by Anthology
Nettled in turn, the field marshal snapped, “I have honor. I follow the oath of obedience I swore with the army to the Fuhrer and through him to the Reich. I need consider nothing past that.”
Now Gandhi’s calm was gone. “But he is a madman! What has he done to the Jews of Europe?”
“Removed them,” Model said matter-of-factly; Einsatzgruppe B had followed Army Group Central to Moscow and beyond. “They were capitalists for bolsheviks, and either way enemies of the Reich. When an enemy falls into a man’s hands, what else is there to do but destroy him, lest he revive to turn the tables one day?” Gandhi had buried his face in his hands. Without looking at Model, he said, “Make him a friend.”
“Even the British knew better than that, or they would not have held India as long as they did,” the field marshal snorted. “They must have begun to forget, though, or your movement would have got what it deserves long ago. You first made the mistake of confusing us with them long ago, by the way.” He touched a fat dossier on his desk.
“When was that?” Gandhi asked indifferently. The man was beaten now, Model thought with a touch of pride: he had succeeded where a generation of degenerate, decadent Englishmen had failed. Of course, the field marshal told himself, he had beaten the British, too.
He opened the dossier, riffled through it. “He we are,” he said, nodding in satisfaction. “It was after Kristallnacht, eh, in 1938, when you urged the German Jews to play at the same game of passive resistance you were using here. Had they been fools enough to try it, we would have thanked you, you know: it would have let us bag the enemies of the Reich all the more easily.”
“Yes, I made a mistake,” Gandhi said. Now he was looking at the field marshal, looking at him with such fierceness that for a moment Model thought he would attack him despite advanced age and effete philosophy. But Gandhi only continued sorrowfully, “I made the mistake of thinking I faced a regime ruled by conscience, one that could at the very least be shamed into doing that which is right.”
Model refused to be baited. “We do what is right for our Volk, for our Reich. We are meant to rule, and rule we do—as you see.” The field marshal tapped the dossier again. “You could be sentenced to death for this earlier meddling in the affairs of the Fatherland, you know, even without these later acts of insane defiance you have caused.”
“History will judge us,” Gandhi warned as the field marshal rose to have him taken away.
Model smiled then. “Winners write history.” He watched the two strapping German guards lead the old man off. “A very good morning’s work,” the field marshal told Lasch when Gandhi was gone. “What’s on the menu for lunch?”
“Blood sausage and sauerkraut, I believe.”
“Ah, good. Something to look forward to.” Model sat down. He went back to work.
THE LAST TWO DAYS OF LARRY JOSEPH’S LIFE—IN THIS TIME, ANYWAY
Bill Adler, Jr.
First Day
“Hey Larry, you coming?”
“Coming? Coming where?”
Lucy put her hands on her hips. She cocked her head to the left, as if emptying an ear of water. Lucy pointed to the invitation, a rag-tag Xeroxed sheet attached to the refrigerator door with a fake sushi-styled magnet, walked over to the paper and tapped it three times with her finger. “The party, Larry. The party.” Lucy opened the fridge and scanned its contents. With equal unawareness she closed it. “What do you say? It should be fun.”
She scanned Larry’s clothes for a second and wondered who gave Larry his basic lessons in laundry. Certainly not his mother. Great pants—or at least they were—curry-colored with crisp pleats, cotton cool enough to give legs some comfort during Washington, D.C.’s summertime sauna, even finely cut. But why did Larry put them in the dryer? Jeez, everyone knows what happens when you put cotton clothing in the dryer with no intention of ironing it. Oh well, it doesn’t seem to bother Larry, so it shouldn’t bother me. Lucy smiled. “You’re coming, right?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know anybody there.”
“What are you going to do instead?”
Larry’s face retained the same expression it had held for the past few minutes. Lucy wondered if his face changed at all. Was the mold set? Would it break, crumble into dust if she tried to recast it, to change some of its essential features? There are ways to coax people to change, she admitted to herself. But the steps are difficult and dangerous, especially living in such close quarters, the three of us in this house; too risky for me and for Jim if my suggestions go awry. But what am I thinking? A person’s not clay, not paper, not computer parts (though she had more than a couple of doubts about some of the people in college who had asked her out). A person’s a person, and Larry has a debilitating shyness—a problem—and perhaps I can help him overcome it. Parties help.
