A Fairy Tale of New York (15 page)

Christian pulling the cord to stop the bus. On the next corner a big gas station and bar. Horseshoe courts and shuffleboards beyond the trees. Fourth of July parades ended there. Took my little brother and bought him ice cream. Along this parkway. By the houses where I had friends. Grew up here in all my dreadful innocence. Tiny soul so beautiful, so full of fear. Stared down at by big mean faces. And you never forget. The courageous boys bigger than me. Who told bullies who kept me out of stickball and hockey games, that they would punch them in the eye. Gave me all the hope I had. Shipped back and forth between the foster homes. Waiting for a hand to snatch us away. With my sobbing little brother. To brand new cold hearts and strange bed springs. To people who want you to call them uncle and aunt. Because they think you're something the cat dragged in.

These same slate sidewalks. Scratched with marks hoboes made. In the cement on this street corner, my best friend's name is scrawled. All that's left of him. Since a Christmas in a hard frosty month. They said on the telephone he was dead. I went over to church and sat downstairs in the back in the singing and incense. I thought of summer and the maple leaves. And how they grow to make tunnels of the streets. And if you die you go away up somewhere in the sky where the airplanes are and it's white and blue. And it's red and gold. They had to bring him back from Florida and all the sunny months. Where the big bugs bang the windows and the golf courses have spongy grass. Loading him in the train on the lonely night north, wrapped in a flag. Over his cold blond smile. Same blue pavements then over the stone hard ground. And kids' marble holes worn shallow. As children here we were catholics come together. And altar boys trying to touch god. Stealing apples and cherries Saturday. Sunday adoring the holy ghost. Sat out nights on rivers, skating on lakes in the moon. And each summer getting black in the sun and chasing through the waves. He was on the train crossing Virginia through Emporia on that flat sea level land. Over Maryland and the dark green hills. And then Newark where beyond the swamps are the thin white sparkling things sticking in the night and how you go in that endless tunnel, the river crushing your ears and come out rumbling by the long platforms to a stop. Where they slid him down and wheeled him to a truck with a soldier standing by. The lights sad and the flag bright. Someone there to meet him. To take him north again to the Bronx. In the last month of the war. So many years ago. The woods where we trapped, shot squirrel and caught snakes by the tail. Tied a big swing high in the oak that I never dared try. Everything green then in a fat sun. Each girl friend was forever in talks through the night on some fence. When we washed ears and polished face, hair and shoes until they were health. And we went places where we said hi there, isn't it swell we all met like this. A game played with hearts and fingertips. And he had moved away during the war to where there were no trees and lives of people on top of lives and more beside more, in hallways holding grey tiles, footsteps of strangers and silence. On the hard sad day. I drove down the avenue under the roaring elevator train. And parked in a side street of gloom and grey. Asked the man at the door and he said softly the Lieutenant is reposing in suite seven to your right along the corridor. His name up on a little black sign with moveable white letters that slide on for the next and the next. I shook hands and nodded with these other friends. Some smiled beneath their crinkled eyes and say it's good to have you here. I knelt at the casket to pray. Always the holiest hearts are dead. Yet he had punched me in the mouth when I had braces on my teeth and crushed my model airplane. And I had loved his sister. He was under glass where I didn't want to look. Next morning mass and casket and people stepping out into the dreary cold. And a long line of black cars went north again to the cemetery they called the gate of heaven. I was the last car filled with his girl friends and sniffles. Off the highway and up the mountain road past a hot dog stand, a few last gold leaves wagging on the trees and white islands of snow spaced through the woods. The little green tent and fake rolls of grass they spread over the dirt. The diggers behind the gravestones putting on caps and jackets, a great heavy row of European hands hanging from the smooth covert cloth. Soldiers lined up and let go a sudden crack in the sky and the bugle with its death sounds down the valley and coming back again from the hills around. I stood behind some people and never saw him going down. His girl friends cried and one screamed and was held away and she knelt, her nylon knees sinking in the mud, and we all began to pray and say things to ourselves.

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I promise

I promise

16

Up three brick steps. A summer screen door. Warped through the winter. Darkness in there behind the Venetian blinds. Ring the bell on the house of Charlotte Graves. Lean to look in the window. See a memory of red walls and a black coffin. Screen door opens out and the glass and curtained mahogany door opens in. To her large smile.

