Читать книгу The Green Box - James F. Murphy Jr. - Страница 4

Of course, it wasn’t just the Park that I wanted to see. Certainly the Park was important, probably the most important, but that was the larger part of it all. At my age of seventy-seven, I needed to capsulate, to focus on smaller objects that I could study closely, to pick and choose, accept and dismiss, and that was the reason that the Green Box had to be there. Because, after all, the Green Box had followed me all my life.

I turned the car right, off Newton Corner. George’s Café, Buddy’s Smoke Shop, Kennedy’s Butter and Egg Store, and The Five and Dime—gone—the block now housed the slick shops and boutiques for the smart, quick-stepping folks on the way up. Yuppies, they called them. Baby boomers. Now Generation-Xers.

The Paramount Movie House was a cement block without windows, up on Pearl Street, past the cul-de-sac of four neat, wooden houses that before World War II sported green, sharply cut lawns. On summer evenings teenage attempts at Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman and The Dorseys poured out of brass, reed and drums from Joe McCarey’s house. “Joe McCarey and His Men of Music,” the combined ages of the “Men of Music” totaled ninety.

Channing Street to my left was utilitarian as a short cut to the Paramount. Movies changed every Wednesday. Schedule: Wednesday to Saturday—Sunday to Wednesday. Casablanca and Bogart, Blood on the Sand and Tyrone Power. Ronald Reagan, not so much as The Gipper, although tears rolled down my cheeks when he died among the white sheets and shadows of his hospital room, but the more shocking scene, when he sat up in King’s Row and gasped, “Where’s the rest of me?” And the dawning, and slow realization of all of us like a distant wave forming way out in the storm-tossed ocean, building and then suddenly crashing against the shore, “his legs are gone,” and the popcorn box poised in sweating hands. “They’re really gone. That bastard cut Ronald Reagan’s legs off just because he was in love with the doctor’s daughter.” And the word spread along the aisle, upsetting even Ralph and George, the two tough brothers from Rats Alley. Even young lovers responded momentarily by coming up for air and looking at each other in disbelief. “The doctor. I mean that guy is a doctor and he cut Ronald Reagan’s legs off.”

Rats Alley ran from the other side of the corner and up the hill behind the Y.M.C.A. The summer Ronald Reagan lost his legs, I spent the long, hot, muggy days with Ralph and George MacCann. It was exciting being with them because they were Protestants, they smoked, and they were tough.

Both were pale from cards and cigarettes and never leaving the house for very long periods of time. They didn’t play sports and every time I suggested a game, they’d say, “Sit down, for Chrissake and have a cigarette.” Ralph would turn the record player on and we’d sit in the half dark of the house listening to Dick Haymes, Perry Como and Bing Crosby. Every once in a while one of them would get up from a broken chair and silently slip into a back bedroom and stay there for about ten minutes and then come out saying nothing except, “Gimme a butt.”

The scene was repeated over and over again and was a mystery to me throughout the summer until the day my mother gave me twenty-five cents for a haircut. “You’re fourteen-years-old, it’s about time you started grooming yourself.” The only grooming I knew was for racehorses in movies like National Velvet. I took the twenty-five cents across Washington Street, up to Rats Alley. George went out and bought the “Old Golds” and Ralph gave me the haircut. He was good, too. He didn’t use a bowl. He just tore on through the thick, black Irish hair and when he was finished, he professionally shook the oilcloth he used for a cover, right out the door.

“What d’ya think?” he smiled, shaking his head. “Pretty good for an Irishman. Ever hear of an Irish barber? Only the Italians cut hair, maybe I’ll be the first Irishman to be a barber.”

That always bothered me when he called himself Irish. He wasn’t even a Catholic, so how could he be Irish?

He handed me a cigarette but not before he tapped it against the pack, both ends like Zachary Scott when he was staring into the eyes of ‘Lizbeth Scott—without the “e”—I used to think that’s why she was so sexy.

As he scratched the match across the closed cover into yellow flame, a cigarette hanging from his lips, a kind of rustling and squeaking came from the back bedroom. His eyes opened wide and his black eyebrows knit tightly. “Here, hold my butt,” is all he said, and he opened and closed the bedroom door behind him.

I felt suddenly, strangely out of place. Maybe I didn’t belong here. Maybe they weren’t my types of friends. What did we have in common? I had a nice, clean house, a duplex that we didn’t own but we had grass and a backyard and a neighborhood where I knew everybody. I had a mother. They didn’t. Everyone was Catholic and Irish except for three Italian families who owned their homes and covered up the clapboards with brick, cooked with garlic and made dandelion soup.

Here, the MacCanns were like fugitives in a Class B movie you’d see on a Saturday afternoon before the main feature. I had met these two tough and sinister brothers while I was caddying, and I was strangely attracted to the differences in our lives. Being with them was a kind of flirtation, a walking on the edge of a cliff over boiling surf or hanging onto the bumper of a car as the driver unknowingly carried you over dark, snow-packed streets.

The door opened and Ralph came out. “Gimme a drag. I can’t smoke in there.”

I didn’t ask him why. I thought maybe he had gasoline or explosives in there and I didn’t want to be a part of it.

Just then George came with another pack of Old Golds. “It’s all set. We’ve got enough for one ticket. I saw Stretch Magni down the Corner. He’ll meet us at ten minutes of one. He’ll buy the ticket because he’s the tallest. He’s taller than you, Sully, isn’t he?” George pulled a long, red cellophane strip from the pack, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I said, not knowing what size had to do with buying a ticket.

