Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes - Jan David Blais - Страница 7

“THOSE COMMENTS ABOUT THE IRISH – I suppose they’re nothing new to you, Gus.”

“You got used to it. And don’t you love that comeback? Nothing above the neck. I welcome excess! Quite a lady, and attractive too, though I met her only the once.”

“Your interest in slavery – did being Irish have anything to do with that?”

“Let me say, the British were very much a topic of conversation around the dinner table. I didn’t make the connection with how blacks are treated here, that came later.”

“Speaking of underdogs, you count the Jews as an oppressed people, surely.”

“Of course, though when they’re on top they seem to forget what it’s like with the boot on their neck.”

“Paul came to a similar conclusion.”

“And it made him unpopular in some quarters.”

“We’ll come back to that. I must say his Christ-killer remark is disturbing.”

“That’s a seven-year-old talking, Jonathan. Be patient, we’ll get to that, too.”

Over lunch I ask Jonathan a few questions. Turns out he hasn’t been altogether straight with me. He’s doing this piece for The New Yorker, all right, but he’s a free-lancer, not on staff as he led me to believe. Not that there’s anything wrong with free-lancers, but I am disappointed in him. “What else have you written?” I ask.

“Things for Esquire and Harper’s. Vanity Fair, the Times Sunday Magazine. A few years ago I did a big piece for Playboy on NBA teams signing kids out of high school. That made some waves. You see it?”

“I haven’t looked at Playboy in years,” I laugh. “Never could get past the pictures and after my interest peaked, so to speak, there was nothing left to hold me.”

“They’ve always had great articles and big-name fiction – Ian Fleming, Nabokov.”

“Sure, sure. And I know a really good bridge for sale. Anything else for The New Yorker?”

He shakes his head. “They have a staff guy who covers the same territory so I don’t hear from them that often. This article was my idea, I brought it to them.”

So, I think to myself, this is a very big deal for you, Jonathan Bernstein, though I won’t embarrass you by saying so. “How come you became a journalist?”

“It was my major at Columbia. I minored in History, you’ll be happy to hear.”

“You wouldn’t have known Hofstadter, you’re too young.”

“Jacques Barzun, I took courses from him.”

“Dick and I got together at conferences and the like. Well, I wish you well with the article. Whatever I can do,” I say, raising my glass which, by the way, was Poland Spring.

“You’ve already been a big help.”

That is true. He wouldn’t stand a chance without Paul’s letters and notebooks. With recent events, it has occurred to me other people might be wanting a look at them too, so I make a mental note to call Paul’s assistant – Susan, I think her name is – and ask her about the stuff in his office. I’ll need to go through that too.

“I went over my schedule last night,” Jonathan says, his brow furrowed. “This is going slower than I expected. You have Jennings set to record – right?”

“I told you I did.” I know Jonathan is under pressure but he is already starting to get on my nerves.

“By the way, do you still have the Times obit?”

“Of course. And a Globe and the Providence paper and our local rag though they didn’t have much. Why do you ask?”

“I must have misplaced my copy.”

This does not augur well, I am thinking, but I keep my mouth shut.

At six thirty we turn on the television. Near seven the tribute to Paul comes on. At the end the screen fills with Peter Jennings’ lean, handsome visage. “In coming days there will be other tributes and retrospectives on the life of our colleague, Paul Bernard. Tonight ABC was privileged to present this brief look at a giant in the news business and a close personal friend. For everyone at ABC News, I’m Peter Jennings. Good night.”

Jonathan looks puzzled. “Rewind to the ambush part,” he says. It’s essentially the same footage I taped that first night. I fast rewind then inch it ahead.

“I have ETVN’s tape too, if you want to see it.”

“I will, but there’s something odd here. Okay, stop it – there!” Jonathan gets to his feet and goes up to the television. “That’s the convoy,” he says, tapping the screen with his finger. “Three Humvees, an SUV, and Paul’s is the only one hit! Everything else is untouched! You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence!”

I spread my hands. I don’t know. I don’t disagree, but I don’t know.

“Somebody knew Paul was in that Humvee!” Jonathan’s eyes are bright.

“Maybe,” I say, “maybe not. More likely it was just bad timing.”

“That was no coincidence, Gus. Somebody targeted Paul. I’m going to find out who, and why.”