"Gee come in. You're early. I'm just half ready. Should I take your gloves."

"Sure."

"Gee they 're nice."

"French rat skin, the leather is exceedingly smooth and soft."

Living room with its blue carpet and brown sofa chairs. As it was all those years ago. When mothers said you come through here like it was a train station. Graduation picture of Charlotte standing among all the other white gowned girls. On the brink of marriage. Or near the downhill years of spinster doom.

"Gee let me look at you. You seemed to have lived. That sounds crazy to say I know. But I just haven't lived. Can I get you a beer."

"Please."

"Sure. Certainly. I'm so excited I don't know where to rush. Just washed my hair. And it's dried all wrong. Rinsed it in the wrong brand of ale. Hey Mom Cornelius Christian's here.''

Shiver at the sound of one's shouted name. That I'm here. Where I knew all these streets and houses. And the summer at eight o'clock each morning. Running down the sidewalk in pointed shoes with no laces. To cut my grass in the cemetery. Saving money. To date a rich girl I'd met. To climb up and be with her in her dazzling world. Far from my own, orphaned and poor. I was as good as anybody else. But I had no proof.

"Well hi you there Cornelius. Well what a sight. You haven't changed one bit."

"Thank you."

"Maybe that accent is a change. Charlotte's been getting me to wash and iron everything she owns. Think the girl never had a date before."

Mrs Graves's smiling kindly eyes. Made you want to be seen. Always wished she was my mother. What sorrow hit her. Made her hair go grey. She always welcomed me. Into the comfort of her friendly beauty. Everywhere else I stood in people's hallways. Waiting. But she invited me in. Gave me a glass of root beer and cookies on a plate.

Horn beeping outside the house. Charlotte leading Christian. Introducing him. This is Cornelius Christian, Freda and Joan. That's Stan, that's Marty. As they sat hands draped over the backs of seats of this low blue purring streamlined automobile.

Softly groaning power and wheels squealing round corners. These easy carefree voices. Sons and daughters of lovely mommies and distinguished daddies. Talk about where everybody went to college. Majoring in gladness. And I look across the upturned nose of this girl's face and out the window at the light on the passing grass. Of another world. Delivering newspapers. Up and down these streets. When I thought I was going to be a millionaire. With moroccan bound books for looks everywhere. Every afternoon loaded down. Folding papers with a slight of hand and flicking them on the grey porches. And even in an open window for a laugh. Which I thought I needed.

Christian squeezed between these soft hips. This night in springtime. The musk of Charlotte. Deep and sweet. What you loved were all the dreams. A sound. The brand new world of snow on spruce. The light from a winter window when you held her hand. Carry it all to sleep at night. In confidential whispers. That a slate roofed gabled house amid the trees would be yours one day. And there's the grocery store where I fished a seven up from the floating lumps of ice and said hi to the rival newspaper boy. Along this frontier road picked berries, grapes and went stealing peaches. Friday I collected and most said come back tomorrow and I objected but turned my sad face away and mumbled it was only fifteen cents. You'd think it was a crime every time I rang a doorbell and even those with chimes and added up the weeks they owed. In there they sat warm and reading, with smells of steak and pizza pie. Stood dancing with my cold toes, lips chapped with frost. And thought I might die. But in the sun on these quiet roads under the trees near the river. The green grass, the cliffs and hills and bridges bent over the trains. Cool summer halls to click heels and spin down the stairs on my educated wrist. And now we pass that street. The big brick house with the side entrance. Where the lady opened the door a crack on pay day in her black bathing suit. Scared the shit out of me as she asked me in. Four o'clock in the wild silence of that afternoon. To stand in the hallway as she closed the door and went through her purse. She was wet and dripping. Said you don't have to go right away, I'll give you some cherry juice. She grabbed me by the arm and held me there, staring in my eyes, licking her lips. Kept saying she was forty years old. I kept saying you owe me thirty cents for two weeks papers. She gave me half a dollar. I took the big coin with the cracked bell on the back and fished out some change. She opened up my fly and pulled out my prick. Which pumped lotion all over her floor. And she said you dirty little boy, mess my carpet up, get the hell out of here. Once they get their own way folk are so god damned unfair.

