The Complete Short Stories of James Purdy

by John Waters

  My wife, though, could just not take Newyorkcity. She was out selling that Queen Bee royal jelly every day, but when cold weather come she had only a thin coat and she went out less and less and that all added up to less cream of wheat for me in the evening.

  It is a funny thing about cream of wheat, you don’t get tired of it. I think if I ate, say, hamburger and chop suey every night, I would get sick and tired of them. Not that I ever dine on them. But if I did, I would—get sick and tired, I mean. But there’s something about cream of wheat, with just a daub of warm oleo on it, and a sprinkle of brown sugar that makes you feel you might be eatin’ it for the first time.

  My wife don’t care for cream of wheat nearly so much as I do.

  Our kid always ate with the old gentleman down the hall with the skullcap. He rung the bell when it was supper time, and the kid went down there and had his meal. Once in a while, he brought back something or other for us.

  It’s funny talking to you like this, Mister, and as I told this lady I am waiting to get re-connected with on the phone, if I didn’t know any better I would think either one of you was Daddy Wolf on the Trouble Phone.

  Well, Mabel left me, then, and took the kid with her.

  It was her silly fear of the V.D. rate that really made her light out. She could have stayed here indefinitely. She loved this here city at first. She was just crazy about Central Park.

  Newyorkcity was just the place for me to find work in. I had a good job with the Singer sewing-machine people in one of their spare-parts rooms, then I got laid off and was without a thing for over 6 months and then was lucky to find this job at the mitten factory. I raise the lever that sews the inner lining to your mittens.

  I don’t think it is Mabel and the kid leaving me so much sometimes as it is the idea of that Mama rat coming through the holes in the linoleum that has got me so down-in-the-dumps today. I didn’t even go to the mitten factory this a.m., and I have, like I say, got so down-in-the-dumps I almost felt like calling Daddy Wolf myself on the Trouble Phone like she did all the time. But knowing he won’t talk to nobody but ladies, as a kind of next-best-thing I put my finger down haphazard on top of this lady’s name in the phone book, and I sure appreciated having that talk with her.

  See Daddy Wolf would only talk with my wife for about one and a half minutes on account of other women were waiting to tell him their troubles. He would always say Go back to your affiliation with the Sunday school and church of your choice, Mabel, and you’ll find your burdens lighter in no time.

  Daddy said the same thing to her every night, but she never got tired hearing it, I guess.

  Daddy Wolf told Mabel she didn’t have to have any fear at all of the V.D. rate on account of she was a married woman and therefore did not have to go out for that relationship, but if she ever felt that desire coming over her when her husband was gone, to just sit quiet and read an uplifting book.

  Mabel has not had time, I don’t think, to write me yet, taking care of the kid and all, and getting settled back home, and I have, well, been so goddam worried about everything. They are talking now about a shut-down at the mitten factory so that I hardly as a matter of fact have had time to think about my wife and kid, let alone miss them. There is, as a matter of fact, more cream of wheat now for supper, and I splurged today and bought a 5-pound box of that soft brown sugar that don’t turn to lumps, which I wouldn’t ever have done if they was still here.

  The old gent down the hall with the skullcap misses my kid, as he almost entirely kept the boy in eats.

  He never speaks to me in the hall, the old man. They said, I heard this somewhere, he don’t have linoleum on his floor, but carpets, but I have not been invited in to see.

  This building was condemned two years ago, but still isn’t torn down, and the old man is leaving as soon as he can find the right neighborhood for his married daughter to visit him in.

  Wait a minute. No, I thought I seen some action from under that one hole there in the linoleum.

  Excuse me if I have kept you from using the phone with my talk but all I can say is you and this lady on the phone have been better for me tonight than Daddy Wolf on the Trouble Phone ever was for my wife.

  Up until now I have usually called the super when I was in one of these down-moods, but all he ever said was Go back where you and Mabel got your own people and roots, Benny. You can’t make it here in a linoleum apartment with your background and education.

