The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (12 page)

Just as I expected, about three in the morning Christmas day the two of them staggered in dead drunk. The puppet, which they had dragged about with them, looked as if he had taken a beating. I had to undress them and tuck them between the sheets. When I thought they were sound asleep, what must they do but make pipi. Reeling and staggering, they groped their way to the John. In doing so they bumped into tables and chairs, fell down, picked themselves up again, screamed, groaned, grunted, wheezed, all in true dipsomaniac style. There was even a bit of vomiting, for good measure. As they piled into bed again I warned them to hurry and catch what sleep they could. The alarm was set for 9,80, I informed them.

I hardly got a wink of sleep myself; I tossed and fumed the whole night long.

Promptly at 9.80 the alarm went off. It went off extra loud, it seemed to me. At once I was on my feet. There they lay, the two of them, like dead. I pushed and prodded and pulled; I ran from one to the other, slapping them, pulling off the bed clothes, cursing them royally, threatening to belt them if they didn’t stir.

It took almost half an hour to get them on their feet and sufficiently roused not to collapse on my hands.

Take a shower! I yelled. Hurry! I’ll make the coffee.

How can you be so cruel? said Stasia.

Why don’t you telephone and say we’ll come this evening, for supper? said Mona.

I can’t! I yelled back. And I won’t! They expect us at noon, at one sharp, not to-night.

Tell them I’m ill, begged Mona.

I won’t do it. You’re going through with it if it kills you, do you understand?

Over the coffee they told me what they had bought for gifts. It was the gifts that caused them to get drunk, they explained. How was that? Well, in order to raise the money with which to buy the gifts they had had to tag around with some benevolent slob who was on a three day bender. Like that they got stinko. Not that they wanted to. No, they had hoped to duck him soon as the gifts were purchased, but he was a sly old bastard and he wasn’t to be hoodwinked that easy. They were lucky to get home at all, they confessed.

A good yarn and probably half-true. I washed it down with the coffee.

And now, I said, what is Stasia going to wear?

She gave me such a helpless, bewildered look that I was on the point of saying Wear any damned thing you please!

I’ll attend to her, said Mona. Don’t worry. Leave us in peace for a few minutes, won’t you?

O.K. I replied. But one o’clock sharp, remember!

The best thing for me to do, I decided, was to take a walk. I knew it would take a good hour, at least, to get Stasia into presentable shape. Besides, I needed a breath of fresh air.

Remember, I said, as I opened the door to go, you have just one hour, no more. If you’re not ready then we’ll leave as you are.

It was clear and crisp outdoors. A light snow had fallen during the night, sufficient to make it a clean, white Christmas. The streets were almost deserted. Good Christians and bad, they were all gathered about the evergreen tree, unwrapping their gift packages, kissing and hugging one another, struggling with hangovers and pretending that everything was just ducky. (Thank God, it’s over with!)

I strolled leisurely down to the docks to have a look at the ocean going vessels ranged side by side like chained dogs. All quiet as the grave here. The snow, sparkling like mica in the sunlight, clung to the rigging like so much cotton wool. There was something ghostly about the scene.

Heading up toward the Heights, I made for the foreign quarter. Here it was not only ghostly but ghastly. Even the Yuletide spirit had failed to give these shacks and hovels the look of human habitations. Who cared? They were heathens, most of them: dirty Arabs, slit-faced Chinks, Hindus, greasers, niggers … The guy coming toward me, an Arab most likely. Dressed in light dungarees, a battered skull cap and a pair of worn out carpet strippers. Allah be praised! I murmur in passing. A bit farther and I come upon a pair of brawling Mexicans, drunk, much too drunk, to get a blow in. A group of ragged children surround them, egging them on. Sock him! Bust his puss in! And now out of the side door of an old-fashioned saloon a pair of the filthiest looking bitches imaginable stragger into the bright clear sunlight of a clean white Christmas day. The one bends over to pull up her stockings and falls flat on her face; the other looks at her, as if it couldn’t be and stumbles on, one shoe on, one shoe off. Serene in her cock-eyed way, she hums a ditty as she ambles on.

