The Favorite Game (10 page)

He followed her out of the kitchen.

“I just asked to be left alone, to wake up by myself.”

“Rotten, a rat wouldn’t treat a mother, rotten as if you were a stranger, would anybody throw meat and my ankles are swollen, beat you, your father would beat you, a rotten son.…”

He followed her up the stairs.

“You can make someone sick with your screaming.”

She slammed her closet door. He stood beside it and listened to her opening and shutting the big drawers.

“Get away! A son talks to a mother, a son can kill a mother, I knew everything, what I have to hear, a traitor not a son, to talk to me, nobody who remembers me to talk …”

He heard her slide open the dress compartment. First she tore the sleeves from some old housecoats. She tripped over a tangle of hangers. Then she began on an expensive black one she had bought in New York.

“What good are they, what good are they, when a son is killing a mother.…”

He heard every sound, his cheek pressed against the wood.

A
t night the park was his domain.

He covered all the playing fields and hills like a paranoiac squire hunting for poachers. The flower-beds, the terraces of grass had an aspect of formality they did not have by daylight. The trees were taller and older. The high-fenced tennis court looked like a cage for huge wingless creatures which had somehow got away. The ponds were calm and deadly black. Lamps floated in them like multiple moons.

Walking past the Chalet he remembered the masculine smell of hockey equipment and underwear, the thud of skates on wooden planks.

The empty baseball diamond was blurred with spectacular sliding ghosts. He could hear the absence of cheers. With no bikes leaning against them the chestnut tree and wire backstop seemed strangely isolated.

How many leaves have to scrape together to record the rustle of the wind? He tried to distinguish the sound of acacia from the sound of maple.

Just beyond the green rose the large stone houses of Westmount Avenue. In them the baseball players were growing their bodies with sleep, resting their voices. He imagined that he could see them dimly through the walls of the upper storeys, or rather the sheets they were wrapped in, floating row upon row over the street, like a colony of cocoons in a moonlit tree. The young men of his age, Christian and blond, dreaming of Jewish sex and bank careers.

The park nourished all the sleepers in the surrounding houses. It was the green heart. It gave the children dangerous bushes and heroic landscapes so they could imagine bravery. It gave the nurses and maids winding walks so they could imagine beauty. It gave the young merchant-princes leaf-hid necking benches, views of factories so they could imagine power. It gave the retired brokers vignettes of Scottish lanes where loving couples walked, so they could lean on their canes and imagine poetry. It was the best part of everyone’s life. Nobody comes into a park for mean purposes except perhaps a sex maniac and who is to say that he isn’t thinking of eternal roses as he unzips before the skipping-rope Beatrice?

He visited the Japanese pond to ensure the safety of the goldfish. He climbed through the prickly bushes and over the wall to inspect the miniature waterfall. Lisa was not there. He somersaulted down the hill to see if it was still steep enough. Wouldn’t it be funny if Lisa of all people should be waiting at the bottom? He sifted a handful in the sand-box to guard against polio. He did a test run on the slide, surprised that it squeezed him. He looked gravely from the lookout to guarantee the view.

“My city, my river, my bridges, shit on you, no I didn’t mean it.”

The bases had to be run, the upper ponds examined for sail-boat wrecks or abandoned babies or raped white nurses. Touch the tree trunks to encourage them.

He had his duty to the community, to the nation.

At any moment a girl is going to step out of one of the flowerbeds. She will look as though she has just been swimming and she’ll know all about my dedication.

He lay under the lilacs. The flowers were almost gone, they looked like molecular diagrams. Sky was immense. Cover me with black fire. Uncles, why do you look so confident when you pray? Is it because you know the words? When the curtains of the Holy Ark are drawn apart and gold-crowned Torah scrolls revealed, and all the men of the altar wear white clothes, why don’t your eyes let go of the ritual, why don’t you succumb to raving epilepsy? Why are your confessions so easy?

He hated the men floating in sleep in the big stone houses. Because their lives were ordered and their rooms tidy. Because they got up every morning and did their public work. Because they weren’t going to dynamite their factories and have naked parties in the fire.

There were lights on the St. Lawrence the size of stars, and an impatient stillness in the air. Trees as fragile as the legs of listening deer. At any minute the sun would come crashing out of the roofs like a clenched fist, driving out determined workers and one-way cars to jam the streets. He hoped he wouldn’t have to see the herds of traffic on Westmount Avenue. Turning night into day.

“Hello there.”

A stout man of thirty in an Air Force uniform stood above him. He had been the centre of attention in the park a few days before. Several nurses complained that he had been too enthusiastic in the fondling of their male children. A policeman had escorted him to the street and invited him to move along.

“I thought you weren’t allowed in here.”

“Nobody’s around. I just felt like talking.”

