Good Evening Mr. and Mrs. America, and All the Ships at Sea

by Richard Bausch

  “That’s right,” Mr. D’Allessandro said, seeing the expression on the younger man’s face. “Marcus was here earlier this evening. He’s gone now…”

  Marshall looked around the room, on impulse.

  “What is it, lad? I’ve got some paperwork to get out of the way.”

  “There’s been a—sort of a—a hitch,” he said. “I…” He had the sensation that Marcus was still in the room, would step out from behind one of the window curtains, or come up from behind the desk.

  “You’re not—I told you what you—Sunday was a mistake. There really wasn’t anything.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” the young man said.

  “Well—what, then?” said Mr. D’Allessandro. He was standing behind his desk.

  Marshall started to explain about the events in Maryland on Saturday, Alice’s father’s displeasure. But the desperate look on the older man’s face stopped him. Mr. D’Allessandro sat down slowly. “Did anyone get hurt?”

  “Well, Alice’s family maid and cook is in the hospital, with some sort of fatigue. They checked her heart—”

  “Yes, but what’s this got to do with the school?”

  “Oh,” Marshall said. Again, he had misunderstood everything. “Nothing.”

  “I’ve got a date set. December twentieth. Mitchell Brightman’s office said December twentieth was acceptable. I left a message with his secretary. I tried to speak to him, but I couldn’t get through.” D’Allessandro stared. “What is it, lad? Something’s the matter? Nothing’s wrong, is there?”

  “No, sir. Really.”

  “My wife is worried. I can’t get her to tell me anything. There’s nothing to worry about, eh?”

  “Nothing,” Marshall said. “I just wanted you to know that.”

  “You’re a good lad,” D’Allessandro said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “A fine young gentleman. Let’s—let’s keep Alice happy. Okay? Just until December twentieth. Anything you’ve got in your mind to do, son—you know? After December twentieth, I don’t care if you want to go to the moon. That’s your business. But please—don’t screw it up for me with girls, for God’s sake. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? We’re men of the world, eh?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Don’t say that. Don’t stand there and say that when the date is set. The hall is set. Everything’s arranged.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m depending on you. The whole school’s depending on you.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me. That’s what you say to people you can let down. You’re not going to let me down, are you?”

  “No, s—”

  “That’s a good lad,” he said, wringing his hands, rising from behind the desk and then sitting back down again. “That’s good.”

  Marshall backed out of the room, determined that, if need be, he would find some way to get through to Brightman on his own.

  In the engineering room, Wilbur Soames was sitting at the console while Joe Baker stood behind him, his arms resting on the back of the chair. Alvarez had come back, along with Albert. They were in the studio with Ricky Dalmas, who read copy about college football scores. “Colgate, sixteen, Bucknell, seven; Miami, thirty-four, Tennesee State, thirty-one.”

  In a few minutes it would be Marshall’s turn to take the console, and he waited, standing a little to the side of Wilbur Soames, who had earphones on, with one ear exposed so that he could talk to Joe Baker. They had apparently been telling jokes.

  Soames said, “How about this one? A guy in Las Vegas walks up to this chorus girl and says, ‘Tickle yer ass with a feather?’ And she turns and says, ‘What did you say to me, you creep?’ And he says, ‘Madam, I said, “typical nasty weather.”’”

  Baker coughed and sputtered.

  The young man moved toward the door, aware that Soames was watching him.

  “Wait,” Soames said. “I’m not finished.”

  “I don’t really like those kinds of stories.”

  “What kind, man? It’s a joke. Nothing wrong with a joke. Listen. So this drunk sees the whole thing, hmmm? And he goes up to the guy and says, ‘You mind tellin’ me what tha fuck you’re doin’?’ And the guy says, ‘Man, that’s how I get a woman for the night. I go up to every woman I see and say, “Tickle yer ass with a feather.” And if they act shocked, I say “typical nasty weather.” And I don’t get slapped, see. And if they don’t act shocked, hey, I got me a lady for the night.’ Well, the drunk thinks that’s the best thing he ever heard of, and he staggers up to the first woman he sees and says, ‘Hey! Shove a fucking feather up your ass?’ And she says ‘What did you say?’ And he says, ‘Look at tha fucking sky.’”

