Hot Water Music (10 page)

Margie usually began playing Chopin nocturnes when the sun went down. She lived in a large house set back from the street and by sundown she was high on brandy or scotch. At 43 her figure was still slim, her face delicate. Her husband had died young five years before and she lived in apparent solitude. The husband had been a doctor and lucky in the stock market and the money was invested to give her a fixed income of $2,000 a month. A good portion of the $2,000 went for brandy or scotch.

She’d had two lovers since the death of her husband but both affairs had been desultory and short-lived. Men seemed to lack magic, most of them were bad lovers, sexually and spiritually. Their interests seemed to center on new cars, sports and television. At least Harry, her late husband, had taken her to an occasional symphony. God knows, Mehta was a very bad conductor but he beat watching Laverne and Shirley. Margie had simply resigned herself to an existence without the male animal. She lived a quiet life with her piano and her brandy and her scotch. And when the sun went down she needed her piano very much, and her Chopin, and her scotch and/or brandy. She would begin to light one cigarette after another as the evening arrived.

Margie had one amusement. A new couple had moved into the house next door. Only they were hardly a couple. He was 20 years older than the woman, was bearded, powerful, violent and appeared half-mad. He was an ugly man who always looked either intoxicated or hung over. The woman he lived with was odd, too—sullen, indifferent. Almost in a dream-state. The two appeared to have an
affinity for each other, yet it was as if two enemies had been thrown together. They fought continually. Margie usually would first hear the woman’s voice, then suddenly and loudly she would hear the man’s, and the man always screamed some vile indecency. Sometimes the voices would be followed by the sound of breaking glass. More often, though, the man would be seen driving away in his old car and the neighborhood would be quiet for two or three days until his return. Twice the police had taken the man away, but he always returned.

One day Margie saw his photo in the newspaper—the man was the poet Marx Renoffski. She had heard of his work. She went to the bookstore the next day and bought all his available books. That afternoon she mixed his poetry with her brandy and as it got dark that night she forgot to play her Chopin nocturnes. She gathered from some of the love poems that he was living with the sculptress, Karen Reeves. For some reason, Margie didn’t feel as lonely as she once had.

The house belonged to Karen and there were many parties. Always during the parties, when the music and the laughter were the loudest, she would see the large, bearded figure of Marx Renoffski emerge from the rear of the house. He would sit in the backyard alone with his beer bottle in the moonlight. It was then that Margie would remember his love poems and wish she could meet him.

Friday night, several weeks after she had bought his books, she heard them arguing loudly. Marx had been drinking and Karen’s voice became more and more shrill. “Listen,” she heard Marx’s voice, “any time I want a goddamned drink I’m gonna take a goddamned drink!” “You’re the ugliest thing that has ever happened in my life!” she heard Karen say. Then there were sounds of a scuffle. Margie turned out the lights and pressed close to the window. “God damn you,” she heard Marx say, “you keep attacking me and I’ll let you have one!”

She saw Marx come out on the front porch carrying his typewriter. It wasn’t a portable, but a standard model, and Marx staggered down the steps carrying it, almost falling several times. “I’m getting rid of your head,” Karen screamed. “I’m throwing your head out!” “Go ahead,” Marx said, “dump it.” She saw Marx load the typewriter into his car and then she saw a large heavy object, evidently the head, come flying off the end of the porch and into
her yard. It bounced and settled just under a large rose bush. Marx drove off in his car. All the lights went out in Karen Reeves’ house and it was quiet.

When Margie awakened the next morning it was 8:45. She made her toilet, put two eggs on to boil, and had a coffee with a jigger of brandy. She walked to the front window. The large clay object was still under the rose bush. She went back, took out the eggs, cooled them under cold water and peeled them. She sat down to eat the eggs and opened a copy of Marx Renoffski’s latest book of poems,
One, Two, Three, I Love Me
. She opened it near the middle:

Margie finished the eggs, put two jiggers of brandy in her second coffee, drank it, put on her green striped pants, her yellow sweater, and looking a little bit like Katharine Hepburn looked at 43, she slipped into her red sandals and walked out into her front yard. Marx’s car wasn’t there on the street and Karen’s house looked very quiet. She walked toward the rose bush. The sculpted head was face-down under the bush. Margie could feel her heart beat. She took her foot and rolled the head over and the face looked up at her out of the dirt. It certainly was Marx Renoffski. She picked Marx up, and holding him carefully against her pale yellow sweater she carried him into the house. She put him on top of her piano, then had a brandy and water and sat down and looked at him while she drank it. Marx was craggy and ugly but very real. Karen Reeves was a good sculptress. Margie was thankful to Karen Reeves. She continued to study Marx’s head, she could see everything there: kindness, hatred, fear, madness, love, humor, but she saw mostly the love and the humor. When KSUK came on the air with the classical music program at noon, she turned the radio on loudly and began to drink with real enjoyment.

