Evergreen (31 page)

During the long mornings he stood at the windows and found that he had acquired Resnick’s and Santorello’s irritating habit of jingling the change in their pockets out of restless boredom. He watched the dull, ambling traffic, the bus discharging at the corner and two or three people coming out of the subway in midmorning: going where? An ambulance came for someone in a store across the street; that was an event of note. He would have liked to bring a book from the library. He could at least have used the time to take himself away from that dreary street, away from 1935 to a brighter place and a more vital time of man. But to do so would be to turn his back upon the other two men, and he knew it would not only be unwise to incur their dislike by seeming different, but in some way unkind. He didn’t participate fully in their conversations, except when they talked baseball, which they often did. Mostly they talked about money and family and these came down to the same thing, making one word, money-family. How to pay for the wife’s hysterectomy, what to do about the father-in-law who was unemployed. They would probably have to take him and his wife in with them, which meant that their oldest boy would then have to sleep on the sofa, and then where would the daughter entertain her boy friend? She was keeping company with a nice fellow who had a good job with Consolidated Edison, and it would be a helluva thing if she lost her boy friend because of that old bastard, who had never done a thing for them when he had it! But after all, Santorello said, he’s my wife’s father and she cries
her eyes out, it’s hell to go home at night and listen to her. And Resnick nodded, understanding and wise; his dark hooded eyes, somber, cynical and resigned, reminded Maury so much of Pa that he sometimes couldn’t look into Resnick’s face. Resnick nodded and sighed: Family, family, my brother owes me a hundred and fifty dollars, I know I ought to make him pay, he could take a loan someplace, he keeps promising, we’ve always been like
that
—with two fingers raised, pressed side by side—I hate to make trouble between us, but, gee, a hundred and fifty dollars.

At least, Maury thought, feeling such pity for them, for me this is temporary. These times can’t go on much longer. For me at least, there’s something else. But for these two who are, after all, not really any different from me except that I’ve read some books that they haven’t read, is this all there is? Bending over feet and tying string on a shoe box until the end?

Too much time to think. Melancholy. Must stop. Be thankful I have Aggie at home, not their nagging, miserable women. And we are getting along. Two weeks’ wages go for rent. That leaves forty dollars or thereabouts for the rest of the month. Eight a week for food, that’s thirty-two, with eight over for carfare, gas and electric. Can manage, as long as the clothes hold out and we have no medical bills. Anyway, George Andreapoulis said something about needing some typing done. He can’t afford a secretary in that two-bit office. Aggie could do it for him; she knows how to type pretty well. Only, George would have to provide the typewriter because I gave mine to Iris and Aggie left hers at home, which means it’s lost to us. Unless—his head whirled and it occurred to him that he’d never spent so much energy on so many details—unless Iris could prevail upon their parents to buy another for her and return his to him? …

He had come home one afternoon a month or so ago and found his sister sitting at the table with Aggie. She’d come directly from school, wearing a plaid skirt and sweater and the string of pearls, probably the good ones
that she’d had since she was a baby, and the saddle shoes that all the girls wore. She had her books in a heap on the floor next to her chair. She’d risen to kiss him.

“I’ve surprised you, Maury?”

“And how! Gee, I’m glad! You girls introduced yourselves to each other?”

“I just got here a few minutes ago,” Iris had said. “I got lost. I’ve never been in Queens before.”

“How’d you know where to find us?”

“From the post office. I figured you must have arranged to have your mail forwarded.”

“I ought to have remembered how smart you are.”

She had flushed; the pink had made her austere face look tender.

“Did you—did you tell anyone you were coming?”

“I told Ma, and she cried a little. She didn’t say anything but I knew she was glad.”

“But that’s all you told.” He couldn’t, wouldn’t say the words: Pa, father.

“Well, I didn’t want to be sneaky, so I said this morning that I’d be late because I was coming here. I said it loud enough so Pa could hear it from the hall. I wouldn’t do anything sneaky,” she had repeated with pride.

