What Is All This? (29 page)

I'm sorry but I'm not going to leave. Even if you slipped another message under my door and this one begging me to go, I won't leave. You could send a half-dozen messages if you want, two dozen if you like, and all typed on the finest stationery or written in the most elegant hand, but I still won't leave. You could have anyone or any number of people you know or I'm supposed to know slip under my door any number of messages that you or they as a group dictated and someone else wrote, but these aren't going to get me to leave. You or anyone else could phone me a hundred times in succession and all night long and all day tomorrow and the day and week and even the next week and month after that if you think it'll do any good, but it won't get me to leave. You could send a satchelful of telegrams of any kind including ship to shore and anniversary and get-well singing grams, but I still won't leave. I'm telling you, I will not leave. I won't even stick my head or foot past the door to give the impression I'm about to leave. I won't even make a single move to open the door, even so much as to get closer than I already am to the door, for as I said before, why should I give you even the slightest hope I'm leaving or even thinking of leaving, as there isn't anything I can see that'll change my mind to get me to leave.

Of course you could try coaxing me to leave by pleading through the door. You could say “Would you do me this very one favor and leave?” Or “Would you please, without any more fuss, get your things together and leave?” Or “Listen, I've been reasonable and fair up till now, haven't I, so what do you say you leave?” Or “Haven't we had enough of this trying to wheedle and coddle you, so will you please just leave? Then will you just plain leave? Then will you just leave then, spelled 1-e-a-v-e, and please?”

But no matter how emotional and assertive you get through the door, I'm not going to leave. Even if you said in a much angrier voice “All right, that's more than enough now, are you going to leave?” I wouldn't leave. Or “Okay, do you hear what I say?—I want you to leave.” Or “Fun's fun, but I've taken all I'm going to take from you, so leave. Now I'm more than asking you to leave. I'm more than even telling you to leave. I'm saying you have to leave. Once and for all now—you've got to leave. Now I don't want to say this again—leave. This is the last time I'm telling you—leave. Did you hear me, I'm ordering you to leave. I said, I order you to leave. Now I want you to get out of there or I'll really do something more than just order you to leave. Now get yourself straight the hell out of there, as you're forcing me beyond the little self-control I've left to do something more than just order you to leave.”

But nothing you say or how or where you say it will force me to leave. Even if you screamed those threats from the street up to my window, I wouldn't leave. I wouldn't leave even if you got several people to yell from the street and outside my door that the only right thing for me to do is leave. That I'm spiting nobody but myself if I don't leave. That I'm not doing it by the book or following any of the traditional or unspoken rules. That whatever little game I'm playing is up. That I should know by now that no place is anybody's for keeps. That when you have to leave you have to leave and that's all there is to it. But no matter how many of you yell from the street or through my door that I'm driving the lot of you beyond whatever self-control you have left to do something more than just order me to leave, I still won't leave.

So go on and give the most rational arguments and doomful warnings imaginable, but you have to know by now they won't make me leave. I've yakked about it through the door to you, yowled so loudly the whole block must have heard, sent my own telegrams and other dispatches and made calls why it's impossible for me to leave. But you never seem to understand why I can't leave. Or if you do understand, then you still can't, or refuse to believe if you can, that nothing you or anyone else can say or do will ever get me to leave.

Of course you could do more than just yell from the street and behind my door that I'm forcing you to do something more than just order me to leave. You could tap on my door and ask to be let in so you can try and reason with me why it's in my own interest to leave. Or even rap on my door and demand I let you in so you can reason and then insist, or just insist without giving any reasons, that I leave. Or you could bang on my door with another person, both of you asking and then demanding, or just demanding I leave. Or bang on the door while trying to force it open, so you could get in even if I tell you I don't want you in, or barge in without first asking if I'll let you in, and then demand I leave. Or bang on the door while someone else is kicking the door and two other persons are trying to pick the lock or force the door open and several other people are shouting behind the door and from the street and the roofs and windows of the buildings across the street that I leave. But the door's quite strong and secure with several bolts, latches and locks, so no amount of picking, kicking and shoving's going to force it open.

