Listen Ruben Fontanez (16 page)

“Tomorrow,” Danny says, and closes the door behind them. He comes into the room, shaking his head. “Nutty kids, huh—?”

I nod.

He yawns. “Boy, I'm bushed.” He shakes his head again. “Especially that Marty. I mean, don't get me wrong, he means well and all that. But—” He nods affirmatively. His voice changes. “I got to hand it to you, Mister Meyers, the way those kids respect you. All the things they're trying to do for you—it's really something!”

“It is something,” I say.

“I guess you got to be real dedicated like Jean always says about being a teacher.” He laughs. “That little one is something, though, ain't he? Just keeps puffin' away. You know why?” I indicate that I do not. “It's so he don't get no bigger. Marty told me.” He scratches his head. “I didn't think anybody believed that stuff anymore about smoking stunting your growth, but I guess there are some things that never get lost, you know what I mean?” He leans forward. “It's for his job, from what Marty says.”

He talks a while longer, and I know it makes him feel better to share his impressions with me. He tells me that I already look one hundred per cent better than I did when he first came by this afternoon. What I need is more sleep.

“When you meet a kid face to face it's hard to hold anything against him, you know what I mean?” he says. His feet are propped on my desk chair, and he is using the bedspread to cover himself. We will get along together, you see. “I mean, you can see that he's just a kid like any other kid—the Puerto Rican one, I mean—”

“Yes,” I say.

“It makes you think,” Danny says. My eyes are closed. “I bet the Spanish kids you got are like him mostly—different than the colored, I mean.” He stops. “If not for the accent, I'll tell you the truth, some of them could pass for wops!” He takes pleasure in this observation. “Ah, I'm really bushed. But it's the truth, Mister Meyers—especially those who come from the south of Italy, you know? They could look like you and me.” I watch my guardian. He turns onto his side, but this will not do. He sits up straight, his feet forward, his hands clasped on his chest. He does not wish to keep me up, he says. His voice is gentle. “You get a good night's sleep, Mister Meyers.” I pull the chain on my night lamp. The room is dark. I am not at all tired, though. I arrange the pillow behind me and sit up, my back against it, looking ahead. After a while my eyes adjust and I can see my guardian. His mouth is open. He has not even suggested that I recount our story. Our bonds grow deeper.

When he begins to snore I get out of bed. I put on my slippers and cross the room. I lift the side of the window shade with a finger and look down into the street. Through the windowless openings in the front of building number 171, I see light. I have my glasses on. I am certain of it this time. There is a fire burning. Well. We know where the next shift waits, don't we.

In some upper floors of the brownstones across the street, lights are still on. I am more fortunate than most, I realize, to have so many visitors. I hear a rustling sound behind me. Danny does not stir, but a new note, I know, has just been passed under the door. I leave it. I will let Danny discover its contents in the morning. It is the least I can do for him.

I hope my other three are warm. If they had stayed here, I know, Danny would never have slept. I need not worry about them, though. They will manage. Marty will tell them stories. It was winter when we rode across New Jersey. My father's beard was still black. He was not an old man. He hummed and talked to the horses. Simon had been with him on previous trips and he explained everything to me. I remember holding a baby chicken. I could not have been more than five years old. When we returned was the only time in my life I showed any interest in the warehouse, any pride in the sign (
Meyers Butter & Eggs
. They could not get me to help, even in the busy seasons. I do not blame you, Simon, if you do not forgive me. But were we to do it over again, I would not change, I assure you. Perhaps, then, it is time for another trip. Danny snores. My sinuses are still clear from Marty's medicine. If Morris should come by I hope he will not be jealous of my arrangements. It is only temporary, believe me. Danny has his own family to go to.

