Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes - Jan David Blais - Страница 11

JONATHAN LEAVES TOMORROW. He seems uptight but we plow ahead and manage to put in a good day. At one point he looks up from his reading, shaking his head. “Can you believe somebody doing that to a little kid?” he says.

“Paul took it very hard, one time he told me the story. At least he learned something from it though perhaps not enough. National purpose, historical necessity, the glory of God, whatever you call it, Jonathan, it is always a living, breathing person on the receiving end. There is no such thing as a crowd of victims, people die one by one. Just ask the families. The big shots of the world never learn.”

“You were a military man, how can you talk that way?”

I smile. “That is precisely why I talk that way. Just like that priest, that chaplain. For me, war is the absolute last resort. Odd, isn’t it, that’s the old Catholic teaching. Did I mention, Akiko was Buddhist – she lived through the firebombing. Being on a lucky ship I was spared the misery she saw but it had its effect on me.”

We put in a good day and morning, then he excused himself to get ready. I insisted on driving him so we piled into the Volvo and proceeded up the road toward Bar Harbor Airport which is actually in Trenton, nowhere near Bar Harbor. A half hour later I watch the little jet scream down the runway and lift off, heading for New York and the offices of The New Yorker Magazine.

* * * * * * *

FOR A LONG TIME I’D WAKEN with a start. Eventually the nightmares faded but to this day the shock has not, that someone would do that to a little animal. Evil. More real to me than Adam’s sin ever was. My parents said they’d get me another dog but the memory of my friend demanded that I grieve. It troubled me too, that I blacked out. Only for a moment but it scared me to think there was a page in my life of which I knew nothing. I vowed never again to disappear to myself, and aside from one slip it didn’t happen again until years later. Oddly, the bright spot that summer, Jim went out of his way to be considerate. Though I desperately wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to blame him. It was somebody else, one mean, twisted person. Would I have returned the favor in kind? Good question.

The police said they could do nothing and that’s exactly what they did. Oh, they took the box away, and they returned it a few days later. The policeman who came to our door said it was the mob but the note was no help and nobody was talking. Omerta. I buried King’s head beside the doghouse, putting a wooden cross I painted white on his grave.

Again I went to CYO Camp, this time two full weeks. The country saved me, plus learning I would meet up with many camp friends at La Salle.

Things were bad at home. My father had to lay off more people, even Lorraine – no great loss there, my mother sniffed. Every day the tension between them asserted itself in new ways. Grownups were so unpredictable. Who would have thought my mother would be the one to rally round Jim? They grew closer as my father withdrew to spend all his time trying to find new business, he and Uncle Antoine even driving to Wilmington, Delaware, to follow up a lead. All I could figure, her first-born was a part of her spirited nature she couldn’t deny. As it turned out what saved us was, of all things, the Russians.

I was now reading the newspaper front to back and had a good idea what was going on in the world. The Supreme Court had ordered Negroes admitted to regular schools and people expected trouble in the fall. I read about the McCarthy hearings. In our parish McCarthy was a saint and I had to admit he had a point when he said why should Americans join an organization that was out to destroy us? But what I saw on TV was a shock – the slippery look, the exaggerations. This raised an important question for me. If you find a person is lying about one thing, what else might he be lying about? How can you know he’s telling the truth about anything? I still don’t have a good answer for that.

Dad and Uncle Antoine had been getting up at dawn and driving to the General Electric plant north of Boston, returning late then turning right around next day to save money on a hotel. But after months of worry, a contract came through to sell G.E. tools and machinery for making jet engines. In August they began setting up equipment to produce the parts to make the engines to power the planes to protect our country. That summer we would have no vacation, rooted to the spot as my father tried to salvage his business, but one night soon after they got word of the contract, he burst into the house, grinning from ear to ear.

“Ti-Paul! Would you like to see New York?”

New York!

He flopped down on the sofa. It was great to see him happy again. “When this new work starts I won’t have a minute,” he stretched his legs and clasped his hands behind his head, “and we never celebrated your graduation right, did we?” My mother walked into the room, smiling. She knew. “Mrs. Lamontagne got the reservations today. Two rooms! One for us,” he winked at my mother, “and one for you kids. A week from Wednesday we drive down then come back Sunday night.”

