Three Balconies (16 page)

But once outside, he felt sad, for himself, for the evening, for the paltry nature of his catch. If Moon with his tush and his renting was the new face of the enemy, the Jews might as well look for another profession. Where were the fresh young anti-Semites of yesteryear? Was it possible that he was lonely for the old Siegel, who would have been halfway out to the highway after such an evening, not sure if he should get guns or a psychiatrist? Or maybe round up Dong from the restaurant and go back and get them, picking up an old black jazz musician along the way for additional support. So that never again would anyone dare to take the
position that Jews rented. The old Siegel slept with clenched fists and greeted each day as if he'd been shot out of a gun. He stuck wrenches in his tweed suit and went forth to avenge insults, sometimes over space at a counter. Was it possible to miss such a fellow? Of course. He missed his first hard-on, too. But such an individual would no longer be alive, having either shot himself or killed an innocent bystander. Fortunately, a doctor caught him in the nick of time. At a cost of five grand – and worth every penny of it, incidentally – he explained: “There
is
a little anti-Semitism out there.” And just like that, Siegel popped quietly back into his slot, a useful member of society.

Now, as he whipped his Chrysler along the seacoast, he realized there was no one chasing him. Who had the time? Moon could barely get his ass off the bar stool. Who else was there? A waitress from the barley fields? What would she do when she caught him? Maybe Bunz, the bartender, would run after him and show him Y.A. Tittle's jock. He knew there was nothing to worry about. Eventually, death would step in and straighten him out. In the meanwhile, he slowed down. There was no need to fly along the Coast in this manner. He was safe and had to live with it.

Siegel had enjoyed a mystifying success in armored play suits. So confident was he that the line would be a disaster he sent Victoria to the stores to see how it was doing. She came back and reported overflow crowds. Even the footwear was selling, truly a surprise, considering how few people were shot in the feet. For the first time in his life, Siegel didn't have to worry about being tapped on the shoulder by the government. (There was a moral consideration. Unless sales were controlled, the wrong type of person might be able to defend himself. The industry wrestled with this issue.) Meanwhile, Siegel had bought a year. With frugality, perhaps more. So naturally, he rented. To buy would have been to define his feelings for Victoria.

The thought of his ladylove made him drive faster, although not too fast, since he was never sure what he would find when he got there. She hailed from a family of sleepwalkers. He might have
to look for her in a tree. He wanted to spend eternity with Victoria, hand in hand, on separate but individual clouds – still, he was a little unsure of his feelings. Not once, for example, had she ever yelled at him. There was no evidence that she had ever yelled at anyone. Other men didn't exist for her – though he tried to arrange a little interest so he could be pissed off. She thanked him formally and promptly whenever they made love. A fresh cup of strong coffee stood ready for him each morning, although there was some question as to the long-term effect on his health. Her heart was his on a plate. Such a woman had to be watched.

So they lived impermanently, renting studios, waiting for something to happen. Something did happen and still they rented. Not that Siegel loved it. Take their current arrangement. Cavanaugh could sail in anytime he wanted to fix the plumbing. Or send his sons with bad skin to change a bulb. What if the youngsters caught Siegel fucking? It would have been nice to tell Cavanaugh to get lost. It bothered Siegel, too, that others in his field had waterfront property. He'd had a house once, too, but it slipped through his fingers. So he was careful to have nothing. Consequently, nothing could be taken away.

In a growing state of emergency, he ran up the stairs to their bedroom, shouldering his way through a barricade of food and magazines. Though Victoria came from vague wealth in Montana, she was reluctant to throw away anything. Bread crumbs had to be smuggled out in the dead of night. Also old copies of
Vanity Fair.

Not surprisingly, Victoria's bed was empty. Instinct took him to Dong's restaurant – he didn't bother to check the roof. He'd already found her there and she tended not to repeat. Sure enough, there she sat, in her flannel nightgown, folding dumplings with Dong's daughters, not hurting a soul. Her legs gaped in the nightgown. What if Dong, for all his humanity, took a peek? Or worse, in the new culture, Dong's daughters? Was there any guarantee that Victoria would wake up in time?

