‘Andy-the-candyman!’ Martin said. ‘Is that old critter still in your mouth? Come closer, let Daddy have a look.’
‘I got a string to pull it with.’ The child brought from his pocket a tangled thread. “Virgie said to tie it to the tooth and tie the other end of the doorknob and shut the door real suddenly.’
Martin took out a clean handkerchief and felt the loose tooth carefully. ‘That tooth is coming out of my Andy’s mouth tonight. Otherwise I’m awfully afraid we’ll have a tooth tree in the family.’
‘A what?’
‘A tooth tree,’ Martin said. ‘You’ll bite into something and swallow that tooth. And the tooth will take root in poor Andy’s stomach and grow into a tooth tree with sharp little teeth instead of leaves.’
‘Shoo, Daddy,’ Andy said. But he held the tooth firmly between his grimy little thumb and forefinger. ‘There ain’t any tree like that. I never seen one.’
‘There isn’t any tree like that and I never saw one.’
Martin tensed suddenly. Emily was coming down the stairs. He listened to her fumbling footsteps, his arm embracing the little boy with dread. When Emily came into the room he saw from her movements and her sullen face that she had again been at the sherry bottle. She began to yank open drawers and set the table.
‘Condition!’ she said in a furry voice. ‘You talk to me like that. Don’t think I’ll forget. I remember every dirty lie you say to me. Don’t you think for a minute that I forget.’
‘Emily!’ he begged. ‘The children——’
‘The children—yes! Don’t think I don’t see through your dirty plots and schemes. Down here trying to turn my own children against me. Don’t think I don’t see and understand.’
‘Emily! I beg you—please go upstairs.’
‘So you can turn my children—my very own children——’ Two large tears coursed rapidly down her cheeks. Trying to turn my little boy, my Andy, against his own mother.’
With drunken impulsiveness Emily knelt on the floor before the startled child. Her hands on his shoulders balanced her. ‘Listen, my Andy—you wouldn’t listen to any lies your father tells you? You wouldn’t believe what he says? Listen, Andy, what was your father telling you before I came downstairs?’ Uncertain, the child sought his father’s face. Tell me. Mama wants to know.’
‘About the tooth tree.’
‘What?’
The child repeated the words and she echoed them with unbelieving terror. ‘The tooth tree!’ She swayed and renewed her grasp on the child’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. But listen, Andy, Mama is all right, isn’t she?’ The tears were spilling down her face and Andy drew back from her, for he was afraid. Grasping the table edge, Emily stood up.
‘See! You have turned my child against me.’
Marianne began to cry, and Martin took her in his arms.
‘That’s all right, you can take your child. You have always shown partiality from the very first. I don’t mind, but at least you can leave me my little boy.’
Andy edged close to his father and touched his leg. ‘Daddy,’ he wailed.
Martin took the children to the foot of the stairs. ‘Andy, you take up Marianne and Daddy will follow you in a minute.’
‘But Mama?’ the child asked, whispering.
‘Mama will be all right. Don’t worry.’
Emily was sobbing at the kitchen table, her face buried in the crook of her arm. Martin poured a cup of soup and set it before her. Her rasping sobs unnerved him; the vehemence of her emotion, irrespective of the source, touched in him a strain of tenderness. Unwillingly he laid his hand on her dark hair. ‘Sit up and drink the soup.’ Her face as she looked up at him was chastened and imploring. The boy’s withdrawal or the touch of Martin’s hand had turned the tenor of her mood.
‘Ma-Martin,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so ashamed.’
‘Drink the soup.’
Obeying him, she drank between gasping breaths. After a second cup she allowed him to lead her up to their room. She was docile now and more restrained. He laid her nightgown on the bed and was about to leave the room when a fresh round of grief, the alcoholic tumult, came again.
‘He turned away. My Andy looked at me and turned away.’
Impatience and fatigue hardened his voice, but he spoke warily. ‘You forget that Andy is still a little child—he can’t comprehend the meaning of such scenes.’
‘Did I make a scene? Oh, Martin, did I make a scene before the children?’