Good luck, I think to myself. Jonathan says shut it down which I do gladly. I have seen more than enough.

“Jennings said there’s nothing new on the attackers. I’d hate to be them if our guys ever catch up with them.”

“A chance in a million. It’s their turf. Turf beats technology every time.”

* * * * * * *

I WAS FIRST UP AS USUAL, 6:15 by my new watch. Dead to the world, Jim was rolled up in a blanket on my floor. He’d come in late, banging and grumbling about them giving his bedroom away. Every square foot of the living room was covered with relatives, my father slumped in his chair, Uncle Albert on the couch snoring, his legs draped over the end, his feet on a table. As a precaution Grandmother Kelley’s mother’s china lamp had been put on the floor. I opened the fridge and there it was – my ham. A forlorn carcass with a few scraps of meat. I stared longingly at the orange juice pitcher, the milk, the eggs. My stomach was complaining when my mother appeared, yawning and fussing with her hair. “So, you’re ready for your big day?”

“I’d rather have something to eat. Like Dad.” My father didn’t fast before he went to communion, something he called a working man’s exemption.

She filled the kettle. “May that be the worst cross you ever have to bear.”

“I suppose.” Something else had been bothering me. The year Catherine was born, when my parents remodeled the attic into bedrooms they added a tiny bathroom but mornings when the five of us were trying to get out it was a real squeeze. “How’ll we all get ready in time?” I asked.

She smiled, another one of her not-quite-a-smile smiles. “With your father’s relatives, bathing is not a high priority. Here,” she gestured toward the table, “sit a minute.” By now the kettle was whistling. She filled the coffee pot and put the lid on, the rest went into her antique teapot, the one with the little shamrocks.

“You’re such a good son...” she began, sitting down opposite me. The coffee was pinging into the metal pot. “...so good at school and never a bit of trouble.” What she really meant was, not like Jim. She stared at me, her lips pursed. When she was serious like this, she looked exactly like those pictures from her plays. “Tell me, do you believe the things they’re teaching you? I mean, do you really believe them?”

I was puzzled. What a strange question.

“If you had to walk to the end of the earth for your Faith, would you do it?” She paused, “well, would you?”

“I guess so,” I replied. “Sure.”

“Why?”

“Well... I suppose... it’d be the right thing to do?”

“Paul, listen to me.” She placed her hand on mine, “within every person are two forces, fear and love. Fear loses its power when the person ceases to be afraid. The person who loves, that person stays the course, he accomplishes great things. The Father Donnellys of the world, they rule by fear,” she said, shaking her head. “The world is cruel and men are weak, but never, never let those who carry Christ’s message tarnish it for you. It’s too pure, too fine to lose over the weakness of a few men.” Her eyes were ablaze. “A black robe is proof of nothing. The best priest is the one who steps aside and gets out of God’s way.”

The dripping had stopped. The pungent smell of coffee filled the room. “Some day you’ll understand. It’s sad, but the severest tests of your Faith may come from the very people God chooses to entrust with it.” She sat back and sighed. “But enough. You are young and this is your day. Just remember, your Faith can be a strength and joy, but the time may come when the price you pay for it is very dear.”

THE DAY STARTED OKAY. Sunny and warm, scent of flowers, young voices in song, even the organ playing was okay. Shirts and ties and those short pants they made you wear, the girls’ white dresses, Margaret, stomachs growling in the quiet moments. Only one thing went wrong but it was a beaut. I was returning to my bench after receiving communion and tried wetting the cardboard with spit so I could swallow it. Never, never chew! But now the warm soggy lump was glued to the roof of my mouth! I began twisting my jaw different ways, using my tongue to peel it off, but when I looked up there was Margaret Foley at the end of her row, laughing! Laughing at me! Seconds after qualifying for eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour, I wished I was dead. That was the only disaster I knew of. Nobody stood when he should have knelt or threw up or fainted, nothing like that. But then, what happened at home...

My mother started out planning a big affair with everyone we ever knew but, not so much for parties, my father put his foot down. For my part, the bigger the better – more cards, more money. In the end they invited a couple dozen, but the northerners threw everything off. The dining room was now too small for a proper sit-down dinner, even sticking us kids in the kitchen. Then there was the Great Ham War, though my mother recovered quickly, phoning her sisters who arrived after church with platters and dishes. In fact, she managed to transform our dining room table into a lavish buffet of roast beef, potato salad, cole slaw, hot rolls – you get the picture. And there, all by itself on a huge platter in the center of the table, the carcass, tied with a green ribbon and bow. Take that, Julien!