  Baker was bending down with his arms folded at his stomach, making the coughing sound, and Soames sat there watching him, smiling.

  “Oh, man,” Baker said. “Oh, my, my, my.”

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” Soames said. “Did you hear the one about Johnson flying in a helicopter over Mississippi, and he sees these two white boys driving a boat with this colored boy on water skis behind them? You know this one?”

  “No,” Baker said, laughing. “It’s already funny.”

  “The president gets them to land the helicopter, and he tells these two guys that’s the spirit he’s looking for in America. And he pats them on the shoulder and waves to the colored boy out in the water, and then flies away. And the first white boy looks at the other and says, ‘What do you suppose is the matter with him, anyway? Ain’t he ever seen two guys trolling for alligators before?’”

  At this, Baker began to slide down the wall. He sat with his legs out, choking and laughing. “Jesus Christ, Wilbur,” he got out at last, trying to catch his breath.

  Have mercy on us.

  Soames looked at Marshall. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Marshall said.

  “You’re standing there mumbling. Are you okay, kid?”

  Baker was still laughing, but he had gotten to his feet. “Trolling for alligators,” he said. “Lord, that’s great.” He went out into the hall and down the stairs.

  Marshall turned to Soames. “I’m not going to work the console. I’m down for it, but I’m—cover for me. Mr. D’Allessandro will understand.”

  “You tell him, boy.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Yes, massuh.”

  Marshall went down the stairs and past the library, where several people were quietly reading and working. Natalie was not there, nor was she in the break area in the basement. Someone had left the outside door open, and the room was several degrees colder than the rest of the building. Joe Baker had put money in the Coke machine, and it hadn’t worked. He was slapping the side of it and shaking it. Finally, the bottle clattered into the tray. Orange soda. He opened it and drank most of its contents in a long gulping. Then he looked at Marshall. “Is there a wind in here?” He saw the door, and walked over and pulled it shut. “Anybody could walk in.”

  Absurdly, Marshall thought of Marcus and looked around the room.

  “That Soames—he’s funnier than hell.”

  “Alice’s father said he’s calling the whole thing off with Mitchell Brightman.”

  Baker seemed only mildly interested. “No kidding. Well, I guess that might be that, then. To tell you the truth, Walter, I’m a little past worrying about it.”

  They heard footsteps on the stairs, a slow progress, someone descending. It was Albert. “Hey,” Albert said.

  Baker finished the soda, set the bottle in the rack beside the machine, and put another nickle into the slot. This time there was no trouble. The bottle clattered into the tray. “Albert,” he said, “you don’t look too good.”

  Albert said, “I’ve got a bad headache.”

  “You ought to go home and get some rest, boy.” Baker got his second bottle of soda, then moved to the stairs and started back up. “That Wilbur,” he said. “Man. A heart a
ttack on wheels.” He went on.

  “What did I miss?” Albert said. He stood there in the center of the room, so tall, with his hand held up to the side of his face.

  “Oh,” Marshall said to him, “Wilbur Soames was telling dirty jokes.”

  “I’m really depressed,” Albert said.