  He has had his eyes opened—the super. He has admitted himself that he never thought Mabel and me could stick it out this long. (He don’t know she is gone.)

  But I won’t give up. I will not give up. Mabel let a thing like the hike in the V.D. rates chase her out. I tried to show her that that was just statistics, but she always was superstitious as all get-out.

  I judge when this scare I’ve had about the Mama rat dies down and I get some sleep and tomorrow if I go back to the mitten factory I will then really and truly begin to miss Mabel and the kid. The old man down the hall already misses the kid. That kid ate more in one meal with him than Mabel and me eat the whole week together. I don’t begrudge it to him, though, because he is growing.

  Well, Mister, if you don’t want to use the phone after all, I think I will try to have Operator re-connect me with that party I got disconnected from. I guess as this is the hour that Mabel always called Daddy Wolf I have just automatically caught her habit, and anyhow I sure felt in the need of a talk.

  Do you hear that funny clicking sound? Here, I’ll hold you the receiver so as you can hear it. Don’t go away just yet: I think Operator is getting me that party again, so stick around awhile yet.

  No, they cut us off again, hear? there is a bad connection or something.

  Well, like I say, anyhow Mabel and the kid did get out of here, even if it was superstition. Christ, when I was a boy I had every one of those diseases and it never did me no hurt. I went right into the army with a clean bill of health, Korea, home again, and now Newyorkcity.

  You can’t bullshit me with a lot of statistics.

  Mabel, though, goddam it, I could knock the teeth down her throat, running out on me like this and taking the kid.

  WHERE IS THAT GODDAM OPERATOR?

  Hello. Look, Operator, what number was that I dialed and talked so long. Re-connect me please. That number I just got through talking with so long. I don’t know the party’s name or number. Just connect me back, will you please. This here is an emergency phone call, Operator.

  GOODNIGHT, SWEETHEART

  Pearl Miranda walked stark naked from her classroom in the George Washington School where she taught the eighth grade, down Locust Street, where she waited until some of the cars which had stopped for a red traffic light had driven on, then hurried as fast as her weight could allow her down Smith Avenue.

  She waited under a catalpa tree, not yet in leaf, for some men to pass by on the other side of the street. It was fairly dark, but she could not be sure if they would see her.

  Hurrying on down Smith Avenue then, she passed a little girl, who called out to her, though the child did not recognize her.

  The house she at last turned into was that of Winston Cramer, who gave piano lessons to beginners, and whom she herself had taught in the eighth grade nearly twenty years before.

  She rang the doorbell.

  She could see Winston beyond the picture window sitting in an easy chair engaged in manicuring his nails.

  She rang and rang, but he did not move from his sitting position.

  A woman from across the street came out on the porch and stood there watching.

  Pearl rapped now on the door, and called Winston’s name softly. Then she saw him get up. He looked angry.

  “I discontinued the subscription,” she heard his cross high voice. “I don’t want the News—” and he caught sight of her.

  He stood looking at her, immobile behind the glass of the door. Then he opened the door cautiously.

  “Miss Miranda?”


  “Let me in, for pity’s sake,” she answered him. “It’s all right to open the door.”

  The woman across the street went on standing on her porch looking over at the Cramer house.

  “Miss Miranda,” Winston could only go on repeating when she was inside.

  “Go and get me a bathrobe or something, Winston. For pity’s sake.” She scolded with her eyes.

  Winston stood on for a minute more, trying to keep his gaze only on her face.

  She could hear him mumbling and making other silly sounds as he went upstairs.

  Pearl Miranda lowered the shade for the picture window, and then, seeing the shade up on a smaller side window, she lowered it also. She picked up a music album and held this over her.

  “For God Almighty’s sake,” Winston said when he handed her a bathrobe.

  She put it on with some difficulty, and Winston did not help her. She sat down.

  “What can I get for you?” he wondered.

