Eustace Chisholm and the Works

by James Purdy

  “I want you to accept these clothes as a gift, but as a gift which is given without any thought of reciprocation on your part . . . I know you are in love with somebody else. I know you are proud . . . You will be doing me the favor in keeping the new suit, and allowing me to give you any other gifts which you will be kind enough to accept. Remember, it is the giver who is in your debt, Amos . . . Meanwhile, know that whatever happens, I am your friend. Lean on me when in trouble . . .”

  Masterson’s high-sounding phrases were succeeded by more kisses, and passionate pressures with his hand down the creases of the new trousers.

  “I care for you deeply,” the older man said, disengaging his mouth, breathing heavily, “and I can only hope that the day may come when you care for me. Until then, believe you me, you have a friend in me who wants only to help you. This is just the beginning”—he touched the lapel of the suit—“I’ve already told Mother about you, and as soon as you are ready”—here he paused, perhaps considering how long it would take to get Amos ready—“you must pay us an extended visit to our home in the country, which I hope will become your permanent residence . . .”

  A cry from the next room made the statues and bric-a-brac surrounding the two reverberate and creak.

  It was Maureen again: “What are you two panty-waists whispering about in there? . . . Who gave you the right to go off and leave your little fiancee, Reubie? Quit loving up Bow-and-Arrows and get in here and pay some attention to little old me.”

  “Dear Maureen,” Reuben whispered in Amos’s ear. “She’s been so kind, and she’s quite remarkable. A wonderful person. And I must confess, dear Amos, I did propose to her awhile back. But nothing now can replace you in my heart.”

  Amos stared dumfounded at such a simple, open, and unconvincing declaration of love. It had come somehow too late, or at the wrong time and from the wrong quarter to make him feel it, and pulling away from Masterson he walked over to the window, from which he could observe a heavy snow falling.

  “Say, God damn it, Reubie, what’s afoot?” Maureen’s voice came still more vociferous. “Get in here and freshen my glass. You’ve got lousy manners for the son of a front-family, and just a hour since we’re engaged . . .”

  “I love you, Amos, remember,” Mr. Masterson whispered, and he went into the next room to speak to Maureen.

  11

  Daniel lost count of exactly how many days Amos had been gone, partly because he did not sleep at all during his absence, so that the elapsed time appeared as day and night merged into one. Later he figured it was only two days and a night.

  He found he could not do the work he had painstakingly scheduled for himself—he had enrolled in an evening course in mathematics at the university in preparation for his hope of re-enlistment in the army—and besides neglecting his books, he failed to show up for his job as host in the men’s club.

  For the first few hours of Amos’s absence, Daniel from time to time would go and stand sheepishly in front of his tenant’s room. Had an observer caught sight of him, he might have supposed the door bore a heavy bolt and lock and that the landlord was puzzling how to force it, whereas a mere puff of air would have sufficed to blow it gaping wide.

  At last not even bothering to think of an alibi—for deliberately trespassing even in a flat operated by himself gave him pause—he opened the door and walked in. He held his breath as he crossed the threshold. Perhaps he expected to see someone awaiting him there.

  With trembling fingers he opened the tiny clothes closet, and once he came behind its frail panelling, in the manner of someone who visits the habitation of a loved one just dead, he held up Amos’s few clothes, piece by piece, and finally pressed one of the soiled shirts to his mouth.

  Sitting down at the boy’s desk, which Daniel himself had made for him out of used lumber, he opened the partly broken drawer and took out a bundle of letters from Cousin Ida to Amos, tied together with a Woolworth red ribbon.

  Looking back at the open door briefly, he slipped the ribbon from the packet of letters, studied the dates of the postmarks to see whether they were in chronological order, picked out the earliest of the letters, slid out the single page of ruled tablet paper, and greedily scanned the contents:

  “I can’t get you off my heart and mind [it began] for I feel you are too young to be living in that wicked great place, with nobody to guide you and the people you write about, precious, are too old and worldly-wise, too lacking in lovingkindness to be good examples. I am surprised your professors take so little interest in you, and why oh why your fellowship was not renewed when you need it so bad, I’ll never understand. Come home, Amos, and let Reverend McIlhenny find you something to do here. I know you do not like the church, but you was born into it, dear, and you may one day want to return to it. I do wish you had belief in a Creator, for it would make things easier for you, and it is a rock to fall back upon. I don’t think I could get through life without my faith. You can’t feel angry with your old Cousin Ida if she goes on praying for you. It may do some good. If I only had money, dearest, I would see you never wanted for a thing. I know it’s hard to rise above depressing circumstances and going without, yet we must look on the bright side, Amos, for though these are terrible times, we do have a President now who is trying to do something for us common folk . . .”

  Daniel Haws crumpled the paper in his fist, then catching himself, smoothed it out carefully, and replaced it in the envelope.

  He stood up, went over to Amos’s cot, kicked the legs of it haphazardly, looked at his drug-store wristwatch. “Come back, God damn you,” he apostrophized the absent boy, “or I’ll kill you!”

  Then unable to resist the packet of letters, he picked up another gingerly, peeked at its firm hand.

