Go Naked In The World

by Chamales, Tom T. ;

  Yvonne was feeling good, too. While she replenished the tray of hors d’oeuvres, Nick suggested that they go out for a while after dinner, after Pierro stopped by. Perhaps take a ride, or go to a movie or something. Old Pete had thought that would be a fine idea.

  And Mary was feeling good. Not only because of her triumph in getting her husband and son together, but because by sending Yvonne off on various errands such as serving the hors d’oeuvres, and upstairs to fix her hair, and down to the basement for a certain spice, she had managed during those intervals to belt about one-fourth of the bottle of scotch.

  So when they all sat down for dinner they made an almost perfect picture of the ideal American family. Mary had said grace in English and Yvonne and Nick had joined her. Then Old Pete had said it in Greek, and Yvonne and Nick had joined him. And Old Pete had poured wine, which Mary refused on the grounds that already that day she had had a drink with Nick at his request, and any more might tend to upset her.

  Old Pete was sincerely very proud, Mary could tell by the way he was sitting. By the way he was heaping the food on his plate. By the happy way he toasted Nick. If it could only always be this way, she thought. Pete was truly such a dynamic man.

  In a way, she thought suddenly, Old Pete was very much like her father. Had Pete been an American instead of a Greek, he would really have been very much like him. Of course, he would never have her grandfather’s poise, or his culture, or his appreciation of the arts. Very few men ever did learn the art of living as had her Grandfather Von Keil. That was on her mother’s side. The art of living was in his blood; his aristocratic Prussian blood. You couldn’t deny real background, Mary thought slightly hazily. You might try but eventually your blood showed what you really were.

  When she was a child she had listened for hours to her grandfather’s tales of an older, more aristocratic South; the real old South before the Civil War. And Louisville where a younger Theodore Von Keil had owned a partnership in a tobacco brokerage firm, and raced his horses in match races with all the gentleman farmers in that area. How she had wished she had lived in that time: when men had a sense of gallantry and women were respected as a woman was born to be respected.

  The defeat, the partial paralysis that resulted from his wounds at the Battle of Chickamauga Creek, the loss of all his holdings, of his wife, would have driven a lesser man than Theodore Von Keil to certain self-destruction. That was when your blood showed. Really showed. You never heard him whimper, or worry, or cry as Old Pete had when the depression came.

  “Nick,” Mary said, “I wonder if you remember your grandfather, old Theodore Von Keil.”

  “Of course I do, Mother,” Nick said. “How could you forget him.”

  “It’s hard for me to remember,” she said, “how old you were when he passed away.”

  “Eight or nine, I think. I even remember the day he came to live with us. It was in the spring and we went down to the Union Station to meet him. I remember we had to get two colored porters to carry his wheel chair up the stairs in the station. I remember, too, how his gray, waxed, curled-at-the-ends moustache had fascinated me. And the way he held his head, like a younger Black Jack Pershing.”

  “You remember that, eh,” Old Pete said. “That was some tough old man.”

  “Some man is right,” Nick said. “I still have some of the toy soldiers upstairs in the attic that he gave me for one of my birthdays.”

  “I don’t remember hardly anything,” Yvonne said. “Except for his funeral. I think I remember that. It was the first funeral I ever went to.”

  “I don’t like to think of him as being dead,” Nick said. “Plain as day I can see him sitting in his chair on the lawn in front of the big house in Wilmette. He would sit there by the hour staring out at the Lake with the double-barreled 4.10 shotgun across his lap. I often wonder what he was thinking about.

  Then he would see me and he would smile or laugh and send me to the garage to get his clay pigeons. Then I’d throw the pigeons out over the cliff and he’d fire away. I never did realize what a good shot he was until I tried shooting them myself. That was until you heard I was shooting, Dad. And you made Grandfather promise I wouldn’t shoot anymore.”

  “No kid that small should play with guns,” Old Pete said. “You’re old enough to realize that yourself now, aren’t you, Nick.”