Tante Héloise was there, my father’s sister who lived in a tenement with her friend Tante Marie who wasn’t really my aunt. Tante Héloise was fat and jolly and never married. Though younger than my father, Tante Héloise had always looked old with her frizzy hair and shapeless dresses. She arrived with Uncle Antoine and Tante Roseanne. Aunt Moira and Uncle Eddie also, and of course my two dumb girl cousins, already holed up with Catherine. Grandmother Kelley came with my mother’s sister Aunt Mary Elizabeth Finnegan and Uncle Paddy and their two boys, my mother called them, cousins Steve and Terry, who weren’t boys at all but out of high school and out of work too, according to my father neither of them able to keep a job. They were tall and bulky, with red hair and freckles. Uncle Paddy used to work for the phone company but suffered an injury whose particulars nobody seemed to recall.

“Deadbeats, the whole bunch,” my father said, shaking his head.

Grandmother Kelley was extremely old and walked with a cane. She lived with the Finnegans – actually they lived with her – in the tenement she owned in North Providence. They said Grandfather Kelley made a lot of money during Prohibition. He’d been in the Merchant Marine in World War One and owned a boat I’d seen pictures of. For a time when my mother was young they lived well, part of the city’s burgeoning Irish elite, then came the Depression. One day they found Grandfather Kelley floating in the Providence River, his feet bound, one end of the rope frayed where the police said the weight broke away.

Having a taste for the good life, my mother had scratched and clawed to attain a position in local cultural circles, then everything changed when she met a handsome Canadian who with his brother owned a business which, by the day’s standards, was prosperous. Julien Bernard saw her picture in the newspaper for Hedda Gabler. A bouquet of roses appeared backstage and they were on their way.

“First play I ever went to,” I heard him brag more than once. “Last one, too.”

I guess she figured over time she could smooth the rough edges, small price to pay for security and a home and a base for her artistic ambitions. But then came the little ones, one, two, three, and her discovery that Julien’s unlettered coarseness was central to the man and beyond repair.

When we arrived home from church, my brother Jim volunteered to bartend. No surprise, there. More than once I’d caught him sneaking a beer to his room. Now he shuttled between house and the ice tub in the garage. My father had laid in a store of Hanley’s Ale for the Irish guests who preferred it to ’Gansett. He loved to provoke my mother by singing the Hanley’s jingle, same as “Rose of Tralee.” It wasn’t so much that he butchered it – everybody knew he couldn’t carry a tune – it was his slurring the words and wobbling as he sang. At least he had sense enough to back off when my mother set John McCormack on the Victrola for Grandmother Kelley. Whatever her mood, the sound of his voice would cause the old lady’s eyes to close and she would move her lips and hum, reliving happy times.

“Being this is a religious event we’ll be havin’ to shut your people off, Fiona. Three bottles and not a drop more,” my father said the day before as he and Jim lugged in the Hanley’s cartons, “three an hour, that is.” She didn’t appreciate that.

I hung around the front door greeting guests, accepting presents, mostly cards, which I didn’t mind at all. After a decent time I darted upstairs and spread the haul on my bed. Twenty three dollars! And more to come in the mail! By now everybody had a glass or a bottle and my aunts were herding people toward the food. Leaping in, I secured a large portion of roast beef. After stuffing myself, I went out to the screened porch where we sometimes set up cots for hot summer nights. Outside, Uncle Albert and Uncle Antoine were talking with my father under the basketball hoop he had built for Jim and me. They were smoking and sipping ’Gansett and looking gloomy, all of them. Uncle Albert was leaning against the post under the basket.

“Too bad, Julien, too bad... ” he was saying, shaking his head. I leaned forward to hear. “We was hoping you had some work for Pièrre. Hard as hell that boy works, honest and sober, he would do a good job for you, any job.” He sighed, “things are not good at home, mes frères. The farm don’t pay, there’s no other work. You heard they’re having a baby, him and Céline. I don’t want them to leave but I don’t blame them.”

My father shook his head. “It’s no picnic here, Albert. I laid off ten people last week. Machine tools went to hell after the war, no sign of them coming back. “By summer we’ll be laying off another fifteen, twenty people,” my father added, “skilled workers, them, machinists. That’s less jobs for everybody else.”