This shadowy road we roll along. These bland breezy unsuffering voices. New little white boxes built between the bigger older houses. And that one there. With the great grey porch. Italian girl in my class. She was big. Of heart and bust. Said didn't I feel lousy being an orphan. And if I came to her house when her parents were out she would give me jello and ice cream. Never went because I never could be sure who liked me. Made so many mistakes. Walking into snarls. And instead went alone along the streets. With my Bronx Home News. Ringing bells, knocking on doors. To say pay me please. And the heads with after lunch eyes came out too beaten to refuse. In my little book I marked them paid and with some quiet charm of mine I tried to make them feel it was not the end of the world. But some heartless called me liar and lingerer. Napping under trees, banging on doors and a whistler in halls. I whispered something about freedom and they shouted don't come back no more and slammed the door. I walked away young tears melting with despair. They'd all be sorry when they found me Christmas Eve shoeless and starved, dead in the snow. And one dawn on Sunday in black winter. I wrote across the newspaper's front page. How does it feel to cheat a child. Monday creeping through the streets. The raging faces watching from windows everywhere. And a man on a porch shaking a fist which he said would break my head. And fearful and forceful I told him to drop dead. And ran.

Charlotte Graves reaching to touch Christian's rat gloved hand. And smile. As the swaying car glides up round these curving roads. And turns in a drive. Beyond the clipped shrubs and lawns, a house with gables over its tall mullioned windows. Spruce trees blue and sprinkled yellow with light. An entrance like a castle. Slamming car doors. Loud hellos inside. Follow Charlotte on her slender legs. Over the soft carpet. Till someone stops her on the arm. And I go down these steps into this large sunken room. A great stone fireplace. And a tall dark haired chap in a yellow button downed collared shirt.

"Hi don't think I know you.''

"Cornelius Christian.''

"I'm Stan Mott, good to see you. That's my mother with the gold hair, that's my father with the grey. Help yourself."

"I beg your pardon."

"To a beer or whatever you want to drink. By the way I think you 're pretty funny."

"Thank you."

Christian backing up to a space of clear wall. Next to the marble mantelpiece of the fireplace. A picture of a ship with bulging sails on a blue green raging sea. Up steps through an arch, a massive dining room. Table covered with silver urns.

Charlotte had the biggest tits of any girl friend I ever had. Waited through three dates at the movies and three pineapple sodas before I reached and felt them. Then felt like a dirty rat.

Stan's grey headed father in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up to the elbow. Toasting a bun on a long fork at the fire. Tweezes up a steaming frankfurter out of a simmering bowl.

"Here, you want some mustard on it.''

"Yes please. Thank you.''

"Who are you, son."

"Haven't got that old yet but my name's Cornelius Christian"

"That so. Well I'm old enough to be Stan's pa. Pretty good crack you made there. Always like to keep up with Stan's friends, never get the chance. Like to see the young people more often. Get to thinking old fashioned if you don't meet the young people. Hey there you are Charlotte."

"Hi Mr Mott."

"Don't Mr Mott me. Just telling this young man here I don't get a chance to keep up with you kids. Well you're looking prettier everyday. Just like your mother. Nearly married this girl's mother. She was the most beautiful girl in her time. Turned me down she did.''

Gathering swelling. Music pounding. More glad faces entering. The overflow of promise. Girls demurely waiting with the lock and key of love. Calling out their familiar notions. Byes flashing for fashion. Ankles astride in their goatskin shoes. And much other footwear. As Mr Mott enthralls his little audience of two.

"When you start forgetting when you last saw a pretty face then you 're getting old.''

"You just try to make me feel good Mr Mott. Cornelius here is an old friend. He's just come back from living in Europe."

"That so. Don't get to Europe much these days. But those European women. They sure are something. Gosh Paris. London. Those women. I don't know what they've got. But boy they got it. You know what I'm talking about Cornelius.''

"I think so sir."

"Mr Mott Cornelius was married and his wife died.''