You could, of course, then pound on the walls of the two adjoining vacant apartments, while other people are banging and kicking my door and trying to force it open and shouting from all the other places I mentioned and throwing pebbles and bags of garbage at my window to get me to leave. Or you could climb up or down the building's fire escape and yell from the landing outside my window that I leave. Or throw a rock through the window and shout through the broken pane while other people are shouting from the street and roofs and other windows and fire escapes and kicking and pounding on the adjoining walls and my ceiling and floor from the vacant apartments right above and below mine that I get straight the hell out of here. But listen to me. Even if you get all those people to do all that or they do it voluntarily and you also stick your hands past the broken panes and rattle the locked window gate while screaming bloody murder at me, I'm still not going to leave.

Of course your eviction methods might get more vicious and tactical than that. You might try driving me out with smoke-or stink-bombs or even some kind of narcotizing or tear gas. But I'm still quite the limber fellow, I want you to know, and prepared myself with a thick pair of fireplace gloves, so anything you toss in goes right back out the window at you. Or you might be able to bust open the door by snapping the latches and locks with a crowbar and then push aside my dresser and upturned bed and storm in. Or maybe you'll just saunter in after you push everything aside and say “Picnic's over, my friend, so do you leave peacefully or do we have to come up with some other way?” And once you again see your sweet talk doesn't work: “We've had it up to here with you, do you understand? Now get your ass out of here this second or I'll pull you out with my bare hands. Or knock you down and tie you up and, with a little help, carry you to the street. Or just drag you out by your hair, not caring a damn for the lumps you'll take from the bumps along the way and down the stairs.”

But you're not about to drag me anywhere while I'm chained to the radiator, and none of your bullying's going to get me to say where I stashed the key. What you'll then most likely do is try to rip the chain apart from the radiator. But this chain's the strongest made these days, and try boffing me stiff so you can cut it with a hacksaw, and I'll wrap it around your ankles and tug on it till you give up and wobble out on your knees. This is a small room, big enough for maybe two or three people and the radiator, toilet, dresser and my massive bed, and I've been here so long I know all the ins and outs of the place better than anyone, so don't think you're going to strong-arm me to leave.

You could then think the time was right for sound reason to work, and say “Why don't you use your common sense already? With all the damage we've done to your window, door and walls, your room's not worth living in anymore.” And when I remain silent: “What I'll have to do, if you don't unchain yourself or give me the key, is clean out your kitchenette, including the removal of your little fridge, sink and hot plate, and then stop all food deliveries from coming in and maybe even get your water and plumbing turned off.”

But what will you do when you find out I'm staying here no matter how poor and unsanitary the conditions are and that I prefer starving to death than leaving? Only thing I can see you doing after that is unbolting the radiator through the ceiling of the apartment below mine and dragging the radiator out with me still chained to it and swatting away at you from the other end.

Once you drag me out of the room, you and a few of your workmen could pick me up still chained and carry the radiator and me downstairs. Or if that's too hard, lift the radiator over the windowsill, past the crowbarred window gate onto the fire escape and from there into a crane shovel, and with me, still attached, forced to follow, lower the radiator and me to the street.

You'll have to do one of those things to get me out of here while I'm still chained to the radiator. And if you do drag or carry the radiator and me downstairs or manage to lift us over the windowsill into a crane shovel, you have to know by now that nothing's going to stop me from coming back. Even if I'm still chained to the radiator because you couldn't find the key, or I've lost the key and, as punishment or just to keep me from returning here, you've left the radiator chained to me, I'll find some way to drag myself along with the radiator step by step up the stairs. If I can't drag myself and the radiator, then I'll find some tool or rock to file or chip away at the chain or radiator till I'm either free of the chain or have detached it from the radiator, and then only chained to the chain I'll drag myself upstairs.