Her horrified face touched and amused him against his will. ‘Forget it. Put on your nightgown and go to sleep.’
‘My child turned away from me. Andy looked at his mother and turned away. The children——’
She was caught in the rhythmic sorrow of alcohol. Martin withdrew from the room saying: For God’s sake go to sleep. The children will forget by tomorrow.’
As he said this he wondered if it was true. Would the scene glide so easily from memory—or would it root in the unconscious to fester in the after-years? Martin did not know, and the last alternative sickened him. He thought of Emily, foresaw the morning-after humiliation: the shards of memory, the lucidities that glared from the obliterating darkness of shame. She would call the New York office twice—possibly three or four times. Martin anticipated his own embarrassment, wondering if the others at the office could possibly suspect. He felt that his secretary had divined the trouble long ago and that she pitied him. He suffered a moment of rebellion against his fate; he hated his wife.
Once in the children’s room he closed the door and felt secure for the first time that evening. Marianne fell down on the floor, picked herself up and calling: ‘Daddy, watch me,’ fell again, got up, and continued the falling-calling routine. Andy sat in the child’s low chair, wobbling the tooth. Martin ran the water in the tub, washed his own hands in the lavatory, and called the boy into the bathroom.
‘Let’s have another look at that tooth.’ Martin sat on the toilet, holding Andy between his knees. The child’s mouth gaped and Martin grasped the tooth. A wobble, a quick twist and the nacreous milk tooth was free. Andy’s face was for the first moment split between terror, astonishment, and delight. He mouthed a swallow of water and spat into the lavatory. ‘Look, Daddy! It’s blood. Marianne!’
Martin loved to bathe his children, loved inexpressibly the tender, naked bodies as they stood in the water so exposed. It was not fair of Emily to say that he showed partiality. As Martin soaped the delicate boy-body of his son he felt that further love would be impossible. Yet he admitted the difference in the quality of his emotions for the two children. His love for his daughter was graver, touched with a strain of melancholy, a gentleness that was akin to pain. His pet names for the little boy were the absurdities of daily inspiration—he called the little girl always Marianne, and his voice as he spoke it was a caress. Martin patted dry the fat baby stomach and the sweet little genital fold. The washed child faces were radiant as flower petals, equally loved.
‘I’m putting the tooth under my pillow. I’m supposed to get a quarter.’
‘What for?’
‘You know, Daddy. Johnny got a quarter for his tooth.’ ‘Who puts the quarter there?’ asked Martin. ‘I used to think the fairies left it in the night. It was a dime in my day, though.’
‘That’s what they say in kindergarten.’
‘Who does put it there?’
‘Your parents,’ Andy said. ‘You!’
Martin was pinning the cover on Marianne’s bed. His daughter was already asleep. Scarcely breathing. Martin bent over and kissed her forehead, kissed again the tiny hand that lay palm-upward, flung in slumber beside her head.
‘Good night, Andy-man.’
The answer was only a drowsy murmur. After a minute Martin took out his change and slid a quarter underneath the pillow. He left a night light in the room.
As Martin prowled about the kitchen making a late meal, it occurred to him that the children had not once mention
ed their mother or the scene that must have seemed to them incomprehensible. Absorbed in the instant—the tooth, the bath, the quarter—the fluid passage of child-time had borne these weightless episodes like leaves in the swiff current of a shallow stream while the adult enigma was beached and forgotten on the shore. Martin thanked the Lord for that.
But his own anger, repressed and lurking, arose again. His youth was being frittered by a drunkard’s waste, his very manhood subtly undermined. And the children, once the immunity of incomprehension passed—what would it be like in a year or so? With his elbows on the table he ate his food brutishly, untasting. There was no hiding the truth—soon there would be gossip in the office and in the town; his wife was a dissolute woman. Dissolute. And he and his children were bound to a future of degradation and slow ruin.
Martin pushed away from the table and stalked into the living room. He followed the lines of a book with his eyes but his mind conjured miserable images: he saw his children drowned in the river, his wife a disgrace on the public street. By bedtime the dull, hard anger was like a weight upon his chest and his feet dragged as he climbed the stairs.
