A Singular Man (15 page)

Get on this talking machine.

"Operator."

"Number please."

"Brandy."

"Number please."

"Brandy, funeral director, Cinder Village, please operator."

"Why didn't you say so."

"I've just said so."

"Has there been a death."

"None of your damn business."

"O."

Smith decidedly executive. Toga drawn tightly. Leaning back against the wall. The soothing voice of Mr. Brandy any second now. Unless he's out busy. Ah. George Smith here, Mr. Brandy, I'm fine, nice day, how are you. Good, nice day, that's splendid. No. Haven't seen the new sign yet. Could you send a car. Instantly. That's splendid. O you read that. Don't believe all you read, Mr. Brandy. And could you have your driver get here as fast as he can. And send another man with him. Fine. Yes, nice day. Bye. Bye.

Times in one's life requiring unprecedented action. And on this rural sun dappled Saturday morning, take a few steps back. Raise each knee to test the suppleness. Bend to touch the toes. Eye the door. I will go through that thin pathetic pine. Like a steam train. Splinters flying. Panels asunder. Ere that ghost out there flitting between the trees. Will get a goodly taste of poison ivy.

Smith charged. Leading with the left shoulder. Hooking with the right. Brave bull. Feet nicely grasping all traction from the maple floor. Lightly flying with a thunderous crash through the door. Which shattered, fell to the floor. Hinges ripped. Screws flying. Smith on top. Miss Martin lying stretched on the bunk head buried beneath pillow. Oblivious to this stalwart. Sometime stallion.

Miss Martin, please understand the meaning of Bonniface. Proud culprit. Unconvicted world traveller sporting the canvas boots. Collector of second hand gravestones and urinals in quantity. Foot stamper, shouter and singer of the threnody. As one hears things strangely on the air. A voice out there in the woods. Faint. High pitched. Echoing far away from the other side of Worrisome River.

Jews and jailbirds

Bad news

Urinals and gravestones

Thrice used.

10

G
EORGE
Smith telling Miss Martin to get dressed. To stand up and face life like a woman. Forget keeping a face on things. Put on your grey dress. Buy you a beer in Cinder Village. Here, have a little tender hug. Mr. Brandy is sending a car. We will meet Bonniface. This nice day.

Smith stepping out of the cabin. Sweet warm green smells. As the car ordered from Brandy, merchant of death, drove into the clearing of trees. Staring dumbfounded. Approaching the two dark figures in black top hats. Consternation.

"Look here, is this the car from Mr. Brandy/1

"Yes sir."

"I did not order a hearse."

"Look Mister Smith, here, here's the card the lad brought over to the garage. See for yourself. What it says."

One Hearse, George Smith,

The cabin,

take left fork on the trail at end of Layabout Lane, Worrisome River Rapids.

"I'm meeting a guest. This is most awkward. I'm late already."

'We're sorry Mr. Smith. But that's the message."

Smith leading Miss Martin out under the trees. To take the seat next to the driver. Smith sitting behind on one side of the casket rest, extra man on the other. Immobility of face. Disposal of the dead. Fear of ghouls. Bound for Cinder Town. Gazeters, Shirl, Mr. Stone, Miss Tomson, Goldminers, Prepsters. Line the road. Bless the one horse saloons. The roar of trains. Iron wheels thundering on the rails. Women when they lay down for love get a present forever. Thank you spider.

Long gleaming hearse. Passing out of Layabout Lane. Dragging a few stray tree branches. With the unmerry mumchance passengers. Down the hardtop road. Between the softly rolling hills. Through a shady village past a general store and rambling houses of old inhabitants. Grey women on the porches. Tickling flowers on the edges of lawns. Smith's features an uncomplicated cast. Traffic never stops even when you're dead.

Cinder Village. Past the establishment of Mr. Brandy occupying a grassy fork in the road with a new neon sign. Further in the town, a square of old trees. The library. Drugstore. Houses of prominent citizens. Open high doors of the volunteer fire station. Rocking chairs on the porches. Hearse stopping for gas and oil. Down the little hill. To the cedar canopy over the tracks. A waiting room. Meeting a casket arriving on the train. One awful ghost.

"O.K., driver, wait here. Come Miss Martin.

Smith climbing down from hearse amid stares. Saloon across the road. Sun hot and shining. And no Bonniface. Ask the station attendant. Nope. Can't say I did. Wait a minute now you mention, saw a guy with a brown cardboard suitcase, all busted. About half hour ago. He took out a comb, leaning against that post playing some kind of music with a piece of paper. Thought he was taking a breather from the state institution. The song he was singing. Wearing a pair of crazy canvas boots, open down the front. Some song.