  “Usually they give people brandy in such cases,” Miss Miranda said. “Cases of exposure,” she spoke with her usual precise culture and refinement. “But I think you remember my views on drinking.”

  “I don’t drink either, Miss Miranda,” Winston told her.

  “Some hot milk might be all right.” She seemed to speak condescendingly now. “In the case of a chill coming on.” Looking down at her bare feet, she inquired, “Do you have any house slippers, by chance.”

  “I have some that were my mother’s,” Winston told her.

  That will be fine she was about to say, but he was already racing up the steps.

  When he came back, he acted a bit more like himself, and he helped her on with the tickly, rabbit-lined house slippers.

  “What happened to you?” he asked, looking up at her from his kneeling posture before her.

  “Get me the hot milk first,” she told him.

  He turned to go out into the kitchen, then wheeling around he said: “Miss Miranda, are you really all right?”

  She nodded.

  “Shouldn’t I call the doctor?”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  He came back into the room, his left hand slowly stealing up to his throat. “You were assaulted, weren’t you?” he asked.

  “No, Winston, I was not,” she replied. “Now please fix me my milk.” She spoke to him much as she would have twenty years ago in her classroom.

  Miss Miranda sank back into the warmth and mild comfort of the bathrobe and slippers while he was in the kitchen. She could hear him muttering to himself out there as he went about the task of warming the milk. She supposed all lonely people muttered to themselves, and it was one of the regrettable habits she could never break in herself.

  Waiting, she looked at his Baldwin piano loaded with Czerny practice books. Another stack of music books sat on his piano stool.

  She felt depressed thinking of Winston earning his living sitting all day and part of the evening hearing ungifted children play scales. It was not a job for a man.

  Then she thought of how her own sister had felt sorry for her having to teach the eighth grade.

  “I’m shaking more now than when you walked in,” Winston mumbled inaudibly, bringing in a little Mexican tray with a steaming pot of milk and a cup.

  “Doesn’t that look nice,” Miss Miranda said.

  “I’ll get you a napkin, too.” And he left the room again.

  “Don’t bother,” Miss Miranda called out after him, but not vigorously, for she wanted a napkin.

  She hiccuped a bit drinking the hot milk.

  Winston cleared the exercise books from the piano stool, sat down and watched her drink the hot milk.

  “Just a touch of cinnamon maybe?” He pointed to her cup.

  She shook her head.

  “I just took a pie out of the oven a couple of hours ago,” he informed her. “Would you like a piece?”

  “What flavor is it, Winston?” Miss Miranda wondered.

  “Red raspberry,” he told her, “Fresh ones.”

  She studied his face a second, “I might at that,” she spoke as if consulting with a third party.

  “Do you do all your own cooking, Winston?”

  “Since Mother died, yes,” he said. “But even in her day I did quite a bit, you know.”

  “I bet you’re a good cook, Winston. You were always a capable boy.” Her voice lowered as she said the second sentence.

  “I haven’t really talked to you since the eighth grade,” Winston reminded her in a rather loud voice.

  “I expect not.” Miss Miranda drank some more of the milk. “My, that hits the spot.”

  “Wouldn’t you like another hot cup?”

  “Yes, I think I would,” she replied.

  He took the tray and all and went out into the kitchen.

  Miss Miranda muttered when he had gone, and held her head in her hands, and then suddenly, as if in pain, she cried out, “God!”

  Then she straightened out her face and got calm, her hands folded on her bathrobe, for Winston’s return.

  He handed her a new cup of milk, and she thanked him.

  “You’re not hurt now, Miss Miranda,” he ventured again. He looked very scared.

  “I’ve had a trick played on me is all, Winston.” She opened her eyes at him wide.

  Somehow, however, she did not seem to be telling the truth, and as she did not look away, Winston looked down at the floor, an expression of sorrow and disappointment about his mouth and eyes. Then he got up from the piano stool and went over to an easy chain and plumped himself down.