The day before our trip, my father came home early. He had this sad look on his face. “What a shame, and just before our big trip,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s the car. No chance in hell it’ll make it there and back.”

My heart sank. Our trip was off. He sat down, elbows on the kitchen table, chin in his hands. There’d been talk about engine work, also the differential, whose function I grasped only vaguely, was said to be slipping. But this was no reason to call off our trip!

“The train! We can take the train!”

He shook his head, “Can’t afford it, not if the car needs an overhaul.”

As I sulked, King’s face flashed in front of me. Tears weren’t far away. My father pursed his lips. “But maybe there is a way,” he said, standing. “Let’s go outside, ti-Paul, maybe the fresh air will give us an idea.” I followed him out and... what was this! In our driveway, a car! A bright red brand new car! As my father stood by, arms folded, beaming, I ran my hand over the fender. Never had I touched anything so smooth. “Not bad, eh?”

“Can I get in?”

“Sure! Why not? He opened the door and immediately I was engulfed in this wonderful aroma. I patted the seat cushion and slid behind the wheel. So many dials and knobs! I looked around. Lots more room in back, too. The interior was gray and red. We always had a black car, up til now. Red! This was unbelievable! “Move over, ti-Paul, let’s go for a spin. We need to break it in, right?”

He backed down the driveway and we drove to the turnaround, circled, then paraded down the street. I’d never seen my father drive so slow. Neighbors waved and he leaned out the window and waved back. Suddenly I realized. He wasn’t shifting! “It’s an automatic!”

“Damn right! Nothing but the best for Julien Bernard and his family!”

He rolled up his window. “Close yours,” he ordered. I looked at him, puzzled – it was a hot day. “Go ahead.” As I cranked the handle he reached down and turned a knob. All of a sudden there was this WHOOSH! and a blast of hot air hit my face. “Give it a minute.”

It started to feel cooler... I put my hand against the vent. It was freezing! He grinned.

A few minutes later we were turning onto Fruit Hill Avenue, crossing into North Providence, heading toward the real country. “Can I steer?” Sitting on his lap I had often steered on the two-lane roads when there wasn’t much traffic.

“No way,” he laughed, “not in this car. Not til you get your license.”

“But if I can’t use the car, how’ll I get my license?” I was planning on my learner’s permit the day I turned fifteen.

“We’ll keep the Plymouth, that’s how. Anyway a shift is better for learning. One of these days Catherine’ll want to learn too, though girls aren’t that interested in cars.” He leaned back and stretched his arms, caressing the steering wheel. “The worm has turned, ti-Paul. Yes indeed, the worm has turned.”

THE NEXT DAY WAS FULL OF EXCITEMENT. Crossing into New York, I soon caught my first glimpse of Manhattan, tall thin silhouettes stenciled in the haze and heat. Jim was full of his what’s-the-big-deal routine. Mr. Expert had been here on a school trip. We paid a toll and were on what the signs called FDR Drive. I noticed this steam rising from building roofs. “Cooling towers,” my father explained, “for air conditioning.”

We drove along a narrow, shaded street, crossing broader streets and swiftly moving traffic. First Avenue, then Second, then Third... I got the picture. When we turned onto Fifth, I craned my neck and looked up. You couldn’t see the tops of the buildings, you could barely see the sky between them. Stone and metal walls dwarfed la famille Bernard’s tiny red raft as it plunged down the canyons. After more rights and lefts we pulled off the street and wheeled under this canopy with JEFFERSON HOTEL on it.

“Made it!” My father turned to us with a big grin.

A man in a red and gold uniform opened my father’s door. “Welcome to the

Jefferson,” he said, tipping his hat, one of those tall shiny hats you see at fancy parties, pictures of them, that is. On this hot day he looked ridiculous but I figured somebody must be impressed. Another red and gold man helped my mother out. My father handed over the car keys and a dollar bill, motioning toward the trunk.

“Thank you, sir.” The doorman’s partner was placing our suitcases on a little two-sided wagon. We entered the gold and red lobby. The clerks behind the counter wore gold and red striped shirts and ties, even the women wore ties. “The Bernard party,” my father announced in a loud voice, “we have a reservation.”