“Maybe read,” Larry responded.
“No, you have to come. I don’t know anybody there, either. They’re Jim’s friends. But it doesn’t matter whether you know anybody—I’m sure we’ll meet some people.” Standard reasoning, she knew. “Besides,” Lucy said, as she let a smile leak out of the corner of her mouth, “who will I have to talk with if Jim doesn’t arrive till late?” Lucy scanned her clothes in the hallway mirror as she talked with Larry. Her eyes went from her shoes to her waist, and all the way up. She lost her concentration for a moment as Larry seemed to fade momentarily—or was it a light bulb that needed replacing?
“Well . . .” Larry’s spine arched a few more degrees forward in gravity’s favor; gravity seemed to claim responsibility for his posture.
“You’ll have a good time! You might even find a date.” But Larry, you’ve got to try, you’ve got to try, Lucy said to herself.
“All right. All right.”
“Great! We should take off in about an hour.” Lucy tapped on the crystal of Larry’s Seiko watch. She and her other housemate, Jim, had gotten it for Larry for his birthday, in the hope of coaxing Larry to learn how to be on time. “Mind if I shower first?”
“Go ahead. I don’t need to shower.”
Lucy stepped back and recalled one absolute truth: In Washington, in August, the location on earth most similar to the surface of the planet Venus, everyone needs to shower. Shower and drink diet soda. Only cab drivers and Larry went for days without showering, Lucy thought. Larry would be a whole lot better off if he showered. “Okay, I’ll try to be swift,” Lucy said. “You’ll be ready in thirty minutes, okay?” As she turned to bolt up the stairs, she caught a glimpse of the late afternoon sunlight streaming through Larry. Or so it seemed. Must be hotter than I thought, Lucy said to herself.
“Your car or cab?” Lucy asked as she emptied some cash and a single credit card from her wallet, placing these potential essentials in her back pocket. She anxiously tugged the door knob. “On second thought, we’d better drive. I thought you were going to be ready in half an hour. It took you nearly an hour. And you didn’t really have anything to do to get ready.”
“Sorry, Lucy.” Larry’s cheeks stretched apart in an apology. “I didn’t mean to be late. My watch said that only half an hour had passed. I swear it was 7 P.M. on the dot when you asked me, and now it’s only 7:30 P.M.” Larry pointed to his watch. “Engmaghrr,” Larry said as he lifted his shoulders and swayed them side to side. “What?”
Larry replied, “I said it’s only 7:30 P.M.”
“Larry, you grunted.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, it’s 8 P.M. anyway.” Lucy checked her watch, then, reflexively, her clothes in the mirror. “But that’s okay, I guess. The party’s not going to get rolling until after 9 o’clock. But maybe you should take that watch to a jeweler. Your birthday was only two months ago—it should be keeping perfect time.”
Larry looked at his watch and shrugged. He wiped the sweat on his forehead leaving fresh newsprint from his fingers. “I’ll drive,” Larry said. “Grungga,” he muttered to himself.
Did he just grunt again? Lucy thought. Is th
is going to be another habit we’re going to have to put up with?
“Fine, I think Jim’s taking the Metro over anyway. If you get lucky at the party, Jim and I can always take a taxi back.” She grinned at the idea. Lucy glanced at her shirt, tracing a path along the pants which hugged her waist. Yes, I look good—sexy—Lucy thought. Too bad I have to wait until I’m at the party for somebody to appreciate the work I’ve put into making myself a splash.
“Damn. I left my keys upstairs.”
“Hey Larry, tuck your shirt in!” she shouted. Buy a new shirt, she thought.
“Okay, thanks.”
The drive over was uneventful, which, Lucy acknowledged, is usually the best outcome for any automobile ride. Just a little lethargic, like a tour bus meandering by the nation’s monuments. Lucy usually didn’t mind driving with Larry, but wished that she didn’t always have to ask him to roll his window down. Larry seemed to enjoy not having air conditioning, but Lucy hated to arrive at a party all sweaty.
Lucy quickly surveyed the apartment before looking for Jim. She located him by the food table on the far side of somebody’s living room. His iridescent fish shirt was unbuttoned two buttons. Jim’s shoulders stood square, and his dark, black hair seemed to sway gently. Lucy could smell faint wisps of Kouros cologne as she approached. “Hi Jim. How’s the party?”