"O I'm really sorry to hear that. I've got another bun toasted, have another hot dog. And how you spending your time these days Charlotte. Did you ski this year."

"I'm working Mr Mott. You talk as if I were a lady of leisure. I work forty nine weeks out of the year."

"Well I work fifty two. My doctor keeps telling me, slow down Jim, slow down, can't last like that. So I'm slowing down. Cutting those eighteen hour days. Eight down to sixteen. Got to do what the doc says. Coming up to see us at the hikes this year Charlotte."

"I hope so Mr Mott."

"That a girl. Bring your friend here. I try to get away for a few days up there. Last year when I began to see that little old red spot. Went away soon as I got up there but soon as I get back. Whooeee, there she is, that damn little red dot. Keeps right there, there it is just over the corner of the fireplace. Soon as I try to look at it to see what it is, it takes off right across my vision. There it goes. On the other side of the room now. Keeps moving away and I can't track it down. But by golly it comes right back and does it all over again. None of the docs seem to know what it is and I've been to every top notcher on the east coast."

"That's pretty awful Mr Mott I mean maybe it's over work. Or something like that.''

"Got to go on making those sparkplugs Charlotte. But that's what the docs say. Went to one of these guys tells me he's got special treatment, you lie down and hum. Puts a mask over my face. I say look you know what you're doing I hope. So I hum into the mask and colored lights play across my eyes. And bells start to ring. Thought I was in heaven. Only I knew it was earth when I got the bill. But come on you kids, don't stand there listening to an old fogey like me. Enjoy yourselves, I'm here to serve. You two are my special customers for tonight so come back for more."

The shy profile of Charlotte Graves. Leans out of her long flowing hair. She stands a moment with hands folded and staring down. A neighborhood girl. Pure and serene. While I smoked cigarettes and spoke sinful philosophy down deep in the sewers. Walked to school, the icy wind on my legs. Saw my foster mother with her dirty blond curly locks and rolls of blond fat up on top of my foster father in their bedroom. As I was going by the open crack of their door. My breath came out of me so fast, had to cover my mouth as I stared in. So eager to look I didn't know what to look at. Said in all the dirty books I read that it was how a baby was made. They had a little son I beat the shit out of once. Because he made my little brother cry. And the foster parents had me in the kitchen. I stood while they sat. Told me I would go to jail. My uncle came from Rockaway on a Saturday afternoon. They all sat looking out on the little back garden. My uncle had big strong hands and took a folder from his shabby grey coat and wrote them a check.

"You know Cornelius. Gosh I don't know why I'm saying it, but I sort of feel proud of you. Mr Mott told you so much about himself. Just as if you were an old friend."

"Mr Mott in his palace of new rich vulgarity could buy and sell me."

"Gosh Cornelius, someone might hear you, come on, why do you say a thing like that. I'm surprised at you. Take me to dance."

Charlotte tugging Christian by the hand. Lustre on her straw golden hair. Along a hall. Of this great rambling interior. Had a boyhood friend whose house had a laundry chute. From the bathroom to the basement. Was the world's first marvel I ever knew. Down these stairs. To a long room. Polished pine floors waxed for dancing. A great juke box with its fan of rotating colors. Photographs of baseball and football players across the walls. And one of Mr Mott on a golf course under a palm tree. Couples swaying, dipping and spinning as they dance. And stop. At a great loud crack and blue flash of electricity. The lights out. A female scream. A little nervous laughter. Silence. And voices in the dark.

''Something's happened to the music.''

''Something's happened to the house.''

''Christ's sake let's get out of here.''

A glimmer of light coming down the stairs. And more as matches ignite. Mr Mott's fearless enquiry. What's happened. Chap in his saddle shoes and white fluffy sweat socks. Turns to his snub nosed girl friend with bright blond bangs.

"Gee the way Mr Mott's moving in. Takes the situation right over. Sizes it up. I mean holy cow that guy is fact finding all the time. You can tell an important person anywhere by his quick decision making."

Mr Mott flashing his light over the juke box. Lowering to his knees he looks behind the musical monster. The light goes on again. Just as the rear end of Mr Mott sails out in the air landing in the middle of the floor. Flat on his back groaning. Chap in saddle shoes standing his ground.