The room was dark except for the shafting light from the half-opened bathroom door. Martin undressed quietly. Little by little, mysteriously, there came in him a change. His wife was asleep, her peaceful respiration sounding gently in the room. Her high-heeled shoes with the carelessly dropped stockings made to him a mute appeal. Her underclothes were flung in disorder on the chair. Martin picked up the girdle and the soft, silk brassiere and stood for a moment with them in his hands. For the first time that evening he looked at his wife. His eyes rested on the sweet forehead, the arch of the fine brow. The brow had descended to Marianne, and the tilt at the end of the delicate nose. In his son he could trace the high cheekbones and pointed chin. Her body was full-bosomed, slender and undulant. As Martin watched the tranquil slumber of his wife the ghost of the old anger vanished. All thoughts of blame or blemish were distant from him now. Martin put out the bathroom light and raised the window. Careful not to awaken Emily he slid into the bed. By moonlight he watched his wife for the last time. His hand sought the adjacent flesh and sorrow paralleled desire in the immense complexity of love.
A Tree, A Rock, A Cloud
IT WAS RAINING that morning, and still very dark. When the boy reached the streetcar café he had almost finished his route and he went in for a cup of coffee. The place was an all-night café owned by a bitter and stingy man called Leo. After the raw, empty street, the café seemed friendly and bright: along the counter there were a couple of soldiers, three spinners from the cotton mill, and in a corner a man who, sat hunched over with his nose and half his face down in a beer mug. The boy wore a helmet such as aviators wear. When he went into the café he unbuckled the chin strap and raised the right flap up over his pink little ear; often as he drank his coffee someone would speak to him in a friendly way. But this morning Leo did not look into his face and none of the men were talking. He paid and was leaving the café when a voice called out to him:
‘Son! Hey Son!’
He turned back and the man in the corner was crooking his finger and nodding to him. He had brought his face out of the beer mug and he seemed suddenly very happy. The man was long and pale, with a big nose and faded orange hair.
‘Hey Son!’
The boy went toward him. He was an undersized boy of about twelve, with one shoulder drawn higher than the other because of the weight of the paper sack. His face was shallow, freckled, and his eyes were round child eyes.
‘Yeah Mister?’
The man laid one hand on the paper boy’s shoulders, then grasped the boy’s chin and turned his face slowly from one side to the other. The boy shrank back uneasily.
‘Say! What’s the big idea?’
The boy’s voice was shrill; inside the café it was suddenly very quiet.
The man said slowly. ‘I love you.’
All along the counter the men laughed. The boy, who had scowled and sidled away, did not know what to do. He looked over the counter at Leo, and Leo watched him with a weary, brittle jeer. The boy tried to laugh also. But the man was serious and sad.
‘I did not mean to tease you, Son,’ he said. ‘Sit down and have a beer with me. There is something I have to explain.’
Cautiously, out of the corner of his eye, the paper boy questioned the men along the counter to see what he should do. But they had gone back to their beer or their breakfast and did not notice him. Leo put a cup of coffee on the counter and a little jug of cream.
‘He is a minor,’ Leo said.
The paper boy slid himself up onto the stool. His ear beneath the upturned flap of the helmet was very small and red. The man was nodding at him soberly. ‘It is important,’ he said. Then he reached in his hip pocket and brought out something which he held up in the palm of his hand for the boy to see.
‘Look very carefully,’ he said.
The boy stared, but there was nothing to look at very carefully. The man held in his big, grimy palm a photograph. It was the face of a woman, but blurred, so that only the hat and the dress she was wearing stood out clearly.
‘See?’ the man asked.
The boy nodded and the man placed another picture in his palm. The woman was standing on a beach in a bathing suit. The suit made her stomach very big, and that was the main thing you noticed.
‘Got a good look?’ He leaned over closer and finally asked: ‘You ever seen her before?’
The boy sat motionless, staring slantwise at the man. ‘Not so I know of.’
‘Very well.’ The man blew on the photographs and put them back into his pocket. ‘That was my wife.’
‘Dead?’ the boy asked.