“Party’s not bad. Great stuff to eat and the drinks are plentiful. Here, try one of these,” he said, the sentence’s last few words captured by the cheese puff that Jim had stuffed into his mouth. “Here,” he said again, his fingers carrying a puff directly into Lucy’s mouth. “Ymmm. Here, Larry, try one.”
Larry did. “Good. Enghmm. Ugaraha.”
Lucy rubbed her ear, as if that would make what Larry said clearer. Lucy faced Jim. Larry stood a couple of feet to her right. “Jim, who are your friends, the ones giving this party?” Lucy wanted to know. She thought (imagined?) she might have seen Larry nod.
“Deirdre and Debbie. They share this apartment. Over there. I’ll introduce you.”
“Later. I don’t need to meet women at the moment. I’ll mingle for a bit and then scoot back and you can introduce me.” Lucy waved her brown hair from side to side and pushed her chest forward slightly. Perhaps unconsciously, but Jim noticed. So did two guys on the other side of the room. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” Jim said. “We inhabit the same house, but that doesn’t mean we have to move like a chain gang.” With that Lucy wiggled off in the direction of the prime party spot, the kitchen.
“Over here, Larry,” Jim said. “I’ll introduce you to Deirdre and Debbie.”
“Okay,” Larry said.
Jim looked at Larry and noticed no quirky eye movements, the kind he could never restrain when on his way to meet attractive opposites. Jim introduced Larry as his brilliant housemate, the star of the General Accounting Office’s science division, witty individual, and a nice guy in his own right. Besides D&D, there were two other women and two men in this bunch, so Jim felt fine leaving Larry on his own. Jim noticed that Larry seemed a little pale, almost translucent. Maybe Larry’s a little under the weather, and that’s why he’s not in the swing of things. No, Larry’s always kind of drowsy, but never this visibly washed out. Well, I’ve done all I can; at least he’ll have something to do.
He caught Lucy between flirts. “Having a good time?”
“Uh huh. And you?”
“So-so. I’m not in an overly prowling mood.”
“Sure you’re not.”
“Well at least Larry seems to be enjoying himself.” Pause. “I hope so.”
“Yeah. What a shame. All he needs to do is clean up his act and he’d be attractive to women. Trim his beard, cut his hair, lose ten pounds and voila! A new man!”
“And new clothes,” Jim added.
“And brush his teeth. Can you imagine—somebody who doesn’t brush his teeth every day. It’s like the toothbrush hasn’t been invented for him.”
“No. I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t witness it with my own eyes. And nose. No wonder he has trouble getting dates. He pretends he’s maintenance free.”
“It would help if he were on time now and then. A girl doesn’t want to be kept waiting, you know,” Lucy said. “You think he’d get that watch fixed, if that’s really the problem.”
Jim added, “It was a nice gift, if I must say so for ourselves. Weird sales person, though. Kind of slow and very uninterested in the customer. He didn’t care whether we bought the watch or not. And I remember, he did stink. Kind of like Larry.”
Lucy thought for a second. She scooped her celery into the dip. “He could do it—he could shape himself up. Even being on time. It wouldn’t take a whole lot of effort or imagination.” The celery made a particularly loud crunch.
“Yeah, but will he? How’s the dip?”
“It’s good. I don’t know. But if he doesn’t change he’s going
to evaporate. I mean, nobody notices him, so he might as well not be here at all.”
Jim looked in Larry’s direction. “Kind of looks a little peaked now, don’t you think? Maybe Larry’s coming down with something. But perhaps he’s enjoying himself, surrounded by those friendly women.”
“Do you really think so?”
“No.”
Jim looked into Lucy’s eyes. “We have to do something. Living with Larry is like living with a phantom. It’s as if he’s not 100 percent here and it is driving me crazy.”
“I know,” Lucy said. “Me, too. Like when he performs his morning ritual—that loud grunt. Kind of like a yawn, but it sounds almost animal-like. Yeah, sort of like what you might hear at the zoo.”
“Come on Lucy, that’s cruel.”
“Maybe. But you probably agree with me.”
Jim nodded.