His uniform was sharply pressed. Really, he was too clean for that
time of the morning or night or whatever it was. Breavman isolated the smell of shaving lotion from the lilac-laden air. He stood up.

“Talk. You have my permission. I’m going home.”

“I just thought …”

Breavman looked back over his shoulder and shouted, “Talk! Why aren’t you talking? It’s all yours – the park’s empty!”

There were gardeners in faded clothes on his street. They called to one another as they swept, all Italian names. Breavman studied their brooms made out of wire-bound branches. It must be nice to use something that real.

“W
ill you stop shouting, Breavman, or stand further back, I can’t hear a damn thing you’re saying.”

“Bertha, I said! I just saw Bertha! She’s in town!”

“Bertha who?”

“Oh, you wicked and careless fool. Bertha of our childhood, of The Tree, who mangled herself under our noses.”

“How does she look?”

“Her face is perfect, really Krantz, she was beautiful.”

“Where did you see her?”

“In a bus window.”

“Good-bye, Breavman.”

“Don’t hang up, Krantz. I swear it was really her. I won’t say she was smiling. It was an open, blonde face with no family lines, so you could make anything you want of it.”

“You go follow the bus, Breavman.”

“Oh, no, she saw me. I’ll just wait here till it comes round again. She moved her lips.”

“Good-bye, Breavman.”

“Krantz, this is a most pleasant telephone booth I’m living in today. Sherbrooke Street is a parade of everyone I ever knew. I’m going to loiter immoderately. They’ll all be delivered to me today, Bertha, Lisa. Nobody, not one name, not one limb will be taken away in the dustload.”

“Where did you dig up those old names?”

“I’m the keeper. I’m the sentimental dirty old man in front of a classroom of children.”

“Good-bye, Breavman, for real.”

It was a beautiful telephone box. It smelled of new spring paint and fresh nails. You could feel the sun through the wire-embedded glass. He was the guard, he was the sentry.

Bertha, who had fallen out of a tree for his sake! Bertha, who played “Greensleeves” sweeter than he ever could! Bertha, who fell with apples and twisted her limbs!

He dropped in another nickel and waited for the music.

“Krantz, she just came round again.…”

W
ait, wait, wait, wait. Everything took so long.

The mountain released the moon like a bubble it could no longer contain, with reluctance and pain.

That summer Breavman had a queer sense of time slowing down.

He was in a film and the machine was whirring into slower and slower motion.

Eight years later he told Shell about it, but not everything, because he didn’t want Shell to think that he saw her in the same way he saw the girl he was telling about, as if she were a moon-lit body in a slow Swedish movie, and from far away.

What was her name? he demanded of himself.

I forget. It was a sweet, Jewish last name which meant mother-of-pearl or rose-forest.

How dare you forget?

Norma.

What did she look like?

It doesn’t matter what she looked like every day. It only matters what she looked like for that important second. That I remember and will tell you.

What did she look like every day?

As a matter of fact, her face was squashed, her nose spread too wide. One of her grandmothers must have been carried away by the Tartars. She always seemed to be astride something, a railing or a diving-board, waving her brown arms, eyes lost in her laugh, galloping to a feast or a massacre. Her flesh was loose.

Why was she a Communist?

Because she played the guitar. Because the copper bosses shot Joe Hill. Because
notenemos ni aviones ni cañones
, and all her friends had died at Jarama. Because General MacArthur was a criminal and ruled Japan as a personal kingdom. Because the Wobblies sang into tear gas. Because Sacco loved Vanzetti. Because Hiroshima hurt her eyes and she was collecting names on a Ban the Bomb petition and was often told to go back to Russia.

Did she limp?

When she was very tired you noticed it. She usually wore a long Mexican skirt.

And the Mexican ring?

Yes, she was engaged to a chartered accountant. She assured me that he was progressive. But how could someone who was waiting for a revolution be a chartered accountant? I wanted to know. And how could she, with her ideas of freedom, commit herself to conventional marriage?

“We have to be effective in society. Communists aren’t bohemians. That’s a luxury of Westmount.”

Did you love her?

I loved to kiss her breasts, the few times she let me.

How many times, how many times?

Twice. And I was allowed to touch. Arms, stomach, pubic hair, I almost made the jewel of my list but her jeans were too tight. She was four years older than me.

She was engaged?

But I was young. She kept telling me I was a baby. So nothing we did was really important. She phoned him long distance every night. I stood beside her as she spoke. They talked about apartments and wedding plans. It was the prosaic adult world, the museum of failure, and I had nothing to do with it.

What about her face when she talked to him?

I believe I could read guilt on it.

Liar.

We both felt terribly guilty, I guess. So we worked hard to collect more signatures. But we loved to lie together beside the fire. Our tiny circle of light seemed so far from everything. I told her stories. She made up a blues called “My Golden Bourgeois Baby Sold His House For Me.” No, that’s a lie.