  “Those guns of his always made me nervous,” Mary said, remembering suddenly the night that old Pete had threatened her with one of Grandfather’s guns. That was the night she had actually left. Taken the children and actually gone to a hotel. Remember all the flowers Pete had sent you then. Maybe you, she thought suddenly, should have left him other times. Maybe they wouldn’t have argued so much if she had actually, really left him once in a while. It was so hard to leave him, though. He didn’t really mean the things that he said. That was only his ignorance, his Greek temperament that made him say those things. And he was so helpless, so really helpless when he was alone; crippled in a sense in his own way as much as old Grandfather Von Keil was physically crippled.

  Nick was sipping on his wine and remembering those summer days after his birthday; the birthday when he had received the toy soldiers. How for two whole days, practically, after his birthday, he had hauled sand up the cliff from the beach under Grandfather’s watchful eyes, piling the sand near his wheel chair. Then the third day, Nick remembered suddenly vividly, Grandfather had gotten Wilks, the old colored houseman, to lift him from the chair. On the ground, in the sand, with the toy soldiers, they had reconstructed the battle where Grandfather had been felled.

  They were exciting days that summer with names like Bragg, Longstreet, Rosencrans, and Wood, old General Thomas J. Wood, a Federal Kentuckian and once personal friend of Grandfather’s, who was given a mixed-up order by Rosencrans that had caused him to withdraw from his position leaving a gap which split the Army of the Cumberland and almost gave the Rebs victory. How sweet were those names then: Rossville Gap, Chattanooga in the valley near Lookout Mountain, and to the north the steep rampart of Missionary Ridge, and to the east, Chickamauga Creek with the Federals fighting for the bridges and fords and Rebs gathering on the far side.

  But it was a damn Virginian, a Southerner himself, that really had caused their defeat, Grandfather had raged. It took a damn Southerner to lick one. With his army split, old Pat Thomas had coolly, Virginia-like, regrouped his men in a large semicircle at the base of the Snodgrass Hills and somehow held out that day. And that was the turning point.

  “We go to church this Sunday,” Old Pete was saying. “You go this Sunday with us, too, eh, Dolly,” he waved his wine glass at her. “I’m going to call the priest in a little while and have him give a special communion to Nick. Remember Nick, no meat tomorrow. And nothing to eat after midnight Saturday.”

  “I’ll go if Nick wants me to,” Mary said.

  “Of course Nick wants you,” Old Pete said. “Don’t you, Nick?”

  “Sure. Of course, Mother,” Nick said. Well, that takes care of Sunday, Nick thought. Church and the baseball game. And there was Raul’s father’s party. Nora said she’d go to that. I’d better call her after dinner. Maybe she could meet Yvonne and me some place.

  Nick was really enjoying his dinner. The chicken had turned out very well. And they had spinach cooked in oil and vinegar with a little lemon on it, just the way Nick liked it. And there was a fine flavor to the chicken, the oregano flavor. And there was plenty of goat’s cheese in the salad, and Greek olives. The resinous wine was good, too. It had been a long time since Nick had had any of that. You could really eat when you drank that wine. Really, it was good to be home. To be with your family. They were a good family. A family to be proud of.

  “Where’s the ribbons, kid?” Old Pete asked. “You ought to have plenty of ribbons.”

  “I didn’t wear them, Dad.”

  “How many do you have, Nick?” Yvonne asked.

  “I don’t know. About three rows plus. Around ten, I suppose.”
>
  “Well, you earned them,” Mary said.

  “How come you don’t have them on?” Pete asked, taking a mouthful of rice.

  “I just don’t wear them,” Nick said.

  “You ought to wear them, Nick. After all you went through to get them,” Mary said.

  “I didn’t go through anything to get them, Mother,” he said. “What I went through I went through to stay alive. Believe me,” he smiled.

  “Then you ought to wear the ribbons, son,” Old Pete said.

  “I think that’s up to me, don’t you Dad,” Nick said pleasantly.

  I wonder what’s wrong with this kid, Pete said to himself.

  “Of course you’ll wear your ribbons to church, won’t you, Nick,” Mary said.

  “Nick’s the one that just got home,” Yvonne said. “I don’t see why he should wear his ribbons if he doesn’t want to. After all, they’re his ribbons.”