Sally, the prettiest daughter, shot a look at Victoria, rotating a finger at her own temple to connote an unbalanced state. Then,
moist-eyed, she pressed her face against the window pane and said: “Something's wrong, Siegel, something's missing in my heart. I keep waiting and waiting for it to happen, but it never does. Do you think it ever will?”

Though Siegel was tenaciously faithful to Victoria, he'd considered the actress-y Sally, then erased the thought. His only experience with an Asian woman had ended, to his shame, when he pulled back his friend Han's seal black waist-length hair to reveal the jaw of a Mongol warrior.

Siegel diplomatically ducked the girl's question, then scooped Victoria up in his arms. He had met her when he was distributing free vests to the endangered workers at an abortion clinic in the Carolinas. They weren't top-of-the-line items, but they would be of some use; it was better than going bare-chested against pickets. Back then, the vest weighed more than she did. Now Victoria had some heft to her. Lifting her, he felt a pain in the fifth metacarpal. A few more pounds and he'd have a back condition. Still, he loved the feel of her rough nightgown on his face. No one smelled as much like a person as she did. On an adjacent lawn, the Cavanaughs snapped open beers. He carried Victoria to their bed. Before she took her stroll, she'd plumped up the pillows on his side, folded his pajamas and left a note that said: “For Captain Cozy.” She was a sleep chatterer, too. Holding out a small hand, palm upward, she had called for reason from anti-abortion hecklers. It had been drilled into him; don't rouse a sleepwalker. But the hand got to him and he whispered: “Let's buy a place here. I can't explain it, but there's something about this area I like.”

 

The next morning, to show he wasn't afraid of anyone, Siegel ordered eggs at the local diner. The sauerbraten boys were bunched in a corner. A waitress, Dawn, from the night before, slid hotcakes at them. When his order was a little slow in coming out, Siegel was offended. What point were they trying to make? That Jews ate too many eggs? Is that what ailed America? Maybe they should be taught a lesson and have to wait for their eggs. The
thoughts were involuntary. Some day he would have to stop thinking that way. Did he really believe that people had nothing to do except worry about Jews? The second they got up in the morning? That they didn't have to make a living, like the poor waitress who had to draw strength from her stocky legs so she could work the breakfast shift? Siegel had time to worry about Jews, not them.

Outside, Siegel saw Moon with a shopping bag, asking himself a question in the rain. In the bar, his fatness had a pinky ring elegance to it. Now, in the daylight, he wore ear flaps and a short Mackinaw jacket that called unnecessary attention to his spectacular tush. He might have been the kind of fat fellow who stood in shopping malls with his mother, a religious fanatic. Moon let a bus go by, then came inside and said he felt Siegel had overreacted the night before. Siegel denied the charge, but with a show of graciousness, asked Moon to join him for a cup of coffee. Moon accepted, emptying the contents of his bag on the table, a combination of fishnets, chicken wire and possibly some felt from his last Mackinaw, all formed into what was supposed to be a vest. Siegel pushed it away from his eggs and wondered, what did he do, stay up all night to create this concoction? When he heard Siegel was in the business? And after pretending he didn't notice?

“Would you mind looking this over?” asked Moon.

“Not at all,” said Siegel, who had already decided it had no commercial application. Still, the garment had a certain rough integrity to it. Siegel had been wrong before, on his own playsuits. Maybe it could be featured in a country line.

“I'll send it to the lab,” said Siegel.

“Thanks,” said Moon. “Last night I didn't know where you were coming from.”

“Others have made that mistake,” said Siegel, not sure if this was true.

Moon went back to the rain. Siegel wondered if he had dressed pathetically for effect. Also, he was slightly disappointed. Their
first encounter had been promising. He had expected a lot more from the man.