Something had welled up in Maury. She was a
person
. Either she had changed or he had. He’d never really looked at her before, just known she was there like a sofa or chair that has been standing in a room as long as you can recall, and that sometimes gets in the way when you stumble over it in the dark. But she was a
person
.

“I love you, Iris,” he said then, simply.

Aggie, with the tact that was part of her charm, had made a bustle with the tea, saying cheerfully, “Iris is right where we were five years ago. Puzzling over college catalogues.”

“Not really,” Iris had said, “there’s no choice for me. I’m going to Hunter. Not that I mind. I’m looking forward to it.”

“What’s Hunter?” Aggie had wanted to know.

Maury had explained, feeling a wave of guilt, though it
wasn’t his fault that they’d kept him in private school and sent him to Yale, “Hunter’s a free college of the city of New York. You have to be very bright to go there, have to have top grades.”

“Oh. And after that, Iris? Have you thought what you wanted to do? I hope you have, then you won’t be in the position I’m in.”

“I’m going to teach,” Iris had said. “That is, I will if I can find work. At least I’ll be prepared.”

She’d stirred the tea. There’d been something quite calm and collected in the way she sat. She’s come out of childhood, Maury had thought, and as he was looking at the top of her dark, bent head, suddenly she had raised it and asked, “Don’t you want to know how things are at home? Is it that you just don’t want to ask me?”

He had been astonished at her perception. “Well, then, tell me,” he’d said.

So he learned that Pa and Malone were building up more management work. They were making ends meet, although just barely. Ma was busy in the same ways. Ruth and two of the girls had been staying with them for a few weeks in between moves. June was married and the others had part-time jobs working for June’s father-in-law.

“But most of their support comes from Pa,” she had finished, and Maury could supply what she had left unsaid: Try to remember how good Pa is, try to understand him, don’t hate him too much.

But Iris was always the one who loved Pa the most.

And then Maury had walked with her to the subway entrance because it was growing dark and had seen her descend the stairs and, turning, call back to him: “I’ll come again,” and take a few steps and then, turning once more, call, “I like your wife, Maury. I like her very much,” and hurry down the steps, her books piled in one elbow. He had stood there until she was out of sight with a hurt in his throat, such a softness of pity or loss or goodness knew what. A whole mush of feeling, he’d thought angrily, blinking his eyes, and turned back home.

Well, that’s how it is, and while you can’t expect life to be entirely clear and uncomplicated, surely for some people, somewhere in the world, it must be so sometimes. But not for us in this damned place, this damned time. I want so much for Agatha, he thought; she ought to be surrounded by flowers. He counted the buses at the corner; that made two within the last five minutes and sometimes you had to wait half an hour for the next one. Ridiculous, he thought, and was thinking that when the door opened and three skirmishing boys came in with a weary mother.

“Mister! We need three pair of sneakers.”

One day a few months later they received an invitation to the wedding of a girl who had been at college with Aggie. Maury saw it lying open on her bureau: Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, reception immediately following at the River Club.

“Hey,” he said, “this ought to be fun! You’ll see all your friends.”

She was slicing bread, and didn’t look up. “Is anything the matter?”

“No. But were not going to the wedding.”

He thought instantly: She has no dress. That’s why. “Aggie, well get a dress,” he said gently.

“We can’t afford one.”

“You could get a nice dress for fifteen dollars, maybe even twelve.”

“No, I said.”

Lately he had noticed a sharp protest in her voice. Nerves, and why not? he thought, and said no more.

The next day he said gaily, “I saw a dress in Siegel’s window that looks like you. It’s white with blue flowers and sort of a cape thing. Go on down tomorrow and look at it.”

“I don’t want to go to the wedding,” she said. “But why don’t you want to?”

“I don’t know.” She was knitting. The needles twisted in and out and she did not raise her eyes.

He felt rejection and anger. “Don’t shut me out! What’s this mystery? Are you ashamed of me?”

She raised her eyes. “What a disgusting thing to say! You owe me an apology for that!”

“All right, I apologize. But talk to me, give me the reason.”

“You won’t understand. It’s just that it would be so artificial. One afternoon and all over. Well never get together, were in different worlds. Why start something you can’t continue?”