  He went on to explain that he and Emma had continued to argue over the sit-in, and his part in it, and that they had finally gotten down to how differently they saw the problem. Other things had come out. Apparently, Emma’s closed-mindedness extended to other groups besides Negroes: She didn’t like Jews, or Catholics—Papists, she called them—or Muslims. She claimed—and Albert was careful to say that it had been in the heat of an argument—that she didn’t care what the rest of the world did with these groups of people as long as she didn’t have to deal with them. There wasn’t anything she as an individual could do about these problems, and so if people kept to themselves and let her keep to herself, she had no problem with them. Each to his own, she said; it was the way of the world. She was dead set against any kind of mixing, and nothing Albert said could dislodge her. He had ranted and railed at her, he said. He had reminded her of what the country had recently enough spent so much of itself to ward off—the Nazis were in the near distance, after all, not even twenty years ago. Her own father had given his life at Anzio. Surely she understood that Hitler had come from this thing. This wrong thinking alone. This, he said, and nothing more. Surely she could see that one had to learn how to process these feelings of suspicion and distrust of differentness, one had to work to make oneself see individuals, people, one by one, and not abstractions based on these suspicions and distrusts. But she wouldn’t budge, she sat in his living room with her hands clenched in her lap, and her lower lip sticking out, a stubborn baby used to having her way.

  And what was worse, she had decided this week that she could leave her aunt’s house for good. She wanted to move in with Albert. She had already gotten so that she could navigate freely in the little apartment, and she was tired of having to depend on her aunt for everything. She wanted to go to Maryland on the bus, and get married by a justice of the peace, and have it over with. She had, in effect, presented Albert with an ultimatum, and he was certain that this stemmed from the fact that she was beginning to sense his unease with her. Emma was the sort who would not shrink from bad news if she thought it might be on its way; she would insist on facing it rather than putting herself through the anticipation of it. There were all sorts of admirable things about her, Albert said. She was strong. She was brave. She had a stubborn will to do for herself and to make her life her own. She was amazingly tender and sweet in those moments when they were being affectionate with each other. She would make him a good wife, and he loved her.

  “I do love her,” Albert said, and his voice broke. Then he almost laughed. “What a mess.”

  They were sitting opposite each other in one of the two booths under the basement window. Somewhere a fan began to whir—it was probably in the back of one of the soft-drink machines—and people had begun straggling down from the night college as well as the radio school. Mrs. D’Allessandro came in with two students, and behind them was Ricky Dalmas, carrying the paper bag with his dinner in it. He nodded at Marshall, and took a seat next to Albert.

  “That’s such an ugly bruise. I hope you put ice on it.”

  “Yes,” Albert said. “I put ice on it.”

  “You look terrible.” Dalmas opened the bag and brought out a thick ham and cheese sandwich. “I got beat up once at school,” he said cheerfully. “When I was in high school. And, of course, I got beat up at home every day.” He bit into the sandwich. It smelled of garlic and Italian spices. “The bruises take forever to clear up on your face.”

  “Excuse me,” Albert said. “I’d better get back upstairs.”

  “Me, too,” said Marshall.

  “I’m used to eating alone,” Dalmas said. “Go right ahead.”

  Mrs. D’Allessandro took Marshall by the arm, above the elbow. “How are you this evening?”

  “Fine,” he said, making way for Albert.

  Her face registered her horror at Albert’s face, but Albert didn’t see this. He took her hand when Marshall introduced him and said, “Hello.” Then he stepped into the hallway, and turned to wait.

  “What happened to your friend?”

  “An accident,” Marshall said.

  She had already left this behind. “I take it arrangements are proceeding?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I think we need more time to get the word out about our gala occasion—but my husband wouldn’t listen. So our work’s definitely cut out for us.”

  He nodded—wanting, as always, to please.

  “I understand you’re going with Natalie, now. And do you want to tell me how you’re reconciling this with your young friend Alice? Aren’t you and Alice engaged or something?”

  “Alice—” he began. “She—”

  “And does Natalie know about her?”

  “I don’t know what anybody knows,” he said, looking back at her.

  “You be careful, young man—we can’t have your Alice mad at you, can we?” She smiled—there was something brittle and unpleasant about it, almost as though she had made a face at him.

  Albert had climbed to the first landing and was sitting on the top step, waiting, his head in his hands.

  “Are you okay?” Marshall asked him.

  “Headache.” He stood. “I think I better go home. I feel bad, Walter.”

