A Fairy Tale of New York (27 page)

"He was a child, a mere boy.''

"O boy, some boy. I mean I won't go into it. Yes, I will. I'll go into it. And boy that boy. I'll be frank. That son of a bitch had a whopper.''

"Well Mr Christian, I hope you're not going to think that this is the way we live and behave all the time. Howard's just putting on a show of manliness. As a kind of contrast. Because he thinks you're so. Well I don't know how to say it.''

"Say it, Jean, say it. Cultivated. Isn't that the word you want."

"Well if you like. That's why there's wine. We never drink wine. But I guess we put on airs just like everybody else tries to."

"Cornelius, honey, is just the product of immigrants, I've told you. But what he's got, nobody in this city's got. Not Mott. Not anybody. I don't know, we live in trying times. Where there used to be wilderness and god's natural wonders, now we enjoy hamburger joints, gas stations, utility poles and used car lots. Everywhere they're tearing down the old elegance. Maybe the only remnants left now and isn't this true Cornelius, you find in the funeral business.''

''Well I guess that's right.''

"And Mr Christian what do you know about the funeral business."

"Cut that out now, that's taboo, Jean. That's Cornelius's own little personal private history. We've been through all that. Ask him about his mom and dad."

"Can I ask you about your mom and dad Mr Christian.''

"Yes, by all means. Do."

"Well who were they.''

"They were nobody. And they both died when I was quite young. Or at least I thought my father did. And I guess he's dead now. He thought he was some kind of actor. He wore spats. White ones. Carried a cane. And checkered caps and knicker-bockers. He could tap dance. My uncle, a simple man, loved my mother and had a building business, he lived in Bockaway and I guess gave my little brother and I some of the advantages.''

"How romantic Mr Christian. I mean, somehow I don't want to sound patronizing, but that's beautiful."

"My mother took in washing, did sewing, I guess scrubbed her fingers to the bone. When my uncle took my brother and I away from the tenement district to a better neighborhood I was ostracised. And as I grew up, with my beauty unseen in my heart, rich socially superior girls ignored me."

"There you are Jean, let him tell it. That's the kind of country it is. Boy it's time for some of us who question to stand up and be counted."

''Sit down Howard. Mr Christian is just kidding."

"Hell I'm going to stand up. No one's kidding me. And toast one. To Cornelius. Whoops."

"You've spilt that sticky stupid drink of yours all over the table Howard."

"O we'll mop it up, mop it up. Pill up another. Need any more. Just slip over there to the distillery. Home home on the range. Where the antelope play. Where the god damn coyotes howl. And the suburban sprawl flows free. I'm a poet. Could have been a moose too. My father belonged to the loyal order of moose. Now, a toast. To Cornelius. Who rose triumphant out of Brooklyn and the Bronx with that ritzy accent. Welcome to my home. Now that time you said. Or you wrote on your little pad. That not everything was swell out here. That's what you wrote Cornelius. Now let me tell you. What more in life does a guy want. With his little kiddies safely tucked up there in bed."

''You hope they are Howard.''

"Don't interrupt Jean. And those kids growing up a hell of a lot smarter than I am. Going to go to the best colleges. I got a beautiful wife. Jean there could have swirled across the silver screen. Now Hector across the street. O k, let's face it, his wife has got some shape. But nothing like Jean's. Jean stand up."

"You sit down."

"I said stand up Jean. Let Cornelius see. The most beautiful wife in this purlieus. Sure, right in the god damn purlieus, and I know it. Guys' tongues are hanging out at every barbecue."

"I'm sitting right where I am Howard and you better take it easy. I hate to tell you what you're going to be like in the morning. In this purlieus. Moaning and blaming me that I didn 't stop you. So I 'm telling you to stop now.''

"Jean's right, I'm real shook up next morning, but boy I'm sure real happy tonight. And there you sit, your parents come off the boat like cattle. And you grow up privileged. As if you were really somebody. And I ask, why are you letting your country down. Why. After your mother and father got their start here. You beat it to Europe. To lotus eat. So all right, they took a few knocks. And got knocked out. But this country for all its faults is where the story is. This is where the big pimple is going to bust Mankind is working things out for himself right here in the capital of the world. And yes, go ahead smile, Christian. And part of the problem solving in that capital goes on in the Think Room of the Mott empire. You're a traitor to the capital. A god damn traitor. That's what you are Cornelius. With that phony accent and aloofness. Why don't you behave like an American, like the rest of us. You think you're too good for us. You didn't even graduate from college. And did you even serve your country buddy. Were you there when the salvos were slamming the yellow foe."