The windows are frosted, yet the snow and the ice do not bother me. I fear the summer more. I wonder if I can place an order with Manuel for an air-conditioner. Let the note lie on the floor, Harry. After all these years it is silly to be afraid of dreams, and, in truth, I am not. A figure emerges from the entrance to my building and runs toward Amsterdam Avenue, diagonally, across the street. He is very fast. The fire is a small one. I will return Nydia's pot tomorrow. I wonder if the Rebbe will come to visit me. Danny would get along with him also, I think. As for Marty, I make no predictions. We will see, Harry. Think about it. My new roommate may be right. Where we first lived, on the lower east side, there was a shop around the corner which made cigars. The odors were beautiful and the owner hired a little man with a long beard to stand on a table and read stories in Yiddish to the workers as they cut and rolled the leaves. I will have to tell Marty. It is a trade he would have been suited for. The owner would shoo us from the front, but we had our ways also. I heard many stories, I can tell you that.

SIX

I
AM READY
. I know it as soon as I wake up. Once again my sleep has been dreamless. I am on my side. The room is warm. Danny is already gone and, though I did not hear them enter, my three young guardians have taken up his vigil. I will shave this morning, and dress in my good black suit. I can smell raisin wine. Like our father, Simon used a lime preparation to remove the hair from his face. Razors were forbidden. It must be the same with my cowboys. I remember that fragrance also. It was not unpleasant.

Manuel sleeps in a corner of the room, underneath the window, his head resting against the wall. My own monkey lies where Danny slept last night, the bedspread across the lower half of his body. He too sleeps on his side. Well, I wish you long life also, Ruben Fontanez. But you should begin practicing now. The years go by, you see. His knees are folded toward his chest. In his hands he holds a doll. My other warrior is at the window, surveying the street from behind the window shade.

Under my pajama top I scratch at my chest, and come away with curled hairs pressed between my fingers. You look peaceful now, my monkey, but I am not fooled. Harry Meyers does not forget so quickly. He remembers the dream. He remembers the pins. In the restaurant I was gentle with you. Now, with your mother's death, I will not press you. But soon, my monkey. Soon. Harry Meyers will know.

“Good morning,” I say, and my two monkeys stir.

“What's the good word?” Marty asks. He raises the window shades. Ruben rubs his eyes. He is still on his side. Manuel lights a cigarette. “You feeling any better—?”

“Yes,” I say, and sit up. “Yes.” The aching in my side has left, and I feel, in truth, as if I have been sleeping for years. My head is clear. I wonder, in fact, if more than one day has passed since Marty and Danny consummated their agreement.

“Good,” he says. “I told you, didn't I? Sleep and fruit juices. Then let nature take its course, right?” He ruffles Manuel on his greasy head, then comes closer. “And keeping this room warm. That's important. The Mandans used to have steam baths where they used wild sage—guaranteed to knock a cold out of a man within half a day—” He grinds the knuckles of his right fist into the top of Ruben's skull. “How's it going, Ruben baby?” he asks.

Ruben pushes his hand away. He is not smiling. “I dream of my mother,” he says.

“It figures,” Marty says, and walks away from him. “You want me to fix us some chow for breakfast—?” He opens the refrigerator. “Soft boiled eggs would be the best thing for you. Keep off fried stuff for another day or two, till your system's cleaned out—”

“I dream of my mother,” my monkey says again.

“So what do you want us to do—?” Marty asks. He shakes his head. “Big deal. Listen, Ruben baby, the old lady's dead—kicked the bucket, gone, passed away, kaput, finished,
muerto
, on ice—you understand? You got guilt problems, you peddle them somewhere else, you hear?”

“Her mouth was full of dirt—” He goes on as if he has not heard Marty. His voice is strong. “All my younger brothers and sisters danced around her.” He lifts the bedspread from his body and comes toward me, the doll in his hand. “They would not let me into their circle. I stood behind—”

“Listen, I said to cool it, Ruben,” Marty says as he carries eggs and milk from the refrigerator to the kitchen table. “If that dirt in your pocket's bothering you, just give it here and I'll find good use for it—”

Ruben tugs at my pajama sleeve. “Her mouth was full of dirt, Mister Meyers.” His eyes, I see, are an olive-green shade, tending toward brown at the edges. I am certain they change to shades of gray also. It would depend on the lighting.
“Mi madre
, Mister Meyers.
Mi madre
. What I gone to do?”