Slowly the man shook his head. He pursed his lips as though about to whistle and answered in a long-drawn way: ‘Nuuu—’ he said. ‘I will explain.’
The beer on the counter before the man was in a large brown mug. He did not pick it up to drink. Instead he bent down and, putting his face over the rim, he rested there for a moment. Then with both hands he tilted the mug and sipped.
‘Some night you’ll go to sleep with your big nose in a mug and drown,’ said Leo. ‘Prominent transient drowns in beer. That would be a cute death.’
The paper boy tried to signal to Leo. While the man was not looking he screwed up his face and worked his mouth to question soundlessly: ‘Drunk?’ But Leo only raised his eyebrows and turned away to put some pink strips of bacon on the grill. The man pushed the mug away from him, straightened himself, and folded his loose crooked hands on the counter. His face was sad as he looked at the paper boy. He did not blink, but from time to time the lids closed down with delicate gravity over his pale green eyes. It was nearing dawn and the boy shifted the weight of the paper sack.
‘I am talking about love,’ the man said. ‘With me it is a science.’
The boy half slid down from the stool. But the man raised his forefinger, and there was something about him that held the boy and would not let him go away.
‘Twelve years ago I married the woman in the photograph. She was my wife for one year, nine months, three days, and two nights. I loved her. Yes. . . . ’ He tightened his blurred, rambling voice and said again: ‘I loved her. I thought also that she loved me. I was a railroad engineer. She had all home comforts and luxuries. It never crept into my brain that she was not satisfied. But do you know what happened?’
‘Mgneeow!” said Leo.
The man did not take his eyes from the boy’s face. ‘She left me. I came in one night and the house was empty and she was gone. She left me.’
‘With a fellow?’ the boy asked.
Gently the man placed his palm down on the counter. ‘Why naturally, Son. A woman does not run off like that alone.’
The café was quiet, the soft rain black and endless in the street outside. Leo pressed down the frying bacon with the prongs of his long fork. ‘So you have been chasing the floozie for eleven years. You frazzle
d old rascal!’
For the first time the man glanced at Leo. ‘Please don’t be vulgar. Besides, I was not speaking to you.’ He turned back to the boy and said in a trusting and secretive undertone. ‘Let’s not pay any attention to him. O.K.?’
The paper boy nodded doubtfully.
‘It was like this,’ the man continued. ‘I am a person who feels many things. All my life one thing after another has impressed me. Moonlight. The leg of a pretty girl. One thing after another. But the point is that when I had enjoyed anything there was a peculiar sensation as though it was laying around loose in me. Nothing seemed to finish itself up or fit in with the other things. Women? I had my portion of them. The same. Afterwards laying around loose in me. I was a man who had never loved.’
Very slowly he closed his eyelids, and the gesture was like a curtain drawn at the end of a scene in a play. When he spoke again his voice was excited and the words came fast—the lobes of his large, loose ears seemed to tremble.
‘Then I met this woman. I was fifty-one years old and she always said she was thirty. I met her at a filling station and we were married within three days. And do you know what it was like? I just can’t tell you. All I had ever felt was gathered together around this woman. Nothing lay around loose in me any more but was finished up by her.’
The man stopped suddenly and stroked his long nose. His voice sank down to a steady and reproachful undertone: ‘I’m not explaining this right. What happened was this. There were these beautiful feelings and loose little pleasures inside me. And this woman was something like an assembly line for my soul. I run these little pieces of myself through her and I come out complete. Now do you follow me?’
‘What was her name?’ the boy asked.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I called her Dodo. But that is immaterial.’
‘Did you try to make her come back?’
The man did not seem to hear. ‘Under the circumstances you can imagine how I felt when she left me.’
Leo took the bacon from the grill and folded two strips of it between a bun. He had a gray face, with slitted eyes, and a pinched nose saddled by faint blue shadows. One of the mill workers signaled for more coffee and Leo poured it. He did not give refills on coffee free. The spinner ate breakfast there every morning, but the better Leo knew his customers the stingier he treated them. He nibbled his own bun as though he grudged it to himself.
The Ballad of the Sad Cafe Page 13