“Good. So, Stretch is our man on the inside. Say, your haircut looks good. Your old lady will never know. Nice job, Ralphie. Anything new here?”

“Yeah, go in and check it. I think it’s O.K. But I just want a double check.”

“Oh, sure. Here, hold my butt.”

The scene unraveled one more time and to break the awkward silence brought on by this arcane ritual we were both left with, I put on a Frank Sinatra record and began impersonating Sinatra while dragging on a cigarette and singing with my jaws sucked in. I liked seeing the smoke come out with the words of the song.

George came back shortly. “It’s O.K. Everything’s O.K. What d’ya say? Want a cup of tea, Sull? Then we’ll go to the show.”

“Sure, George. O.K. with me.”

He opened a dirty, round canister and put his hand in. Then he turned it over. “Son of a bitch, Ralph. Don’t we have any teabags?”

“If they’re not in the canister, we don’t have any. It’s as simple as that.”

“Son of a bitch. Bastard. Goddamnit to hell.”

I had never seen him so angry before. “Geez, George, it’s not that important to me. Honest.”

“Chrissake, Sully, I don’t give a damn about you. Ralph!” And he turned to his brother who was smoking furiously. “Go over to Mrs. Blanchard’s and ask her for the loan of a dozen teabags. I’ll get some after the show. Tell her we’ll pay her back right away—tonight.”

Ralph nodded and was gone. Now, I felt really awkward in the midst of this major calamity of teabags.

A horn honked outside, but the vehicle did not stop. George raced to the window and pulled the dusty curtain back. The window was as dirty as the curtain.

“That son of a bitch is going down the hill without stopping. I gotta get him.”

“Who?” I blurted.

“The friggin’ milkman.” And he was off, racing after the truck as it rumbled and shook.

I was alone and my eyes traveled slowly around the kitchen. It seemed everything was gray and what wasn’t gray was black. The torn linoleum was gritty under foot. Nothing was out of place. There was no clutter. It was just that nothing had a shine to it. The kitchen was like one of those dull, gray August days that hung over you until nighttime finally hid it from you.

I looked over at the bedroom door and my heart thumped. As much as I knew I shouldn’t open that door, I already had decided I would. I looked out the window first. Ralph was still climbing the hill to what I assumed to be Mrs. Blanchard’s, and below the hill George was gesturing and waving at the milkman. I had time and I didn’t waste any. I went to the bedroom door, turned the knob and opened it. The door swung open and I stood with the short hair of my new haircut tightening on my scalp.

Before me, on a gray bed, lay the bones and wasted skin of a gaunt, gray man. His balding head was turned away from the door. A respirator bubbled and choked and gasped by the bed. A rubber mouthpiece dangled limply from the exposed hand that cupped the mouthpiece into the mouth every once in a while. The sound of sucking and wheezing filled the room.

I closed the door softly and backed across the room, lit a cigarette and stood in the doorway waiting for George, who was running back up the hill with a quart of milk clutched in his hand. A broad smile covered his face.

“He’s not such a bad guy,” he said almost apologetically. “We paid electricity this month. Should have paid milk.”

“Mrs. Blanchard could only spare six,” Ralph announced when he returned.

“Well, six is better than nothing. Can’t give you tea now, Sully. Hope you don’t mind.” He didn’t wait for me to say, “I didn’t want any anyway.”

“Ralph, you and Sully start for the movies. I’ll meet you there. Find Stretch. I’ll meet you at Moore’s.”

We smoked behind trees and walls until we came up behind Moore’s hardware store and saw Stretch Magni leaning against the building. He was wearing khaki pants that didn’t cover the length of those long legs.

“Hey, Stretch, all set?”

“Hey, you guys. Where’s George? We need all the men we can get if we’re going to pull off this job good.” Then he threw his head back and laughed.

When he stopped, he pointed across to the Paramount Theater. The marquee heralded in great, square black letters The Spiral Staircase with George Brent and The Adventures of the Thin Man with William Powell and Myrna Loy.

“See that - those are two swell pictures and we are going to get them for the price of one ticket. Where the hell is George?”

“He’ll be here,” Ralph said nervously. “Don’t get your water hot.”

“Yeah, well, it’s almost -” He didn’t finish as Ralph walked past him to George who was just turning the corner. “He all right, George?”

“Yeah, he had his tea. He’s probably asleep now. Let’s go.”

“We all chipped in for Stretch’s ticket and we watched him with a mixture of pride and anxiety as he leaned into the box office window and said something to the girl in the booth. They both laughed as Stretch winked and sauntered off into the cool darkness of the theater, leaving the hot street and us behind.

“What if he leaves us out here? Whaddah we do then?” I said.

“What do we do?” Ralph’s smile was a straight seam across his mouth.

“We beat the crap outta him when the show’s over. C’mon.”

We walked down to the Channing Street exit of the theater. The door only opened from the inside and as we stood waiting in the sun, I could visualize Stretch bending over the drinking fountain next to the manager’s office, his long right foot uncoiled and extended behind him, his moccasined foot finding the bar on the door, depressing it as the water gurgled and splashed in the stainless steel receptacle. Gurgle. Click. Three darting figures rushed past. Door closed. The MGM lion roared as we slumped into the cool leather cushions waiting for storms, shadows, candles, deaf mutes, George Brent and Ethel Barrymore to scare us sick.

Stretch didn’t join us. He was down front to the right in “Lover’s Row.” It would take him a while. He might have to change seats, move here, bob there, but he would be making out before Ethel Barrymore even thought of shooting George Brent.