I was

Tested for the

Institution

And was crazy

Enough

To pass.

We thought the guy was nuts. A friend of yours? We were going to call the cops but he was gone all of a sudden. Left an envelope. On the window sill of the office. Are you from the institution.

"No."

"Letter addressed to George Smith."

"That's me."

"You George Smith."

"Yes."

"I'll get your letter."

Smith standing in the shade of the platform. Miss Martin next to a cart. Mr. Brandy's consorts whispering, leaning against the engine of the car. And through a loop hole in a green iron pillar, men lined up in the saloon across the street peering out the window. Silent hostile looks. From between the cardboard bathing beauty slugging beer. Hot shiny tracks down there on top of the pee sprinkled stones. Wintertime little boys stick tongues on the rails and they get stuck and the train comes and lops off their heads.

"Here's the letter. Ain't being nosey. But you the Smith. The George Smith. Paper's been full of."

"Lots of Smiths. Great many Georges."

"You sure look familiar."

"Bye bye."

Smith taking Miss Martin by the arm. By a soft touch inside her softer elbow. Moving her down the platform. All eyes. On a bench across the tracks. Two workmen. Glaring. With short legs, short arms. All one did was to arrive in a hearse. To meet an ancient friend. Who came to my college room for tea. And munched hard boiled eggs at various embassies during those golden years abroad. Full of happy research into the future troubles trembling we knew were brewing. We married young beautiful wives. Stepped into the exciting garden for croquet. And got promptly slammed about the head and ears.

11:30

Platform

Cinder Village

My Dear George,

I am most terribly sorry not to have waited for you longer. But I am in an acute state of distress. However, on the train I met a most friendly person who has helped me. And has kindly availed me of his house so that I may at least rest up for a few days before proceeding further. God knows where.

He asks me to enclose this letter to you. I can be reached through him. I hope I have not inconvenienced you in any way. And that the things I hear about you are totally untrue. I would be grateful for a loan. Nudum pactum.

Godly blessings

Upon you

In your fear.

BONNIFACE

P.S. I have one woeful case of hayfever with which I

can hardly breathe and can hardly see at all. Also

a slight case of shingles as well as blistered feet.

C.CB.C

Smith opening the next letter. A hooked finger ripping open the flap. As uncontrollable phrases pass through the mind. Dear Sir, we will be interested in viewing your residue what's left of you.

Pomfret Manor

Cinder Village

Dear Mr. Smith,

May I make so bold as to address you? I feel I know you as an old acquaintance through your friend Mr. Cedric Calvin Bonnif ace Clementine who told me much of you on our enjoyable ride together on the train. It seems we too live in your neck of the woods, although this may be news to you. But briefly let me come to the point. My wife and I would most assuredly be proud to have you among our guests this weekend, tonight 6:30 onwards. It would be a real privilege. No jamboree but we hope it'll be fun. Any of your friends are welcome too.

Cordially,

John Jiffy Jr.

P.S. Since writing this on the train, Mr. Clementine informs me he has missed you, and I have taken the liberty of inviting him over. Perhaps you will join us for a few drinks.

JJJ.

Stare at these three capital letters. Consecutive and cold. Cast off this casual coincidence. One J for junior. Or jolt. The last and third for jamboree.

The afternoon. Blew up. In sky high beauty. Smith in the face of friendless village eyes. Commandeered the hearse from station to the self service store. Traffic made way. Miss Martin in the acreage of foodstuffs, filling a wire gocart with frankfurters, peanut butter, jars of olives, sauerkraut, vitamin reinforced bread and one little glass of pineapple cheese spread. Mr. Brandy's cohorts lifting the provisions out to the hearse. Together with forty five bottles of wine and spirits. Not to mention the ice cold beer and four avacadoes. People whispering on the sidewalk under the old elm trees. Smith wagging a finger at an old lady. Naughty. Whole kit and kaboodle in the death wagon. Trundling off to a picnic ground seven miles north of Cinder Village.

Smith and Miss Martin sitting away by themselves in the deeper grass. Cohorts at a rustic table downing cannisters of beer. Little babbling brook. Flowing down between two steep wooded hills. Green peace. On this afternoon. A swish of snake cruising through the grass. Black long reptile disappearing in an array of picnic garbage. Pulling the zip down on the back of Miss Martin's grey dress. Feel the side of her lonely tit. You're like a little dog. Wagging and nuzzling. The many miles of trees and trees. Cool wind. Old music. Years of love cooped up in the heart. To spill several drops today. On Miss Martin's throat. Under her brown hair. In the deserted picnic ground. She little knows. All I think. Fuzz of hair over her back. Of all the times I tried with fist thumping, brain spinning to wind some cocoon. Safe from hands reaching to take the precious away. She said would you ever marry me. Be mine. And she broke and wept. With the married man. Little girl, hello. Gift of trust you wear in your eyes. While it shines I'll take care of you.