 

Victoria was tentative in showing him the house. Why should she have her hopes dashed again? But as they walked up the driveway, Siegel said: “I'll take it, I'll take it,” in part because he didn't hate it, but also because Moon had branded him as a renter. What began as a slur ended on a happy note, with Siegel being bullied into a house that was probably good for him.

The house itself had been moved from place to place. At one point, it was spotted in west Texas. The owner, transferred frequently, loved it so much he took with him. Finally, he dropped dead and had no further use for it. Like an Army brat, the house was adaptable. Stick in a window, tear off a wing, the house didn't mind. It was happy to be a house. The closing costs cut deeply into Siegel's savings. Already he could see his year off had been cut to seven months. Instead of covering the history of Venice doge by doge, he'd have to go for broad strokes. Victoria brought antique rugs out of storage which were useful, although frankly he wouldn't have minded if she asked her family to come across with a few dollars. But he was too shy. In the city, they had virtually licked each other's internal organs, but about money, he was shy. That and asking her to lie next to him in the next grave. She was younger. It wasn't fair to tie her up that way. If she volunteered, that was another thing. He'd be happy to have her aboard. Maybe that's what love was, not pressuring the other person into the next grave. Taking your chances on a stranger.

 

A homeowner now, Siegel nonetheless remained loyal to Dong, even though his sauces had gone off badly; no doubt he was distracted by his inability to provide a satisfying social life for his daughters, although Sally had made inroads among woodcutters. One night, Siegel sat next to a family of four whose lives were closely intertwined with that of a club. Their sweaters were embroidered with club insignia; throughout the meal they discussed
club affairs. A new member had attempted to sell insurance on the links.

“At the club?” said the shocked wife.

“I'm afraid so, Gail,” said her silver-haired husband.

From time to time, the head of the family looked around to make sure there was someone in the place who didn't belong to the club and couldn't get in. This, of course, could only mean Siegel, since he was the only other person in the restaurant. Unless you wanted to include Dong who couldn't get in either, at least until he became a franchise.

“Well, I guess we'd better be getting back to the club,” said the father, scrutinizing the check carefully.

“Yes, Dad,” said one daughter, “Our dates are waiting for us.”

“At the club,” said the other.

At one time, Siegel would have been shattered that he didn't belong to such an organization, even though he had no idea of the facilities. But this was the new Siegel. He did the excluding. The fact that he was alone all the time was another story.

Still, the encounter put him in the mood for a little exercise. Victoria, with frail ankles, was less interested, but she found a club for him, one that anyone could join; as a result, it had no members. Alone on a high promontory, Siegel staged furious tennis rallies with the ball machine. One day he played the owner's son, a bewildered child who beat the shit out of him anyway. Then the wind shifted violently in Siegel's favor, giving him a chance. He won a few games, then became aware of a voice from his old neighborhood, breaking his concentration. On the next court was a woman with orange hair.

“What kind of backhand is that?” she asked her partner, a silent man with powerful legs that looked as if they'd crossed the Negev.

“Oh, for Christ's sakes,” she said, a moment later, “I can't hit a goddamned thing.”

Siegel tried to ignore her, although a process had begun that he couldn't control. As he prepared for a serve, she excused herself and ran onto his court.

“I'll only be a second,” she said, then knelt with chunky dimpled knees and fished around for a ball that had her initials on it.

“There,” she said, when she'd found it. “Was that so terrible?”

“It was an important point,” said Siegel.

“And there'll be plenty of others.”

Siegel tried to stay calm, telling himself the game was unimportant. What would the kid do if he won, announce it on the six o'clock news?

Siegel resumed the game, then saw the woman sit down on a bench and throw a leg behind her head. Never before had he seen someone stretch a tendon that way. He was powerfully tempted to take a good look, but felt it would be a concession and pressed on.

A few minutes later, she interrupted again.

“There's such a thing as etiquette,” said Siegel.

“Oh well, excuse me, Mr. Wimbledon.”

Then she called out, “Si, would you come over here and help me look. They've got quite a few of our balls here.”

“Maybe you should bring an accountant,” said Siegel.