“Well, yes … I guess so. I do have some relatives in steel.”
He slapped his knee and laughed.
“By George, I thought you looked like old Googie! I haven’t seen the old rascal since our class reunion at New Haven! The next time you see him, tell him Max Bigelow said—now get this, hell know what it means—Bango!” He roared.
“Heh, heh. I sure will.”
“Don’t forget, boy. Bango!”
Over his shoulder, off in the middle distance, I saw a maid moving back and forth along the immense table, touching a glass, arranging a napkin. A huge grandfather clock, seven feet tall, all brass and dark wood, ticked quietly in the rich air.
The old guy shoved a silver tray under my nose and smiled. Panicky, I reached for the thinnest, tiniest glass I had ever seen. It looked like my Uncle Carl’s eyecup, only tinier. I had it for a brief instant between my thumb and forefinger, its stem barely discernible. And then, suddenly, it tipped over and the warm amber fluid soaked into my best slacks, dripping down inside over my kneecap and down my leg, to be absorbed by my Argyles.
“Oops!” Mr. Bigelow bellowed. “Bad luck!” Immediately, the old guy was back with another glassful. I took it and held it tight
“Cheers!”
“What?”
“In your eye!”
“What?”
It was then that I think he began to suspect He sipped his drink and watched me narrowly as I raised my glass to my mouth and drained it in a single gollop. A raging bolt of fire streaked downward.
“Gaaahhhkkk!”
“What did you say, boy?”
“… Gork!” My eyes watered, my throat burned. Deep in my stomach a pot began to boil. Never in my life had I had anything stronger than a fleeting sip of my Uncle Tom’s homemade root beer.
Mr. Bigelow settled back in his deep leather armchair and for the first time really looked at me. It was then, inexplicably, that my sports coat began to glow in the dark. His beautifully cut muted mocha creation looked like no suit I had ever seen before. It was not a Cleveland Street pick-’em-off-the-pipe-rack special. Even I knew it. My father’s only good suit was a kind of yellowish color with a tasty kelly-green plaid. Its lapels, high and sweeping, jutted out like the mainsails on a Spanish galleon. He always wore his lodge button stuck in the left sail, a pin the size of a nickel made in the shape of a Sacred Beaver. He belonged to the Royal Order of the Beaver, Dam 28. Mr. Bigelow wore no pins.
Stealthily, I tried to hide my left cuff link, which had somehow begun to send a shaft of purple light to the ceiling. No sooner had I gotten it under my electric-blue sleeve than the other one switched on even brighter. I pulled it out of sight and sat with both arms clamped behind me, my French cuffs crinkling. Then I noticed that my beautiful shoes were getting wider; the soles of which I was so proud had grown thicker and squeakier. I tried to hide my Argyles by tucking my bowling balls under the chair. Mr. Bigelow watched, but said nothing. Finally he called out:
“Daphne. Your … date is here.” His voice had changed.
“Well, have fun,” he said to me. “Don’t stay out too late.” He smiled, again that lemon twist that Daphne used, then rose and left the room.
Almost on cue, Daphne appeared atop the broad, sweeping balustrade and glided gracefully down the thick, carpeted stairs. I stood, my cuff links jangling, my shoes squeaking, the bottle cap in my pocket clanking loudly against my Tom Mix lucky charm, my enormous padded shoulders swinging back and forth. But I was not at a loss for words.
“Heh, heh … Hi, Daphne.”
“So glad to see you.”
“Yeah. Likewise.”
“Well, shall we go?”
We moved from room to room, down the marble entrance hall and finally out onto the dark, amber-lit veranda.
“Dad said we could use the car.”
“The car?”
A long black Cadillac gleamed like an ebony crypt in the driveway, the one I had half seen near school. A man in black darted out of the bushes and opened the back door with a sweep. Daphne stepped in. In my panic, I cracked my shin such a thump against the doorsill that my teeth rattled for an instant.
“Heh, heh … By George!” I hadn’t lost my presence of mind.
I hobbled into the car, stumbled across a deep wall-to-wall rug and groped my way to the back seat, my leg throbbing dully. A thin trickle of blood oozed down my shin.
