Balls (13 page)

Henry looked around in alarm. He was still on the kitchen floor, no place to conduct business, and he hoisted himself to his feet.

It had been months since they'd last spoken. But their conversational tone was always familiar. After all, they went back to grade school
.
Of course, Henry knew not to over-romanticize their relationship. Walbaum's Porsche was imported from Germany and he was after the next new thing. This was business.

Why in god's name are you calling me on a Saturday?

Henry paced back and forth through the kitchen. His free hand clutched the back of his head. He could hardly control his volume. He said, I've got the song for you, Zachary. Wait till you hear it, you'll be blown away. I want to play it for you tomorrow.

Tomorrow? Tomorrow's Sunday.

So what.

So, can't we do it Monday?

Going away, Zachary.

Where to,
jail?
You in trouble?

I'm fine, he said. I'm absolutely fine.

Walbaum was the last person he'd tell about his poor health. His old schoolmate had even warned him against it one evening at a small party in honor of Bobby Jacques at the Rainbow Room. Sixty-five stories above Midtown and staring out over Manhattan, Walbaum had told Henry that a certain music label CEO had made it public he was fighting Hodgkin's Disease. Walbaum had said to Henry:

My friend, here's a business tip on the house…Never show the enemy any sign of physical infirmity. No one puts their money on a gimp horse.

However, once again now, Walbaum was asking him what was wrong.

He said, I've never heard you sound like this.

Leaning in the kitchen doorway, Henry considered how he'd never been admonished about hiding his romantic woes. He said to him, Do you remember Paula, Zachary?

Remember
her?
Walbaum began to laugh. Ambitious little thing almost convinced me to make a classical record. Christ, you know, she'd have gotten me fired. How she doing?

She's leaving me, said Henry.

What? I'm sorry to hear that.

Gripping his sweaty phone tight, Henry said, I didn't mean to discuss any of that. I want to talk music. I said I have a song for you.

Baby, I hear you. And since you're so down, let me give you a little good news. Bobby Jacques—she's up in a studio in Montmartre, and she's in need of songs.

Really? Henry's eyes flashed with excitement.

Is yours something she could use?

Henry, letting go of the dark feeling inside him, said, I practically wrote it
for
her.

I trust you mean it.

I do.

Good, said Walbaum. You'll meet me at Greengrass. Tomorrow. Twelve-thirty.

That's great, Zachary.

Tell me, what's the title of this song?

The title? said Henry. Recalling Paula's criticism, he said, It's
C.N.Y.

C.N.Y.
? Sounds like a forensics show.

It's an acronym,
all right
.

Look who's so smart.

Like
P.Y.T.
or
O.P.P.
, Zachary. Those were big songs.

Okay. So what's that stand for, your
C.N.Y.
?

I'll tell you over breakfast.

Henry hung up, charged with frantic energy. Forget Paula. Walbaum would see him. And though
Castrated New York
wasn't the song for Bobby Jacques, it was brilliant still, and as soon as Walbaum heard it, he'd think the same, and want to do something bold with it. Yet it had to be finished by morning. Thank god the hour was early. He could do it.

I must.

He went to brew coffee. Outside the kitchen window, an early summer afternoon, and the sky would still be light for hours. He boiled water. Staring at the kettle, he saw a great future for himself. His whole body felt powerfully alive. He let out a laugh and took his coffee to the piano, diving into work. He played passionately. At one point, apoplectic, he stood and kicked over his piano bench, like Jerry Lee Lewis, his body trembling tensely over the instrument. Sweat stung his eyes. His fingers pounded hard against the keys so that the tips smarted. On top of the instrument was a lamp and a photo of Django, and it all shifted closer to the piano's edge. Henry, his mind having moved far inside itself, didn't notice that they were in danger of falling. Playing
Castrated New York
over and over again he made slight changes to the feel, the rhythm, dropped notes, added rests, shortened the intro, doubled the last chorus. His mind pushed around those last obstructions, shoved them furiously aside, he could taste how close he was to a symmetry of notes, of feeling and sound. Minutes later he looked up to see Django fall to the floor. The lamp was set halfway off the piano. The keys were damp with sweat, the bench overturned behind him. He lifted his hands from the keys and stood back. The bridge, he realized, was finished. The intro and outro were finalized, the song done. It was time to record. He could barely keep his hands steady long enough to adjust the levels of the four-track. He managed to get tape rolling. While he played his piano and sang aloud with a microphone set on a stand to the right of the instrument, all he could think was how Walbaum was going to love the song. Here was what he'd been waiting for. Henry's great number about New York City, after so many years, was finally written. It was the
one
, a hit. It would define him,
Henry Schiller
, from now unto forever.