A glorious day, really. So clear, so crisp, so bracing! If only it weren’t Christmas! Are they dressed yet, I wonder. My spirits are reviving. I can face it, I tell myself, if only they don’t make utter fools of themselves. All sorts of fibs are running through my head—yarns I’ll have to spin to put the folks at ease, always worried as they are about what’s happening to us. Like when they ask—Are you writing these days? and I’ll say: Certainly. I’ve turned out dozens of stories. Ask Mona. And Mona, how does she like her job? (I forget. Do they know where she’s working? What did I say last time? ) As for Stasia, I don’t know what the hell I’ll trump up there. An old friend of Mona’s, maybe. Some one she knew at school. An artist.

I walk in, and there’s Stasia with tears in her eyes, trying to squeeze into a pair of high-heeled shoes. Naked to the waist, a white petticoat from Christ knows where, garters dangling, hair a mess.

I’ll never make it, she groans. Why do I have to go?

Mona seems to think it uproariously funny. Clothes are lying all over the floor, and combs and hair pins.

You won’t have to walk, she keeps saying. We’ll take a taxi.

Must I wear a hat too?

We’ll see, dear.

I try to help them but I only make things worse.

Leave us alone, they beg.

So I sit in a corner and watch the proceedings. One eye on the clock. (It’s going on twelve already.)

Listen, I say, don’t try too hard. Just get her hair done up and throw a skirt over her.

They’re trying on ear rings and bracelets. Stop it! I yell. She looks like a Christmas tree.

It’s about twelve-thirty when we saunter out to hail a taxi. None in sight, naturally. Start walking. Stasia is limping. She’s discarded the hat for a beret. Looks almost legitimate now. Rather pathetic too. It’s an ordeal for her.

Finally we manage to run down a cab. Thank God, we’ll be only a few minutes late, I murmur to myself.

In the cab Stasia flicks off her shoes. They get to giggling. Mona wants Stasia to use a dash of lipstick, to make her look more feminine.

If she looks any more feminine, I warn, they’ll think she’s a fake.

How long must we stay? asks Stasia.

I can’t say. We’ll get away just as soon as we can. By seven or eight, I hope.

This evening!

Yes, this evening. Not to-morrow morning.

Jesus! she whistles. I’ll never be able to hold out.

Approaching our destination I tell the cabby to stop at the corner, not in front of the house.

Why? From Mona.

Because.

The cab pulls up and we pile out. Stasia is in her stocking feet, carrying her shoes.

Put them on! I yell.

There’s a large pine box outside the undertaker’s at the corner. Sit on that and put them on, I command. She obeys like a child. Her feet are wet, of course, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Struggling to get the shoes on, her beret tumbles off and her hair comes undone. Mona frantically endeavors to get it back in shape but the hair pins are nowhere to be found.

Let it go! What’s the difference? I groan.

Stasia gives her head a good shake, like a sportive filly, and her long hair falls down over her shoulders. She tries to adjust the beret but it looks ridiculous now no matter at what angle it’s cocked.

Come on, let’s get going. Carry it!

Is it far? she asks, limping again.

Just half-way down the block. Steady, now.

Thus we march three abreast down The Street of Early Sorrows. A rum trio, as Ulric would say. I can feel the piercing eyes of the neighbors staring at us from behind their stiff, starched curtains. The Millers’ son. That must be his wife. Which one?

My father is standing outside to greet us. A little late, as usual, he says, but in a cheery voice.

Yes, how are you? Merry Christmas! I lean forward to kiss him on the cheek, as I always did.

I present Stasia as an old friend of Mona’s. Couldn’t leave her by herself, I explain.

He gives Stasia a warm greeting and leads us into the house. In the vestibule, her eyes already filled with tears, stands my sister.

Merry Christmas, Lorette! Lorette, this is Stasia.

Lorette kisses Stasia affectionately. Mona! she cries, and how are you.? We thought you’d never come.

Where’s mother? I ask.

In the kitchen.

Presently she appears, my mother, smiling her sad, wistful smile. It’s crystal clear what’s running through her head: Just like always. Always late. Always something unexpected.

She embraces each of us in turn. Sit down, the turkey’s ready. Then, with one of her mocking, malicious smiles, she says: You’ve had breakfast, I suppose?

Of course, mother. Hours ago.

She gives me a look which says—I know you’re lying—and turns on her heel.

Mona meanwhile is handing out the gifts.