“So I have taken you away from everything, after all.”

“Oh,” she cried. She jumped up and put her arms around him. “Maury, I didn’t mean it that way. Do you think I really
care
about Louise and Foster? It’s just all so complicated. Sometime when were settled in a permanent place I’ll be more in the mood and we’ll have lots of friends.”

Holding her there in the center of the little room, he was for the first time not close to her at all.

On the day of the wedding he came home feeling especially tender; he thought she must be thinking of her friend, coming down the aisle in the lace and flowers that Aggie hadn’t had. He opened the door—and saw at once, to his utter disbelief, that she was drunk.

“I’m celebrating Louise’s wedding,” she announced, “all by myself.”

He was completely bewildered, angry and scared. He had had very little experience with this sort of thing but, remembering black coffee, went into the kitchen to prepare some for her and made her drink it.

He saw, through her attempts to make a joke of it, that she was ashamed. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “I took a bit too much on an empty stomach, I should have known better.”

He said carefully, “What puzzles me is why you took any at all, sitting here by yourself.”

“But that’s just it,” she said. “That’s why I did. It’s so
depressing here. The stillness rings in my ears. Stuck all day in this dreary hole—”

“Can’t you read, go for a walk, find something else to do?”

“Maury, be reasonable, I can’t read till I go blind, can I? Do you ever stop to think what my life is like? I do a little typing for George, run the dust cloth over these few sticks and that’s my day.”

“I’m sorry, Aggie, I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“Well, think about it! I take a walk, I don’t know a soul, they’re all pushing baby carriages and we’ve nothing in common, anyway. Oh, I forgot, I do know one soul, Elena. I can always take her to the market for her English lesson. This is a radish, say rad-ish, cucumber—”

“How is it that Elena gets along? She’s thousands of miles away from home and can’t even speak the language.”

“Come on, Maury! Elena’s got a whole loving family here, real family plus dozens of friends in the Greek church. Her parents adore George. She’s as loved and sheltered as anyone can be.… ”

He understood what she meant and was silent. Somehow they would have to find a fuller life than this. But he didn’t have any idea how. Tense and restless in bed he twisted from side to side, until suddenly he felt her turning to him, felt her arms and her mouth, and everything, all tension, fear and worry ebbed and drowned.

He was drifting into the softest sleep when suddenly he heard her whisper: “Maury, Maury, I forgot to put the thing in. Do you suppose—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, awakened and alarmed. “Oh, for God’s sake, that’s all we need.”

“I’m sorry, it was stupid of me. I won’t let it happen again.”

But he was cautious now. On the next night he suddenly drew back. “Have you got the thing in?”

She sat up. “What kind of a way is that to talk? My, you’re romantic, what I would call an ardent lover!”

“What the devil do you mean? Haven’t I got a right to ask?”

She began to cry. He switched on the light.

“Turn the light off! Why do you always have to have that glare on?”

“Don’t I do anything right? I’m not a lover, I turn the light on—I ought to just shoot myself and be done with it. Hell, I’m going into the kitchen and read the paper.”

“Maury, don’t! Come back to bed. I’m sorry, I’m awfully touchy, I know.”

He was instantly softened. She was a child sitting there in bed, with her wavy cap of hair, the ruffled white cotton nightdress, the wet eyes.

“Oh, Aggie, I’m touchy too. It’s not your fault, I only meant we can’t afford to have a baby. And I’m scared. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you that. A woman ought to be able to lean on her husband.”

“Tell me, tell me, darling.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to lose the job. Santorello said today he heard they may close this store. There’s not enough business.”

“Maybe Eddy’s father will give you a job in another store.”

“No, I wouldn’t even ask. He’s got men who’ve been with him ten years and more. He couldn’t fire one of them and take me.”

Toward dawn he woke with the sensation of being alone in the bed, and he got up. There was a light in the kitchen. Agatha was sitting there, just sitting at the kitchen table looking at nothing, her face sunk in sadness. There were a bottle of wine and a glass on the table.

“Aggie, it’s five o’clock in the morning! What the hell are you doing?”