"Stop it Howard, stop it. You're being hostile and unfair to Mr Christian."

"Keep out of this Jean. Let me ask him, right here and now. Did you serve your country.''

"Well yes I did."

"And did they give you benefits when the war was over.''

"Yes they did."

"And what did you do. You took those benefits to Europe. To the scallywags and French. Well anyway I'd like to be your friend. Only you ought to wise up. Whose chauffeur is that you've got. What kind of monkey shines are you up to. Don't think you can pull anything over on me. Don't you ever think that. Hey the table is swaying.''

"You 're swaying Howard.''

"Holy mackerel. Subversion. Under the table. While I'm speaking out on the issues and uncovering the facts. Some bastard is always shaking your guidelines. And you know, I don't think you've ever known Mr Mott from a hole in the wall. I just think you by accident ended up at one of his son's foolish parties, that's what I think.''

"Howard, leave Mr Christian alone. You're just saying that because you've never been invited.''

Howard How, perspiration on his brow, pointing with an unsteady finger. Which he pulls back from the candle flame with a smell of burning finger nail. Mrs How with her lips compressed, small fists placed either side of her plate. Want to ask for another helping of salad. Because it doesn't look as if we're ever going to get to the raspberry sherbet.

"Hail to victory. Go team go. Umph pa pa. Second string quarter back. That was me. When I was in high school. I was too light when I got to college. Who's that sitting over there. That you, Jean. Scrub the stoop. I'm going right over now to that distillery."

''No you 're not Howard.''

"Who's going to stop me. You think because you've got that punk Christian with the fistic reputation. The Think Boom boys might be scared but you don't frighten me. Try to stop me. You just dare."

Howard How stumbling towards a pair of doors behind drapes leading out somewhere. Bumping his knee on a radiator. Holding it with his hands as his jaw twists with agony. And wipes it away with a new smile.

"Ha tricked you, tricked both of you. You didn't think I was going to leave you alone, the two of you did you. And while my back was turned, how do I know lover boy wouldn't try something funny with my little old wife.''

"Howard why don't you shut the hell up. You invite Mr Christian out here. And insult him. And I'm finding it an awful bore. Do you understand. Two can play this game. Here you are Cornelius, let's both have a good stiff brandy."

"Well then goodbye. Goodbye to both of you. It's off to the distillery we go, hi ho.''

"Well go ahead and god damn well go hi ho to the distillery then."

"I 'm going, don't you think I 'm not.''

A voice singing out under the trees. A window slamming shut. Mrs How in her mauve raiment. Over the merest of mounds. Cock back her arm and her muscle might go pop. Never thought wide assed How behind his pair of glasses had a stunning wife. A gem unearthed in the dead center of Queens. Smelling fresh of soap and faint gardenias.

"Mr Christian I'm really sorry. Please don't take Howard too seriously. What can I get you.''

"O I'm fine thanks really."

"Come on, let's both admit it. You're not enjoying this. Sad thing is Howard means what he's saying. He really resents you.

I can't understand it. Because he talks about you so much.''

"I understand Mrs How.''

"Your continued politeness is very nice. But the evening did get just that little bit ugly.''

"Is he safe out there.''

"O yes, to cover thirty yards. So long as he doesn't break a leg in the children's sandpit. And the policeman on duty doesn't shoot him. I've got fresh coffee ready. Would you like it with your brandy."

"That would be fine."

"You didn't know it, did you, Howard has a small drinking problem. He was very bright in college. In fact he was brilliant. And in spite of our having all the good things, he feels sometimes he's not made anything out of his life.''

''Do you like it here, Mrs How.''

"It's nice for the children. But I'd rather live, and I guess it sounds crazy, in a ghetto. About ten o'clock some mornings this can be like the frozen wastes of Antarctica. But you don't tell your husband that. When he's finished complaining about taxes. That you're going nuts out of your mind in this sylvan setting."

