Plexus (52 page)

I've almost decided to return home when suddenly a troop of youngsters swing around the far corner opposite the church. They run wildly across the street, shouting
and singing. My heart is in my throat. I have a feeling that she is among them, but from where I stand it is impossible to pick her out. Now I hasten towards the other corner. When I get there I see no signs of them. I'm baffled. I stand there like a lost soul for a few minutes, then decide to wait. After a few moments I notice a grocery store a few doors beyond the church. It's just possible they are in the store. Carefully now I ease up the side street. A bit beyond the store, on the opposite side of the street, of course, I dash up a stoop and stand at the top of the stairs, my heart pounding like mad.

I'm sure now that they are all in the grocery store. Not for a second do I take my eyes off the door. Suddenly I realize that I am rather conspicuous, standing there at the top of the stairs. I lean back against the door and try to make myself inconspicuous. I am shivering, not so much with cold as with fright. What will I do if she spots me? What will I say? What
can
I say or do? I am in such a state of funk that I am almost on the point of bolting down the steps and running away.

Just then, however, the door opens with a bang and three children dash out. They dash right into the middle of the street. One of them, seeing me standing on the stoop, suddenly grabs the others by the arm and rushes back into the store with them. I have a feeling that it was my own little one who did this. I avert my gaze for a few moments, trying to appear nonchalant and disinterested in their behavior, as though I were waiting for someone to come out of the house from above and join me. When I look again I see a little face pressed against the window pane of the door across the way. She is looking up at me. I look at her long and hard, unable to tell if it is she or not.

She withdraws and another little one presses her nose against the glass pane. Then another and another. Then they all retreat into the depths of the store.

A panicky feeling now overcomes me. It
was
her, I am
certain of it now. But why are they so shy? Or is it that they are afraid of me?

Beyond the shadow of a doubt it is fear which grips them. When she looked up at me she didn't smile. She looked intently to make sure it was me, her father, and no other.

Suddenly I realize how disgraceful is my appearance. I feel my beard, which seems to have grown an inch longer. I look at my shoes and the sleeves of my jacket. Damn it, I might well pass for a kidnaper.

Kidnaper!
Her mother had probably dinned it into her that if she ever ran across me in the street she must not listen to me. “Run home immediately and tell mamma!”

I was crushed. Slowly, painfully, like one broken and bruised, I descended the steps. When I reached the foot of the stoop the door of the grocery store was suddenly flung open and out trooped the whole group, six or seven of them. They ran as if the Devil himself were pursuing them. At the corner, though cars were speeding by, they turned obliquely and ran for the house—“our” house. It seemed to me that it was my little one who stopped in the middle of the street—for just a second—and looked around. It could have been one of the others, of course. All I could be certain of was that she was wearing a little bonnet trimmed with fur.

I walked slowly to the corner, stood there a full minute gazing in their direction, then marched rapidly towards the subway station.

What a cruel misadventure! All the way to the subway I chided myself for my stupidity. To think that my own daughter should be frightened of me, that she should run away from me, in terror! What a pass!

In the subway I stood in front of a slot machine. I looked like a bum, a derelict. And to think that maybe I would never see her again, to think that this might be the last impression of me she would retain! Her own father
crouching in a doorway, spying on her like a kidnaper. It was like a horrible cheap movie.

Suddenly I recalled my promise to Ulric—to see Maude and talk things over. Now it was impossible, utterly impossible.
Why?
I couldn't say. I knew only that it
was
so. I would never see Maude again, not if I could help it. As for the little one—I would pray, yes, pray to God, to give one more chance. I
must
see her and talk to her.
When
, though? Well, someday. Someday when she would be able to see things in a better light. I begged God not to let her hate me … above all, not to let her fear me. “It's too horrible, too horrible,” I kept mumbling to myself. “
I love you so, my little one. I love you so much, so much
.…”

The train came along, and as the door slid open, I began to sob. I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and stuffed it over my mouth. I almost ran to the vestibule where I hid myself in a corner, hoping the noise of the grinding wheels would drown my convulsive sobs.