Sun darkening

Red

Sinking faster

Than usual

Over the trees.

11

S
EVEN
fifteen in the evening countryside. After the picnic, more beer. Smith taking Miss Martin and cohorts to a road house, called Casual Cabin near the little airport. Travellers in shirt sleeves without ties not admitted.

The long bar. Tinkling fairy lights. Gleaming dance floor. One round of beer after another. Smith throwing up an arm.

"Ha ha, drink up death deliverers."

"Mr. Smith maybe I think we ought to be getting back or something. Brandy will be wondering what happened, maybe needs the truck."

Smith abloom. In one curious smile. Pointing to the door. To the highway. Along by the lake. By back dirt roads. To one inn and din. And then another. Your smile Miss Martin. Your breast. Watch me pick elderberry blossom. Sure cure when stricken on a cross country tour with ague.

Smith climbing aboard the hearse. Stretching full length on the casket rest. A clutch of elderberry blossoms upon his folded hands. Shout to the cohorts.

"Pomfret Manor. Haste. To the Bonniface. Middle eyed king. Of the slippery of spirit."

Hearse containing George Smith and party, turning off the road into a sweeping blue pebbled drive. Flanked by roses and low freestone wall. Lawns and shrubberies. A field of dairy cows. Led in a line to milking. Walled enclosure of pines. Faint white gravestones of a little burial ground. Drive curving through a thickening of trees and opening to circle round a great mound of lawn. Rambling ivy clad grey stone mansion. Hearse gently pulling to stop before a dark porch, and balcony above. Grey haired, blue silk gowned woman stepping out, a pincenez to her nose to look down. Upon this hearse with the stretched figure behind the chiseled glass. George Cadaver Smith under the elderberry. Her scream full of a tired agony floating out across this richly tended place. A thump. As her fat person fainted out of sight.

Chunky figure emerging from glass open doors to the lawn at the side of the house. Laughter, merriment and black bow ties. Round face, round cummerbund belly approaching. Bald pate ringed in grey hair. Tufts of ribbon on the gleaming tiny feet. Miss Martin biting her lip on the pebbled drive. Two cohorts silent by the open hearse doors. Whispering in to the prostrate figure.

"Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith."

Rotund person, displeasured brow acrinkle and faintly crossed with white fear. Walking up to the cohorts, standing rooted, black toppers in hands. In a manner taught by Mr. Brandy for the graveside presence.

"What is the meaning of this. What are you doing."

Smith slowly to a sitting position. Rotund man rearing back..

"My god, what. Vas."

Crowd collecting on the lawn. Tinkling thin membranes of glass. House lights flooding out in the evening gloom. Somewhere in this great spreading dark mansion dallies Bonniface.

"I'm Mr. Jiffy. What is the meaning."

"I'm Smith."

"Well you're George Smith. Well. Ha ha."

"Sorry if I gave you a fright."

"Well welcome, Mr. Smith, sir. Ha ha, your arrival. Well."

"Miss Martin. Mr. Jiffy. Mr. Jiffy, meet my drivers."

"Hi there. Come on in."

Little gathering moving into the big gathering. Under the massive stone porch. Pink scattered way up in the distant skies. Jiffy's hands on Smith's elbow, sir you must meet my wife. Alas Jiffy out of a slit of eye I saw her keel over unconscious above us.

Great entrance hall. Flanked by spears, daggers, armour. Sandstone steps hung with a balustrade of crimson rope. Sign my guest book, Mr. Smith, while I find my wife. Miss Martin scratching her left handed signature. Mr. Jiffy in search of spouse. Smith sneaked in an X. Good sign this night.

Miss Martin clinging. Mr. Smith I feel so out of place, with all these people in evening clothes. Smith nudging a feel with an elbow. Miss Martin digging her fingernails into his arm. George's knees gave with the pain. Jesus Christ Miss Martin watch the nails, will you. As they passed now along a hall. Tall portraits of ships and horses. And down steps. To a sunken room. A balcony high up round the walls. Gigantic table and transparent clock. Clutches of people. Whispers and turnings around as George Smith with one brave hand filled two pewter tankards with champagne. A word of mausoleum. Of market. Of money. And one loud voice out of a thin reed of woman. "Love to expose my body, marvelous lunacy."

