He sketched Odin in pencil. The bearded, one-eyed god stood in the open doorway of a broken-down log hut with a spear in his right hand. He wore a Yankees cap. The cap and the beard made Odin look like a one-eyed Jew.
Artie tore up the sketch.
Aug. 1, 2001. Wed. Noon. This morning began Norse Myths Retold & Illustrated—my 20th book on mythology in 41 yrs. My main source is 13th century Prose Edda of Snorri Sturluson, trans. by Jean Young, Univ. of Cal. Press 1996. Will illustrate in style of Viking carvings; source, Viking Art by Charles Sullivan, Harry Abrams, 1995.
I often wondered why I put off tackling the Norse gods. Now, at 67, I know. The Norse gods die. Much thoughts of death these days.
Though we don’t mention it, the blood in Johanna’s stool over the last three weeks reminds us of Johnny Havistraw, my former editor at Harper’s, who died of colon cancer in July.
At a quarter to three, Artie walked Muggs, the Rubins’ four-year-old English sheepdog, up West End. He kept on the shady west side of the street. A sparrow chirped among the leaves of the big plane tree planted near the curb at the far corner of 80th Street; it chirped louder than the traffic. Artie couldn’t spot it among the leaves.
Muggs, who had never learned to heel, tried crossing 81st Street against the light. Artie yanked him to a halt.
Artie and Johanna were crazy about sheepdogs. Muggs was their fourth in thirty-one years. Johanna gave him to Artie for his sixty-third birthday. He said to the four-month-old pup, “We’ll grow old together.”
Over spare ribs at Shun Lee, Leslie said, “I’m three months pregnant.”
Artie would cherish the moment made of his daughter’s words, the big dish of ribs, and a Chinese waiter serving a crispy Peking duck to the couple at the table to his left.
He and Johanna said, “Congratulations!” and Leslie and Chris each answered, “Thank you.”
Artie said, “This calls for another drink. Waiter!” Johanna gave him a look. “Never mind, waiter.”
Johanna said, “Oh, darling, we’re so happy. Your guest room is perfect for a nursery. Take a long maternity leave. Not to worry about the office. I’ll manage things.”
My God, I’m going to be a grandfather. I want a grandson. Wait a sec! What’s all the excitement? I’ll be almost eighty when he’s ten.
Leslie: “Chris and I went for an ultrasound this afternoon. Look at these pictures. The baby’s about four inches long. Its heart is beating. This graph shows the movement. The baby’s face is developing. Here it is in profile. See the nose? The smudge near the mouth is a hand. The mouth’s open.”
Artie reached for more sweet sauce. “When will we know the sex?”
“I have an appointment for another ultrasound the second week in September. We might know then. It depends on what position the baby’s in—whether we can see between the legs.”
“It’s a girl,” said Johanna. “Mark my words.”
The waiter served steaming cloths on a plate. Artie wiped his greasy hands, lost in the loud conversation at the table on his left between a guy about thirty and a pretty redhead: “Don’t you dare call me cheap.”
“I take it back.”
“You’re sore we have to split the check.”
“Forget it. Let’s eat.”
“I won’t forget it.”
“You’re upset about the market.”
Tonight was Johanna’s turn to walk Muggs. Not a breath of air. Muggs panted. Johanna walked him around the block under the yellow street lamps. He crapped on the corner of Riverside and 81st Street. Johanna thought, I’ve got blood in my stool like Johnny Havistraw. She picked up Muggs’s shit with a plastic bag from Zabar’s and dumped the load in the steel mesh garbage can on the corner. She was reminded of tossing Leslie’s smelly Pampers down the incinerator. My baby’s carrying a baby. Let them live and be well. She said aloud, “That’s a wish, not a prayer.”
She’d quit Hebrew school in New Rochelle when she was going on thirteen. All of a sudden, it hit her then that nobody was listening to her prayers and thoughts. There’s no God. What a relief. He couldn’t read her mind about blond Tommy Rand who sat next to her in math.
A motorcycle backfire spooked Muggs on West End; Johanna held him short. I haven’t thought about Tommy Rand in fifty years. There’s no God. Artie feels the same. He goes to shul only because it connects him to his dad. Dead and gone twenty-three years. That pious old Jew still has his hooks in Artie. More than ever since he turned sixty-five. He’s feeling his age.
Artie had high blood pressure. Before going to bed, he took his daily dose of 5 mg. Norvasc, 4 mg. Cardura, and 10 mg. Altace that kept his pressure normal: 120/80. The drugs made him impotent.
Artie and Johanna lay under a sheet and a light cotton blanket in the chilled air.
Johanna said, “A grandchild! I’m so happy.”
“Me too. I hope it’s a boy.”
“I couldn’t care less—so long as it’s healthy.”
The air conditioner whirred behind her voice.
Artie said, “If it is a boy, I’m gonna ask Leslie and Chris to have a bris.”
“I wonder if Chris is circumcised.”
Artie would have been happier if Leslie had married a Jew. At least Chris had money. He worked for his father, who owned and managed fifteen garden apartment complexes in southern Westchester.
Muggs sighed; he was asleep on the faded blue carpet at the foot of the bed.
Artie said, “Sweetheart, let’s celebrate.”
“Let’s.”
Artie went into the bathroom and popped 50 mg. of Viagra. It would take twenty minutes or so to work. He unbuttoned his pajama top and looked down at his big pot belly covered with grey hair and mottled by three big brown moles. He looked in the mirror at his sagging hairy tits. I’m part woman. He examined the reflection of his high, bald forehead, bulbous nose, and wrinkled, wattled neck. Two parallel wattles hid his Adam’s apple. Long hairs grew out of his ears. I look more and more like Dad.
Artie slipped back into bed in his pajama tops. Johanna was wearing one of his T-shirts; it reached her thighs. She dozed off. Artie shut his eyes. Think sexy thoughts! He played with his limp cock while searching his memory for images of Johanna when she was young. He came up with her naked at twenty-two sitting on a camp bed in a sublet on East 92nd Street. She was putting up her long auburn hair. She spread open a hairpin with her top front teeth.
Acknowledgments
I could not have written The Pilgrim without the extraordinary assistance of Terry Hearing, Donald Hutslar, and John Kemp, who are both friends and scholars. I am deeply grateful for their expertise and their encouragement.
I am also indebted to the following for their help: Diana Beste, Jill Claster, Frank Peters, Rabbi Jules Harlow, Nava Harlow, Dr. Jeffrey Fisher, Richard Pendleton, Peter East, David and Clarissa Pryce-Jones, Jill Minchin, Sir Wilson of Dinton, Sarah Bendall, the late John Mosedale, Richard Marek, Mario Materassi, Alan Berger, Christopher Lehmann-Haupt, and Natalie Robins.
Thanks also to my agents, Richard Morris and Lynn Nesbit, my editor, Peter Lynch, and his colleagues at Sourcebooks: Anne Hartman, Heather Moore, Diane Dannenfeldt, and Pat Esposito.
About the Author
Hugh Nissenson is the author of nine books. His previous novel, The Tree of Life, was a finalist for the National Book Award and the Pen/Faulkner Award in 1985. He lives in New York City.
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