  “I’ll walk you home,” Marshall said.

  Mrs. D’Allessandro stood on the stairs in front of the building with Natalie as the two young men came back down from the radio school. She took Natalie’s arm and introduced her to Albert.

  “Yes,” Natalie said. “I have met him before.”

  “I’m taking Albert home,” Marshall said. “He’s not feeling well.”

  “Natalie and I could take him in my car,” said Mrs. D’Allessandro.

  “No,” Marshall said. “That’s all right. It’s just down the street.”

  “I need the air,” Albert said, almost under his breath.

  “I’ll come back,” said Marshall.

  “Natalie, don’t you have something you have to do?” Mrs. D’Allessandro said.

  Natalie seemed hesitant, then irritable. “I can’t stay here,” she said to Marshall. She looked at Mrs. D’Allessandro, then back at him. “I’ll—I’ll see you next time, maybe.”

  “Natalie?” he said.

  “Is fine,” she said. “Please?”

  “She’ll talk to you later,” Mrs. D’Allessandro said. “You’d better go now. Your friend looks none too worse for wear.”

  Albert stood there, gazing myopically at one and then the other of them, the one bony hand up to the side of the deep-eyed face. Marshall took him by the elbow and started down the stairs. He looked back once, but the two women had gone back inside.

  “What was that all about?” Albert asked.

  “Nothing.”

  They walked on for a time in silence, and then Albert said, “You can tell me, you know.”

  Marshall stopped and looked at him.

  “Mr. D’Allessandro said something about it to me,” Albert said. “I—well, I guess he thought I knew.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Marshall told him. “I’ve always been so scared of hurting anybody’s feelings…”

  They walked on.

  “I like Alice,” Albert said.

  “So do I,” said Marshall.

  “You haven’t said anything to her.”

  “Not yet.”

  “And I thought I had trouble.”

  At Albert’s street, they paused again. It was a chilly night, without wind. The moon was bright, almost enclosed by an enormous bank of dark clouds, the foliate edges of which were intricately limned with silver.

  “Some would say you’re a lucky man,” Albert said. “I’m okay now
. You can go on if you want to. Unless you’d like to come on in for a while.”

  “I thought you had a headache,” Marshall said.

  Albert’s smile was cryptic. “I do.”

  “Give my best to Emma,” Marshall told him.

  He took the bus home. There were several other passengers, each alone. One man read a newspaper; another held a book and nodded off. A black woman knitted something, counting low to herself. The lights of the city streets glided by, and there were sirens in the distance. The bus rattled and squeaked and shook as it traversed the unevennesses in the road, and Marshall thought about being in that closed van, singing with the others—the sense he had experienced of being part of some accidental glory, the beginning of the new country that would grow out of the old one. That had seemed true; and yet this was true, too—this clattering through dirty streets, past storefronts with iron gates over the facades, their pictures in the windows of a murdered president.

  He got off at the stop in Arlington, and saw that Mr. Atwater’s car was parked in front of the apartment house. He almost walked down the street to the doughnut shop in the next block, but then thought better of it: If he were any later, Loretta might begin to worry. Mr. Atwater was sitting in the kitchen, across the small table from her, smoking a cigar. The smell of it had filled the apartment.

  “Oh, good,” Loretta said. “You’re home.” She stood and put her arms around him. She smelled strongly of coffee. Her hair was pulled back, and she had on makeup, but she wore her dark blue bathrobe.

  “We’ve got news,” Mr. Atwater said.

  “Let me tell him,” said Loretta. “Please, Clark.”

  Atwater took a long drag of his cigar and blew the smoke at the ceiling. “Go,” he said.

  Chapter 15

  Marshall managed for his mother’s sake to feign surprise and gladness concerning the very unsurprising and unhappy news that Mr. Atwater had asked her to marry him. And somehow he hid his considerable displeasure upon hearing that she had accepted. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said, her eyes shining with an unnatural light. “We’ve only just now decided it.”