The Melting Pot

by Lynne Sharon Schwartz

  Hooch I am coming to New York anyway so do you think you could put me up for a while. Till I get myself setled not for long. It would be very nice to see you brother and I am easy to live with you know. Please let me know and my love to you and your lovely wife.

  Love,

  Hughie.

  His brother was four years older and mildly retarded, so mildly that it was not apparent right away. People soon caught on, though, mostly because of Hughie’s slow way of speaking, like talk near the edge of sleep, from a hazier plane of consciousness. Their mother used to say he was searching for the proper words, and Joe would imagine him rummaging, as in a dark closet, for words he had stored for later use but forgotten exactly where. In their Ohio town Hughie had suffered a minimum of mockery. Their parents strove with near-saintly patience to encourage his dignity; people felt it, and liked him. Joe relished Hughie’s slowness, a relief from the world hastening by, pressing its demands. When they were together he could feel the rhythms of Hughie’s sweetly monotonous voice, reflecting that curious inner apparatus, seep through his blood. The rhythms seemed to rise from a different order of time, like the slow rhythms of the earth creeping through its geological cycles while the first fish found its way to land and drew the first breath. At the age of nine, Hughie was sent away to a special school; the gap between him and the others was widening, and he would be better off, their mother said, among his own kind. Joe missed his presence—large, strong, tractable. Power and mildness united.

  Van first met Hughie at their wedding eight years ago. Joe could read the relief in her eyes—thank God, not some monster! Even rather handsome. People used to remark that they looked alike, except for their coloring—Joe was the darker one. Tall and benevolently hulking in a light gray suit—a trifle snug; he must have bought it himself—Hughie had hugged her impulsively. Too tight. For an instant she looked scared. Trapped. Even at twenty-four, she was disturbed by anything flawed. In his excitement, Hughie grinned too broadly and kept the grin too long; like a captive mirror image, her smile stayed fixed. He wanted to dance with her—a crashing rock song where it didn’t matter what you did. When it was over she rolled her eyes and exhaled in a rush. Joe had to turn away, because there appeared before him, unsought, a glimpse of an entirely different kind of wife, maybe not so palely and delicately beautiful, but one who could hug Hughie after his clumsy dancing and even hold his hand walking from the dance floor. But that was not to be. He had hardly had time to know other women. It was Vanessa whom he loved and who had claimed him from the start. It had been she who spoke to him at the college dance where they met, and she who moved close to him in the car so that their legs were touching. He found her alarmingly bold, even wild, one of those unattainable girls who look demure in public and then in private reveal their voracious ardor coming from God knows where. Joe was modest, had never dreamed of such luck. “Why me?” he would joke as they lay tangled on the rug in her dormitory room. “An innocent boy from Ohio?” “Maybe it’s your innocence,” she would say, laughing. “Or maybe your legs. Or this. Or this.” She was commanding, he was her docile follower. His fraternity brothers envied him, and he felt chosen. He couldn’t even remember their deciding to marry—one summer day it was happening. Van arranged everything, and she glowed with pleasure and authority. Her light reflected on Joe and he glowed too, in his vague way. “We’re going to have such good times,” she whispered in his ear right in front of the minister and all the guests, as they performed the ritual kiss. She even slid her tongue in his mouth for an instant, and he could hear a low laugh in her throat. How could he not have been bewitched? Later he understood how, more than his looks, it was his docility that drew her, but by then the reason hardly mattered. They were together, embarked on their good times.

  The sound, the strained day at the office, the letter: Joe was confused. Another wave of numbness assaulted him. The room seemed to be rocking like a giant cradle, with him helpless inside. He blinked to clear his vision and tried to think what his next move should be. Have a glass of water. Take it slow. Put away the briefcase. Get out of the business suit.

  They were invited to a dinner party in Chelsea, Vanessa reminded him when she got home. Joe didn’t even know the people, he grumbled.

  Clients. She shrugged, as if that were their sole identity. “I have to, Joe. I’m just getting somewhere.”