We waited in the drive. In the front seat, the man who had opened the door sat quietly. After what seemed like 20 minutes. Daphne finally came out with:
“Well?”
“Well, it sure is a nice night out.” I was really sharp tonight.
The driver turned and said, “Where to?”
Daphne waited. The Cadillac waited. The driver waited. Fuzzily suspecting they were waiting for me, I took the plunge:
“Uh … the Orpheum.”
The driver said, “The Orpheum?” with a rising inflection that was familiar. Many teachers had used it on me before, an effective oleo of dignity and scorn. Daphne, her voice calm, said quietly:
“Yes, Raymond. The Orpheum.” The note of stainless-steel authority was one she did not use in Biology II. I had not seen this side of Daphne. It interested me.
Silently, the car began to roll. We wound through the trees, past the flower beds and out into the great night through the tunnel of green, past looming hedges, wrought-iron gates, antique lanterns, and finally into the street.
I flayed my jelly-like mind for something to say. Where was my agile whipcord brain? What had happened to my famed cool irony? Finally, I quipped:
“Boy, it sure is nice out.”
“Yes, it is a lovely evening.”
“It sure is. Boy.”
A flash of inspiration percolated through the coffee grounds of my cranium: “Old Settlemeyer’s really a gasser, isn’t he? Boy!”
“He is … amusing.”
I did not know till that moment how wide, how vast, car seats could be. Daphne was at least 30 yards out of field-goal range, perched miles away from me on the billowing dove-gray cushion we shared. Raymond, two and a half miles ahead of us, was obviously clearly out of earshot.
Dauntless, I wondered how she would react to a quick clinch. I watched her out of the corner of my eye to see whether there were any outward signs of passion yet. It was hard to tell at that distance. Finally, I decided once again to play it safe, a tendency that has cursed me all of my life.
We were now in the streetcar—hot-dog-stand-neon-sign belt. As the terrain became more and more jazzy, more familiar, my courage rose. I was just on the point of making a quick grab for her delicately turned ankle and risking the whole caper on one shot in the dark when we drew up before the Orpheum. Such was my frenzy that I was caught off guard and didn’t notice that the car had stopped and Raymond was holding the door open for our descent back into the real world.
“Well, here we are,” said Daphne pointedly.
Coming to, I stepped out of the limousine, cracking my good ankle heavily against the curb. Where I came from, cars had running boards. Raymond, alert, shot a hand out as I pitched forward, grabbing my left shoulder pad in an iron grip like a quarterback about to throw a 60-yard pass. Of course, all he got was a handful of the horsehair, excelsior and tiny bedsprings with which my coat was equipped to give me the stylish Chicago Bears lineman look that was so admired in the sophomore class. A few threads snapped and gave, but I stood upright
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I was just kiddin’ around.”
I playfully belted him in the ribs. He coughed slightly and drew back, his eyes flat, opaque.
“Just havin’ a little fun, Raymond.” He did not laugh.
Daphne joined me on the sidewalk under the brilliant glare of the white lights of the friendly old Orpheum marquee. The usual motley rabble that hung around the Orpheum entranceway every night—to watch the girls go in or just to look at the red-and-yellow posters displaying sinister Japa
nese soldiers tying Merle Oberon to 500-pound bombs—openly gawked at the black kind yacht, Daphne, and my electric-blue coat. Quickly I scanned the crowd, hoping for at least one envious face. There was none. I bought the tickets and we passed inside. Mr. Woscowski, who had replaced Mr. Doppler as manager after the infamous Orpheum gravy-boat riot of my youth; took the two tickets, ripped them across and dropped them in the slot with one motion. I tried to catch his eye in order to let Daphne know how widely known I was, but he ignored me.
Into the blackness we went. Some of the more meaningful moments of my life had been spent in this dark, warm cocoon. The Orpheum had always seemed to me one of the greatest places in the world. With suave assurance I convoyed Daphne safely down the littered aisle, popcorn crunching underfoot, ankle-deep in candy wrappers, to my favorite row of seats in the left-hand section halfway down. We sat directly behind a couple who, if not engaged in actual copulation, were certainly doing a good impersonation of it. On the screen a 75-foot John Wayne glared stonily into the rolling hills.