I must have been standing there like that a few minutes, unconscious of anything but my aching misery, when I felt a hand gently pressing my shoulder. Still holding the handkerchief to my mouth, I turned around. An elderly lady dressed all in black was looking at me with a most compassionate smile.

“My dear man,” she began, in a soft, soothing voice. “My dear man, what on earth has happened to you?”

With that I literally howled. The tears were blinding me. All I could see was a compassionate blur in front of me.

“Please, please,” she begged, “try to control yourself!”

I continued to weep and sob. And then the train came to a halt. Some passengers entered and we were crowded against the door.

“Have you lost someone dear to you?” she asked. Her voice was so gentle, so soothing.

I shook my head by way of answer.

“Poor, dear man, I know what it is.” Again I felt the pressure of her hand.

The doors were about to close. Suddenly I dropped the handkerchief, pushed my way through the crowd, and got out. I ran up the steps top speed and began walking like a madman. It had begun to rain. I walked into the rain with head down, laughing and crying. I jostled into people and was jostled back. Someone gave me a shove which sent me spinning into the gutter. I never even looked around. I kept on with head down, the rain running down my back. I wanted to be soaked through and through. I wanted to be cleansed of all iniquity. Yes, that's how I put it to myself—
cleansed of all iniquity
. I wanted to be soaked through and through, then stabbed, then thrown into the gutter, then flattened out by a heavy truck, then ground down into the muck and mire, obliterated, annihilated for good and all.

With the turn of the solstice a new phase of existence has opened for us—not in the sunny South but in Greenwich Village. The first stage of the underground life.

To run a speakeasy, which is what we are doing, and to live in it at the same time, is one of those fantastic ideas which can only arise in the minds of thoroughly impractical individuals.

I blush when I think of the story I concocted to wheedle the money which we required to open the place from my mother.

Ostensibly I'm the manager of this joint. I also wait on tables, fill short orders, empty the garbage, run errands,
make the beds, clean house and in general make myself as useful as possible. (The one thing I shall never be able to do is to clear the rooms of smoke. The windows have to be kept closed during operations, for reasons soon to be disclosed.) The place—a typical basement flat in the poor section of the Village—is composed of three small rooms, one of them a kitchen. The windows are heavily curtained, so that even in daytime the light scarcely filters through. No doubt about it, if the enterprise proves a success we'll have tuberculosis. Our intention is to open towards evening and close when the last customer leaves, which will probably be towards dawn.

There'll be no writing done here, I can see that. I'll be lucky if I can find time to stretch my legs once a day.

Only our most intimate friends are to know that we live here—and that we are married. Everything is to be veiled in secrecy. Which means that if the bell rings and Mona happens to be out, I am not to answer it. I'm to sit quiet in the shadows until the person has gone away. If possible I am to peek out and see who it is—just in case. In case what? In case it's a detective or a bill collector. Or one of the more recent, hence ignorant and intrepid, lovers.…

Such is the set up, in brief. The most we shall get out of it, I know in advance, is fret and worry. Mona, of course, is full of dreams about retiring in a few months and buying a house in the country. Pipe dreams. I'm so inoculated with them, however, that I'm immune. The only way to burst the bubble is to go through with the ideal. I have
another
flock of dreams, but I've sense enough to keep them under my hat.

It's amazing the number of friends we have, all of whom have promised to be on hand for the opening night. Some who were mere names to me before—all from Mona's retinue—have been helping us put things to rights. Cedric Ross, I discover, is a fop with a monocle who pretends to be a pathobiologist; Roberto de Sundra, one of the “heavy lovers,” is a Chilean student reputed to be fabulously rich;
George Innes, an artist who indulges in opium bouts occasionally, is a superb fencer; Jim Driscoll, whom I have seen in the ring, is a wrestler with intellectual pretensions; Trevelyan, an English writer with a past, is a remittance man; Caccicacci, whose parents are supposed to own a marble quarry in Italy, is a clown with a flair for telling incredible stories.