  As her clientele grew, there were more and more dinner parties, to exhibit her work and to entice. The guests were all great talkers. Joe would heave himself into bed with his head pounding and his tongue groggy, to fall asleep to the sound of Vanessa, wound up like a mechanical doll, analyzing the social intricacies of the evening. Nor would the summer be any respite. The gatherings would move to the beach, where fashionable clothes would drop away to reveal splendidly bronzed and polished bodies uttering the same urbanities against a backdrop of sea, sand, and sky.

  “When I was growing up,” he said, tearing the laundry paper from a clean shirt, “business was during the day and friends were for pleasure.”

  “Times have changed.” So had she. She even made love with a new, efficient zeal; ready anytime, barely speaking, quickly aroused and quickly satisfied, she could leap with dispatch to the next project—the way after running she leaped in and out of the shower, into her clothes and out the door—while he lay abandoned, flesh still buzzing.

  From across the room he watched her dress for dinner, her body flashing by in parts, a machine programmed with strategies to achieve goals. Lately he had wayward visions of leaving her for another life, in which tableaux of hiking and going to ball games drifted alluringly, but as soon as he tried to envision anything specific, the images slipped from his grasp like live fish snatched from a stream. The notion of life without her frightened him. It seemed almost physically impossible, as though he had given his soul to her in trust and could carry only his body away. Alone, he would be a shell, a zombie. He imagined her carrying his essential self within, a homunculus, as she had carried the ill-fated babies, and shook his head to cast out the horror of the image. Be realistic, he told himself, just as she would. Even in purely practical terms, a new life was an immense undertaking. He could hardly retrace how they had arrived at this complex one; it seemed to have pulled them in like a hidden magnet. The struggle was in hanging on.

  “I got a letter from my brother today.”

  “Hughie?”

  “That’s my only brother.”

  A pause as she inserted an enormous copper earring. It gave a lambent, coppery tinge to her hair. “And how is he?”

  “Fine. He’s got a new job in New York. He wants to stay here for a while, till he finds a place.”

  Another hesitation for the other earring. He thought he saw a shadow of distaste flicker over her lips, twitching the corners. “I don’t know, Joe. Do you think it would work out? We’re so overextended as it is. ...” She dabbed perfume in the hollow of her collarbone and rubbed it in, drawing slow, thoughtful circles with two fingers. “And then we have the house in Amagansett for August.”

  Already dressed, he sat on the bed and waited. He felt he was seeing through her skull: the clever little cells whirring and dancing a labyrinthine reel, calculating the strength of her position.

  “Well, how long do you think it would be?”

  “A few weeks, maybe. He likes to be independent.”

  Now it was she who waited, but he would not plead. “Okay, let’s give it a try. That’s all anyone can do, right?” she said with a bright look. “Would you zip me up?”

  He zipped her dress and rested his cheek on her hair. Up close she was not a machine at all. The fabric of the loose gray dress was so soft it seemed to melt in his fingers. Her perfume was all around him, a scent like dew, something expensive that he received every Christmas from his cosmetics account. He put his face in her neck, his hands on her breasts. She leaned back into him.

  “Why can’t you be as beautiful inside as out?” he asked.

  She
jerked away. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know very well what it means. You don’t really want him. You don’t want anyone, do you?”

  She turned. He was shocked to see her eyes fill with tears. “That’s not true. I’ve always wanted you.”

  The power of it made him step back, alarmed. “Well, Hughie, for instance.”

  “Look, I’m not going to lie and tell you I’m overjoyed. But I’ll do it, since it’s so important to you.”

  “You won’t mean it, though. You won’t do it from the heart.”

  “Oh, the heart. Oh, Joe. Does it really matter? I’ll be the good hostess. ... Why, don’t you think I can do it?”

  “I’m quite sure you can do it. You can do anything.”

  “And why is that bad?” she asked him. He found he couldn’t say.

  All the way to the dinner party, in the cab, they were silent.