One of the men began flipping through some cards, then he picked one out. “From Providence? Two rooms, four nights.”

“That’s right,” my father nodded, “at your best commercial traveler rate.”

The man looked down at Catherine and me, Jim was already cruising the lobby. He frowned. “Sir, I’m afraid that rate is available for one room only.”

My father had his elbows on the counter, leaning toward the man. “We were promised that rate for both rooms.”

“I’m sorry, sir, hotel policy is one room only at the special rate. There must have been some mistake.”

“There is no mistake,” my father interrupted. “I am President of a large company and you guaranteed my secretary that rate for both rooms!” The back of his neck was getting red. “If you will not honor your commitment we’ll have to take our business somewhere else!”

Catherine and I looked at each other. Such a fine hotel, how could we find another as good? By now our luggage was right beside us in the little cart. It belonged here, we belonged here. My mother was tugging at his arm. He turned toward her. “Fiona,” he said loudly, “if these people can’t keep their word, it is not a place we want to stay.”

The clerk was getting frazzled. “A moment, sir, I have to speak with the manager.”

“You do that,” my father said as the clerk disappeared through a door. He looked at us. “Don’t worry, mes petits choux! If this doesn’t work we’ll stay somewhere else.”

My mother was shaking her head. “Julien! You said everything’s booked! You said we were lucky to get this reservation!”

“Relax, Fiona. You got to play the angles.”

“Angles? You mean we really don’t have that rate?”

“Shhh!” he put his finger to his lips. The other clerks were silently flipping through their papers and cards.

“Well, I never!” She stomped her foot and strode across the lobby, flopping down in a chair and crossing her legs.

My father winked. “Keep your eyes open, mes petits, you’ll learn something.”

A couple of minutes later the clerk returned. “This is extraordinary. We always note special rates on the guest card.” He held up our card. “You see, it says one room only. But this one time we will make an exception, possibly whoever took the reservation made an error.” The clerk slid a form in front of my father. “Two rooms, twenty-seven dollars per night for each,” he added sourly, “instead of our standard rate of thirty-five.”

My father smiled. “This is good. This is very good.”

Catherine and I looked at each other with relief, though, I thought to myself, what I just saw looked an awful lot like cheating.

Our room had two beds and a cot (guess who got the cot). We had to promise Catherine not to look. Fluffy white towels, too, little bars of soap in gold and red paper, a shower separate from the tub and not just on a hose like at home. In the corner was a television and a phone. Our parents’ room was next to ours with a door in between. While they unpacked, Catherine and I began calling in orders from the room service menu, holding down the button. My mother rushed in all upset, then she laughed. If you hadn’t already figured it out, this was my first time in a hotel.

The plan was, everybody could pick something they especially wanted to do unless it was too expensive, and everybody else would go along with no complaining. No surprise, my mother chose a play, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, which was interesting, especially all the yelling. Catherine went for the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. Jim picked Yankee Stadium, Yankees vs. White Sox. Mickey Mantle belted home runs his first two times up. My father said he’d enjoy everything since he was paying for it all.

I would have said the ball game myself, but for once I acted cagey and let Jim go first. Mine was the cheapest, all it cost was a couple of souvenirs. The United Nations might seem an odd choice, but I’d done a term paper on it and wanted to check it out. There wasn’t much going on, the General Assembly wasn’t in session and the Security Council had no great crisis going, but I was happy just walking around. We went on a guided tour and I saw where everything happened when it did happen. I came away with a wooden stand with flags of the countries. The African delegates were fascinating to see, some in colorful robes, some with faces so dark they had a bluish sheen. I heard native languages but also English with a British accent and a French one as well. These people seemed different from the Negroes I’d seen at home. None lived in my neighborhood, not counting the Project where there were a few, and none attended our church. I’d seen some downtown and on the bus though I’d never spoken to one personally. What I would say to a Negro? What he would say to me?

Our last night, my mother and father went to a double feature, leaving us on our honor and with permission to order dessert from room service, two dollars each, tops. About eight-thirty we were watching TV when Jim punched me on the shoulder, saying follow him to our parents’ room. “Let’s me and you go out,” he whispered, “some things I want to show you.”

