Martin

by George A. Romero

“Martin,” he went on. “You have been doing very well in the shop these past few days. And the ladies seem very pleased with your deliveries. Why don’t you take the day off? It will be slow today. It is always slow on Fridays when most people have fish for their meal.”

  Martin was stunned. It was all he could do to keep from running over to the old man and throwing his arms around him in gratitude. This was the moment he was waiting for. The pains had been getting greater and greater, and he didn’t know if he could stand it much longer.

  About an hour later, Martin was on his way to the train station. He passed the familiar landmarks of his first morning in Braddock and managed to find the shortcut to the station without getting lost.

  The commuter train into Pittsburgh was on time, and he boarded with businessmen and businesswomen in their conservative clothes, morning papers tucked under their arms, their faces frozen into masks of boredom. As one, the passengers boarded the train, moving swiftly toward the unoccupied seats. Luckily for Martin, he was able to find a seat next to the window, and instead of reading the newspaper, he gazed out at the passing steel mills’ smokestacks, which filled the morning sky with their poisonous haze.

  “It’s easier in the city,” Martin thought as the train clamored toward its destination. “At least for now. Nobody cares about anything in the city. Nobody’s watchin’ ya all the time.”

  By the time the train pulled into the station, Martin was anxious to get going and explore. It was a newfound freedom for him to be away from the constraints of Tati Cuda and his stifling town.

  He wandered for many blocks until he finally came to a section of the city which advertised sex as if it were toothpaste. In the bright morning light, the gaudy neon signs and explicit posters seemed incongruous.

  Martin walked by a store with a provocative poster of a nude woman stretched across a bed of fur pillows. The woman’s eyes, breasts, and lower abdomen were covered by black strips, but a sign next to the picture stated that what was screened out on the photograph was available inside—for a price.

  Martin peered through the glass door into the store, and a cigar-smoking man in a woolen skullcap gave him a piercing glare.

  “If ya don’t pay, ya don’t look,” he sneered at Martin and pulled down the shade on the door.

  A few hookers lounged at the next corner, their bright orange Afro wigs a startling contrast to the pale yellow of the sun that was just rising in the sky.

  A variety store on the next block displayed all sorts of contraptions for sexual stimulation. A tall man with a scar running from the corner of his eye to his jawline hawked, “Triple X Rated Movies—sex with animals!” A young boy with dark skin and a saucily tilted wide-brimmed hat called out, “Loose joints. Three for five bucks,” as Martin passed by. He didn’t know what joints were and was too embarrassed to ask. Besides, he didn’t like the shifty looks of the sidewalk merchants.

  Further down the street, he was drawn to the colorful penny arcade and its gallery of pinball machines and glass-enclosed fortune-tellers. He put a penny in one of the marionette fortune-tellers’ slots and watched in fascination as the bewigged doll foretold long life and happiness in a deep, scratchy voice. Her fake eyelids fluttered seductively, to Martin’s amazement.

  Martin put another coin in a pinball machine and watched the lights and bells go wild when he pulled the levers.

  “It’s easier in the city to find people,” he surmised. “People that you don’t have to really care about. And it doesn’t take that long to figure out how to do it. Or when to do it the safest way . . . the way that doesn’t get you caught.”

  He walked over to the magazine rack which displayed girly magazines. A few sailors eyed the magazines lasciviously.

  “It’s still my least favorite thing, though. Watching and waiting. Thinking about what it’ll be like.”

  Martin spent the rest of the morning wandering aimlessly through the arcades and into the porno bookstores. About noon he went up to one of the sidewalk vendors and pointed to a hot dog, indicating that he wanted mustard, relish, fried onions with it. He ate it quickly, washing it down with an Orange Crush.

  By the time the sun had moved toward the western horizon, he found himself on the outskirts of the city, observing the people filing in and out of a large supermarket.

  Martin avoided the big policeman who stood guard by the shopping cart depot. He mingled with a gang of leather-jacketed youths who had parked their motorcycles by the entrance. Martin’s eyes were glued to the remote-controlled doorway which would disgorge customers every few seconds from the crowded store.

