Listen Ruben Fontanez (25 page)

I am not sure what I would have done, but there is no opportunity. My monkey is gone, his frail body passing over the snow and slush, his feet dancing across the city's streets. Is that all, I wonder. The policeman glances his way, but does nothing. I look at my open hand and remember his touch. I reach for my briefcase. That is all, I know, and I step out from under the narrow tunnel. I tread through the tire-marked snow. Instinctively my free hand moves to my throat, to my friendly gland. It is there, of course, a gentle reminder. It feels liquid, soft. I know that I would have said nothing to my own monkey. So there was no point in prolonging our meeting.

As I promised, you see, I visited my own doctor on Saturday. He did not agree with the doctor who examined me the night Danny brought me upstairs. That doctor said it was a case of mild shock only. He looked no further. Danny was reassured. My own doctor was more careful. And so there will be no more talk from Harry Meyers about sleeping on his side. I promise you that. There were blood tests, X-rays, some questions, but it was my friendly gland which interested him. Next week he would like me to come into the hospital. Well. It is routine, he assures me, a close look at some of my cells. Perhaps we will remove the entire gland, just to be safe. There were more words, but none of them from Harry Meyers. We know what it all means, after all, don't we?

I am only a block and a half from the school now. Beneath a fire escape I see a sign:
Se necesitan operarios
. Beside me in the gutter, a Puerto Rican family is moving to a new apartment. The wife pushes a baby carriage laden with clothes, dishes, and religious pictures. The husband, a green wool hat pulled over his ears, leans forward against the ice, a rope around his chest, dragging his possessions behind him on a piece of wood. There are roller skates under the wood. Friends of the family surround the cart, keeping the furniture and possessions secure. Behind them come the children, bare-legged, their arms filled with toys. I do not look for particulars. I wish them well also. I have made a decision, you see. I make no predictions about reaching sixty-nine. That was foolishness. I admit it. But if I should not reach sixty-seven, I leave my extra years to you, Ruben Fontanez.

The school blurs in front of me. It must be my glasses. My body aches again. I will miss your eyes, my monkey, but the term has only a few months left. In the cold, the schoolyard is empty. My monkeys will have to eat their government lunches indoors today. I do not hesitate when I am in front of the door. I move swiftly into the building. I do not look at the face of the young school guard who watches the door, and he does not seem interested in me. I smell cigarette smoke but it is nothing to me. NATURE IS ALL AROUND US declares a sign on the first-floor corridor. THE MILKMAN BRINGS US MILK. I do not want to talk to anybody. My chest is heavy and I unbutton my overcoat. I hear the sound of a radio behind me. Mr. Greenfeld, do not come near Harry Meyers today, I warn you. If you are in the teachers' lounge, you had best stay there, do you hear me? THE POLICEMAN IS OUR FRIEND. Do you hear me? I push open a door to staircase “A” and two young people break from their embrace, and flee up the stairs. I would like to tell them to come back. They did not look at me, though. The music on the girl's radio is glorious. I will punch my time card later. If I walk into the main office now there will be too much explaining to do.

At the second floor I do not step into the corridor. I hear the noise of children, shouting in Spanish, cursing their teachers. There are many substitutes today. I wonder what a glance from Mad-Man Meyers would do. There are no pains in my chest though I think I would welcome a pair of them now. I have not changed my mind. If I should not reach sixty-nine I leave my extra years to you, my monkey. I retreat down the stairs and slide along the tiled corridor. I do not look through the windows of classrooms. The auditorium is full. At the front of the room, Mr. Glickman, the ninth grade history teacher, is shouting the names of the thirteen original colonies to his audience. He points to a huge map. He implores his children to repeat the names after him. “Virginia… Delaware… Massachusetts…” Miss Teitlebaum patrols the left aisle and I see the boys' eyes following her chest. In the back row students bend under the seats, stealing puffs of cigarettes. I see a boy's hand under a girl's skirt. She stares ahead, chewing her gum. The movement in the room makes me dizzy. Mr. Glickman gets a group of students to shout back the name of Maryland to him. I hear the muttering in the back rows. What can it all mean to them? A radio blares out a savage beat, and suddenly two students are dancing in the aisle. Mr. Glickman runs toward them demanding that they hand the radio over to him, but it is already making its way from hand to hand, under the seats. The students laugh. He threatens. The buzzer puts an end to the lesson. I back away. The students will fill the corridors momentarily.

I stumble down the hallway, past the main office, down the few steps, into the street. I look all around me, but I do not think I will see my monkey again, despite his promise. It is much colder now. The sky blackens. I button my overcoat. Sweat pours heavily down my back. I will wait for the classes to change. Then I will try again. Perhaps I cannot begin things anew, but I can return. I see a pair of eyes at the front door window and I step to the side. A moment later Rafael Quinones and one of his young girl friends exit into the snow. He puts two cigarettes in his mouth, one at each corner, and lights them both. His young lady laughs. I see her face. It is Gladys Yambo. She rubs her chest against him, though I do not know what they can feel in such weather. They have not noticed me yet and I cannot understand why. I see Hebrew books tucked under their arms. He pinches her behind and she bites affectionately at his neck. He twists her arm behind her. She screams and her book falls to the ground. I take a step toward them, but Rafael is too quick for me. We are only a few feet apart. Do my eyes deceive me? He has kissed the book. In a perfunctory manner, perhaps, but that does not matter. Their arms around one another they come my way. I press my back against the iron spikes that surround the school and as they dance by they do not notice me. They run across the street. They look back and their eyes move through me. His hand is under her jacket. She stops. Her feet are cold. Well. Yours would be also. I step toward them. There is another buzzer. I lift my briefcase and know that I must prepare myself. Harry Meyers will definitely return. I look across the street but my two children have escaped. I move toward the iron doors. I am listening to you, Ruben Fontanez. Believe me.