I suppose the only way you could then stop me from getting back here is to erect a wall around the building and cement up my window and door and maybe remove the fire escape and stairs. But in time I'd find some way to reach the building and get to my floor and through the cemented-up window or door, so the only way you can really ever stop me from coming back would be to remove the building.

Only then would I be able to say to myself that not only were you able to force me to leave but also from getting back to my apartment. I don't see how there can be another way for you to stop me from returning, so you might as well raze the building now. And as long as you're going to have no choice but to demolish the building, suppose I unlock the door myself, leave the room and go downstairs to the street.

He hadn't spoken to her in ten years when he decided to call.

“Hello?”

“Miriam?”

“Yes, this is Miriam Cabell; who is it?”

“Miriam Cabell, now—I didn't know. Whatever happened to Miriam Livin?”

“If you don't mind, who is this, please?”

“And Miriam Berman?”

“I asked who this is. Now for the last time—”

“Arnie.”

“Who?”

“Arnie…well, guess.”

“I'm in no mood for games, really. And if it's just some crank—my husband handles all those calls.”

Then Arnie Spear—satisfied, Mrs. Cabell?”

“Wait a minute. Not Arnie X.Y.Z. Spear.”

The very same, madame.”

“Arnie Spear the famous sonnet writer and lover of tin lizzies and hopeless causes and the world's greatest raw green pea eater?”

“Well, I don't want to brag, but—”

“Oh God, Arnie, how in the world did you get my number?”

“I'm fine, thank you…have a little pain in my ego, perhaps, but how are you?”

“No, I'm serious—how'd you get it?”

“I bumped into Gladys Pempkin coming out of a movie the other night. She told me.”

“How is Gladys?”

“Fine, I guess. Haven't you seen her recently?”

“I've been running around so much these days, I hardly see anyone anymore. In fact, the last time with Gladys must've been a good year ago.”

“Your name,” he said, “—Cabell. That's your new husband, isn't it?”

“Fairly new. We've been married two years—or close to two. I wonder if you knew him.”

“Don't think so. You happy, Miriam?”

“Happy? Why, was I ever really unhappy? But maybe I should toss the same ticklish nonsense back to you. How about it?”

“I'm happy. Very happy, I suppose. Really doing pretty well these days.”

“I'm glad.”

“Whatever happened to Livin—your last?”

That bastard? Listen, I made a pact with myself never to mention his name or even think of him, so help me out, will you?”

“What happens if you break the pact?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if let's say we suddenly begin talking about him. Do you declare war on yourself and sort of battle it out till one or the other side of you has won?”

That was a figure of speech I made. And why would you want to talk of Livin when you never knew him? Anyway, tell me how Gladys looks. Last time I saw her it seemed she was hitting the bottle pretty heavily or at least on pills.”

“She seemed fine. A little tired, perhaps, but not much different than the last time I saw her—which was with you, remember?”

“No, when was that?”

“I don't know. About ten years ago or so.”

“I can only remember old events if I'm able to place in my mind where I was at the time. Where was I?”

“In this coffee shop on Madison and 58
^th
. The Powder Puff I think it was called.”

“No, I don't recall any such place.”

“It folded about four years ago. I know because for a few months I had a magazine editing job in the area and used to walk by the shop daily. And then one day it was suddenly empty of everything but a couple of sawhorses and there was a For Rent sign up. Now it's a beauty shop.”

“Wait a minute. Not some incredibly garish beauty shop? With lots of pink and blue wigs on these wooden heads in the window and with a refreshment counter in front serving tea and cookies?”

“I think that's the one.”

“Do you know, I once went there to have my hair done—isn't that strange? It's not a very good place, which is why I only went once. They dry all your roots out.”

“Well, that's where we last saw each other. The place has always been particularly meaningful to me—almost as a starting point in a new phase of my life. Because if it wasn't for what you told me in there that morning, I doubt whether I would've become so conscious of my hang-ups then to leave the city, as I did, and get this great job out of town.”