  After a while, a very pretty, extremely well-dressed young woman emerged. Martin figured she must be a housewife since her cart was filled to capacity with bags of food. Through the crowd of toughs, Martin caught a glimpse of her soft brown hair being blown by a stiff late afternoon breeze. He watched her undulating hips as she drew near a wood-paneled station wagon and started to unload her purchases into the back. Her slender arms could hardly lift the overstuffed bags.

  • • •

  When Martin returned home that evening, Cuda was quite friendly and inquired about his day. The old man hadn’t expected him to be away so long. Martin was very reticent to discuss the events of his day of freedom. He merely nodded his head in response when Cuda asked if he had had fun.

  Christina eyed him curiously, wondering whether he was capable of any fun at all. Martin didn’t bother to eat but went right up to his room to review his plans. He had found her. She was even prettier than the one on the train, and her smile was more radiant. Martin had stared open-mouthed as she piled the packages into the back of her car. She hadn’t noticed him at all.

  “It’ll be easy to find out where she lives,” Martin thought as he undressed for bed. “You can even follow ’em if there’s no other way. That’s what I’ll do. I don’t think I’ll need a bicycle if I’m smart. I’ll just have to work extra hard in the shop so Cuda will let me have another day off.”

  Even Cuda was surprised that week at the change in Martin. He had felt guilty about sending the boy off to the city and had even wondered if he had gotten lost—Martin was so simple-minded. But when he saw the effect that one day away from Braddock had on him—the boy even smiled occasionally and hummed to himself—Cuda decided to make Fridays off a permanent state of affairs.

  The following Friday, Martin hurried to the supermarket around mid-afternoon, hoping to catch a glimpse of “the lady.” This time he arrived a bit early and decided to go inside and see if he could spot her.

  He noticed her hair first, which she had tied back with a black velvet ribbon. She was dressed simply in a black linen pants suit with a cream-colored blouse. Martin observed her at the vegetable counter, picking out a firm head of lettuce, and checking off items on her list. She turned her head quickly to check the price chart, and Martin was afraid he’d been spotted, so he moved swiftly down the next aisle, picking up a few items as he went: a can of dog food, a carton of soap suds, and a box of crackers. Then he waited by the checkout counter, casually leafing through a magazine, until he noticed she was headed in his direction. He buried his face in the magazine until she got on line, then moved in behind her, keeping his face averted.

  She chatted pleasantly with the checkout girl, inquiring about her family and school.

  “Can I pay by check today, Janet?” she asked, her voice lilting over the jingling and clanging of the cash registers.

  “Sure, Mrs. Quinn. You don’t even need identification. Just your address and phone number on the back of the check.”

  Martin peered over the top of the magazine and was able to make out the address printed on the top of her check. He memorized the street number and address. Fortunately, it was easy—4 Edgewood Way.

  Mrs. Quinn waited patiently while the checkout girl loaded her shopping cart with her bundles. Then she replaced her checkbook in an expensive-looking leather bag, smiled graciously at the girl, and walked out with the cart
before her.

  “May I help you?” asked the girl, prodding Martin out of his revery.

  He fumbled with his packages, nearly dropping them on the floor. His purchases came to $2.19 for things that he didn’t even want.

  “You buying that, too?” she asked and pointed to the dog-eared magazine.

  Martin shook his head, and replaced it in the rack.

  The girl gave him a dirty look with his change.

  • • •

  On his third Friday off, Martin found his way to the supermarket lady’s neighborhood. He was able to buy a city map at the train station and found that she lived near a big park. He waited patiently across the street from her house, buying an ice cream cone from a pushcart vendor on the corner.

  Toward late afternoon, the station wagon pulled into the driveway of an expensive-looking white colonial house with black shutters, set back on a wooded acre. A well-kept front lawn boasted sculptured hedges, and two cast-iron jockeys graced the front doorway. As the car turned into the driveway, the electric garage door opened and swallowed her up like a whale digesting a smaller fish.

