Ironweed (9 page)

          “Golly it’s cold for this time of year, and they’re calling for snow. Just feel my hands.”

          “This happens to be my home,” Clara said hoarsely, “and I ain’t about to feel your hands, or your head either. I don’t see any snow.”

          “Have a drink,” Jack said to Francis.

          “Sure,” Francis said. “I had a bowl of soup about six o’clock but it went right through me. I’m gonna have to eat somethin’ soon.”

          “I don’t care whether you eat or not,” Jack said.

          Jack went to the kitchen and Francis asked Clara: “You feelin’ better?”

          “No.”

          “She’s got the runs,” Helen said.

          “I’ll tell people what I got,” Clara said.

          “She lost her husband this week,” Jack said, returning with two empty tumblers. He tilted the jug and half-filled both.

          “How’d you find out?” Helen said.

          “I saw it in the paper today,” Clara said.

          “I took her to the funeral this morning,” Jack said. “We got a cab and went to the funeral home. They didn’t even call her.”

          “He didn’t look any different than when I married him.”

          “No kiddin’,” Francis said.

          “Outside of his hair was snow-white, that’s all.”

          “Her kids were there,” Jack said.

          “The snots,” Clara said.

          “Sometimes I wonder what if I run off or dropped dead,” Francis said. “Helen’d probably go crazy.”

          “Why if you dropped dead she’d bury you before you started stinkin’, “ Jack said. “That’s all’d happen.”

          “What a heart you have,” Francis said.

          “You gotta bury your dead,” Jack said.

          “That’s a rule of the Catholic church,” said Helen.

          “I’m not talkin’ about the Catholic church,” Francis said.

          “Anyway, now she’s a single girl,” Jack said, “I’m gonna find out what Clara’s gonna do.”

          “I’m gonna go right on livin’ normal,” Clara said.

          “Normal is somethin’,” Francis said. “What the hell is normal anyway, is what I’d like to know. Normal is cold. Goddamn it’s cold tonight. My fingers. I rubbed myself to see if I was livin’. You know, I wanna ask you one question.”

          “No,” Clara said.

          “You said no. Whataya mean no?”

          “What’s he gonna ask?” Jack said. “Find out what he’s gonna ask.”

          Clara waited.

          “How’s everythin’ been goin’?” Francis asked.

                                       o          o          o

          Clara lifted the bottle of white fluid from the phonograph table, where the Kate Smith record was scratching in its final groove, and drank. She shook her head as it went down, and the greasy, uncombed stringlets of her hair leaped like whips. Her eyes hung low in their sockets, a pair of collapsing moons. She recapped the bottle and then swigged her muscatel to drive out the taste. She dragged on her cigarette, then coughed and spat venomously into a wadded handkerchief she held in her fist.

          “Things ain’t been goin’ too good for Clara,” Jack said, turning off the phonograph.

          “I’m still trottin’,” Clara said.

          “Well you look pretty good for a sick lady,” Francis said. “Look as good as usual to me.”

          Clara smiled over the rim of her wineglass at Francis.

          “Nobody,” said Helen, “asked how things are going for me, but I’ll tell you. They’re going just wonderful. Just wonderful.”

          “She’s drunker than hell,” Francis said.

          “Oh I’m loaded to the gills,” Helen said, giggling. “I can hardly walk.”

          “You ain’t drunk even a nickel’s worth,” Jack said. “Franny’s the drunk one. You’re hopeless, right. Franny?”

          “Helen’ll never amount to nothin’ if she stays with me,” Francis said.

          “I always thought you were an intelligent man,” Jack said, and he swallowed half his wine, “but you can’t be, you can’t be.”

          “You could be mistaken,” Helen said.

          “Keep out of it,” Francis told her, and he hooked a thumb at her, facing Jack. “There’s enough right there to put you in the loony bin, just worryin’ about where she’s gonna live, where she’s gonna stay.”

          “I think you could be a charmin’ man,” Jack said, “if you’d only get straight. You could have twenty dollars in your pocket at all times, make fifty, seventy-five a week, have a beautiful apartment with everything you want in it, all you want to drink, once you get straight.”

          “I worked today up at the cemetery,” Francis said.

