The Man in My Basement
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Late the next day I was in my newly cleaned kitchen, C 14
ready to cook.
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Twenty-four dollars can buy a lot of canned spinach 16
and baked beans. I also got rice and polenta and a big bag 17
of potatoes. One whole chicken with celery and carrots 18
could make a soup to last me a week if I stretched it.
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I’m not a good cook, but I can make simple dishes.
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That’s because I used to love spending time with my 21
mother in the kitchen. She never made me work. All I 22
had to do was sit around and make her laugh. That was 23
until eighth grade. Then, when she got sick, I helped out 24
a lot. Brent said that my mother had to work through it, 25
that being sick was all in her head. He was healthier than 26
she was and still expected to get waited on.
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My chicken was boiling and I was cutting celery into 2
slantwise strips and suddenly it came to me. I dug Annis-3
ton Bennet’s card out of my pocket and dialed his Man-4
hattan number. It wasn’t until the fourth ring that I 5
remembered it was Saturday. I thought that at least I 6
could leave a message. He didn’t give me a home phone 7
anyway. His name, in lowercase blue letters, was centered 8
on the white card, and the phone number was in the 9
lower right-hand corner in red.
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“Hello,” a woman’s voice said. I almost answered but 11
the surprisingly natural-sounding recording continued, 12
“You have reached the Tanenbaum and Ross Investment 13
Strategies Group.” Then there was a click and the same 14
woman, in a different mood, said, “Mr. Bennet,” then an-15
other click and she was back on track saying, “is not in at 16
the moment but will return your message at the earliest 17
possible time. Please leave your name and number after 18
the signal.” Then there came a complex set of tones that 19
sounded something like a police siren in a foreign film.
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“Mr. Bennet? This is Charles Blakey from out in the 21
Harbor. I guess I’d like to talk to you about what it is you 22
want exactly. I mean, maybe uh, maybe we can come to 23
some kind of arrangement. I don’t know. My number 24
is . . .” Leaving information on an answering machine al-25
ways seems useless to me. Most of the messages I’ve left 26
have gone unanswered. I didn’t have much hope that any-27 S
thing would work out. Anyway it was early May and all I 28 R
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had was a pocketful of change. A summer rental wasn’t 1
going to do much for me right then.
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So I called my aunt Peaches. That was her real name.
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Her mother was Clementine and her father was actually 4
named Apollodorus. My father used to say, when we were 5
going to Clemmie’s for Thanksgiving dinner, “Well let’s 6
go over and visit the mouthful.”
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“Hi, Aunt Peaches. It’s me — Charles.”
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“Yes, Charles?” She wasn’t sounding generous.
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“How’s your family?”
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“Everybody’s fine.”
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“That’s good,” I said and then waited for her to ask af-12
ter my health.
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She did not.
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“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Peaches.”
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“Has it?”
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She knew full well that it had been more than three 17
years since I had been by, and I was only allowed in then 18
because her husband was at work. We didn’t live more 19
than two miles apart, but the only time I ever saw her was 20
if we happened to bump into each other in town. That 21
was because of her husband, Floyd. Floyd Richardson was 22
a lawyer who practiced in Long Island City. When I 23
dropped out of college, he hired me — to make something 24
out of me, he said.
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Well, I was only twenty-one and not really ready to 26
work that hard. I didn’t like the law or research. I wanted S 27
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to be a sailor. Floyd and I had a rough time of it. When 2
he finally fired me, he told me that I was a shame to my 3
race. That reminded me of Uncle Brent, who always 4
added, “The human race.”
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After that I wasn’t a welcomed guest in their home.
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Floyd rarely gave me a nod if we passed in the street. I 7
didn’t mind much. Floyd wanted to act like he was my fa-8
ther, like it was him who did for me. Aunt Peaches was 9
nice, but she was so formal that talking to her was like be-10
ing read to from a book of etiquette.
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“I needed to ask you something,” I said, having given 12
up any hope that we could be friendly.
