“I found your son’s grave,” I told Rakowski.
“Thank you, Paul, thank you. Did you buy that pot with the nails in the bottom? Did you put the flowers in?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How does that stone look to you?”
“The boy was sixteen years old when he died.”
“That’s right, Paul. Stanley was sixteen.”
“Wasn’t he your only son?”
“That’s right. There’s only the girl left. Let’s go up and I’ll buy you a beer at the Dew Drop. How about it?”
“I don’t want a beer. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Paul. You’re still feeling bad, eh? Wait a minute. I meant to tell you about Boganowski.”
“Boganowski?”
“Henry Boganowski. Henry used to work with me in the mills. He used to operate the whirly crane. The man never married and he didn’t have a relative here. I took care of his funeral. But now I can’t remember where he’s buried. I think it’s near the railroad tracks. I was looking for him a couple of times and I couldn’t find him. Let me know if you run across him.”
“What if I do?”
“Let me know where he is,” said Rakowski. “And put a flower on his grave while you’re up there.”
“Why don’t you go up and put your own flowers? Why should I put flowers on his grave? I didn’t even know him.”
“Your father did. Henry was a good man in his way. He deserves a flower, Paul.”
“I’m sure he deserves a flower. They all deserve flowers. Flowers should rain from the sky on them day and night. It’s about time you people woke up and realized what’s happening here.”
“Come up to the Dew Drop. I’ll buy you a fish fry and we’ll have a glass of beer. It’ll take your mind off things.”
“I don’t want my mind off things!”
“All right then, Paul. Stop at the house for supper some night.”
He squeezed my arm and walked away. I watched him go toward the Dew Drop. Surely he was dreaming. A moment later I thought that I was dreaming. In the end I thought that God was dreaming.
After returning from the cemetery on the next afternoon I went for a walk through the neighborhood. I stood on Clark Bridge for a while and looked down at the steel mills. Perched on the bank of the winding river were the fast-plant cranes. An ore boat was being unloaded. Hot puffs of white smoke went up from two of three cranes. Their buckets came up full from the boat and then swung to the end of the wings where they dropped the ore into the pit beyond a reddened concrete wall. High above was the black bridge crane that took ore from the pit into the mills. Smoke was everywhere on the gray sky.
I walked back to Lincoln Park. I thought of Peggy. It seemed years and years ago that we strolled and kissed there in the dark under the trees. Now there were dead leaves and empty wine bottles and a litter of newspapers on the grass. It started to rain. I stood under a tree. Rain came down harder. I went over to the coffee house.
I sat down and pretended to watch a card game. No one spoke to me. I was grateful. After a while Theodore beckoned. I got up and went over to him. He reached under the counter and handed me a bright new harmonica. It was twice as big as my own. I was afraid to look at Theodore. When I did he was looking over my shoulder at the gamblers.
“I picked that up for you,” he said.
I said nothing.
“The man told me it’s a Hohner,” he said. “It’s what they call a chromatic. Made in Germany. See that button? You press it and it plays a half a note higher. I don’t remember everything he said. But he said it plays the sharps and flats, too.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“I thought so.”
“Besides, I don’t play any more.”
“I don’t blame you. Do you want some coffee?”
I shook my head.
“I know how it is, Paul. I guess your father would know, too. He must’ve took it bad when your mother passed away.”
He was looking over my shoulder.
“I was going through the Euclid Arcade,” he said. “I saw that harmonica in the window. I thought of you. And then I was thinking maybe you’d want to make a song for your father. That’s one reason I bought it. It was on sale, too.”
I turned away.
Blindly I went out of the coffee house. Marko was laughing in the corner. His laughter followed me into the rainy night. I wanted to run away and hide and yet there was no place for me. I stepped into the doorway next to the coffee house. I sank down on the stone step.
Marko came out. His coat was thrown capelike over his shoulders. He was smiling and nodding and then he saw me. One look was enough to start him laughing again. Now he was pointing to that big harmonica in my hand. He cupped his hands around his mouth. He was pretending to play a harmonica. He shuffled around to the forlorn sounds he was making in the night. All at once his hands fell to his sides and his head went back in wild laughter. He moved away.
When Sophie Nowak found me in that doorway I was wet to the skin. She was carrying a cane umbrella. She leaned over and took hold of my arm. She shook me hard.
“Paul,” she said, sharply. “Get up, Paul.”
I stood up for her. She forced her arm through mine. We started to walk. She was trying to keep me under the umbrella. We walked close alongside each other. My steps were a little too long for her. We were bumping at the hips. I shortened my stride to be in rhythm with her. Presently we were marching as one in the night. The precise step of it seemed very jaunty to me. There was no place to go and so I found myself hoping that we would go on marching and marching.
Sophie took me to her house. She sat me down and wiped my hair and face with a towel. She took off my shoes and led me into a bedroom. She helped me out of my shirt and trousers and underclothes. I sat on the bed while she took off my socks. All I had left was the harmonica.
“Get right in bed,” she said. “I had it ready. I was going to tell you to spend a few days with me. It will do you good. See how clean the bed is? The sheets dried yesterday in the sun. Don’t they smell fresh? Give me the harmonica. I’ll put it on the table here…. Never mind then, Paul. I’ll be in the kitchen if you want me.”
She kissed me on the mouth.
I turned my face to the wall. Rain drummed on roof and windows. Somewhere there was fire in the dark. I thought of my father lying in the wet black earth of that cemetery. Last of all I knew that I must make a song for him. And for my mother and my brother.
And for everyone else, too.
A Lost King: A Novel Page 17