Lucy continued. “And the newspapers. Why can’t he bring in The Post when he leaves. I know he doesn’t read the paper, but just to toss it inside, would that be too difficult? And I’ve never known any guy not to be interested in the sports page.” Jim thought for a moment. “I guess I shouldn’t complain. Otherwise, Larry’s a pretty good housemate. I mean we never have to worry about him keeping us up at night.” Jim checked his chin to see if there were any dip remnants remaining on it. He took a nacho chip and skated the dip. “This is good dip.”
“So we’re agreed,” Lucy continued.
“Agreed?”
“Yes. We do something about Larry before he turns our house into an insane asylum.”
Jim concurred. “But I have one question.”
“What?”
“That’s the question. What do we do? You know we can’t say to his face, ‘Larry, you’re a slob, your hygiene is abysmal, and you grunt. Do something or see a therapist.’ If he doesn’t take our words kindly, life will be miserable at 2280 Oakdon Street.” Jim pressed his hand against his leg and added, “More miserable than it is now.”
“Yes. I’ve thought about that. So what do we do?”
“We tell him anyway.” But she knew they never would.
Larry drove home. Lucy and Jim joked about his car being a turtle. Larry didn’t seem to mind.
Last Day
“Coffee?”
“Uh huh. Thanks. What time is it?”
“It’s ten thirty.”
“Oh,” Jim replied.
“I told you that you shouldn’t have had that scotch before going to sleep.”
“You should have told me louder.”
“Where’s Larry?”
Lucy opened the refrigerator door, examined the shelf and turned to Jim, “What kind of coffee do you want? He’s still sleeping.”
“Larry knows we’re heading off to Ikea to get furniture for the house. We’ll give him another half hour, then wake him,” Jim said. “That watch we gave him for his birthday isn’t doing Larry any good. It’s quartz, it’s kinetic—never needs a new battery—and yet he’s perpetually late.”
“Fine. Pass me the Style section if y
ou’re not reading it, will you?” Lucy said.
Back home.
Larry parked himself on the living room couch. Jim noticed that the couch didn’t creak when Larry sat down in it. Maybe we don’t need to replace that couch after all, Jim thought.
“Nice ax,” Jim said, pointing to the stone-shaped tool next to Larry. “Did you get that at the Smithsonian store?”
“I don’t remember,” Larry replied. “I thought it was yours or Lucy’s. I guess I must have.”
“Well, don’t bonk anybody over the head with it. I’m heading upstairs for a nap—I’ll see you later.”
“Okay,” Larry responded, his body limp across the couch.
Jim bolted up the stairs. He took a sharp left toward his room, hesitated and then knocked on Lucy’s door. She responded to the knock immediately.
“Yes? No. Don’t come in. Who’s there?”
“Jim.”
“Jim and who?”
“Just Jim.”
Lucy softened her voice. “Okay, come in.” Jim walked in. Lucy said, “Close the door.”
“What’s all the secre . . .” Jim eyed the canvas that sat on Lucy’s easel in her cramped bedroom/art studio. Good painting of our living room, Jim thought, though it looked misty. Some of the geometry struck Jim as wrong. Everything was in proper proportion, except Larry and the television set. Lucy had drawn the TV larger than the one they owned (ahh, Jim thought, if only it were true) and Larry smaller and somewhat paler than a human could be. The drawing was good—Lucy’s work always was—but it was unsettling. Only partly colored—the TV mostly, though Lucy touched almost everything else in her painting with hints of pastel: The couch, drapes, coffee table with its magazine collection, the carpet, Mickey Mouse clock, everything had at least a little color. Except Larry. Larry was light gray. This drawing was more surreal than most of Lucy’s art. As he looked more closely at it, what struck Jim as most paradoxical—realistic to his eye, but unrealistic to his brain—what he liked most in Lucy’s interpretation, was that the television set was drawn too precisely, too heavily, with details that Jim had never noticed in the two years he watched their tube. Thick and fine lines defined the TV, characters on the screen seemed clearer and more lifelike than they would be during regular viewing. But Larry was just basic shape: His stomach outlined by a tattered shirt that almost floated around him, his beard fuzzy—like the signals their TV received from distant Baltimore stations. (He was almost a ghost in Lucy’s drawing, present only by the light from the television that mostly, but not entirely, shined around him.) There were no details visible, such as curved lips or dangling ear lobes, that would make one say, “Hey, that’s Larry.” But Jim noticed that details weren’t necessary for him to recognize their housemate. Jim whistled. “Good.”