Around 4 p.m., still drinking brandy, she began talking to him. “Marx, I understand you. I could bring you real happiness.”

Marx didn’t answer, he just sat there on top of the piano. “Marx, I’ve read your books. You’re a sensitive and gifted man, Marx, and so funny. I understand you darling, I’m not like that…that other woman.”

Marx just kept grinning, looking at her through his little slitted eyes.

“Marx, I could play you Chopin…the nocturnes, the études.”

Margie sat down at the piano and began playing. He was right there. One just
knew
that Marx never watched football on tv. He probably watched Shakespeare and Ibsen and Chekov on Channel 28. And like in his poems, he was a great lover. She poured more brandy and played on. Marx Renoffski listened.

When Margie was finished with her concert, she looked at Marx. He had enjoyed it. She was sure of it. She stood up. Marx’s head was just level with hers. She bent over and gave him a little kiss. She drew back. He was grinning, he was grinning his delightful grin. She put her mouth on his again and gave him a slow, passionate kiss.

The next morning Marx was still there on the piano. Marx Renoffski, poet, modern poet, alive, dangerous, lovely and sensitive. She looked out the front window. Marx’s car was not there yet. He was staying away. He was staying away from that…bitch.

Margie turned and spoke to him. “Marx, you need a good woman.” She walked to the kitchen, put two eggs on to boil, put a jigger of scotch into her coffee. She hummed to herself. The day was identical to the preceding one. Only better. It felt better. She read some more of Marx’s work. She even wrote a poem of her own:

At 4 p.m. the doorbell rang. She walked to the door and opened it. It was Marx Renoffski. He was intoxicated.

“Baby,” he said, “we know you got the head. What are you going to do with my head?”

Margie couldn’t answer. Marx pushed his way in.

“All right, where is the goddamned thing? Karen wants it back.”

The head was in the music room. Marx walked around. “Nice place you got here. You live alone, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the matter, you afraid of men?”

“No.”

“Listen, next time Karen runs me out I think I’ll come over here. O.K.?”

Margie didn’t answer.

“You didn’t answer. That means O.K. Well, fine. But I still have to get that head. Listen. I hear you playing Chopin when the sun goes down. You got class. I like class broads. I’ll bet you drink brandy, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Pour me a brandy. Three jiggers in a half glass of water.”

Margie went into the kitchen. When she came out with the drink he was in the music room. He’d found the head. He was leaning against it, his elbow resting on top of the skull. She handed him his drink.

“Thanks. Yeah, class, you’re class. You paint, write, compose? You do anything besides play Chopin?”

“No.”

“Ah,” he said, raising his drink and downing half of it. “I bet you do.”

“Do what?”

“Fuck. I bet you’re a great fuck.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I know. And you shouldn’t waste it. I don’t want to see you waste it.”

Marx Renoffski finished his drink and placed it on top of the piano next to the head. He walked over to her and grabbed her. He smelled of vomit, cheap wine and bacon. Needle-like hairs from his beard poked into her face as he kissed her. Then he pulled his face away and looked at her with his tiny eyes. “You don’t wanna
miss out on life, baby!” She felt his penis rise against her. “I eat pussy too. I never ate pussy until I was 50. Karen taught me. Now I’m the best in the world.”

“I don’t like to be rushed,” Margie said weakly.

“Ah, that’s fine! That’s what I like:
spirit
! Chaplin fell in love with Goddard when he saw her biting into an apple! I’ll bet you bite an apple damn good! I’ll bet you can do other things with your mouth, yes, yes!”

Then he kissed her again. When he broke away he asked Margie, “Where’s the bedroom?”

“Why?”

“Why? Because that’s where we’re going to do it!”

“Do what?”

“Fuck, of course!”

“Get out of my house!”

“You don’t mean it?”

“I mean it.”

“You mean you don’t want to fuck?”

“Exactly.”

“Listen, there are ten thousand women who want to go to bed with me!”

“I’m not one of them.”

“O.K., pour me another drink and I’ll go.”

“It’s a bargain.” Margie went to the kitchen, put three jiggers of brandy into a half glass of water, came out and handed it to him.

“Listen, do you know who I am?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Marx Renoffski, the poet.”

“I said I knew who you were.”

“Oh,” said Marx, and he drained the glass. “Well, I gotta go. Karen, she don’t trust me.”

“You tell Karen that I think she’s a fine sculptress.”

“Oh, yeah, sure…” Marx picked up the head, walked through the room and toward the door. Margie followed him. Marx stopped at the door. “Listen, don’t you ever get hot pants?”

“Of course.”

“What do you do?”

“I masturbate.”

Marx drew himself up. “Madam, that’s a crime against nature and, more importantly, against me.” He closed the door. She
watched him go carefully down the walk carrying his head. Then he turned and went up the path to Karen Reeves’ house.

Margie went into the music room. She sat down at the piano. The sun was going down. She was right on schedule. She began to play Chopin. She played Chopin better than she ever had before.