  Martin simply smiled to himself, noting the electric door and the easy access to the house through the garage.

  He returned home and waited patiently until Sunday when Cuda and Christina were in church. He boarded the 10 a.m. Pittsburgh-bound train. He took the bus from the station directly to the big park near Mrs. Quinn’s house. A few blocks away he disembarked, and walked purposefully toward the house right up the path past the twin jockeys, and rang the front doorbell.

  Mrs. Quinn answered the door in a pale yellow breakfast robe, her hair gently waving around her face and held in place by a matching yellow ribbon. She was a vision of beauty to Martin, and in her eyes he could see the eyes of the woman on the train, Christina, and Mrs. Santini—all the women whose softness and loveliness had touched his heart. She was very precious to him, although they had never spoken.

  “Yes?” she inquired. Not even a glimmer of recognition crossed her face. Martin was relieved.

  He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small index card on which he had printed in very neat script: I AM A DEAF MUTE. WILL YOU HELP ME THROUGH SCHOOL?

  The woman looked at him sympathetically and smiled warmly.

  From inside the house a deep voice asked, “Who is it, dear?”

  “Oh . . . er . . . ,” she turned toward the voice.

  A tall, dark-haired man with a bushy mustache and steel-rimmed glasses appeared around the corner. He wore a breakfast robe over a pair of slacks, and his feet were bare. He seemed to be unaccustomed to and quite annoyed at having his Sunday brunch disturbed.

  The woman handed him Martin’s card.

  He read it quickly, adjusting his glasses with an index finger.

  “Oh . . . well . . . I don’t normally like solicitation this way, but . . .”

  He reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out some loose change, which he dropped into Martin’s outstretched palm as if it were soiled.

  “Here you go, son,” he said as he motioned his wife out of the way and closed the door. Through the entire transaction, Martin had been closely studying the security alarm system which ran along the inside of the door frame.

  Slowly and calmly, Martin plodded down the front steps. He turned toward the park and kept his pace even and measured, even though he could hardly contain his joy at his discovery.

  “It is simple,” he thought gleefully. “It is so simple, even a child could figure it out.”

  Instead of going back to Braddock, Martin spent the rest of the day in the park, watching families on Sunday picnics, observing teenagers flying kites and playing Frisbee. Toward evening he walked back to the Quinns’ neighborhood. He kept a safe distance—about a block away. He had a feeling, though, that the husband would be leaving the house. He had been observing the woman for a while and figured that her husband must travel since she was always shopping for food on Fridays, probably for their big weekend together.

  Around half past nine, Martin’s eyes were caught by the light going on over the front door of their house. He walked quickly until he was practically opposite their door, shrouded by the neighbor’s bushes. Mrs. Quinn was standing on her tiptoes, kissing her husband good-bye. He was dressed in a tan three-piece suit and was carrying a suit bag over his shoulder and an overnight case in one hand. Mrs. Quinn was dressed in a frilly nightgown which she had hastily covered with a light summer robe. Her tan legs were silhouetted through the thin material.

  “Sometimes it takes awhile to figure out what times would be best,” Martin thought as he watched Mr. Quinn getting into their second car, a red compact. “But there’s always a good time sooner or later.”

  Martin waited until the man pulled out and the woman closed the front door and shut off the outside light. He remained still and hidden until he saw the lights in her bedroom window extinguished. Then, with the stealth of a cat, he explored the outside of the house, careful not to make any distracting noises as he sneaked through flower beds and across flagstone paths. He studied all the security system leads which extended from window to window.

  “Sometimes there are burglar alarms or big dogs or stuff like that,” he thought. “I hate big dogs. They scare me. Burglar alarms are hard. There’s always a way, though.”

  He finished his circuit and took a long last look at the darkened house. A man walking his dog was struck by the curious yellow gleam in the foolishly grinning young man’s eyes.