          “Steady work?” asked Jack.

          “Just today. Tomorrow I gotta see a fella needs some liftin’ done. The old back’s still tough enough.”

          “You keep workin’ you’ll have fifty in your pocket.”

          “I had fifty, I’d spend it on her,” Francis said. “Or buy a pair of shoes. Other pair wore out and Harry over at the old clothes joint give ‘em to me for a quarter. He seen me half barefoot and says, Francis you can’t go around like that, and he give me these. But they don’t fit right and I only got one of ‘em laced. Twine there in the other one. I got a shoestring in my pocket but ain’t put it in yet.”

          “You mean you got the shoelace and you didn’t put it in the shoe?” Clara asked.

          “I got it in my pocket,” Francis said.

          “Then put it in the shoe.”

          “I think it’s in this pocket here. You know where it is, Helen?”

          “Don’t ask me.”

          “Look and see,” Clara said.

          “She wants me to put a shoestring in my shoe,” Francis said.

          “Right,” said Clara.

          Francis stopped fumbling in his pocket and let his hands fall away.

          “I’m renegin’,” he said.

          “You’re what?” Clara asked.

          “I’m renegin’ and I don’t like to do that.”

                                       o          o          o

          Francis put down his wine, walked to the bathroom, and sat on the toilet, cover down, trying to understand why he’d lied about a shoestring. He smelled the odor that came up from his fetid crotch and stood up then and dropped his trousers. He stepped out of them, then pulled off his shorts and threw them in the sink. He lifted the toilet cover and sat on the seat, and with Jack’s soap and handfuls of water from the bowl, he washed his genitals and buttocks, and all their encrusted orifices, crevices, and secret folds. He rinsed himself, relathered, and rinsed again. He dried himself with one of Jack’s towels, picked his shorts out of the sink, and mopped the floor with them where he had splashed water. Then he filled the sink with hot water and soaked the shorts. He soaped them and they separated into two pieces in his hands. He let the water out of the sink, wrung the shorts, and put them in his coat pocket. He opened the door a crack and called out: “Hey, Jack,” and when Jack came, Francis hid his nakedness with a towel.

          “Jack, old buddy, you got an old pair of shorts? Any old pair. Mine just ripped all to hell.”

          “I’ll go look.”

          “Could I borry the use of your razor?”

          “Help yourself.”

          Jack came back with the shorts and Francis put them on. Then, as Francis soaped his beard, Aldo Campione and Rowdy Dick Doolan entered the bathroom. Rowdy Dick, dapper in a three-piece blue-serge suit and a pearlgray cap, sat on the toilet, cover down. Aldo made himself comfortable on the rim of the tub, his gardenia unintimidated by the chill of the evening. Jack’s razor wouldn’t cut Francis’s three-day beard, and so he rinsed off the lather, soaked his face again in hot water, and relathered. While Francis rubbed the soap deeply into his beard, Rowdy Dick studied him but could remember nothing of Francis’s face. This was to be expected, for when last seen, it was night in Chicago, under a bridge not far from the railyards, and five men were sharing the wealth in 1930, a lean year. On the wall of the abutment above the five, as one of them had pointed out, a former resident of the space had inscribed a poem:

                    Poor little lamb,

                    He wakes up in the morning,

                    His fleece all cold.

                    He knows what’s coming.

                    Say, little lamb,

                    We’ll go on the bummer this summer.

                    We’ll sit in the shade

                    And drink lemonade,

                    The world’ll be on the hummer.

          Rowdy Dick remembered this poem as well as he remembered the laughter of his sister, Mary, who was striped dead, sleigh riding, under the rails of a horsedrawn sleigh; as clearly as he remembered the plaintive, dying frown of his brother, Ted, who perished from a congenital hole in the heart. They had been three until then, living with an uncle because their parents had died, one by one, and left them alone. And then there was Dick, truly alone, who grew up tough, worked the docks, and then found an easier home in the Tenderloin, breaking the faces of nasty drunks, oily pickpockets, and fat tittypinchers. But that didn’t last either. Nothing lasted for Rowdy Dick, and he went on the bum and wound up under the bridge with Francis Phelan and three other now-faceless men. What he did remember of Francis was his hand, which now held a razor that stroked the soapy cheek.