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“I really don’t have much time, Charles. Floyd’s coming 14
home soon and I have to get his dinner.”
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“Well, you know I lost my job,” I started.
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“Oh?”
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“I had some money left over from that T-bill Mom left 18
for me when I turned thirty, but that’s all gone.” I paused 19
but Peaches had no consolations to give. “And, well, I 20
kind of borrowed some money on the house. I’m looking 21
for work, but I still have to come up with the payment.
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It’s already two weeks overdue.”
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Peaches didn’t say a word, but the quality of her silence 24
had changed. I could almost feel her growing anxiety.
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“Peaches?”
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“Why do you want to do this to me, Charles?”
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“What am I doing to you?”
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“You’re thirty-nine years old —”
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“Thirty-three,” I corrected.
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“— thirty-three years old and you don’t even have two 2
nickels to rub together. What would your mother say?”
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“My mother is dead. Maybe you could leave her a
lone.”
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“Rude.” She said the word like it was a club to blud-5
geon me with. “Rude. And then you want me to write the 6
check. I’m sorry, Charles, but I have to agree with Floyd 7
about you. There’s no helping someone who can’t help 8
himself. I just hope you don’t lose our family home with 9
your foolishness. But maybe it would be better in some-10
one else’s hands anyway. I can see you don’t have a gar-11
dener anymore and from what I hear it’s a pigsty on the 12
inside.”
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I hung up. It was the only way I could get her to feel the 14
pain that she was inflicting on me. I knew she was right.
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I knew that my life was messed up. But what could I do 16
about it when I couldn’t get a job or pay my bills?
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I spent the entire night cleaning. I collected eight big 18
plastic bags of trash. I swept and dusted and mopped and 19
straightened. When I’d get tired I’d stop for a little 20
chicken soup and black tea. Then I was off again, up and 21
down through the three floors. At 4:00 in the morning I 22
dragged the bags out of the house and into the street. I 23
wasn’t going to let Peaches and Floyd defeat me. I’d put 24
the house in perfect shape. I had plans to wax the floors 25
and mow the lawn. I’d trim the hedge too. After that I’d 26
paint the house. This last thought almost defeated me.
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How could I paint with no money? I couldn’t even buy a R 28
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roller or brush, much less all the gallons of paint that I’d 2
need.
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Outside I noticed a spark. At first I thought it was a 4
firefly, and I stopped to catch a glimpse of it again. Fire-5
flies were a miracle to me. The fact of their light seemed 6
somehow to prove that there was a God.
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After a moment the light appeared again. But it wasn’t 8
a firefly at all. It was Miss Littleneck smoking a cigarette 9
in the dark. At first I was mad, thinking that she was spy-10
ing on me. But then I thought that if she was really spy-11
ing, she wouldn’t be advertising with an ember. It was 12
almost as amazing as a firefly — that old woman sitting 13
out on her porch all night long, smoking one cigarette af-14
ter another, waiting for either a miracle or a heart attack.
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The next day was Sunday. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa in 16
my father’s library. After three hours’ sleep I was out in 17
the front yard with a scythe.
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That was a gas.
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Christ’s Hope Church was just three blocks up from 20
my house and many a churchgoer had to drive past my 21
place. Almost everyone slowed to see me stripped to the 22
waist, cutting down the dead weeds and grasses that had 23
grown wild for years.
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Peaches and Floyd drove by. They came to a virtual stop 25
in order to gawk. I smiled at them and waved. Peaches 26
said something to her husband and they sped off to God.
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That was one of the hardest days I ever put in. Twelve C 14
thirty-nine-gallon plastic bags of trash and dead weeds. I 15
only had two empty bags left. In the afternoon I broke my 16
fast with instant coffee, baked beans, and quick-cooking 17
polenta. I carried the meal on a tray up to the third floor, 18
to my mother’s sewing room, which was a small chamber 19
off her bedroom. There she had a treadle-powered sewing 20
machine and a small table meant for piecework.