Since I had seen the picture twice before, I hoarsely outlined the part we had missed into Daphne’s fragrant, shell-like ear. But I got the distinct impression of a lack of concentration on her part. Ahead of us the two seats squeaked and groaned. The girl, if that’s what she was, giggled briefly as they battled on. A masculine voice in the darkness ahead mingled with the sound track overriding it sharply:
“Aw, for Crissake, Nan, come on!”
“Stop it!”
The slap of flesh sharply striking flesh, followed by a burst of raucous laughter.
I became aware of a movement behind as a large knee crept up the back of my seat and rested on my right shoulder. It pushed forward, tilting my seat three or four inches nearer the combatants ahead. I turned and said politely into the darkness:
“Do you mind removing your knee?
“A blast of alcohol engulfed me.
“WHO’S GONNA MAKE ME, YOU SON OF A BITCH?”
Now, in the Orpheum under normal circumstances, this was a direct cue for action. For a moment I almost forgot myself. Fighting for control, however, I forced myself to ignore the outrage and said to Daphne through clenched teeth:
“John Wayne is sure good.”
She said nothing. She was sitting bolt upright, a rare sight in the Orpheum, and seemed to be peering around in the darkness at the huddled figures that surrounded us.
“Who ya lookin’ at, baby?” a merry-making steelworker asked bluntly. Another challenge.
Daphne, tilting her head gracefully, whispered into my ear:
“This is a very interesting place.”
It had never occurred to me that the Orpheum was a very interesting place, at least not the way she put it.
“Yeah. It’s great. Really great.”
Somewhere far off to our right, someone unleashed a gigantic, resonant burp, after a prolonged rasping gurgle, a guy really dredging it up from the bottom. Scattered applause and laughter followed. From the balcony a shower of Cracker Jack drifted down over the center section, accompanied by three folded airplanes that danced briefly in silhouette over the Western prairies.
“Wouldja like some popcorn?” I asked.
“No, thank you.”
“How ‘bout a Coke?”
“Maybe later.”
We sat numbly together in the rickety seats. Comparative calm reigned for half a reel or so, and then the final collapse of the evening began. During a tense moment on the screen—in dead silence as John Wayne waited for the attacking rustlers to come over the hill, the audience crouching forward in nervous anticipation. Daphne herself showing discernible signs of interest—a low rumbling began. At first I thought it was a DC-3 flying over on its way to Chicago. It got closer and closer, louder and louder. It seemed to come from all directions at once, a low bass thrumming. It grew in volume. In the dark, my palms turned to ice. Oh God no, not now!
My stomach was rumbling! It was a great joke in the family that when I missed supper, or a meal was late, the old gut would bang it out like an anvil. As the roaring gurgle sighed off into the distance like a freight train crossing a viaduct, the voice behind me, still on the muscle, barked out:
“Cut it out, ya slob!”
More cackles. Daphne cleared her throat
“Excuse me,” I said.
After all, I didn’t want the Bigelows to think I wasn’t well brought up. My gut settled down to its regular idle after the first clarion blast and continued muttering throughout the movie.
I had always taken the Orpheum for granted. All of it. But now I began to notice things that I had never been aware of. Somewhere off behind us there was a continual flushing of plumbing. I could hear the projector whirring, accompanied by the low-voiced, nonstop argument between the two operators. I hoped Daphne didn’t notice. But she caught something else.
“Certainly smells funny here.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“You don’t notice?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Sure.”
After all these years coming to the Orpheum, how was it I had never before been aware of all those feet? I sat quietly, sorting out scent after scent, hoping desperately that Daphne didn’t recognize most of them.
The picture neared the end. John Wayne told Charles Bickford, the cattle baron, how he’d have to move on ‘cause he was the roamin’ kind. I knew it was now or never. My fingers crept softly over my knee, over the armrest, poised in the dark for a moment and then dropped slowly over Daphne’s exquisitely modeled hand. For a few seconds we sat unmoving; her fingers, cool and smooth, nestled in my sweaty palm. I stared straight ahead, afraid to break the spell. Even my stomach stopped rumbling out of respect for this magic moment. Ahead of us, the tangled couple had fallen into a comatose state, lulled perhaps by satiation or maybe by the tender sentiments of Hearts Aflame at the Old Corral. Thus we sat to the final frame, the last slanting rays of the Western sun outlining a lone rider galloping into the distance.