  The guests were ecstatic at Vanessa’s handiwork. For the wealthy middle-aged clients she had produced a setting just short of opulent, with a minimum of colors, but bold ones—red and gold. There were potted plants the size of small trees, Oriental rugs, and swaths of drapery. Totally unlike her own tastes, Joe marveled—muted grays and mauves in plain lines, with choice touches of extravagance like the copper earrings, or the playful green silk kite she had hung in their bedroom. He recalled only dimly, with nostalgia, the secret place in her that germinated the extravagance; he hardly glimpsed it anymore.

  The meal featured vegetables so fashionable they did not yet have English names. The rich cappuccino, steamed in an Italian machine Vanessa had ordered, made Joe slightly sick. He went to the window for air but could find no way to open it. The place was an air-conditioned cage. His blood lurched down to his feet, making his head spin. In the bathroom, surrounded by a geometric design of Mexican tiles, he doused cold water on his face and lay on the marble floor till he revived.

  There was a naturalist at the party. Joe told him about the sounds in the park that had sounded like Velcro.

  “Katydids. Or possibly grackles. Quite a few people have noticed it. They make a similar sound, only louder and harsher, of course. I guess I should say the Velcro makes the same sound as the katydids. The odd thing is that the little buggers themselves are fooled. When they hear the Velcro they respond.”

  It would be idiotic to show his distress. “What is the world coming to?” he quipped instead.

  “Oh, but Velcro,” a woman dressed in a tuxedo put in, “is the greatest invention since the zipper. For certain things. I guess you wouldn’t want it on your pants. That would be a bit blatant, wouldn’t it?”

  “A zipper engages,” said Joe. “It’s satisfying to see the two sides mesh.”

  The woman eyed him with new interest and moved her chair closer, smiling. “Oh, you like that, do you? Teeth gripping, merging? How do you feel about snaps, or thongs and loops?” She crossed her legs and let her heel slide out of her pump. As he performed his expected part—for in this life flirtation was a social task he had had to learn like all the others—Joe thought of Hughie. What would Hughie do at a party like this, what could he say? What would this bow-tied woman do with him?

  He was among the first of the airline passengers to appear. Joe hung back in the crowd to stare for a moment. Hughie’s short wheaty hair was combed boyishly over his forehead, his face was ruddy and candid like the faces in beer commercials, and he had put on some weight. The beginnings of middle age, yet a middle-aged Hughie was incongruous. He wore a light, creased summer suit with loafers and carried a garment bag. His patterned green tie, which would horrify Vanessa, was loosened and hung askew. Among his own kind, Joe thought. Yes, many of the arriving passengers had that puzzled look. Suddenly he found himself running. In the enclosure of Hughie’s arms, tears rose to his throat. He felt like an exile touching the soil of his native land, feeling for his buried self: a prodigal son.

  Hughie stroked Joe’s car with admiration. “This is a real nice car, Hooch. Italian, right?” To Joe’s surprise he named the model and the year. “I know because it’s my hobby. I keep a scrapbook of the different cars and models. You must be doing real well.”

  All at once, as if the journeying universe were shifting gears, things were nearly at a standstill. Even the traffic buzzing around them was held in a trancelike stillness. No reason in the world to hurry, with Hughie beside him. The point was being with him, not getting anywhere. Driving slowly home, Joe felt supernaturally privileged, savoring a pure sensation of life unshackled by time.

  “You know, what I think I’ll do,” he told Hughie dreamily, “is take some time off to show you around. I have a lot of sick leave piled up.”

  On Saturdays Van was out visiting showrooms. Joe fixed sandwiches and helped his brother unpack. While Hughie took a shower he lay on the couch in a reverie soon broken by the firm click of the door.

  “What a day!” She kicked off her high-heeled shoes. “All the taxis seem to have gone into exile. Or maybe the drivers returned to their native lands. Did he get here okay?”

  Just then Hughie entered, wearing jeans and a fresh sport shirt with blue and white checks. His hair was damp and noticeably thinning on top and his eyes were slightly narrowed—unsure what he might find but ready staunchly to confront it.

  “So nice to see you again, Hughie.” She went to kiss him on the cheek. “How was your trip?”