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I put my tray on the table and stared out the window 22
like I used to do as a child when my parents were out. Her 23
window was the observation deck for my fortress. I could 24
see our family graveyard and my great-grandfather’s stand 25
of oaks and then up the side of the piney hills behind our 26
community. As a child I sat there for hours shooting BBs S 27
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at Confederate soldiers or the English. I was a patriotic 2
Yankee fighting to protect my home.
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My mother was still alive in that room. The basket with 4
her threads and yarns sat next to her spindly maple chair.
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Her worn sewing slippers lay underneath the table, mak-6
ing it seem as if she would soon be coming up to use 7
them. I could see her in my mind, long face and coffee-8
and-cream-colored skin. Her nose was broad but not so 9
flat and her eyes were as round as some forest creature’s 10
orbs. She always smiled just to see me. That smile was 11
always waiting for me upstairs in her room.
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My father was dimmer in my memory. Much darker 13
than Mom, he was thick. Not fat but strong like a tree 14
trunk. He had big hands and a giant’s laugh. Nobody 15
expected him to drop dead, certainly not me. Maybe if I 16
had warning I would have looked closer, listened more 17
attentively while he was still alive. As it is he’s just a big 18
hole in my memory, a hole where there was a yearning. I 19
looked away over the hills because if I paid too much at-20
tention to my father’s absence, the yearning would turn 21
into a yowl.
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A dead leaf from the previous fall was tumbling on a 23
sudden wind. Its progress was almost musical; it seemed 24
to be tinkling in the breeze. I looked and listened and 25
then realized that the phone was ringing downstairs.
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My foot hit the last step to the first floor when the ring-27 S
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and I was laughing. I sat down next to the phone, won-48
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dering whether or not to go up for my beans and corn-1
meal. My hesitation was rewarded with another ring.
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There was a great deal of static over the line.
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“Hello.”
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“Mr. Blakey. Anniston Bennet.”
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“Oh, Mr. Bennet. I didn’t expect to hear from you un-6
til at least tomorrow.”
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“I call into my messages every six hours unless I’m 8
somewhere where I can’t get to a phone. You’re interested 9
&nb
sp; in renting me your basement?”
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“We can talk about it.”
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I thought I heard the hiss of a sharp intake of breath.
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Maybe it was the bad connection, but I got the feeling 13
that Mr. Bennet was not a patient man.
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“I don’t have time to come out there again, Mr. Blakey.”
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“Well, I don’t know what to tell you then.”
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We were silent for a few beats while the chatter of the 17
static went merrily along. At one point I thought the con-18
nection might have broken off.
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“I can come out there on Friday,” Bennet said in a re-20
strained tone. Another conversation interfered with us 21
over the lines. It was some foreign tongue, sounded Ara-22
bic but I’m not too good with languages.
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“What time?” I asked over the new conversation.
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“Four. Four in the afternoon.”
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“I’ll see you at four then.”
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“Four,” Anniston Bennet said one more time, and the S 27
connection was broken.
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There I sat, listening to phone static from some foreign 2
land, happy even though I had just made the first step 3
toward giving up my solitude. I tried to imagine the little 4
white man coming into my kitchen while I was standing 5
there in my drawers with a hangover.
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From there I wondered about the word hangover for a 7
while. Was it an old seafaring term? Was the image of a 8
sailor throwing up over the side of the ship, hanging on 9
for his life? That brought me around to thinking about 10
liquor, Southern Comfort to be exact. Ricky loved South-11
ern Comfort and I did too.
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“Hey, Cat,” I said into the receiver.
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“Charles, hey.”
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“You doin’ anything?”
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“Uh-uh, man. Not me. Clarance out with his wife an’
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kids. He sure don’t wanna see you after Thursday night.”
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“Yeah.” I paused, anticipating the drink. “Hey, Ricky?”
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“Hey what?”
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“You wanna pick up a pint of SC and come on over?”
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“Shit.”
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“I’ll pay you for the whole thing when you get here, 22
man.” That was a good offer and Ricky knew it. “I need 23