SIX

T
he next morning, awoken by the sound of a helicopter flying nearby over the East River, Henry got out of bed and went to wash up. His body felt worn by exhaustion. His skin had a kind of thorniness to it. Brushing his teeth, he began to think of Paula, admitting to himself, with pity in his heart, that the violin was her life, and that she had no other
life
to speak of. Her deceased mother was still pressuring her to succeed. And her father was so supportive, one had to be suspicious of that, too. He dried his mouth with a towel and went into the bedroom, dressed in his dark linen suit, a black tie and white shirt, acknowledging how Paula couldn't help another person in a crisis. She wasn't good at expressing love. She didn't know how, or what it was, to be warm and that was very sad, thought Henry, locking the door and heading out into the city. Because even if Paula did know a good song like
Castrated New York
when she heard one, she'd never have real love.

He sighed. Poor girl.

The streets had the quiet-emptiness of a Sunday morning. The cars were few. Henry felt he had the city to himself. The abandoned air of Midtown didn't stop these sympathetic feelings for Paula from flowing. He wondered, Could the achievement of all her aspirations make her feel fulfilled? Would she be happy? Or would she regret having never truly loved another person?

It would be her greatest sadness, Henry answered for her.

At the fountains of Columbus Circle, his grief for her nearly overcame him. He stuck his hands in his pockets, tightly gripping the fabric of his pants. He had to warn her, he thought. Tell her not to ignore the many riches of life. He couldn't give up on her just because times were difficult.
Life
was difficult. And good things came with great difficultly. Didn't they? But even if they
didn't.

He had a half-hour before meeting Walbaum. Paula's apartment was close. He'd stop by there. No doubt she was home, practicing. Each day began for her at five a.m. She played till eleven. He wouldn't call to tell her he was coming. He'd surprise her by ringing her buzzer. And if she wouldn't let him in, he'd make his feelings known from the sidewalk. He couldn't help smiling.

You are a fool,

Henry.

She's fucking him.

Taking a handful of his dark hair, he said, to himself, But you don't know that for sure.

Yes, you do
,

sang the voice inside his head.

You've never,
Not known,
Only decided,
To look,
Away.

These thoughts so painful, his balance began to give out. Holding himself up against a red brick building, he decided that what he really needed was a drink. Before saying hello
to Walbaum, a drink. He couldn't sit and have a proper meeting when he felt like this. How could he show any enthusiasm for his work? How could he form full sentences?

He went into a tavern off Amsterdam, two blocks from Barney Greengrass. He had ten minutes to spare. It would be one drink then.

Henry could remember the tavern having been here all his life. But there was a bad air about it, and he had never been inside. A black curtain ran straight across the window at the front, so that you couldn't see in from the sidewalk. It was darkly lit. There was sawdust on the floor. An older man with a white mustache and thin silver hair which he combed with his fingers stood behind the bar. He gave Henry a strange look the moment he stepped through the door. The bar had opened only recently, but a half-dozen people were already seated on stools and drinking. No one spoke. Large, rectangular tinfoil containers of eggs and bacon were on a table in the corner, giving the room a peculiar odor. Above them was a sign which read:

Come in and enjoy breakfast on us.

Henry ordered a vodka rocks and sat down in the booth furthest to the back. Looking at his hands, red and shaking, the thought of Moss and Paula's bodies together further enflamed his face. To himself, he was saying, They'll spend the whole summer together, traveling through Europe. And where will you be? What will you be doing?