At 6 a.m. Barney awakened and began poking her in the ass with his cock. Shirley pretended to be asleep. Barney poked harder and harder. She got up out of bed and went to the bathroom and urinated. When she came out he had the quilt off and was poking it up in the air under the bedsheet.

“Look, baby!” he said. “Mt. Everest!”

“Should I start breakfast?”

“Breakfast, shit! Come on back in here!”

Shirley got back in and he grabbed her head and kissed her. His breath was bad and his beard was worse. He took her hand and placed it on his cock.

“Think of all the women who’d like to have this thing!”

“Barney, I’m just not in the mood.”

“What do you mean, you’re not in the mood?”

“I mean, I just don’t feel sexy.”

“You will, baby, you will!”

They slept without pajamas in the summer and he climbed on top of her. “Open up, goddamn it! You sick?”

“Barney, please…”

“Please, what? I want some ass and I’m going to get some ass!”

He kept forcing with his cock until he entered her. “You goddamned whore, I’ll rip you wide open!”

Barney fucked like a machine. She had no feelings for him. How could any woman marry a man like that? she wondered. How could any woman live with a man like that for three years? When they had first met he hadn’t seemed so…much like hardwood.

“You like that turkeyneck, kid?”

The full weight of his heavy body was on her. He was sweating. He offered her no relief.

“I’m coming, baby, I’m COMING!”

Barney rolled off and wiped on the sheet. Shirley got up, went to the bathroom and douched. Then she went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She put on the potatoes, the bacon, the coffee. She broke the eggs into the bowl and scrambled them. She had on her slippers and her bathrobe. The bathrobe said, “HERS.” Barney came out of the bathroom. He had shaving cream on his face.

“Hey, baby, where are those green shorts of mine with the red stripes?”

She didn’t answer.

“Listen, I asked you where those shorts were!”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? I bust my hump out there from eight to twelve hours a day and you don’t know where my shorts are?”

“I don’t know.”

“The coffee’s boiling over!
Look
!”

Shirley shut the flame off.

“Either you don’t make coffee at all, either you forget the coffee or you boil it all away! Or you forget to buy bacon or you burn the fucking toast or you lose my shorts, or you do
some
fucking thing. You always do
some
fucking thing!”

“Barney, I’m not feeling good…”

“And you’re
always
not feeling good! When the
hell
you gonna
start
feeling good? I go out and bust my hump and you lay around reading magazines all day and feeling sorry for your soft ass. You think it’s
easy
out there? You realize there are ten percent unemployed? You realize I’ve got to fight for my job every day, day after day while you sit in an armchair feeling sorry for yourself? And drinking wine and smoking cigarettes and talking to your friends? Girlfriends, boyfriends, whoever the hell friends. You think it’s
easy
for me out there?”

“I know it’s not easy, Barney.”

“You don’t even want to give me a piece of ass anymore.”

Shirley poured the scrambled eggs into the pan. “Why don’t you finish shaving? Breakfast will be ready soon.”

“I mean, what’s your reluctance about giving me a piece of ass? That thing rimmed in gold?”

She stirred up the eggs with a fork. Then she picked up the spatula. “It’s because I can’t stand you anymore, Barney. I hate you.”

“You hate me? What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can’t stand the way you walk. I can’t stand the hairs that stick out of your nose. I don’t like your voice, your eyes. I don’t like your mind or the way you talk. I don’t like you.”

“And what about
you
? What do
you
have to offer?
Look
at you! You couldn’t get a job in a third-rate whorehouse!”

“I’ve got one.”

He hit her then, open-handed, on the side of the face. She dropped the spatula, lost her balance, hit the side of the sink and caught herself. She picked up the spatula, washed it in the sink, came back and turned the eggs over.

“I don’t want breakfast,” Barney said.

Shirley turned off all the burners and went back to the bedroom, went to bed. She heard him getting himself ready in the bathroom. She even hated the way he splashed water in the basin while he shaved. And when she heard the electric toothbrush the thought of the bristles in his mouth cleaning his teeth and his gums sickened her. Then there was the sound of hairspray. There was silence. Then the toilet flushed.

He came out. She heard him choosing a shirt from the closet. She heard his keys and his change rattle as he put on his pants. Then she felt the bed give way as he sat on the edge, putting on his stockings and his shoes. Then the bed rose as he stood up. She lay on her stomach, face down, eyes closed. She sensed him looking at her.

“Listen,” he said, “I just want to tell you one thing: if it’s another man, I’m going to kill you. Got it?”

Shirley didn’t answer. Then she felt his fingers around the back of her neck. He bounced her head hard up and down into the pillow. “
Answer me
! Got it? Got it?
You got it
?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’ve got it.”

He let go of her. He walked out of the bedroom and into the front room. She heard the door close, then heard him walk down the steps. The car was in the driveway, and she listened to it start. Then she heard the sound of it driving away. Then there was silence.