“Was it necessary to stand and talk with them?” Zadik said.
“Yes,” Rock said. “Yes, it was. It was certainly as necessary as it was for my father to do what he did. I don’t say it wasn’t necessary for him to do what he did. Why should anybody feel it wasn’t necessary for me to do what I did?”
“A pity, Rock,” the priest said. “A pitiful accident.”
“What he did was no accident,” Rock said.
“You meant a great deal to your father, Rock,” the priest said.
“My son means a great deal to me,” Rock said, “but already he’s lost to me, a stranger in a strange city, his own mother, whom he loves, a stranger to me. I’m not going to kill myself about that, Zadik.”
“Of course not, Rock.”
“I’m not going to kill myself about anything,” Rock said, “or anybody, and I’ll tell you why. I want my son to know that his father is somewhere in the world, demanding nothing of his son, offering nothing to him, so that if ever his son wishes to speak to a friend, his father will be there to speak to. I am not angry at my father for what he did. I am not sorry I stopped on my way home to talk to my friends. I do not pity the Father. I love Him, because my son will soon have a son of his own. I have waited twenty-five years to learn what my father wrote before he died. I waited until my mother was dead, so that I could go on pretending that he had died of a heart attack, as our family doctor and I agreed to pretend.”
“It is a great poem, Rock,” the priest said.
“No,” Rock said. “He did not live long enough to write a great poem.”
“He lived a long time, Rock,” Zadik said. “It takes a long time to write a poem like that.”
“It takes a longer time to live a life,” Rock said. “At the end of that time the going is not easy, it is not at the table of your own house on a summer’s day. It is not ended in an hour of dreaming. The breathing doesn’t stop in one hour. The departure is in a terrible room, in a fearful bed, in which hundreds of others have suffered pain and died. The breathing doesn’t stop in an hour, it doesn’t even begin to stop for days and nights of feverish, frightful sleep, sleep involving hundreds of thousands of dreams and details, from which there is no awakening. The arrival of the son on time cannot stay the going, cannot make it easy: the arrival in time to give the news of wife and children, to receive the instructions of life and manners, cannot stay the going, cannot restore the traveler to health and home, to the kitchen, to the stove, to the bread to be baked. I came home on a happy summer’s day and saw my father dead. I came home again on a winter’s day and saw my mother alive. I saw her for nine days and nights, alive every moment, but dying. I saw her die. I saw a life end. There’s no poetry in it. It’s ugly. There is nothing uglier than a life dying. It has no beauty at all, no dignity, no form, and there is no art in it. I adore women, all of them, good and bad, for their rejection of art in favor of life, for their beauty, for their patience, for their wisdom. Will you read the whole thing again, please?”
The priest read the poem again, slower this time, with better timing, and when he was finished Rock said, “Well, at any rate, you forgot to mention that he does speak with love of his wife. I didn’t notice that the first time, either.”
“It is altogether a poem of love, Rock,” the priest said. “May I borrow it? I would like to write it out and read it from time to time.”
“Why?” Rock said.
“Rock,” the priest said, “I am one who must not hate, each of us is such a one, yet I hate. I hate the Turk.”
“Hate him,” Rock said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No, Rock, it is no good,” the priest said. “It is no good to hate.”
“Hate the Turk a little,” Rock said. “You were born in the old country. Let it go. Hate him. Don’t worry about it.”
“It is no good to hate, Rock,” Zadik said. “It is bad for the soul.”
“Let a little of the soul be bad,” Rock said. “Hate the Turk a little. Give him the happiness of your hatred. Let him always feel that Armenians born six thousand miles away from Armenia hate him. Let him always feel that Armenians who cannot speak a word of Armenian hate him. Let him feel that Armenians whose mothers or fathers are Russian or French or Italian or Scotch or Irish hate him. Let the Turk heal himself in the hatred of the Armenian.”
“You will let me keep this a few days?” the priest said.
“Of course,” Rock said. “I had thought I would translate it into English, but I do not want to do that now.”
“Could you not have gotten home perhaps a half hour earlier, Rock?” the priest said.
“Zadik, you’re drunk,” Rock said. “My father has been dead twenty-five years. If he was dead twenty-five seconds when I got home it was forever. Take good care of the poem. I’ll drive you home.”