The lights came up. Unfastening our hands, we moved together back up the aisle and out into the glare of the marquee. Welders, steam fitters, kids, old men wearing black hats pushed and shoved around us. The Cadillac waited. Raymond at the wheel. Daphne said the first thing either of us had uttered for hours, it seemed:
“That was certainly a very interesting place. I’m really glad you brought me to it. Do you come here often?”
“Nah. I just thought you might find it interesting.”
“Well, it certainly was.”
We were back inside the chariot. Already its rich dove-gray aroma seemed homey and familiar to me. I was about to instruct Raymond to wheel us down to the old Red Rooster when Daphne said in a small voice:
“It’s certainly late, isn’t it? I had no idea how late it was.”
Raymond, without a word, turned his battleship against the traffic and we headed back toward the North Side. For a few moments nothing was said, as the limousine hummed silently along. The heady excitement of social triumph surged through me. Stealthily my hand crept like a predatory spider over the soft mohair, closer and closer to Daphne, as I whistled a few snatches from the Hohman High Victory Song. Raymond tooled on, coolly, discreetly, as the trees grew higher, the privet hedges appeared and the neon signs receded.
Closer and closer. We touched! For a single quivering instant, and then quietly she drew her hand away, laying it in her mysterious lap.
“Did you finish that caterpillar drawing?” she asked.
“Caterpillar drawing?”
“In lab.”
“Oh, yes. You can copy it Monday.”
We rode on in silence. I groped frantically for some feeble straw, some last bit of flotsam to cling to, to keep the conversation going. It was no use.
“I sort of like Mr. Settlemeyer,” she said finally.
“He’s all right, I guess.”
We pulled in the drive, up to the veranda and stopped. Raymond whipped the door open. This time I knew how to get out
. Daphne took my hand and shook it, the second time it had happened in the same night!
“I’ve had a very lovely time, and I want to thank you.”
“I had a great time, too. It sure was great.”
“Raymond would be glad to drive you home.”
“Oh, no, I’ll walk. I live just a few blocks over, on Harrison,” I lied spectacularly.
“Well, see you in class. Good night.”
She was gone.
“Sure you don’t want a ride, Bud?” Raymond had changed.
Without a word, I turned and walked down the long curving asphalt drive between the flower beds, under the trees, past the stone sundial, the iron gates, the white sign that read BIGELOW, out into the night, walked in my electric-blue sports coat, my hated, rotten, crummy electric-blue sports coat, its padding squishing and banging against my shoulder blades, its hem flapping against my knees, walked with my long, fluttering tinfoil noose with its monster snail crawling up and down—my despised, ridiculous tie—walked in my booby, pleated, sacky clown pants, walked in my Tony-Martin-collared, French-cuffed, miserable, jazzy shirt. Walked and walked
I had struck out. My old man had struck out. My mother had struck out. Even my kid brother had struck out. I sailed my Tom Mix lucky charm off across the street toward a delicate, lacy gazebo and walked on, mile after mile, through leafy streets, under catalpa trees, eventually past lurking pool halls, taverns, junk yards, used-car lots. I never knew it was so far to the North Side. Finally I walked under the Bull Durham sign, past the Bluebird, up the back steps, through the screen door and into the kitchen. It was then I remembered for the first time that the invitation to the spring ball was still in my pocket.
I breathed in the aroma of red cabbage, spilled ketchup, fermenting Brillo pads, my mothers Chinese-red chenille bathrobe. Opening the refrigerator, I peered into the yellow, fragrant interior. A dish of peas from last week, a meatball with a bite out of it, what was left of a baked ham, a plastic container with some pickled beets. Home. Smelly home.
Grabbing the meatball, I stuffed it in my mouth, washing it down with milk from the bottle, and was about to rip off a piece of ham when the kitchen light blasted on. Her hair in curlers, her bathrobe hanging limply, my mother beamed sleepily.
Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories Page 18