The doll in his hand, I see, is not the one of me. That still rests on my night table. This one is larger. The head has been fashioned around a light bulb and under the white and pink paint, I see the vague columns of newsprint. “I am an old man,” I say, and pull my sleeve away from him. His eyes are desperate.
“Mi madre
, Mister Meyers.
Mi madre
. What I gone to do?”

Marty is suddenly behind him, and, with the back of his hand he whacks my monkey on the side of his head. “Snap out of it now,” he says. “Shake it up, Ruben. You heard what Meyers said—we don't need all this stuff about your old lady's funeral while—”

Ruben whirls around and, with his forearm, he slams his leader across the chest. His eyes are on fire. “You don't tell me what to do about my mother,” he says.
“¡Batardo!”
he hisses. Manuel rises and moves toward his friends. I see him touch his side pocket. “I not scared of you, man—” Marty looks at Manuel, then at Ruben.

“Okay, okay,” he says, and turns his back to us. “Take it easy. Cool off—” He faces us and smiles. He has decided quickly. “It's okay if you dream about your mother—and I'm sorry if I said anything, right?”

My monkey's hands drop to his sides. The fire leaves his eyes. He breathes quickly and shrugs his shoulders. Marty is at his side at once, his arm around him, his mouth close to my monkey's ear. He walks him to the window, then back to the kitchen, and as he whispers, Ruben nods his head up and down. A dream is only a dream, Ruben Fontanez, I think. But Marty will take care of you. There is no need for Harry Meyers to intercede. He must prepare for other things. Manuel too sees that the crisis is past. He returns to his corner. His eyes look out above the window ledge.

I put my bathrobe on. We could continue to live like this for years, I know. They would take care of me. Danny and Marty would be in charge. Well. If they have been considering such an arrangement, that is their business. It is nothing to me. Ruben is at my side. “You will see, Mister Meyers,” he says. “When it is time, we will rescue my brothers and sisters and take them to live with us.”

“You like your eggs real soft or a little on the medium side?” Marty asks.

“Medium,” I say.

I listen to the sound of pans and silverware. You should not encourage them, Harry. Do not fool yourself. You have been part of the arrangement also. It has not been unpleasant for you. It is all right to keep the earth, my monkey. It is nothing. The Spanish claimed that the Marranos cut out the hearts of Christians. They used them to work the magic which enabled them to escape the Inquisition. You would enjoy the story, but Harry Meyers will not tell it to you. Your envelope will have to be enough, I am afraid.

“I make this doll last night, after you leave. What you think?”

“You have a talent,” I say. I look into my monkey's eyes. They are deep-set. His nose is slightly hooked. Who knows, Ruben Fontanez, I think, perhaps somewhere in your past, before the journey across the Atlantic, there were underground Jews in your history also. It would explain things. I look more closely at the doll and see that the nose is quite large. The pins have not yet been placed. There are hairs glued to the pipe cleaner arms.

“I mean, what you really think?”

“I would not show it to him, if I were you,” I say. “He might not understand—”

Ruben laughs. “Man,” he says. “I not stupid.” Marty places a glass of juice in my hand and I drink. It is apricot nectar again and it is very soothing. “You want some jam on your toast?” he asks.

“All right,” I say.

“Ruben's right, you know,” Marty says, as he returns to his work. “Now I've got nothing against your friend—but in our position we can't afford to take chances, right? That's why Manny's watching the street now.” He unscrews the lid of a jar. He is enjoying himself. If his life could be spent planning such things, I think, he would always be happy. “We'll hang around a little while, then we'll have to set up our lookout from somewhere else.”

I walk to the table and sit down. Ruben sits across from me. I crack open my egg. “I'm not saying I don't trust him, I'm not saying I do—we just can't take chances, that's all.” I sprinkle some salt on my egg and watch Ruben do the same. “We were just waiting for you to get up, see, so we could tell you our plans. You ought to know—”

Ruben smiles. “Tonight,” he says, fondling his new doll. “Tonight I take this to the Black Mass.” His eyes flash. “We find out the truth—”

“Bruja
, right, Ruben?” Marty says, and he joins us at the table. He gives me my toast and winks at me.
“Bruja—
”

Ruben nods. “In Harlem,” he says. “I will bring the doll and place it on the altar and we will know the truth.”