They went out, after last drinks, loitered along the walk to the gate, stood a moment on the small patch of lawn, then stepped to the car, speaking of hate and love, fathers and sons. They got into the car and began to drive to the church, the driver of the car saying to his friend, the member of his family, “A man needs his family. He needs the Turk of his family, to hate, to think he hates, to love, to think he loves, to hate and love, to think he hates and loves. I have seen only half a dozen Turks in my whole lifetime. They are members of the family, Zadik. They are entitled to a little decent hatred.”
No man knows what a man is, but every man tries to guess. No man knows what a woman is, but no man tires of getting near enough to one more of them to try again to find out. A man is a lone thing and a woman is a lone thing, except when she is with child. Even a man and a woman together are a lone thing, a new lone thing, their togetherness a lone thing. Men and women are lone things needing one another, and needing men and women come out of their need. Having come from women, men must return to women. They must return again and again. Having been made unalone by men, having become with children by them, women must return to men, they must return again and again, as each of them knows. If not to husband, then to father, to son. There is no other way for man, which is man-and-woman-forever-separate-and-forever-inseparable to live, to love, to give life, and finally to give it up. There is no other way to love God, truth, art, beauty, science, money, roses, clothes, automobiles, houses, soap, or Saturday nights.
One day in December Ann telephoned again.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“How are you, Ann?” Rock said. “How are the children? Is it snowing in New York? Are you having fun? I hope you’re well. Put Haig on the phone. I want to hear Haig’s voice.”
“What’s happened to you, Rock?” Ann said.
“Put Lula on the phone, Ann,” Rock said. “I want to hear Lula’s voice.”
“Have you made a lot of money?” Ann said. “You sound like a man who’s made a lot of money.”
“No, Ann,” Rock said. “I haven’t made a lot of money, but I’ve still got my car.”
“Have you still got your debts?” Ann said.
“Yes,” Rock said, “I’ve still got my debts, too, Ann. Let me speak to Haig, will you, Ann?”
“He’s asleep, Rock.”
“Wake Haig up for me, Ann. He’ll understand.”
“I need money, Rock.”
“I know you do, Ann. Wake Lula up. Put her on the phone. I want to hear Lula’s voice.”
“You’ve got to send me money, Rock.”
“I know I do, Ann. Let me speak to Haig, please.”
“Hold on a minute.”
He waited a moment and then began to hear their voices as they came to the phone. He heard Ann say, “You talk first, Haig. Then you, Lula.”
“Is it Papa?” he heard the boy say. “Where is Papa?”
“He’s in San Francisco,” he heard Ann say.
“San Francisco?” he heard the boy say, laughing. “I was in San Francisco. That’s not so far away.” The boy got on the phone.
“Papa?” he said.
; “Yes, Haig,” Rock said.
“How are you, Papa?” Haig said. “I haven’t talked to you in a long time, Papa. A long, long time, Papa.”
“How are you, Haig?”
“I’m fine, Papa. I’m in school. I go to school. Of course it’s vacation now. Christmas vacation, Papa, but I guess you know.”
“No, Haig, I didn’t know. Christmas vacation must be very nice.”
“Yes, it is, Papa. Is it Christmas vacation in San Francisco, too?”
“Yes, it is, Haig.”
“Papa, Lula’s bothering me. She wants to talk to you. She’s always bothering me. Now, wait a minute, Lula, I want to tell Papa something. Papa? Do you think it’s right for ghosts to come back and haunt houses the way they do on television?”
“Well, what do you think, Haig?”
“Well, Papa, some of the ghosts haunt easy and funny, but some of them haunt the way that scares you, Papa. Do you believe in them, Papa?”
“I don’t look at television,” Rock said. “I don’t have a set. Do you believe in them, Haig?”
“Well, Papa, I suppose there are no ghosts, but I’ve seen them on television, and there they are, Papa—ghosts!”
“They must be good things to see on television, Haig.”
“Yes, they are, Papa. Are you coming home, Papa?”
“No, I can’t come home, Haig.”
“Lula!” Haig shouted suddenly.
“Papa? She wants to talk to you. Thank you for telephoning, Papa.”
“Goodbye, Haig.”
“Goodbye, Papa.”
“Papa?” he heard the little girl say. Then he heard her giggle with excitement.
“Papa? You know what?” she cried.
“What, Lula?”