“Excuse me, Arnie. You're still on that beauty shop?”

“Don't you remember? We met there for coffee—when it was still a coffee shop. It was a very intense scene for me—holding your hand, and both of us unbelievably serious and me trying to work up enough courage to propose to you. Well, you mercifully cut me off before I was able to make a total ass of myself and told me, and quite perceptively, I thought, what a shell of an existence I was living and how, instead of trying to write fiction about a world I knew little of, I should get a job and move out of my parents' place and see what things were really like. I was so despondent after that—”

“Yes. Now I remember.”

“Remember how torn up I was? I was a kid, then, granted, or just awfully immature, but it was very bad, extremely crushing.”

“Yes. I hated that last scene.”

“So, right after that, I quit school and got a cub reporter slot on the Dallas paper my brother was working for then—more copyboy than cub reporter, really—just so I could be away from you and the city and all. And later, well, I did become a reporter and moved up fast and then went to Washington to cover local news stories for several Texas papers. And then the correspondent jobs overseas seemed to pour in, none of which I could have taken if I were married at the time or seriously attached.”

Then things have worked out in their own way, right?”

“I suppose you can say so.”

“And you've also seen a lot of the world, am I right? I mean, Europe and such?”

“Europe, Central America, Rio and Havana, and once even a year's stint in Saigon as a stringer for a consortium of TV stations. I've had a good tine.”

“I'm glad.”

“I've been very fortunate for a guy who never had a thought of going into news—very.”

“I'm not someone who reads or watches the news, so I never had the chance to see you. But it really sounds like you've done well. And there can't be many things more exciting than traveling. Besides the fact of also getting paid for it.”

“Even then, it's not as if I've had everything I exactly wanted—like the wife and kids I always spoke about.”

That's right. You used to speak about that a lot.”

“It was way too early to, but I did. Or the home. The relatively permanent home with some grounds I could putter around on my days off, for basically I'm a family and fireplace man and I'd be a self-deluding idiot to deny it. But I've been quite lucky all in all.”

“I'd say so. In ten years? You've done a lot.”

“Yeah. Well, then last night, when we were in the lobby waiting for the movie to break—”

“You were with someone?”

“A friend—a woman I see, although nothing serious. So, I spotted Gladys, and I don't know, I just ran over to her and for some reason threw my arms around her—something I never would've done ten years ago, as I had never cared for her much. But things change. I was actually exhilarated at seeing her. And we naturally got around to talking about you.”

“What did she have to say about me?”

“Nothing much.”

“I ask that because she's always had a savage mouth. Always spreading lies about people—me particularly, though I was one of only a few people to even take a half interest in her. She's another one I made a pact with myself never to speak of or think about. She's said some filthy malevolent things about me—to mutual friends, no less—which, in another age, we'd be cut off the line if I repeated them.”

“For me, she's always had a special ironic place in my memory. Because if you remember, when we finally emerged from that coffee shop ten years ago, Gladys was walking past—the last person we wanted to see at the time, we agreed when we saw her.”

“Now I remember. That bitch was always turning up when you least wanted her.”

“She saw us and smiled and began waving an arm laden with clanky chains as if this was just the most beautiful day in the most beautiful of worlds for everyone in it. I remember her vividly.”

“You always had an excellent memory. I suppose that's important in your field.”

That among other things. But that incident comes back amazingly clear. Even the kind of day it was, with the ground freshly covered with the light snow flurry we had watched from the coffee shop.”

That part,” she said, “I'm afraid I don't remember.”

“Everyone has a few scenes in his life that stick out prominently. And not just extraordinary or life-changing events—that's not what I'm driving at so much. For instance, I can remember supposedly insignificant and meaningless incidents that occurred twenty to twenty-five years ago, and also what kind of day it was then and how everyone looked and even what they were wearing down to the pattern of their dresses and ties.”

