me, Peggy. I’ll be wearing a white uniform and a white hat like a chef. I’ll tell everybody I’m going somewhere to cook for a king.”
“You’ll look cute, Paul.”
“Say my name again, Peggy.”
“Don’t you hear it enough?”
“Not like that. And I never even hear it at home. I wonder if my father forgot it. I’ll remind him.”
“Paul then. Paul, Paul.”
For a long moment we were watching each other in the night. A light went on behind us in the kitchen. I touched her hand and we stood up. We strolled out of the alley and around the corner to Lincoln Park. It was deserted. Wind was stealing softly through the leaves of maple and sycamore. Holding my breath, I leaned over to kiss her hand. She turned to me and we kissed under the trees. Her clinging lips were moist on mine. Her body was ripe and sweet and willing. Her breasts were pressing all round my heart. I kissed her lips again and again. Suddenly they opened for me and that hot sweet rush of breath took my own away. I was melting inside with love and longing for her. In the same moment it flashed through my mind that this was a much better thing than playing the harmonica.
We sat on a park bench near the playground and swimming pool. We looked around as though waiting to be introduced to each other. Foolishly, I started to talk again.
“When I start work in that store, Peggy, I’ll bring a surprise for you every day. Do you know they have lobster from South Africa?”
“It sounds dreamy.”
“And peas and potatoes from Belgium. Those potatoes are like little white marbles.”
We strolled back and sat on her porch. All was dark and quiet in the house. We twined our fingers and kissed again and again. I kissed her pale eyes and dark fragrant hair. Soon I was exploring the milky pulsing warmth of her throat. No longer could I keep my hands away from the curving places of her body.
“You shouldn’t,” she whispered. “Please, Paul.”
“But I should. You mean I mustn’t.”
“Well then, you mustn’t.”
“My darling Peggy. But why don’t we do it?”
“You don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it. I love you and I want to marry you.”
“Is that what you mean?”
“I mean everything. I mean business. Let’s get married on the day after I get my first pay.”
“Why do you get so serious? How can you say such a thing?”
“I say what I feel. What do you want me to say?”
“You don’t have any plans or anything. It’s just words.”
“Plans for what?”
“For what? For everything. Where would we live?”
“Where would we live? We’d live in my house.”
“Are you serious, Paul?”
“Of course I’m serious. Why do you keep saying that? It’s like you’re asking if I’m in my right mind.”
“Well, are you? Do you expect me to live in Lincoln Court?”
“Of course. What’s wrong with Lincoln Court? It’s where you do live. What’s the matter with you?”
“Is this a place for children to grow up in?”
“I don’t understand. It’s the place if it’s where they are.”
“I see.”
“What is this, Peggy? Children grow up wherever they are. Children are like flowers.”
“Then you don’t see anything wrong in having your children here? And living the rest of your life here?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s right with it?”
“Your mother and father are here. You were born here. And it’s a good thing they didn’t feel like you do. Where would you be?”
“I’m not going to die here, Paul.”
“You mean you’re looking for a better place to die? I don’t understand this. What difference does it make where we live?”
“All right then. What would we live on?”
“But I’ve got this wonderful job.”
“You didn’t even start yet. Is this what you offer a girl?”
“What is all this? I love you. I’ll take care of you always. I can do a lot of things. I can cook and wash clothes and clean house. I know how to shop for food. I’m good-natured and I make up songs. Ask anyone about Paul Christopher.”
“You don’t understand how things are with me. Do you really expect me to spend the rest of my life in this smoke and dirt? I watched my mother get old and gray in this alley. I won’t let it happen to me.”
“But where is this other place you’re talking about? This place where the children are supposed to be and nobody gets gray? Is it in the city limits? It must be one of those new suburbs. Is it Parma Heights? I heard taxes were high there.”
“I don’t want to discuss it with you.”
“Let me tell you a story. They say my uncle used to tell it. Once upon a time there was an old man. He was sitting in a chair and all he had left in the world was a pile of old strings and some pieces of wood. Now his chair was uncomfortable and he complained about it. And then he complained about the room the chair was in and then the house the room was in. And then he complained about the street where the house was and then the city and then the world. Do you know what they did? They put a cushion on his chair. And then he didn’t know what to say and so he took the old strings and those pieces of wood and he made himself a harp. And then he began to make music for everyone who came to the house. And then he made music for the city and the world. Do you know what I think? I’ll have to find a cushion for the chair of my darling Peggy.”
“There’s just no use talking to you. Good night.”
“Wait then. How about another kiss?”
“No.”
“Wait then. At least scratch your leg before you go. Think of it. Two thousand years of history lost.”
“You’re impossible, Paul. Now I’m sure of it.”
She went in and closed the door.