“When Mama woke me up and told me you wanted to talk to me you know what I thought?”
“What, Lula?”
“I thought, ‘Mama’s fooling, Mama’s fooling me,’ but when I heard Haig talking to you, Papa, you know what I thought?”
“What, darling?”
“I thought, ‘Mama’s not fooling. She’s not fooling me.’ Papa, oh Papa, Haig hits me, Haig always hits me!”
“He loves you, darling,” Rock said. “He’s your brother. Brothers always hit their sisters.”
“There’s a brother, Papa, who doesn’t hit his sister,” Lula said. “He was at Haig’s birthday party. He didn’t hit nobody. He didn’t even hit me. He didn’t hit me, Papa, when I hit him. Isn’t he a funny brother, Papa?”
“Yes, he is, darling.”
“I was so surprised, Papa, when he didn’t hit me. His name is Robert Moss, so when he didn’t hit me, I hugged him. He’s a good boy, Papa. He let me hug him three times. He didn’t move or anything. He just stood there. First I hugged him once. Then I hugged him twice. Then I hugged him three times. Then I went and hit Haig, and you know what he did, Papa?”
“What did he do, darling?”
“He hit me, Papa!”
“He’s your brother, darling. He loves you.”
“I know, Papa. He loves me very much. But Robert Moss, he doesn’t hit when you hit him or move when you hug him or anything. Papa, oh Papa?”
“Yes, darling?”
“I hugged him three times. Mama, please! I want to tell Papa something. Haig told Papa something and I want to tell him something, too. Papa? Do you think it’s right for ghosts—Do you think it’s right, Papa? Do you think it’s right? Do you think it’s right—?”
“Lula,” he heard Ann say, “tell Papa what you want to say. Don’t just keep saying, ‘Do you think it’s right?’”
“Oh, Mama,” Lula said, “can’t you let me just talk to Papa? Papa, I know what I want to tell you. It’s this. When I’m a big girl and get my money I’m going to give it all to you.”
“What money, darling?”
“From the piggy bank, Papa. I’ve got money in there.” He heard his son roar with laughter, and shout, “She’s got eighteen cents, Mama! She’s going to give it to Papa!”
“You shut up, Haig!” he heard his daughter say to her brother. “Papa, oh Papa! Can’t you come to New York, Papa? Haven’t you got any money, Papa?”
“Lula,” Rock said. “I’ve got more money than any man in the world.”
“Papa’s got more money than any man in the world,” he heard her say. “Papa, oh Papa! Mama says I got to say goodbye! Papa?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Goodbye, Papa! Goodbye!”
“Goodbye, darling.”
Ann came to the phone.
“Hold on, Rock,” she said. “I’ll get them back in their beds and come right back.”
She was back in a moment.
“Rock?” she said.
“Yes, Ann.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not doing anything,” Rock said. “They sound fine. Thanks, Ann. Thanks very much.”
“What are you going to do about money?” Ann said.
“I’ll get some,” Rock said.
“They need all sorts of things for Christmas,” she said.
“I don’t mean foolish things. I mean clothes.”
“Are you having their teeth looked after?” Rock said.
“Their teeth are fine,” Ann said. “I haven’t paid the dentist, though. You’ve got to get money, Rock.”
“I’ll get money, Ann. Are you all right?”
“I need money.”
“For God’s sake, Ann, I know you need money.”
“I don’t need anything else.”
“I know, Ann. I’m going to get money. Thanks for letting me speak to the kids. Goodbye, Ann.”
He couldn’t sleep all night, remembering the voices of the kids. He got up at five and drove to his sister’s. She couldn’t have been much asleep herself, for she came to the door almost instantly.
“I knew it was you, Rock,” she said. “The minute I heard the bell I knew it was you. I can tell who it is from the way the bell rings. You always ring it loud but quick and just once, and I always know it’s you. Come on, I’ll make you some coffee.”
He went into the kitchen and walked around while his sister got coffee going.
“What’s the matter, Rock?” she said.
“Ann telephoned again last night,” Rock said.
“How is she?”
“She’s fine.”
“Why don’t you go back, Rock?”
“I talked to the kids,” Rock said. “This is what I’m going to do. I’m driving to Hollywood. I’m going to stop in Fresno first. I’m going to buy the house.”
“What house, Rock?”