Great idea! Our after-dinner family strolls had been fantastic, like being inside a light bulb. “But how can we? We’re supposed to stay here.”

Jim gave me his sideways look. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Anyway, we’ll be back in plenty of time.”

“What about Catherine? What about her?”

“Leave little sister to me.” He led the way back to our room. Catherine looked up. She knew we were hatching something. “Me and Paul are going out,” he announced blandly, “you know, get some air, that kind of thing.”

“But the parents said stay here! If you go I’m coming!”

“Well, you can’t! This is men’s night out.”

“Oh, yeah?” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell on you!”

Jim smiled. “Listen, Catherine,” he said gently, “this means a lot to me and Paul. Be a good kid and shut up. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How?”

He shot a glance at me. “You can have our desserts, both of them. So how about it?”

That stopped her but not for long. “I want money, too,” she said, scowling.

Jim laughed. “Okay. A dollar.”

“THREE dollars!”

“Two.”

“Three! Or I tell!”

“Okay, okay,” he grunted. “Three.”

Five minutes later the revolving front door of the Jefferson Hotel spun us out onto the sidewalk. Jim lit a cigarette. “This place me and my friends found, you got to see it.”

“What kind of place?”

“You’ll see soon enough.” Striding away he yelled back at me. “C’mon! Let’s go!”

A couple of paces behind, I was one with the steamy night. Millions of people on the street, so alive, so different from home. Department stores, clothing stores, jewelry stores, books, toys, restaurants, delis with sandwiches and drinks, signs in Benny’s Yiddish. Every few blocks we came upon a stand with fruit and vegetables stacked in wooden trays right out on the sidewalk. “Getting close,” Jim announced after a lot more walking.

As we turned the next corner this odd feeling came over me that I’d been in this very place before. “Where are we?” I asked, puzzled.

“Times Square. There’s the ball you see on TV.”

Of course! It was daytime, the signs, light in motion, people everywhere. I was pleased to see Times Square, but sensed there was more to the plan. Jim had slowed down, looking for something. “It’s around here, I’m sure,” he said. We waited for a light to change then crossed, dodging a couple of cars that didn’t even slow down. He turned to me. “Now, listen, leave everything to me. I’ll do the talking, they ask you anything, tell them you’re eighteen but you forgot your I.D. Got that? You forgot your I.D.”

I nodded, not knowing what was going on. We approached a brightly lit theater building with a lot of light bulbs winking on and off. A man in a dark suit wearing a movie-type gangster hat was standing in front, then there was this sign –

* LIVE! * NUDE DANCERS! * LIVE! *

Hanging back, I noticed a large glass case on the wall beside the entrance with pictures of women without anything on. Jim went up to the man like he’d known him his whole life. The man made a gesture and Jim reached in his back pocket. The man squinted at his wallet, handed it back. Jim pointed at me and the man motioned me over. “Let’s get a look at you, sonny, I need to see your I.D.”

“I... I forgot it. I left it in the room.”

He scowled. “You’re not trying to pull a fast one, are you?”

I swallowed hard. “I’m eighteen,” I croaked, “I’m small for my age.”

The man shook his head. “No way, sonny. I let you in, I lose my job.”

Jim jumped in. “Thing is, he smokes a lot. He used to be bigger than me! Two packs a day! Since he was eight!”

“That kid’s eighteen,” he rasped, “I’m the man in the moon!”

“But I tell you...”

“Beat it!” The man stuck out his thumb like an umpire. “This here’s a high-class establishment. We don’t want no trouble.”

“But...”

“Scram!”

We skulked back to the street corner. “Damn!” Jim frowned and looked around. We were right in front of an all-night restaurant, a Needix. “Listen,” he said, pressing a couple of bills into my hand, “wait in there, get an ice cream or a hamburger or something. I’ll be back in half an hour, hour at the most. Okay?”

I nodded. What choice did I have?

“Sure you’ll be all right?” he said, edging away.