  They had started out on time, he reported, and quickly reached a very high altitude, he didn’t know exactly how high, but then they had gone lower to avoid some air pockets, according to the captain. His voice, Joe was thinking, sounded like an old phonograph record dragging at the start; you expected it at any instant to pick up the proper speed. There were three stewardesses, one really cute who gave him a free ginger ale; he turned down the lunch, though, because it didn’t look too good. There was no movie, but he had listened to a comedian on the earphones. Vanessa at this point settled on the couch and rested her head on a pillow. Joe felt strangely awed by Hughie. Meals on planes were hard to resist, the way they were thrust at you by swift, official hands. He himself habitually ate whatever was put in front of him. Hughie’s seat companion was a very nice woman, he was saying, who told him all about her grandchildren, every one a musical prodigy. Finally, after a half hour of circling Kennedy Airport, they landed with a big bump.

  “Well,” said Vanessa limply, “so you got here all right. Look, it’s my night to cook, but I’m exhausted. Why don’t we go out? Did you ever try Japanese food, Hughie? Or there’s a seafood place—”

  “Hughie, if you’d rather stay home your first night—”

  “Oh no, I love to eat in restaurants. Remember, Hooch, I always loved when Dad took us to that chicken-in-the-basket place? I like Italian.”

  At the restaurant Vanessa’s face and voice were set in the bright impassivity Joe knew well, used for certain trying clients and dealers. She could maintain it for about forty-five minutes before the effort showed. At dinner parties he would step in and help her out; here, he thought bitterly, she could fend for herself. When they were handed menus she telegraphed Joe a look which meant, Can he read? But of course he can read, Joe tried to telegraph back, though his face was less adept. He wrote me the letter, don’t you remember? As though it were yesterday, he recalled Hughie coming home the summer he was eleven, proudly bearing a first-grade book, Little Bear’s Visit, which he insisted on reading aloud several times a day. Joe could read it too, and faster, but he understood enough not to compete. By eighteen, when he finished at school, Hughie was able to pass the written part of the driving test. “My boy’s a real worker,” their father said, his arm around Hughie’s shoulder, and their mother had baked a cake reading Happy Graduation, Son. How could he telegraph all this across a white tablecloth on which a single yellow rose in a bud vase wafted imperially between them?

  Hughie studied the menu for a long time. “I don’t see spaghetti and meatballs,” he said at last.

  Before
Vanessa could comment, Joe led him to the lasagna, and in a rush of loyalty, ordered lasagna too. Hughie observed curiously as they dismantled artichokes, but refused to try one.

  As with prospective clients, Van tried to draw him out. Yes, Hughie said, his eyes fixed on the yellow rose, he would sure miss Denver. “I had a lot of friends from the Guild. We did a lot of things, I was telling Hooch before. Joey, I mean. Hikes and swimming and movies. I worked out at the Y. Lifting weights.” He showed a bicep. “Maybe I can find a Y here.”

  “We belong to a health club,” Joe said. “You could come for a while as my guest.” Hughie would do fine there. Uniformed in shorts and sneakers, the young executives were reduced to a common denominator of muscle and sweat; their talk about weight lifting always sounded simpleminded anyway.

  “Okay.” He lit a menthol cigarette and Vanessa gave a slight cough. “I had this special friend, Marie. We were very good friends.”

  “Yes? Well, maybe she’ll come to visit when you have your own place.”

  “I don’t think her parents would let her. I wanted to marry Marie, but they didn’t want to let us. We used to go out every Friday and Saturday. I took her places. Dancing.” Jerking his head up, he looked straight at Vanessa. “Do you remember we danced at your wedding?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’m a much better dancer now. Marie taught me. But her parents, you know what I mean?”

  “What was it? Did they think she needed a ... a more protected environment?”

  Joe winced. It was the same chill as when she ripped open her sneakers.

  “I think they thought I couldn’t take good care of her. I would. But they were scared, so they made her scared.”

  “Maybe you’ll meet someone else here,” Joe said.

  Hughie gave him a glance that made him feel shamefully naive. “Marie was so pretty. She had hair like yours,” he told Vanessa, “but ...” He grinned and winked. “There was more to her. Upstairs, if you get what I mean.”