  “You keep out of this,” Old Pete said, tossing her a quick glare.

  “She didn’t mean anything, Pete,” Mary said.

  “I don’t see any reason to start anything over whether I wear my ribbons or not,” Nick said. “I really don’t see that that’s very important.”

  “I told you he wouldn’t mind wearing them,” Mary said.

  “I didn’t say that, Mother.”

  “You don’t know how your mother worried about you, son. Nobody knows how a mother worries about her son. Your mother is proud of you, Nick.”

  “Any mother would be proud of Nick.”

  “You wear your ribbons, son. You make your mother proud. Okay, kid?”

  “Pass the wine, Yvonne,” Nick said to his sister.

  “Okay, kid?” Pete repeated.

  Nick looked up at him for a moment. Christ, I wish he wouldn’t pressure me like that. “I don’t know,” Nick said sullenly, then poured the wine.

  “That’s no way to talk to your mother,” Old Pete said, “your first day home.” He smiled that tense, controlled smile.

  “I wasn’t talking to my mother,” Nick said. “I was talking to you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Nick mimicked back.

  “Some day you’re going to learn a little respect, kid.”

  “Not around here.”

  “You’re a pretty smart boy. You think just because you’re a major in the army you’re a pretty smart boy.”

  “Now, Pete,” Mary intervened. “It’s been such a nice dinner. Let’s not have any arguments. Nick’s a little tired. That’s all.”

  “Nick’s tired!” Pete said loudly. “Nick’s tired! What the hell did he do to be tired. I’m the one that worked all day. It’t about time he did some real work.”

  “Not for you,” Nick said.

  “Yeah. Well, go get a job. Go get a job with the experience you got. What the hell you know how to do?”

  “I know the Army,” Nick said. “And you might as well know now; I’m staying in it.”

  Mary Stratton put her hand to her mouth.

  Yvonne kicked Nick under the table.

  Pete just sat there looking like he had been slapped in the face. Then like a fighter, he shook his head, but only once this time.

  “Don’t joke with your father about such things,” Mary Stratton said.

  “I’m not joking, Mother,” Nick said.

  “The Army,” Old Pete said in that slightly bewildered way; puzzled, perplexed. “The Army,” he repeated with a puzzled inarticulate expression.

  The doorbell rang.

  “It must be Pierro,” Yvonne said. “I’ll get it.”

  “Now don’t argue, men,” Mary said. “Not in front of Pierro. Promise.”

  “We better have a little talk, son. Later. Just you and me, son,” Old Pete said in a new voice.

  Well, I got him this time, Nick thought. I finally got him. “Well, you asked me to get a job. And I told you.”

  “I wouldn’t say anything about this to your cousin. He’s liable to think something’s wrong with you.”

  “He would,” Nick said.

  “Now that’s no way to talk about Pierro,” Old Pete said. “You and Pierro are like brothers.”

  “He may be a son to you, but he’s no brother of mine—”

  “We talk it over later, okay son? You and me. We’ll leave Pierro out of this. This is between you and me. Okay, son?”

  “Of course, Pete,” Mary answered for Nick. “Nick didn’t mean what he said. Nick’s not trying to upset you. He’s just tired, that’s all. I told you the boy was tired. Don’t you remember, Peter, what I read you on the porch.”

  “Pierro’s here,” Yvonne hollered from the porch.

  CHAPTER XII

  WHEN Pierro had called earlier it was just before he was to leave his apartment. He had an engagement in Evanston with an actress of considerable background, a successful Broadway actress in fact. They were to have a cocktail with her family, then go on to Lake Forest to a buffet some mutual friends were giving.

  The reason for the call was to find out whether Old Pete had returned from his trip. If he had not returned, it was Pierro’s intention to stop by and introduce Mary to his new acquisition, have a drink, and continue on. He had been introducing Mary to his new acquisitions ever since he had started out at LIT. Usually his phone calls were out of courtesy, in case the Strattons were otherwise engaged. This, of course, pleased Mary Stratton a great deal, as did Pierro’s manners, and the culture that he had acquired abroad, and his educated Eastern accent, and the prestige of his fellowship.