Labored and wispy, air passed through his lips. It felt like he had to work his own lungs in and out, that they wouldn't operate on their own. He pulled open the top of his shirt, the second and third buttons popping off and rolling across the table to the floor. He didn't bother retrieving them. There was a man seated two tables over. Henry could feel his gaze. Clearly this man, whose black suit had a large tear at the elbow of the right arm, wanted to talk. Henry drank faster. He had to go. He would be late to meet Walbaum if he didn't hurry. The man kept rapping his knuckles on the table, groaning. His face was unshaven. Around his eyes was a sweaty glow. He had a tie that was perfectly straight on his neck. But, like his suit, it had a tear. There was a little bit of blood around the nails of both thumbs. His hair was long in the back, greasy. Henry noticed a full bottle of red wine on the table before him. It was more than halfway finished. The man sighed after every sip of wine, but proudly, letting himself be heard. Then, of a sudden, he said, to Henry:

I can tell you're smart.

Henry looked up at him, smiling weakly.

You walk around this city, you don't meet smart people. Not many. You know what I mean? Well, I know a smart guy when I see one. I'm a driver myself. Limousines. Name's Marshall Fleming. Let me guess, you're a doctor.

A musician, said Henry, irritated. He didn't have time for conversation.

A musician, said Fleming. And guitar's your instrument?

Piano.

Fleming said, Hmm, and he came up from his chair, took his bottle of wine and sat down at the table next to Henry's, but across from him. He refilled his glass, spilling on the table. He stared at Henry, excitedly. He said, Let me ask you, sir, have you ever spent a night on a park bench? Actually, it's a trick question. Because you can't. The police force you to move. It's a problem. But I blame myself, really, and that's why I'm drunk. Have you ever slept in Riverside Park?

Henry shook his head no.

One of the men sitting at the bar turned to Henry and said, Don't listen to him. He tells a different guy the same story every day for the last week.

Get a job! the bartender shouted at Fleming.

Do you think I like being out of work? You think I want this! When Mr. Kelly pushed my wife down those stairs, do you think it didn't hurt like hell? He said, My one daughter, Carolina, she went out and became an…an…escort. No, no never mind. Forget I even started telling you about that.

Henry nervously drew his glass to his chest.

It's true, I'm horseshit. And Dana, my wife, she's smart. For one thing, she grew up rich. But she doesn't have a heart. She's generous, but cruel. If she'd just…aw Jesus. Why am I even telling you any of this? There's no point. I'm nothing but horseshit.

Amen, said the bartender.

Fleming spit on the floor. And what if I am? So what! Did you know I stole Dana's ring and hocked it for booze? And the pearl earrings her father bought her for her sixteenth birthday—sold them off, too. Drank it. And we've got a couple of kids. Dana spends so much time taking care of them. She's always sick. So I drink. And it makes me feel worse. That's why I do it. Not to feel happy, but miserable. My wife, she is smart. But she's always fighting with the landlord. Excessive pride, mmm. And she's fiery, and stubborn. Don't tell her she's not a strong woman, you'll pay with your life. Then after Mr. Kelly insulted her, and she got in his face, he gave her a shove down the stairs. She went tumbling, god. Nothing broke, but she was so depressed afterwards. All she did was sleep and sleep. And you know, when we first met, her husband, Edward, had just died. She said to me she would never love a man more than Edward. He beat her up, too. Still, compared to Edward, she says I'm worse. She was left with all these kids though, living up on Amsterdam. That's where we found each other. She had nothing, not a cent. Her family wouldn't even talk to her. Didn't matter, because she didn't want their handouts. My own wife had just left me. She disappeared one day, leaving me with our daughter. Carolina was about thirteen then. I married Dana because…because you see a woman like that living with nothing and you want to help, right? She's so smart, but things weren't going right for her. I thought, Step in, do something. I was shocked that she married me. Truth is, she didn't want any part of me. Except I said I would take care of her. And for years and years, I did everything for her. I gave her a decent life. Then I'm driving the boss' limo one day and ran it into a lamppost. I was drunk, you know. It cost me my job. I lost my license. There was a short stay in prison. Can I tell you, I don't know how we're paying our rent these days. My daughter, Carolina, she and Dana, they don't get along. Dana's got a nasty temper. She'll snap and look out! But Carolina had to drop out of school and get a job, to make money for the family. She loved it, too, going to class, learning. Absolutely loved it. She doesn't have a diploma, though. And what do you think you can earn without one of those? Minimum wage. But a person can't live off that. Not in this city. It's not possible. Unless you work a hundred hours. And then you die from exhaustion. We were all going around hungry. My wife was becoming more and more sick, and angry. She looked at Carolina one day, and said, Come with me, now. See, there was a man around the corner who did this thing for young women, set them up with men, you know. My wife arranged for them to meet. That doesn't make her a bad woman. She was just losing her mind, from hunger. There were the kids to think about. Something had to be done. I saw my daughter go out this one night. She didn't come back till three in the morning. She tossed a stack of bills on the table next to my wife, and went straight into her bedroom. Dana went in after her. They didn't come out all night. I peeked in on them, though, and saw Dana with Carolina in the bed, and she was holding her.