Her hair shining in the candle light. And glinting in her big black eyes. Dip a nose into this brandy. To the sweet mellowness, pale, gold and old. From another land they call France. Dog barks. See Mrs How's silver slipper. Her pale nailed toes wiggle. On antelope ankles.

''Can I ask you a really personal question, Cornelius.''

"Yes."

"O I better not, you'll think I'm being risque."

"O no."

"Well then I'll ask you. Because I've always wondered. Can a dead female if she were good looking and young. O god I shouldn't ask."

"Ask."

"Well if she were there, lying on a slab, could she arouse you."

"Well Mrs How, I don't know, it's not that it's a trade secret or anything but there are those who might think it unethical to remark upon."

"O come on, tell me, it's one of the few things I ever really wanted to know."

"Well, the answer is I guess, that you do rather size people up and of course, the supply of beautiful dead young women is not too plentiful, but even in death a woman can have a certain attraction."

"So for a female who's still alive there must be lots of chances left."

"Well Mrs How I don't want to disillusion you, but there are those who prefer deceased females.''

"O I know all about real necroes. I was thinking of nice young clean cut morticians.''

"You mean the sort who plays lacrosse and ambles into the preparation room to embalm smelling of bay rum.''

"Exactly, exactly. That's exactly what I mean. What was that."

"Sounded like a shot, thirty eight calibre.''

"O god."

Christian trotting after Mrs How through the curtained doors. Across a little patio. Down steps, brushing by shrubbery. A light switched on. A shadow running along the side of the wop's house. Towards a white form stretched on the lawn. A voice shouting over the darkness. As I step and crack a loud twig.

"Ok everybody. Don't move. Let's see.''

"That's my husband."

"He's o k lady, he might have a hernia but he's not hit. I shot into the ground. He was trying to break in there.''

Howard flat on his face out like a light. Tree leaves rustle. Crickets chirp. Mosquitoes buzz around the ears. And one's just drilled for blood in the side of my neck. Lights go off everywhere. And nobody pours out in this purlieus to see what's the matter with one of its prostrate citizens.

Howard How lugged feet first. Mumbling something about buying land from the Indians for three lousy white pots. Christian gripping him under the armpits, the policeman holding by the ankles. Loafers fallen off. Taking him backwards across the patio. Through the french doors of the dining room. All the good eats and brandy left under the candle light. Balding policeman in his short blue sleeves. Smell of gun powder. As we hoist Howard How up the creaking stairs. Folk are always heavier than you think. Flake him out on a big double bed. Under a painting of Niagara Falls. With a crimson, fluffy counterpane, just like Howard's socks. And he has a handful of grass clutched in his first. And a patch of sweat on his crotch.

Policeman as he goes down, looking back up the stairs. At the colored engravings of vintage cars on the wall. All the things in other people's houses. Seem better than what you have in your own. Protocol now to get the hell out of here. And brave the terror of a walk down this suburban street. If the policeman doesn't shoot you, the guy committing hold ups with the gat will.

"Sorry about that Mrs, guess it's natural someone wants to know what went on in the house next to them. In a nice neighborhood like this. But he wants to watch himself. I got my orders."

"Thank you officer."

"Any time lady you need any help, just give me a shout, I'm right over there."

"Thank you officer."

"Got nothing else to do.''

"Well thank you very much officer.''

"Thank you lady."

Policeman backing out on the patio as he pushes closed the dining room doors. Mrs How standing staring. Tiniest bit of moisture in her eyes. Looking right at me. When I don't know where else to look. Except right back. And say something before she hears the pounding in my chest.

''I guess Mrs How I better really be going too.''

"No please don't"

''Well this is an imposition with Mr How not so well.''

''He's just plastered. Doesn't mean the end of hospitality. Come on, I 'll show you to your cell.''

Through Howard's den to a pine panelled room. An old foot pedal sewing machine. College pennants on the wall. One says Bucknell high up between the twin pink spreaded beds. Crunch of summer seaside sand on the floor. Childhood smell and taste of breezes salty. The wooden jetties out on Par Kockaway. And the fear of shark. When you wade out toward the tumbling grey waves.