  Sitting down this time on the floor, he soon was reading omnivorously:

  “You remember old Mrs. Henderson who lived down by the refinery. She was found dead in bed early yesterday, had been dead, the coroner believes, for days. Nothing is sadder than lonely old age, that’s why I keep busy, dear, and have my house full of roomers . . . If your father had done the right thing by you, Amos—I don’t say anything about the way he treated me, but if he had looked after you as a real father should, but he’s never shouldered any responsibility to nobody, and I hear he still goes about spending all his dollars on the race track and worse . . .

  “When are you coming home, Amos, dear? I’ve kept your own room ready for you, never rented it to anybody, and it’s just the way you left it, with your pictures and books all kept in nice order and dusted . . . I think of our good times together . . . Always remember there is a place here for you . . . But do try to come home, the years are running out . . .

  “I worry so, Amos [he turned a page] I don’t want to upset you, but the other night I had a terrible dream about you. I thought you had got lost in some woods that looked to me like the old Shaeffer property down by the quarry, only it was now a terrible looking green like maybe in some far-off island, and it seemed something was there that meant to harm you. This dream was so terrible I woke up, my face was bathed in tears, and I was calling your name . . . Don’t give it a thought, dear . . . Old age is catching up with me, I guess . . .”

  On and on Daniel went until he had come to the final lines of the last letter. If Amos had come in the door while he was reading the letters, somehow Daniel knew he would have surrendered and would have stayed with him and gone crazy and been happy crazy. But Amos did not come in the door, and in a little while Daniel would leave forever.

  Just the same he remained in his position on the floor for some time, motionless, the letters strewn about him. He visualized Cousin Ida rising at five to do her washing, tramping about by the morning glories and sunflowers, hearing the hermit thrush, chasing away all the bluejays who dirtied on her fresh sheets, and every evening, in time for the night train for Chicago, penning a message to Amos . . .

  Slowly standing up, carefully putting the letters all back in order, with
their ribbon, in the drawer, Daniel looked out of the window to see the lights of the Badger Tavern red in the darkness.

  His wristwatch said 11 P.M.

  In one of his lightning-like decisions, Daniel went back to his office-bedroom, opened a battered foot-locker at the base of his bed, pulled out a handful of bills from a huge book that must have been a family Bible, put the money in an envelope and stuck it in his pants pocket.

  Without bothering to put on a jacket or coat, he went out into the streets, foul with slush. Shivering in his shirt sleeves, his breath coming out in thick white clouds, he began running toward Lake Park Avenue, head down.

  Maureen was speechless when she opened the door on the glowering hulk of Daniel Haws.

  “Don’t go off on one of your jawing tirades now,” he raised his voice sharply.

  He pushed the envelope into her hands, warning, “I don’t have no time to hear talk . . . I’m leaving Chicago tonight.”

  He pushed past her, entered the studio, and peered about him, his pupils small and scintillating.

  She held the envelope in both her hands, still standing at the threshold. Entering after him, she growled: “Is this a love letter for somebody?”

  “Don’t tear it up, Maureen,” he admonished, edging over to the second room, and giving it a searching glance. “It’s money. For you.”

  Turning about and facing her, he said, “It’s a bit late to give it, but better than never. I imagine you can guess what it’s for.”

  She had opened the envelope and now stared incredulous at the number and denomination of the bills within.

  “I don’t need this money,” she said, not recovered from her surprise. She put the bills down on an end-table.

  “I didn’t want to leave with any debts outstanding,” Daniel managed to get out in the face of her growing surliness and anger.

  She tightened the cord to her wrapper.

  “And you think this God damned noble money makes up for what you put me through?” she exclaimed.

  “I told you back then I’d marry you,” he mumbled.

  “Oh yeah, and you meant that real good and hard, didn’t you? Sincere, that’s you. Daniel, for Christ’s sake.” And she let out a cry of exasperation, turning away from him.

  “I’m going back to the army tonight,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him.

  “Does the army know this?” she sneered.

  He folded his arms now, and his eyes blinked.

  “All right, Daniel, what’s keeping you then? If you’re paid up and your conscience is salved with this dough, get along then . . . Or,” she added with savage and unprepared wickedness, “are you hanging around with the hope somebody you half-expected to see here might show up? Well, he’s gone . . . Two days ago . . .”

  When he didn’t budge, she couldn’t help going on: “Oh you’re not too bad a cuss as they go, I suppose . . . You’re one of the strangest men I ever met. No, take that back. You’re the strangest. But I know you didn’t come here just to give me money and patch up our quarrel, even if maybe you think that’s the reason you come yourself.”

  “Maureen, now!” he cautioned her.

  “Maureen yourself,” she taunted. “You came here about somebody else. You can take your damned money and put it you know where.”

  Seizing the bills she threw them about the floor.

  Patiently he picked up the money and deposited it back on the table.

  “Amos is more of a man than you are.” She choked back her rage. “He went with me to the abortion doctor at any rate.”

  Daniel raised his head, astonished.

  “Oh, a surprise, huh?” she said. “Well, the surprise was mine when I found out about you and him, let me tell you. Knock me up, and go off with a boy.”