  It was truly a mutual admiration. Pierro really felt a kinship with her. They were both, in a sense, outsiders; Pierro because he was the way he was, and Mary primarily because she wasn’t a Greek. She had always been kind to Pierro, more than he felt was necessary or deserved. Had always stood up for him when he was in disagreement with Pete. In fact it was Mary who had relentlessly insisted that Pierro stay in college during those depression years when Old Pete wanted to renege on his promise to Pierro because he felt the expense was too much a burden. Pierro had hardly ever received a letter from her during those years which did not contain a nice bill or check from her personally.

  Usually Old Pete’s presence wouldn’t have stopped Pierro from dropping in, though he did prefer visiting with Mary alone. Old Pete was certainly presentable, Pierro felt, actually at times distinguished in appearance, was always affable to company in his home, and told a good story well. And usually, strange as it seemed to Pierro, made more of an impression on his acquisitions and acquaintances than did Mary.

  But tonight Pierro wouldn’t have stopped by unless Yvonne had insisted on the phone hadn’t intended to stop if Old Pete were home for the simple reason that he had taken the two hundred fifty dollars from Pete several days before. Since, the fact that he had taken it had caused him considerable discomfort. He had felt, every time he spent a dollar of it, a strange guilt. As if it were not really his purchase, wondering if Pete would approve of the way he had spent it. And felt that if he stopped by with his new acquisition and Pete were there that it would be in a sense, as far as Old Pete was concerned, Old Pete’s evening, his dinner, his nightclub if it came to that, though, of course, Pierro didn’t have any worry about Old Pete mentioning it openly. Although Old Pete wouldn’t be above calling him aside and saying something like: “Can’t you do better than that on my dough.” In a joking way, of course.

  But Yvonne had insisted on Pierro dropping in, though she didn’t explain exactly why: Only that for Mary this was a special evening and Yvonne knew Mary would want to share her pleasure with Pierro. So he had agreed. Then at Yvonne’s insistence, actually promised that he would drop in.

  Aside from the hour that Pierro had taken off to exercise his one lung, he had been working at his drafting table since early morning. It had been his plan to leave for Evanston at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half, before it was necessary, so that he could drive alone where he pleased as he pleased and think about his work.


  He had always thought best when driving; especially alone. Too, he felt, now was a time when he should be giving considerable more thought to his work as a whole than actually working on it. He felt that he was getting very close to something; that thing that he had so long striven for. He had felt it, and Gyorki, the sculptor whom he had visited at Bloomfield Hills in Michigan his first week home, had felt it when he had seen Pierro’s sketches. Pierro had first met the bearded Gyorki when he was at the Sorbonne and only several weeks after their initial meeting they had gone to Switzerland together to ski. Gyorki was in his sixties then, reputably one of the three great living sculptors. And when Pierro had returned from Europe before the war and had gone to Bloomfield Hills he had found Gyorki already there, working. That was when Gyorki had done the bronze head of Pierro for which he, Gyorki, had been offered a fabulous sum, but gave to Pierro instead.

  They both throve on hard work, were truly cognizant of the manual element involved in their work. One enjoyed the other’s age, wisdom, and paternalism. The other enjoyed the youth, the enthusiasm, and perhaps unknowingly, the hero-worship. Yet they were entirely different in personality. Gyorki was never reserved, always said what he wished when he wished: swore, drank, fought, argued, and whored on a Rabelaisian scale that often frightened Pierro. But the important thing was that Pierro honestly respected Gyorki’s judgment. Gyorki would say: This is good, I think. Or that is bad, throw it away. Or this has something, work on it. He was hardly ever wrong.

  As Pierro was driving his aimless, roundabout way toward Evanston he was pondering his problem. It was not a new problem, nor was it a minor one. A problem that few men had even risked thinking about, much less actually tried to solve. And in that sense it was a frightening problem: frightening because if he were to even partially solve it he would have to give a lifetime of devotion and endeavor and even then there would be no assurance that he would solve it; either that or he would have to turn his back on it altogether, and live his life with what he might have done.