“Our house,” Rock said. “The house on Winery Street. I want to talk to the people and let them know I want to buy it. Then I’m going to drive to Hollywood and go to work. I’m not going to be making very much money, and I’ll have to send most of it to Ann, but I’m going to buy our house.”
“Rock,” his sister said, “there’s no house on Winery Street any more. I got a letter from Alice, Popken’s girl, about a month ago. It’s burned down.”
“Is the coffee ready?” Rock said.
“I’ll fix you some eggs, too,” his sister said. “Four, or six?”
“Well, six, then,” Rock said. “The white porcelain tub with the dough in it is on the table in the storage space off the garage. Throw it out. Look after the place for me.”
“You’ll come here for Christmas, won’t you?” his sister said. “For God’s sake, Rock, fly up for Christmas, anyway.”
“No, Vava,” Rock said. “I’m going to work. I couldn’t sleep last night. I couldn’t sleep the way I couldn’t as a kid, from gladness, because I’d heard the voices of my kids. How are yours, Vava?”
“Oh, you know my kids, Rock,” Vava said. “All big. All nice. I never saw such innocent kids. They don’t know anything about the world. Only Joe knows a little. They’re all fine, Rock. I’ve got to get those girls married, though. How about a steak now?”
�
�No,” Rock said. “Take care of yourself.”
He embraced his sister, went out to his car, and was soon plunging down the highway. He was at the house on Winery Street in four hours. He walked among the black ruins to where the table had been in the kitchen. He kicked at some charred timber there and got to the earth under it. The earth was clean there, and green weeds were growing in it. He loved weeds. He loved weeds more than he loved anything else, certainly more than stars. His kids were weeds.
He went back to his car and began the last half of the journey, knowing no man knows himself, or his father, or his son, but each man lives his life the best he knows how, and tries to speak, in speaking of ghosts and the rightness of them on television, of all of the things between fathers and sons which kindness, charity, manners, and love keep a man from saying.
What does a man mean? What is the meaning of a man? What is he supposed to be? How is he supposed to be what he is supposed to be? What is the purpose of him? What is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to do it? Does he mean anything? Does his birth mean anything, his boyhood, his early manhood, his manhood, his work, his failure, his humor, his anger, his despair, his death, his actual death in his body? What does it mean for a man to live, to go on living? What does it mean for him to get up from his bed in the morning, shave, shower, put on fresh clothes, drink coffee, eat bread and cheese, step forth among his kind, among the occupations of his kind, work, become tired, rest, read, sleep, dream? What does it mean for him to look upon a woman with love, to take her with love, to fill her with love, to get her with child with love, to behold the child with love, to dwell with her and the child with love, to speak with her to the child with love? What does the end of himself mean in his own body? What is the purpose of a man? What is the secret of his indestructibility? Is he an immortal thing? If he is immortal, what good is it? What good is it to be immortal? If a man comes to nobility of soul, what good is it? What is a man?
A man is a captured thing, captured by living matter, by the habits, customs, compulsions, and dreams of this matter. A man means nothing. Two thousand million of him living and dying at the same time mean nothing, but no man lives who does not mean more than the sum of everything in books, for a man is a terrified jackrabbit running between capture and capture. He is a tiger in the circus, a lion in the zoo, a worm in the flower pot, a bat in the barn. All of him together mean nothing, but one at a time a man means the sum of evergrowing meaning. A man means business. He means doing, though there is nothing good to do, or bad to do, or fair to middling to do, except one thing, to love his wife, to love her hair, to love her feet, to love her teeth, to love the nails of her fingers, to love her tonsils, to love her nose, her ears, her eyes, her cheeks, her neck, her shoulders, her arms, her elbows, the soft hair of her skin, her breasts, her nipples, her underarms, her navel, her flanks, her thighs, the geography and topography of her, her legs, her knees, her shins, her ankles, her speech, her laughter, her anger, her tears, her petulance, her imbecilities, her mother, her father, her son, her daughter. A man is a family thing. His meaning is a family meaning. A man comes from a long time ago and is on his way to a long time hence, walking with his family, loitering along the way, looking for the daughter of a stranger walking in the opposite direction with her family, falling back a little as she falls back, looking at the flowers she’s looking at as she waits for him to fall upon her, waits to bite him with love, to be bitten with love by him.
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