  When she did not offer to say more, he made a motion to go toward the door.

  “You sit down and hear me out until I’m good and ready to let you go,” Maureen gave out her order.

  “I don’t want to stay and hear a lot of shit you picked up at Ace Chisholm’s,” he protested half-heartedly.

  She went over to the money again, and crumpled some of the bills in her fist.

  “Mr. Masterson must be generous to somebody these days for them to throw away good money,” Daniel countered. Immediately he could have bitten his tongue for having said it.

  “I think you know where Masterson is generous right now,” Maureen lashed back at him.

  “Poor Amos,” Daniel shook his head.

  “Yes, poor Amos,” Maureen cried. “He might have known you’d run out on him, like you did on me . . . You run out on everybody, and you’ll never stop running while you’ve got feet to put to the pavement.”

  “Sometimes you spare people by running,” he defended himself dispiritedly.

  “Sometimes you spare yourself more too,” she snapped.

  “Well, Maureen,”—he looked down at the puddle of melted slush which had come from his shoes—“let me say goodbye then.”

  She had taken up a glass as they talked, which happened to be filled merely with water, and she came toward him now with it.

  “I thought, though,” he turned to her again, “I thought maybe some of the money in the envelope I give to you, well, maybe you could persuade Amos to take a bit of it. I didn’t know he went with you that day . . . You don’t need to mention who give it . . . Maybe he won’t have to stay with Masterson after all . . .”

  “If you want to save your little friend from Mr. Masterson so bad, why aren’t you man enough to give him the money yourself, and save him yourself. You love him, don’t you?” she cried, beside herself. Without warning she threw the contents of the glass in his face.

  He did not flinch, and there was not a word from him.

  “Answer my question, God damn you, or I’ll never lift a finger to help you or Amos, if you’re both dying in the streets.”

  She came now to within an inch of his eyes.

  “I can’t explain it for you, Maureen,” he turned violently away from her. “All I know is I have it.”

  “What?” she screamed, relentless.

  “You know,” he coughed, helpless. “I love him. I love Amos.”

  She threw a ragged hand-towel at him then, and he just managed to catch it.

  “Wipe yourself dry,” she urged. “It’s the same towel you used to wipe your come off with here. Been laundered since, of course.”

  He held the towel for some time before his face without touching it to him, then swiftly pressed it against his flesh.

  She wheeled away from him. “All I’ve been treated to for the last six months is stories about guys in love with guys. Christ, the age of anybody being in love with girls must be over! We’re as useless as warts on a frog.”

  The water from her glass still glistened on his face like tears, as she looked up at him again, but she knew Daniel, if he could weep, would shed sorrow dry as stone.

  “Oh, I’ll do what I can for your little friend,” she spoke after a bit. “But I’ll do it for his sake, not yours . . . You’d best to leave now, Daniel. Somebody’s coming to see me in a few minutes.”

  She looked quickly toward her bed.

  He didn’t budge and she did not press him.

  “Why can’t you tell Amos, though, before you go what you just now told me?” Her anger came up again briefly. “Why can’t you, Daniel?” she asked, relenting a bit.

  “Why don’t you ask God?” he shot at her, turned, and opened the door.

  She couldn’t forget the look on his face. It was not, she realized, Daniel’s face any more. It was not the face of any man she had ever seen.

  “You’re really off for the army then?” She had come out into the corridor to call after him.

  “In a few hours.” He spoke with his back to her, then disappeared down the stairwell.

  II

  in distortion-free mirrors

  12

  PUBLIC AUCTION

  Goods & Furnishings from the
Rooms

  Top of 1887 Building

  December 12, 10:00 A.M.

  Standing motionless for some time before this sign attached to a lamp post, Eustace exclaimed, “So then the birds are flown!”

  Nonetheless he had hurried to the alley and up the back staircase in some faint hope of finding the landlord if not the tenant, but he arrived only in time for the perfunctory conclusion of the auction itself: the few people in attendance were already leaving with the sticks, boards, and vessels which passed for furniture, a water pitcher, a broken bookcase, or a small mirror under somebody’s arm—articles which a later epoch would hardly deem worthy of the dump-heap.

  But in a far corner, Eustace caught sight of paper—old letters, ledgers—and it was paper, as he had once joked to Amos, that he was really queer for. The auctioneer, about to follow the congregation down the staircase, observed the poet’s interest, stepped over to him cautiously, and after convincing himself that the would-be purchaser was as impecunious as he appeared, sold him all the “trash” for twenty-five cents, which Eustace counted out into the fellow’s mittened hand in uneven change, mostly pennies.

  Only when Ace had the bundle of papers in his own room did he realize the magnitude of his luck (and his loss). He found himself in possession not only of Cousin Ida’s letters, but Amos’s scrawled notes to himself in his Greek lessons. But the find of finds was a diary of Daniel Haws scribbled in an old record-book of rents due and problems in trigonometry. Among the pile he also found a recent letter, yet unopened, from Cousin Ida to Amos. But with his joy over treasure came the realization that the two men to whom the papers belonged were gone, probably forever. To Eustace it seemed unlikely he would ever set eyes on either of them again.