I walked home. My father was sitting in the rocker on the porch. He was smoking his pipe. For a moment it troubled me to see him sitting alone in the night. Suddenly I felt sure he had been waiting for me to come home and talk and tease him a little. I wanted to give him the delight that Peggy had given me.
“Well, sir, we meet again,” I said. “I’d like to remind you that my name is Paul. I stopped by to let you know it won’t be long now.”
“For what?”
“Three more days and I start work on that new job.”
“That’s why I’m up. I was waiting to hear more about it.”
“This will be a wonderful year. First I’ll get married. And then I’ll paint the house. I’ll borrow that aluminum ladder fro
m Theodore Ampazis. He says I can lift it with one finger. I’ll paint the house white and then I’ll start on the inside. I’ll plaster the cracks in the walls and paint every room. And then I’ll buy a car and we’ll take long rides down along the lake in the evening. Do you know what? I’ve been thinking about your cousin in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania. In fact, I was waiting for him the other day. What’s his name?”
“Michael. Michael Christopher.”
“We should take a trip this summer and surprise Michael.”
“Are you losing your mind? I never saw the man. I don’t know anything about him. What the hell do I want to see him for?”
“Just for those reasons. Don’t you wonder about him? Don’t you ever think about his life? Is he married? Has he got any children? How does he earn his living? Does he like music? Does he walk in the woods at night and listen for the song of the nightingale? Are there any nightingales in Vandergrift? Listen, Pa, listen.”
“There’s no choice for me.”
“It’s Michael Christopher! He’s calling in the night. Hello, Michael, hello! Speak, Michael, speak! Tell us what you want us to do. Your cousin is waiting, Michael. Not your third cousin. Not your second cousin. It’s your first cousin and you can tell him everything…. Do you know what, Pa? I’m going to make a song for Michael Christopher and his family. Would you like to hear it?”
“Play if you want to play. It’s either talk or music with you.”
“Isn’t it strange? I can’t stop thinking about Michael. What do you think he’s doing right this minute? Is he waiting for the song?”
“I’ll tell you what he’s doing. He’s sitting there scratching his head. He’s wondering where it all started and where it will end. And he’s wondering what the hell it all means.”
7
By the time I started work on that new job I had promised to bring special chops and roasts and sausages to most of the neighbors. They invited me to join them for supper on those occasions. I told Theodore Ampazis that I would bring him a leg of lamb every Saturday.
“We’ll eat it on Sunday,” he said. “I’ll roast it for you with garlic and parsley and origan. And bay leaf and dill. Then I’ll make some rice for you in the juice. And it won’t be like smashed potatoes. You’ll be able to count this rice. And then maybe you’ll play the harmonica for me.”
“It sounds good,” I said. “I’ll be eating like a king around here. I’m supposed to bring Florio some round steak sliced very thin. He’ll put special things in it and then roll it up and tie it with a string. He’ll cook it for three hours in tomato sauce. After that I’ll have supper with Sophie Nowak. She’ll make a pork roast or sausage with sauerkraut.”
“Is your father satisfied with this job?” said Theodore.
“He says the first step on the ladder is loose.”
It turned out that my father was right. I was thinking and talking so much about the job that I was bound to be disappointed. Truth be told I was more disappointing than disappointed.
Early Monday morning the man in charge of trainees at the main cooler made a speech to six of us about the door of opportunity. His name was Martin and he moved around us as though his shoes were hot. He kept talking about the door of opportunity while we washed our hands with a strong pine soap and put on white aprons and white hats.
“The door of opportunity is locked,” said Martin. “The lock on that door is a combination lock. The combination to that lock is hard work, loyalty, honesty, and hard work. Nothing else will spring the lock on that door.”
He opened a high, wide, heavy door. It led into the cooler. He stationed two of us at each of three wooden chopping blocks and showed us an assortment of shining knives. He explained that we were to get the feel of butchering by trimming meat off beef bones. The meat would be ground into hamburger or chopped into stew. It would be delivered that very day to Big Deal stores throughout the city and then sold the next day in weighed and priced packages.
“Now pay attention,” said Martin. “These bones must be clean as a hound’s tooth. I mean when they leave your hands. They should look like the lions finished up on them. Trim off every bit of meat and fat and then drop the bones in these barrels. There’s a barrel for each one of you. Try to fill your barrel with white bones. You’ll see rib bones and neck bones. Chine bones and knuckle bones. White bones, white bones. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Everyone glanced at me.
“But I want you to be careful,” said Martin. “Take your time. Don’t cut yourself. Find the best way to get at the meat. Sometimes you’ll come in at the top and cut down. Sometimes you’ll get in from underneath or slice away at the sides. Get the feel of working with these knives. Try them all. You’ll do it wrong for a while. I’ll be back as soon as I can to show you how it should be done. One thing more. You’ll come out of the cooler every hour or so for a five-minute relief. Now let’s get with it.”