Further over the heads. Down more halls. A peek passing the dining room. White table cloth covered with silver coffee machines. Black uniformed maids waiting in white lace aprons. And the library. Whoops, behind each book a bottle. Gloomy tall windows flanked with brown tomes. A ladder on wheels. And further the sign of a canvas boot high up, searching in the vellum among the manuscripts. Visions everywhere. Do not look further up that leg. Come Miss Martin to the conservatory I spy at the end of the hall. Full of palm. Monkey tree. Hydrangea.

Under a dripping vine by a strange flower. Two lurking unblinking eyes. Between the heating pipes. Smith bending near to get a better look. Snap. Wham. The jaws of a goodly sized definitely loose alligator, hissing. Jiffy is distinctly outdoor. Smith draining the tankard. Miss Martin tugging. Mr. Smith I want to meet people. Sign of betrayal. Not to lurk quietly here with the alligator, Miss Martin. You want to saunter in the high life. Greet and meet nobs. Well then, come.

Smith taking Miss Martin down the hall. Nearly dragging her along. No one these days wants to sit and talk with just you. Mr. Smith it's only that I've never seen people like this before or been in a place like this. You only have a little cabin in the woods. With a spider, Miss Martin. But this is a palace or something, full of important people. I see, Miss Martin. You think because I hold out in the mere and barren room of 604. Because my suits are repaired. Underwear ripped. That I cannot shiver all these ears.

Pomfret Manor's lonely evening grandeur. One side the sloping lawns. The other sheer rock cliff with a dining terrace. And back road. Looking down on tree tops and further into a deep valley. Moon up. The lake lit far below. Smith tucking into another tankard. Stray folk making curious ways to shake his hand. I want to say someday I met you. You made the big boys cringe. To these dreadful flatterings. Smith quietly smiled. Looking for a sign of Bonniface. Miss Martin coyly across the room with a tall gentleman, grey hair well greased back with distinction. Four medals on his chest. I recognise as military. And I am left alone.

Mosquitoes. Crickets bantering under dead leaves all out through the woods. Two gigantic wolf hounds strolling licking faces among the gathering. Footmen and flit guns spraying the night. Murdering insects. Trays and trays from the pantries. Bonniface is in this house. For whom I search, from whom I run. In the kitchens sneaking a fist into the cookie jars. I could kill Miss Martin. Use me the way she has. My seed. Not one word of thank you.

"Ah sir you look lonely now, would you like to fill up your tankard."

A maid. Stiff cowl of lace across her dark hair. Smiling.

"Thank you. What's your name."

"Ah sir, you wouldn't have any interest in knowing my name."

"You're beautiful."

"Sir, flattery will get you somewhere. You're the gentleman as arrived in the funeral car. I had to laugh. Himself had a fright he won't forget. Ah my God it's been some day. Since the gentleman with the cultivated ways arrived. I wouldn't want to tell you. The house is no longer safe. We're in fear of our lives. It's exciting."

"What's your name."

"Now. Enough's said. Who are you pretending you would have anything familiar with the poor likes of me. You're a friend of Mr. Clementine, now isn't that so. Ah it's so. I can tell by the green glint in your eye."

"What's your name."

"You'll be trying your hand on me next. Like your gentleman friend, I'm Maureen. Ah Jesus I love men. They're great. Jesus, that Mr. Clementine. O God that man."

"Where is that man. Maureen."

"That man if you ask me is God himself and he can strike me dead for saying it. He'll be in the closets." strike me dead for saying "I beg your pardon."

"That's where. It's mesmerizing. Gentleman's hands reach out of the linen. Poor Bertha the cook never had a man near her. Jesus if he didn't chase her right into the ice house, back there under the kitchens. Must get the drinks around. I'll be back." Fair skinned. Fresh liquid eyes all blue all cleared and cleaned by rain. Maureen. I'm the saddest creature of all. My gracious. The wolf dogs. Random alligators. And alone here in this spot. No one to talk to. Car doors slamming somewhere out across the lawns. Ice house under the kitchens. If there's a Bonniface at all. That's where he'll be. Blue veined. At dawn in the mornings those university years ago. With an open penny notebook. Scribblings about geology. Studying the long night through in the cattle markets, among the tinkers and renegades. I got rich. He got poor. Both got childer. And not one day in all those college times were there less than smiles. Less than full bows. One wedding of a princeling friend. One morning suit retrieved from the pawn. A white shirt dipped in bleach. His wife picked up the iron to give it a marvelous stiff sparkling collar. With the hot instrument resting on a green painted shelf. One great green smear across the collar. A tear in my eye now. For that day. As we all went. Speeding in from country parts. The bride and groom in their raiment. So handsome it was terrible to behold. She married she said for money. He for beauty. What could be better. Till Clementine. Enraged for the green smeared collar, kicking holes in all the doors of the house. Letting in the fresh air he said till his shoes were of no use at all. Changing to sandals. Stepping out on the road. Hitching a ride to the reception. Stopping the first car he spied. Standing in front of it on the road, hand raised. By God it was carrying the bride and groom. He climbed in and sat between them. Said, how do newlyweds.