Fleming covered his mouth, turning his attention at the ceiling. He reached for the bottle, refilling his glass. Henry was about to tell him he must leave. Fleming spoke first.

My daughter couldn't face coming home every night from work. She moved in with a friend, on the West Side, Harlem. That's when Mr. Kelly and my wife got into it. I've known the guy, too, and never thought he was all that bad. But he shows up at our door one evening. Dana answered. I could hear them quarreling. Mr. Kelly was saying, I feel so much better now that I don't have to live upstairs from your girl. You keep that whore out of the building. My wife…now I've seen her get mad, but not like this. We keep a baseball bat right inside the door and Dana, she took a swing at Kelly. But Kelly's a strong guy. He grabbed it out of her hands and gave her a shove. She was standing right at the top of the stairs, and went tumbling down. I had to take her to the emergency room. She was all right.

Fleming let out a hard cough. He said, The day after the incident with Mr. Kelly I called up an old friend, Thompson. A good guy. If you knew him, I mean a classy person. I told him what had been going on with my daughter and wife. I nearly had him in tears. He asked me what my last job was. Limousine driver, I said. By that time I'd gotten my driver's license back. He said he usually drove himself around but that he'd hire me on in the role, as a favor. I was so glad.

Fleming took a long drink from his glass. He wiped his mouth, and said, My wife, she was over the moon. She used to treat me like garbage. Now I was a king. I came home that first day of work and she had a meal waiting for me. Steak, wine, the works. She took my coat at the door, hung it on the hook. Her tone was respectful. After dinner, she gave my back a rub. I'm not sure if she'd ever done that before. The next morning I found my shirt had been pressed, my slacks, too. There was breakfast on the table. She told the children how wonderful I was. Then I came in later that day and she was sitting with her girlfriend, Doris. I can't tell you how many times I'd overheard her talking with this Doris about how awful I am. All my shortcomings, and everything she lost when her husband, Edward, passed. Not this day, though. Dana, she was going on about how terrific I was. She was praising me, as a husband, a father. Then I came out from where I'd been hiding, and I said, Girls, I heard all that. And Dana said, Well, it's true—and we all laughed. And my wife was so happy. I was happy. I think for the first time in our life together, things were working out.

Fleming paused, inspecting the wine bottle. Conserving what remained of it, he poured only an inch into his glass. Watching the man, in fear, Henry's phone began to ring. His heart skipped. What time was it? Behind the bar, a cable box on the television showed it was 12:30 exactly. But Walbaum wouldn't stick around for Henry. How had these ten minutes passed so quickly? He had to get out of here, away from this man.

I hope, said Fleming, taking Henry by the wrist and giving his hand a firm pat, I hope I'm not making your head ache. Because for that one day, I was really on top of the world. What a feeling I had in my heart. Life is good. Life is good. I kept feeling that it was true. Then wouldn't you know it, not twenty-four hours later, I screwed it up. I don't know how it happened. But there I was, on the sidewalk. Thompson's car was wrapped around a pole. The engine was on fire. I failed the breathalyzer. And my daughter, she had to bail me out of jail. I haven't been home since. My wife is probably looking for me. I've been sleeping in the park. But who should feel bad for me?

No one's going to feel bad for you, said the bartender.

All the men began to jeer. Some just stared, in awe of Fleming.

Why should your hearts go out to me? asked Fleming, standing up from his chair. I ought to be put in the electric chair. I'd like to get the guillotine. Yeah, chop off my head and when you see it come off you can laugh at me because there's my head on the goddamn ground.