Martin went out. The tremendous door closed. It closed on a precise delicate click that seemed to send shivers through the walls to be sure we were sealed perfectly in that iron room. I felt sealed. I put the feeling out of my mind and turned to the work. I lifted a big bone to my chopping block and started to trim the red meat away. It took me an hour to strip that cold heavy bone. I kept turning it around and finding more meat. At last I dropped it into the barrel. I saw strands of meat on it and took it out of the barrel. I went over and over it. Martin failed to mention that the meat belongs on the bone.
I was taking that same bone out of the barrel for the third time when Martin came through the door. He moved around and watched for a while and then he told us to stop and watch him.
“Come closer,” he said.
He picked up a bone from the center block and swung it over to my chopping block. His control of it was perfect. He set it down without a sound. He rubbed his hands together as for a feast and then he started to sharpen knives one on the other. His hands flew like birds and the clean thin whistling of blade on blade was all round us in the cold air. He put one knife aside and studied the flashing blade of the other. Now he was going into a kind of secret menacing dance like a swordsman. He moved in to make a series of quick deep overhand cuts down along that bone. It was impossible to follow his knife. It was everywhere at once. Meat was falling and falling. In no time at all he stripped that bone so white it might have dried in the sun. It was a remarkable thing. I had an urge to pounce on that bone and hide it in my barrel.
“Get the idea?” he said. “Attack, attack.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
Everyone glanced at me.
“And now it’s your turn,” said Martin, dropping the bone in my barrel. “Dig in there. Cut deep. Strip it away. Lions, lions.”
He went out.
I took another bone and started to cut the meat away. I stopped to sharpen my knives. I was sharpening those knives and listening to the whistling round my head like a flight of silver arrows. I studied the blade and then danced in to cut the meat. After a while I wanted to hear that whistling again and so I stopped to sharpen the knives. My hands and arms were beginning to ache a little.
I dropped the bone into my barrel and lifted another to the block. I was sharpening knives when the cooler door opened. Martin came in to inspect the bones in each barrel. He took the three bones out of mine.
“This one’s all right,” he said.
“I think it’s very good,” I said.
“Do you?”
“It’s the one you did.”
“Then you know what I want. Take charge of these bones. Scrape them clean. You’ll have to do better than this.”
At noon a distant siren called us to lunch. We marched out of the cooler. I ate a salami sandwich and a cherry pepper. Afterward I went outside to sit on the front step. A soft breeze was stirring the leaves of the willow tree on the lawn. White clouds drifted on the blue sky. The sleepy warmth of noon was stealing through me. Suddenly the raw ugly blast
of the siren ripped into the air right above my head.
I went back to my block in the cooler. I looked around while sharpening my knives. The men seemed to be working faster. They were trying to fill their barrels with bones before the day ended. It was good to watch them work. The man across from me would lift a bone to his block and slap the bulge of meat with his hand in a reckless way. Sometimes he slapped it twice to show his contempt. The man beside him was an artist. He moved as though on tiptoe and then lunged to risk everything on a single daring cut. Sudden white bone thrilled him. He had reached through to the hidden beauty. The man at my block would cut and slash until it seemed he would throw the knife aside and tear the meat off with his hands. Once I heard him growling.
More and more often Martin came in to take bones out of barrels and inspect them. He kept finding scraps of meat.
“Look here,” he said. “Look at this. Here’s a bone with two or three ounces of meat on it. Maybe more. What if you do twenty bones a day like this? You’ll be wasting over three pounds of meat. Every day. Do you know what that amounts to in a month? In a year? I’ll bet it runs to a ton of waste. Get with it.”
I asked him for another demonstration. He gave me a hard stabbing look while he sharpened the knives. He was studying the edge of one of those blades and then a moment later he was looking past it into my eyes. Suddenly his chin came down on his chest and he was dancing again as he moved in to cut quick and deep into that meat. His knife was flashing everywhere like a silver fire. Meat was falling away and hitting the block. All at once the bone was alone. Martin lifted it and turned it so we could study it. He presented it to me.
“Attack,” he said. “Nothing to it.”
I was watching him in amazement. Not a drop of blood was on his apron. His hands were opening and closing.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said.
He was looking at me.
From then on he concentrated on me. He came through that door and over to my block as though I had sent for him.
“You handle that knife like a girl,” he said. “And you touch the meat like it’s hot. Take hold.”
Once I put the knife down when I went over to get a bone. I swung the bone to the block and then reached for the knife. It was gone. I looked on the block and on the floor. I was looking and looking until Martin came over and lifted the bone. The knife was there. I giggled in a foolish way. Martin didn’t smile.
A Lost King: A Novel Page 7