George Smith, eyeballs glistening. Alone with tankard. Sallow faced. As the high chandeliers of this drawing room dimmed and went out. With Maureen and two other dark maids taking lighted tapers to candles on mantels, tables and sideboards. Room aflicker. Miss Martin has been led away. By a man of distinction, jangling medals.

Taste of wine. Light white gentle dripping down the throat. Tinkle up the nostril. Jiffy. So round and busy. So bald and bouncing. Grey, wife lies up stairs. Jiffy. John, Junior. Don't try to be too rotund. Hello wolf dog. Nice head you got. Don't bite now. Maybe you know the whereabouts of the Bonniface. Here, fill you a little bowl of champagne. Drink up. My only friend here. All the others have sidled away. Good wolf doggie. Nice mutt. Duties on the estate to chew up any visitor not invited. Doggie, don't think I don't know that.

New guests. More and more. In hunting equipage. A string octet striking up in the distant summer room. Wherever it is. But hear the faint strains of violins. A blue gowned woman. Hair streaks of grey. Undulated up to Smith. Talking down her nose.

"Hello, who are you."

"Who are you."

"I asked you first."

"I am Fang."

"You like dogs, Mr. Fang."

Tall languid woman. Creamed face. Soft breasts. See through the blue. Diamonds sticking on the ear lobes. Rests on one slipper and then the other. George leaning to peer down her careless cleavage. She put her hand there so he could not see. And grinning weakly she stepped away. Tripping backwards into an empty ice bucket on the floor. Where she fell. Wolf doggies leaping round her. Nipping playfully and growling. Smith prayerfully gazing in the distance, across the crowd. Thicker and bigger. All Bonnifaces. Mind areel. Matilda you black ox. Giant breasted. Giving parties in Merry Mansions while I'm away. Marvelous how one can receive these messages on the ether. That black is busting out. Skin so smooth.

Smith out through the guests. Pardon me. Sorry. Excuse me. Do you mind. I'd like to pass please. What for white. How are you. And into the pantry by the zinc sinks. The sweating footmen. Four of these faces I recognise from Cinder Village. Layabout louts. Side door here. Peer in. The bacon room, hams hanging. Catch Calvin gnawing one of those. Ah kitchen. Hello. Cook. I'm scraping and slaving in here for the stingy likes of Mr. Jiffy. You know Maureen. An upstart of a girl. Gentleman such as yourself would not want to be friendly with the likes of her. Into bed with any pair of pants. Mr. Clementine. O my God sir, that one. I mean with all respect. O what a merry kettle of fish. Do you know his whereabouts. And sure I do not. And the quicker the likes of him are last seen in Pomfret the better. Ah now, cook. Don't call me cook. Madam then. How do I get to the ice house. Don't mention that place to me. Under our feet.

Smith bowing at the kitchen door to the cook. Across a hall. Peeking into the servants' drawing room. An ironing board. Peering out on a porch. An ice cream churn. Down the stairs. Musty, damp and cold. Cobwebs in all the corners. Peeling paint. Deep passage way. Cinder smells. And hay. Damp. And rot. In these cellars in the direction under the kitchens. Ah. A gigantic door. Of stout massive timbers. Great bar of iron. Squeezing it shut. Hinges size of thighs. In here the ice. Cut in winter down on the lake. Hounds will find me here full of guilt and chew me up.

Smith reaching grasping the great iron bar. Pushing it up. Pulling the giant door open. Plenty of knowledge about doors. Open up to darkness. To the cold air in there.

A cackle. A quiver. In the dim light. The blocks of ice. Six feet down. In the far corner. On a cold throne. Cedric Calvin Bonniface Clementine. Encircled with brown bottles marked export. And X. A piece of cheese. One ham. A giggle. Of a dark uniformed maid making for the door to the outside world.

"My dear George, come in, join me. Cooling off down here. Think I'm mad. Think I'm going to ask you for money. Terrified. True I'm going to ask you for money. George. So good to see you. The trip here, goes without saying, was shameful. I do not mind a ship pitching. And rolling. But when there is the pitch, the roll and the lurch. Then by God."

"Hello."

"You build a tomb. Make mountain of marble for moment of last chill. Mean you have money. Me big temporary chief."