“What was I wearing that day?”

That day?—Oh…that green suit you had. And a trench coat. The tightly belted coat I especially remember, even that the top button was off and you said that right after you leave me you were going to head straight to a notions shop to replace the button.”

That trench coat. I got it at the British-American House and did it ever cost a fortune, though I at least got a few years out of it. But the green suit?”

“A green tweed, salt and pepper style. It was a very fashionable suit at the time—the one you most preferred wearing to your auditions.”

“Nowadays, I just go in slacks.”

“You usually wore it with a white blouse and the amber bead necklace I gave you, and so I always felt somewhat responsible for the parts you got.”

“I forgot about that necklace. You know, I still have it.”

“You're kidding.”

“I wasn't about to throw it away. It's a nice necklace.”

“How does your husband react to your sporting these priceless gems from other men?”

“Jack? He doesn't think a thing about my clothes—not like you used to do. But he's very kind and sweet. A very peaceful man who knows where he is more than most anyone, and extremely generous and perceptive in other ways. He's a dentist.”

“Just about my favorite professional group—even if they hurt.”

“But he's not your everyday dentist. He specializes in capping teeth for actors. In the last fifteen years, I'd say most big New York stage and television actors who've had their teeth capped, had it done by him. That's how we met.”

“You had your teeth capped?”

“Just four of them. The upper front.”

“But you always had such beautiful teeth.”

“Well, a number of people who know about things like this thought my teeth should be capped, if I wanted to do soaps and TV commercials, and I agreed. They were a little pointy—the incisors, especially—like fangs. They look much better for it—honestly.”

“What could a job like that run someone?”

“Couple of thousand, but that's with two cleanings and x-rays and everything. And you have to consider the labor and time involved. I was in that chair for months.”

“Did Dr. Cabell make you pay up before he married you?”

“Oh, we got married long after that. You see, about six months after I paid up completely, he phoned me out of the blue and mentioned something about my having missed one of my monthly payments. I said ‘Can't be, Dr. Cabell, there must be some mistake,' and he said he'd look in to it further. He called back the next day and said I was right—I was paid up in full. That's when he asked me out to lunch—to make up for his misunderstanding, he said—and the next year we were married.”

“It sounds as if he was initially feeding you a line.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why, because, and I say this quite harmlessly, it has all the earmarks of a line. Which is all right if it works, I suppose, which it obviously did.”

“But you're wrong. He, in fact, told me in that second call that I might think his bill call was only an excuse to contact me, but that it wasn't. He really did think I wasn't paid up.”

Then why didn't he have someone in his office call you about the so-called overdue payment? He has a big practice, I assume, so can't be doing all the billing and appointments and such by himself, and it'd seem a lot more professional doing it that way.”

“Jack feels that something like that—when he has the time, and he tries to make time for it—ought to be handled by him alone. He's a very informal man, Arnie, despite his imposing office and successful practice, and he's told me several times that there's already too much impersonality in the city between patient and dentist. Also, he likes to chat.”

“You're no doubt right. It's absurd of me to even have brought up such a petty issue. But I suppose I've been hauling around this vision of you of being a person too clever to fall for that kind of palaver, we'll call it.”

“Fall? What are you talking about? I married the man. Even if he was giving me a line with that call—which he wasn't—what's the difference now? It's all water under the cesspool or something when you married the person, isn't it?”

“Naturally.”

“Oh sure, you really sound convinced.”

“Well, despite what I said before about how it's okay and such if it works, I'm against lies and deceptions of any sort, what can I tell you? I don't like hypocrisy. I've seen too much of it in my work and I simply don't like it.”

That's right—I forget. You're the big world traveler and interpreter of newsy events.”

“All right, I happen to be a journalist—a newsman, if you like. And I write and report on things that turn my stomach every day. In politics, diplomacy, business—”

“You were also always a big one for the soapbox, if I remember. Even in college; always the big speech.”

“No, you're not catching my point, Miriam.”