You shouldn’t have done it, says Lorette. It’s a phrase she’s picked up from my mother. It’s a fourteen pound turkey, she adds. Then to me: The minister wants to be remembered to you, Henry.

I cast a quick glance at Stasia to see how she’s taking it. There’s only the faintest trace of a good-natured smile on her face She seems genuinely touched.

Wouldn’t you like a glass of Port first? asks my father. He pours out three full glasses and hands them to us.

How about yourself? says Stasia.

I gave it up long ago, he replies. Then, raising an empty glass, he says—Prosit!

Thus it began, the Christmas dinner. Merry, merry Christmas, everybody, horses, mules, Turks, alcoholics, deaf, dumb, blind, crippled, heathen and converted. Merry Christmas! Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna to the Highest! Peace on earth—and may ye bugger and slaughter one another until Kingdom Come!

(That was my silent toast.)

As usual, I began by choking on my own saliva. A hangover from boyhood days. My mother sat opposite me, as she always did, carving knife in hand. On my right sat my father, whom I used to glance at out of the corner of my eye, apprehensive lest in his drunken state he would explode over one of my mother’s sarcastic quips. He had been on the wagon now for many a year, but still I choked, even without a morsel of food in my mouth. Everything that was said had been said, and in exactly the same way, in exactly the same tone, a thousand times. My responses were the same as ever, too. I spoke as if I were twelve years old and had just learned to recite the catechism by heart. To be sure, I no longer mentioned, as I did when a boy, such horrendous names as Jack London, Karl Marx, Balzac or Eugene V. Debs. I was slightly nervous now because, though I myself knew all the taboos by heart, Mona and Stasia were still free spirits and who knows, they might behave as such. Who could say at what moment Stasia might come up with an outlandish name—like Randinsky, Marc Chagall, Zadkine, Brancusi, or Lipschitz? Worse, she might even invoke such names as Ramakrishna, Swami Vivekananda or Gautama the Buddha. I prayed with all my heart that, even in her cups, she would not mention such names as Emma Goldman, Alexander Berkman or Prince Kropotkin.

Fortunately, my sister was busy reeling off the names of news commentators, broadcasters, crooners, musical comedy stars, neighbors and relatives, the whole roll call connected and interconnected with a spate of catastrophes which invariably caused her to weep, drool, dribble, sniffle and snuffle.

She’s doing very well, our dear Stasia, I thought to myself. Excellent table manners too. For how long?

Little by little, of course, the heavy food plus the good Moselle began to tell on them. They had had little sleep, the two of them. Mona was already struggling to suppress the yawns which were rising like waves.

Said the old man, aware of the situation: I suppose you got to bed late?

Not so very, said I brightly. We never get to bed before midnight, you know.

I suppose you write at night, said my mother.

I jumped. Usually she never made the slightest reference to my scribbling, unless it was accompanied by a reproof or a sign of disgust.

Yes, I said, that’s when I do my work. It’s quiet at night. I can think better.

And during the day?

I was going to say Work, of course! but realized immediately that to mention a job would only complicate matters. So I said: I generally go to the library … research work.

Now for Stasia. What did she do?

To my utter amazement, my father blurted out: She’s an artist, any one can see that!

Oh? said my mother, as if the very sound of the word frightened her. And does it pay?

Stasia smiled indulgently. Art was never rewarding … in the beginning … she explained most graciously. Adding that fortunately her guardians sent her little sums from time to time.

I suppose you have a studio? fired the old man.

Yes, she said. I have a typical garret over in the Village.

Here Mona took over, to my distress, and in her usual way began elaborating. I shut her off as best I could because the old man, who was swallowing it hook, line and sinker, intimated that he would look Stasia up—in her studio—some day. He liked to see artists at work, he said.

I soon diverted the conversation to Homer Winslow, Bougereau, Ryder and Sisley. (His favorites) Stasia lifted her eyebrows at the mention of these incongruous names. She looked even more astonished when the old man started reeling off the names of famous American painters whose works, as he explained, used to hang in the tailor shop. (That is, before his predecessor sold out.) For Stasia’s sake, since the game was on, I reminded him of Ruskin … of The Stones of Venice, the only book he had ever read. Then I got him to reminiscing about P. T. Barnum, Jenny Lind and other celebrities of his day.