  • • •

  “Supper, Martin!” Christina called through the door to the hunched figure busily working over something on the table that he had dragged in from the basement. Martin was as immersed in his work as a scientist discovering the cure for cancer. At the sound of her voice, Martin plopped down his things and rushed for the door. He threw it open and the little bell jingled its greeting. Christina, who was already halfway down the hall toward the stairs, turned when she heard the tinny sound.

  “Supper’s ready,” she repeated to Martin as he stood at the doorway staring at her.

  “You took it down.”

  “What?”

  He pointed to the bare doorjamb of her room. “You took it down,” he repeated simply.

  “Oh . . . yes . . . I . . . I . . . thought it was stupid,” she replied when she realized that he had indicated the missing garlands of garlic. “A stupid superstition . . . I . . . I . . . didn’t want it there, that’s all.”

  Martin just looked at her pensively.

  “Wasn’t I right?” she smiled.

  He agreed with a nod of his head.

  “Come on down to supper. Hurry. I’m going out tonight.”

  She spoke the last sentence casually, although Martin could detect a twinkle in her eye and noticed that she was wearing a deep red dress and little gold earrings, which danced at her ears.

  Martin sat down at the kitchen table which was only set for two. Tati Cuda’s absence hung in the air like a stale odor. Christina and Martin ate without speaking. Once in a while their glances crossed, but they avoided looking directly into each other’s eyes.

  After they had finished their silent meal, Christina rose to scrape the plates and stack them near the sink for Martin to wash. It had become their nightly ritual, a role that Martin had automatically assumed a few days after he had arrived. He enjoyed this duty and washed the dishes meticulously: first scrubbing them in one sink, rinsing in another, then drying and storing away each item, one at a time. It was a painstakingly slow way to do it, but it was the least Martin felt he owed Christina, who had fed and cared for him all these weeks, and he took pride in his accomplishment.

  Over the drone of the telephone talk show, Martin heard the click of Christina’s heels on the linoleum floor. He turned to see her with a sweater over her summer dress, a concerned look on her face as she checked her wristwatch. She wound it a few times and then double-checked the time against the kitchen wall clock.

 
; “I don’t know where he is,” she muttered to herself. “Oh, I’ll be so glad when the phone gets put in.”

  Martin gazed at her thoughtfully as he dried another plate.

  The staccato click of her heels on the floor was wearing his patience thin.

  “Damn it!” she yelled suddenly, and whipped off her sweater, pushing up the sleeves of her red dress.

  “Here, let me help,” she said to Martin, crossing over to the sink.

  “No,” Martin insisted, clutching a platter protectively to his chest. “It’s my job.”

  “Well, I just want to help you while I’m waiting,” she explained.

  “No . . . it’s my job.”

  Martin knew that she really didn’t want to do the dishes, that she was only upset because Arthur was late, but he didn’t want to relinquish what little responsibility they had given him.

  Christina sank down into a chair and ran a hand through her hair in frustration. Arthur was over an hour late, and Martin was being his difficult self. Why was everything going wrong for her? Everything annoyed her tonight: the sound of Martin’s chewing, the way he dried the dishes, the drone of the radio.

  “Do you mind if I turn this off?” she asked him. He shook his head, and she reached up and snapped the radio off. The room was very quiet except for the sound of the evening crickets and the squeak of the towel on the clean dishes.

  Christina checked her watch again and sighed.

  “I’m glad you don’t believe in magic,” Martin announced very matter-of-factly, as if they had been discussing the subject recently.

  She looked up at him, a surprised expression on her face.

  “Why now?” she thought mournfully.

  “Well, I don’t . . . I really don’t,” she answered instead.

  “I know and I’m glad.”

  “I’m sorry you have to go through it all. It must be awful for you.”

  “It is. It is awful.” Martin said, wiping his hands on the towel and coming around to sit by Christina on a kitchen chair.

  “There’s no magic. There’s no magic in anything.”

  “That’s right. You’re right,” she responded, looking directly into his earnest eyes. “That trick you did with the dollar. That was a . . . very nice way of trying to show it. But, you see . . . Tati Cuda’s . . . well, he’s very old . . . well, you know. You were with Palonis. He was the same way.”