          What Francis remembered was talking about baseball that famous night. He’d begun by reliving indelible memories of his childhood as a way of explaining, at leisurely pace since none of them had anyplace to go, the generation of his drive to become a third baseman. He had been, he was saying, a boy playing among men, witnessing their talents, their peculiarities, their capacity to dive for a grounder, smash a line drive, catch a fly—all with the very ease of breath itself. They had played in the Van Woert Street polo grounds (Mulvaney’s goat pasture) and there were a heroic dozen and a half of them who came two or three evenings a week, some weeks, after work to practice; men in their late twenties and early thirties, reconstituting the game that had enraptured them in their teens. There was Andy Heffern, tall, thin, saturnine, the lunger who would die at Saranac, who could pitch but never run, and who played with a long-fingered glove that had no padding whatever in the pocket, only a wisp of leather that stood between the speed of the ball and Andy’s most durable palm. There was Windy Evans, who played outfield in his cap, spikes, and jock, and who caught the ball behind his back, long flies he would outrun by twenty minutes, and then plop would go that dilatory fly ball into the peach basket of his glove; and Windy would leap and beam and tell the world: There’s only a few of us left! And Red Cooley, the shortstop who was the pepper of Erancis’s ancient imagination, and who never stopped the chatter, who leaped at every ground ball as if it were the brass ring to heaven, and who, with his short-fingered glove, wanted for nothing to be judged the world’s greatest living ball player, if only it hadn’t been for the homegrown deference that kept him a prisoner of Arbor Hill for the rest of his limited life.

          These reminiscences by Francis evoked from Rowdy Dick an envy that surpassed reason. Why should any man be so gifted not only with so much pleasurable history but also with a gift of gab that could mesmerize a quintet of bums around a fire under a bridge? Why were there no words that would unlock what lay festering in the heart of Rowdy Dick Doolan, who needed so desperately to express what he could never even know needed expression?

          Well, the grand question went unanswered, and the magic words went undiscovered. For Rowdy Dick took vengeful focus on the shoes of the voluble Francis, which were both the most desirable and, except for the burning sticks and boards in the fire, the most visible objects under that Chicago bridge. And Rowdy Dick reached inside his shirt, where he kept the small meat cleaver he had carried ever since Colorado, and slid it out of its carrying case, which he had fashioned from cardboard, oilcloth, and string; and he told Francis then: I’m gonna cut your goddamn feet off; explaining this at first and instant lunge, but explaining, even then, rather too soon for achievement, for the reflexes of Francis were not so rubbery then as they might be now in Jack’s bathroom. They were full of fiber and acid and cannonade; and before Rowdy Dick, who had drunk too much of the homemade hooch he had bought, unquestionably too cheaply for sanity, earlier in the day, could make restitution for his impetuosity, Francis deflected the cleaver, which was aimed no longer at his feet but at his head, losing in the process two thirds of a right index finger and an estimated one eighth of an inch of flesh from the approximate center of his nose. He bled then in a wild careen, and with diminished hand knocking the cleaver from Rowdy Dick’s grip, he took hold of that same Rowdy Dick by pantleg and armpit and swung him, oh wrathful lambs, against the abutment where the poem was inscribed, swung him as a battering ram might be swung, and cracked Rowdy Dick’s skull from left parietal to the squamous area of the occipital, rendering him bloody, insensible, leaking, and instantly dead.

          What Francis recalled of this unmanageable situation was the compulsion to flight, the most familiar notion, after the desire not to aspire, that he had ever entertained. And after searching, as swiftly as he knew how, for his lost digital joints, and after concluding that they had flown too deeply into the dust and the weeds ever to be retrieved again by any hand of any man, and after pausing also, ever so briefly, for a reconnoitering, not of what might be recoverable of the nose but of what might be visually memorable because of its separation into parts, Francis began to run, and in so doing, reconstituted a condition that was as pleasurable to his being as it was natural: the running of bases after the crack of the bat, the running from accusation, the running from the calumny of men and women, the running from family, from bondage, from destitution of spirit through ritualistic straightenings, the running, finally, in a quest for pure flight as a fulfilling mannerism of the spirit.