And then there's Baronyi, the most ingratiating of all, who simply cannot do enough, to make the venture a success. A publicity man, he styles himself.

To my great surprise, the night before the opening, two ancient lovers appeared simultaneously, neither knowing the other, of course. I mean Carruthers and that man Harris who had paid a princely sum for the the privilege of breaking my wife's hymen. The latter arrived in a Rolls-Royce with a chorus girl on either arm. Carruthers also had two girls with him, both former friends of Mona's.

Of course all my old cronies have sworn to be on hand the opening night, including O'Mara who has just returned from the South. Cromwell is also expected, though he may only be able to stay for a few minutes. As for Rothermel, Mona is trying to persuade him to stay away—he blabbers too much. I'm wondering if Sheldon will show up—just by chance. Certainly one or two of the millionaires will make an appearance—the shoe manufacturer possibly, or the lumber king.

Will we have enough liquor to go round?—that's our primary concern. Marjorie has promised to let us tap her private stock—in a pinch.

The understanding, between Mona and myself, is this—should either of us happen to get drunk the other will remain sober. Of course neither of us is a booze artist, but just the same … the chief problem will be—how to get rid of the drunks. The cops will be sitting on our necks, no use fooling ourselves about that. The natural thing, under the circumstances, would be to put something aside for hush money. But Mona is certain we can get better,
bigger protection. Talks about Rothermel's friends from the swamplands—judges, politicians, bankers, ammunition makers.

That Rothermel!
I'm dying to set eyes on him.…

There's one little detail about the new establishment which pleases me no end and that's the icebox. It's filled with delicious edibles, and it's got to be kept filled no matter what happens. I keep opening and closing the damned contraption just to gaze at all the wonderful good things to eat. The bread is excellent too—Jewish bread from the East Side. When I get bored I'll sit down all by my lonesome and enjoy a little snack. What better than a caviar sandwich on black bread smeared with sweet butter—at 2:00
A.M
.? With a glass of Chablis or Riesling to wash it down,
certes
. And to round it off, perhaps a dish of strawberries floating in sour cream, or if not strawberries then blackberries or huckleberries or blueberries or raspberries. I see halvah and baklava too. Goody goody! And on the shelf kirschwasser, strega, benedictine, chartreuse verte. As for the whisky—we have a dozen different brands—it leaves me cold. The beer likewise. Beer and whisky—they're for the dogs.
C'est-à-dire—les clients
.

We also have on hand, I notice, an excellent stock of cigars, all choice brands.
For the customers
. Now and then I enjoy a cigar myself—a fine Havana, say. But I can also do without them. To really enjoy a cigar one has to be at peace with the world, that's my belief. However, I'm sure the customers will be stuffing my pockets with them.

No, we won't lack for food and drink, that's certain. But exercise, fresh air.…? I'm already feeling pale about the gills.

All we lack, frankly, is a cash register. I see myself running to the bank daily with a satchel full of bills and coins.…

The opening night came off with a bang. We must have taken in close to five hundred dollars. For the first time in my life I was really lousy with money; every pocket,
including my vest pockets, was stuffed with bills. Carruthers, who arrived with two new girls this time, must have pissed away a good hundred dollars standing treat to all our friends. Two of the millionaires showed up also, but they kept to themselves and left early. Steve Romero, whom I hadn't seen for ages, showed up with his wife; he looked as good as ever, the Spanish bull through and through. From Steve I got an earful about my cosmodemonic friends, most of them still on the job apparently, and all playing the horses on the side to make ends meet. I was delighted to hear that Spivak had fallen from favor, been transferred to some dinky place in South Dakota. Hymie, I learned, had become an insurance agent; he'd be down some night soon, some quiet night when we could have a good talk, the three of us. As for Costigan, the knuckle-duster, the poor bugger was in a sanatorium—had been taken down suddenly with galloping consumption.