  “You gave me a start.” He put his hand across his chest.

  “Now don’t you give out on me,” she said.

  “You don’t want me to call the police or anybody?” he asked, and she could see how upset he was getting.

  “Just calm down, now. Of course I don’t want the police. We’ll handle this our own way.”

  “You said it was a joke, Miss Miranda.”

  She nodded.

  There was a long silence.

  “Ready for your raspberry pie?” he asked weakly.

  She wiped her hands carefully on the linen napkin. “You could have just given me a paper napkin, Winston,” she told him. “Do you have to do your own laundry, too?”

  He mumbled something which sounded like I’m afraid I do. “I’ll get you that pie.” He went out of the room.

  He came back, after a rather lengthy absence, with a generous piece of red raspberry pie on a hand-painted plate.

  “A pretty, pretty sight,” Miss Miranda said.

  She bit into her piece of pie and said Mmmm.

  “I wish you would let me do something for you,” he almost whined.

  “Now sit down, Winston, and be quiet. Better do nothing than do the wrong thing,” she admonished.

  “I know you haven’t done anything wrong, of course,” Winston said, and his voice sounded prophetic of weeping.

  “Now, I’ll explain everything just as soon as I have eaten your pie here,” she told him. “But it’s all nothing to be concerned about.”

  “Did anybody see you come in here?” he wondered.

  She chewed on for a few seconds. “I suspect they may have. Who lives across the street from you there?” She pointed with her fork in the direction of the house in question.

  “Not Bertha Wilson,” Winston exclaimed.

  “A woman came out on that porch. I think she saw me. Of course I know Bertha Wilson,” Miss Miranda said.

  “Oh, gosh.” Winston raised his voice. He looked at her now almost accusingly. “It’s all so unusual,” he cried, thinking something much more extreme than his words gave inkling of.

  “Winston, you’ve got to keep calm,” Miss Miranda told him. “I had to come in here tonight. You know that.”

  “I don’t begrudge you coming in here,” he said, and he was more in possession of himself.

  “Then let’s both be calm and collected.” She handed him the e
mpty pie plate. “What beautiful work people did when they painted their own china.” She nodded at the plate.

  “My Aunt Lois hand-painted all of Mother’s china.”

  He left the room with the plate, and there was complete silence everywhere for a few minutes. Then she heard the water running in the kitchen, and she realized he was doing the dishes.

  “He’s a neat one,” she said out loud.

  She shook her head then, though she did this about something else than his neatness, and she cried, “God!” again.

  In about a quarter of an hour, he came on back into the living room, sat down, crossed his legs, and said, “Now.”

  “I don’t think I’m even going to have a chill.” She smiled at him.

  Winston was looking at her narrowly, and she thought he was less sympathetic. There was a look of irritability on his face. His mouth had set.

  “How long has it been since you lost your mother?” Miss Miranda said.

  “Two years this April,” he replied without expression.

  Miss Miranda shook her head. She opened the linen napkin out and put it over the lap of the bathrobe.

  “What happened tonight was a joke,” she said, and stopped.

  “Did many people see you cross over the school playground?” he wondered.

  “The school playground?”

  “There are the fewest trees there to hide under,” he explained.

  “I couldn’t tell if anybody saw me or not,” she said.

  “Miss Miranda, if you were . . . harmed, you must have me call the doctor.”

  “You want me to leave?” she inquired. “I will—”

  “I didn’t mean leave,” he protested.

  “Please be calm, Winston,” she asked him.

  “I am calm, Miss Miranda. . . . But gosh almighty, nobody can just sit here and act like nothing happened to you. . . . I never heard of such a thing as tonight!”

  She sat thinking how it all must seem to him. At the height of her predicament she had not had time to think.

  “I’m unhurt, Winston, except for the exposure, and I told you I can see I’m not going to have a chill.”

  “I can go over to your house and get your clothes.”

  She nodded pleasantly. “Tomorrow,” she said.