“No problem.” I felt disappointed. I went into the Needix and ordered two hot dogs and an orange drink. I spotted a newspaper which after a minute I grabbed and began reading. The New York Post. It was smaller than the Journal and the pages went up and down. I read the sports then started at the front and worked through the whole thing. Still hungry, I ordered a sundae to make up for the dessert he talked me out of, fudge sauce and nuts, whipped cream and a cherry. Another twenty minutes, still no Jim. I decided to leave. Walking slowly toward the theater I observed the man who had turned me away.

“Best show in town!” he was yelling, “No cover! No minimum!” Whatever that meant. But nobody was going in and not that many stopped, either. I took a deep breath and went up to him. “You again! You don’ understand English or what? I tol’ you to get lost!”

“I’m waiting for my brother,” I replied.

“Your brother.” The man’s face softened. “Okay, wait, but don’ give me no trouble.”

I walked up to the pictures of the naked ladies which close up I saw weren’t totally naked, there were these little stars on their chests and a piece of glittery cloth between their legs. Each of them had autographed her picture – Candy and Monique and Bambi and maybe eight others. The penmanship was excellent. I could hear music from inside.

The man lit a cigarette. He offered me one. “No thanks,” I replied.

“I didn’t think so.” Lighting up, he nodded at the pictures. “So whaddya think? Pretty good, huh? Like what you see?”

“Oh, sure,” I replied. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but he was right, too.

“Here we are,” he sighed, “me and you, you’re the only person in this whole friggin town wants to see my show and I can’t let you in. Ain’t that rich!” A couple of minutes passed and so did a lot more people who didn’t stop. The man looked at me and shook his head. “Bummer,” he said, “I don’ believe this shit.” Suddenly he looked left and right, then put his hand on my shoulder. “Here. C’mre.” He steered me toward the heavy dark curtain at the doorway. “Go on, take a look. But be quick.” He pulled the curtain back.

The room was dark except for dim lights and a small stage. This woman was up there, and far as I could tell, she had nothing on except that little cloth and a belt with bills sticking out of it and high heel shoes. She was wrapping herself around this pole like you see in fire stations, moving in time with the music though I wouldn’t call what she was doing dancing.

“That there’s Cheri,” the man whispered hoarsely, “she is really hot!”

How can she be hot, I wondered, with no clothes on to speak of. Now she was down on the floor, crawling toward the edge of the stage and heads that were looking up at her, then the music stopped and she stood and picked up this little pile of clothes and threw a shirt over her shoulders. People started to leave. Somebody was coming up the aisle, it looked a lot like Jim. It was Jim! I backed out and the curtain flopped shut.

Jim emerged, slitty-eyed in the glare. “‘Say, Paul, whadd’re you doing here?”

“I ran out of money.”

“Too bad they wouldn’t let you in,” he said with a scowl.

I looked at the doorman. He winked.

“Great show,” Jim said, walking away, “those babes are stacked but, boy, they rob you blind! Price of a couple of beers you could buy a whole case at home!” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and fished around inside. “Damn! My last one.” He balled the pack in his fist and heaved it into the street. “Y’know, Paul, something you just don’t unnerstan,’” he said, lighting his smoke, “you just don’t unnerstan’ how easy you have it.”

“Me easy! What are you talking about?”

“I mean compared to me.”

I couldn’t believe this! How many beers did he have!

“Having to live up to Dad. Push, push, push, all the time push, that is no picnic... I mean, it wasn’t. I dunno what’ll happen to me now.” He sighed. “You, you just bop along, mindin’ your own business. Lots of times I just wished I was you.”

I stared straight ahead. I had no idea he felt that way. Jim’s eyes were moist. “I been a shit to you sometimes. Sorry, Paul,” he put his hand on my shoulder, “sorry.” He crushed the cigarette under his heel. Fumbling around he pulled out a small crumpled wad. “Next time I’ll fix you up with a real fake I.D like mine. I am beat,” he hiccupped, “let’s get a cab.”

We were back with time to spare. Catherine was on the floor watching TV, her room service tray littered with dirty dishes. As soon as his head hit the pillow Jim was sawing wood. Catherine and I stayed up with an old movie but my parents came home and turned it off. Do I need to tell you, that night on the cot I had some very enjoyable dreams.