“What about the mills? You know the people run them.”

“The mills!” Uncle Antoine spat on the ground. “You come through Allens Avenue? Or Olneyville? Shut down, all of them, the windows broke, boarded up.”

Uncle Albert ground his cigarette in the dirt. “Eh bien. At least I tried.”

“How’s Mémère doing?” Uncle Antoine asked.

Mémère was sick with cancer. From the snapshots she was a small woman with white hair. She visited when I was born and had never returned. Uncle Albert shook another Chesterfield from his pack, tapping it against his lighter. “A matter of time. The pneumonia took it out of her last winter. We’re just trying to keep her comfortable.” Inhaling deeply he snapped the lighter shut. “One of these days you be getting a call.”

All of a sudden there was this loud crash from inside the house.

My father looked up. “What the hell...!”

I rushed back in. There in the middle of the living room was my cousin Steve, sitting in the wreckage of Grandmother Kelley’s mother’s lamp. Glowering, Pièrre stood over Steve. My mother was at the door, her hand to her mouth. Steve was rubbing his nose. His face and shirt were spattered with blood. He got to his feet. “C’mon, frog!” he yelled, “what’re you afraid of, frog?” The two of them began to circle. My father put his arm in front of my mother. “Let it run its course,” he said calmly.

“Not here! Not in my house!” She was staring at the shattered lamp.

“Let them have it out, ’long as it’s just the two of them.” My father glared at Terry Finnegan who was jawing with Pièrre’s brother Mathieu.

Suddenly Steve made a rush at Pièrre, butting him in the stomach with his head and driving him into the couch. Pièrre let out a loud “OOOF!” and they fell, rolling together on the floor. Now everyone was screaming. Steve was on top, pummeling Pièrre, but Pièrre rolled him over, driving his knee into Steve’s chest. Now he had him in a headlock.

“Salaud! Take it back! Take it back!” Pièrre was smaller than Steve but he was wiry. Now he was grinding Steve’s face into the carpet, smearing blood all over it. “Filthy cochon! Apologize, damn you!”

Despite his bulk Steve was quick and the better wrestler. Suddenly he exploded out of Pièrre’s hold. “Not on your life!” he shouted. Now they rolled the other way across the floor, crashing into the fireplace screen which collapsed over them. Steve was on top with his hands around Pièrre’s neck, banging his head against the flagstones. Pièrre’s eyes bulged, his face was purple and he was making little gurgling sounds. Suddenly a figure darted forward. Céline! Holding a ’Gansett above her head, she danced around with little steps, looking for an opening, then CRASH! Down it came, right on Steve’s skull! Moaning and holding his head Steve crumpled into the fireplace. The room fell silent.

Céline rushed to Pièrre, father of her unborn child, and bent over him, cradling his head in her lap. He was rubbing his throat, gasping for breath. Now everybody was milling around. Steve’s eyes opened. Dazed, he shook his head and sat up, trying to figure out what had hit him. Why that bottle didn’t break I’ll never know. Through the other guests’ legs the warriors spotted each other. By now my father was beside Steve, lecturing him. Steve tried to get up, but fell back. After a moment he rose to his knees and slowly crawled on all fours over to Pièrre. Pièrre opened his mouth. “Apologize!” he croaked.

Steve rubbed his head and inspected his hand for blood. “Yeah, well, that was the beer talking, I guess.” He stuck out his hand. “For a frog you fight pretty good.”

Pierre hesitated, then took Steve’s hand. “You ain’t half bad, yourself.”

A great cheer went up.

In tears, my mother was on her hands and knees putting the remains of the heirloom in a paper bag. Grandmother Kelley clucked on. Each clan ministered to its hero, mopping his face with wet towels. Catherine was already scrubbing the carpet. Aunt Moira motioned Aunt Mary Elizabeth Finnegan into the kitchen. A mellow mood began to settle over the house.

The doorbell rang. “Hey, Julien!” somebody yelled. “C’mere!”

My father elbowed his way to the door. I followed, thinking it was more cards, but it was a policeman! In uniform! And at the curb right outside our house, his cruiser!

“Bernie!” my father exclaimed, “what brings you here?”

The policeman had his cap in his hand. “Sorry to disturb you, Julien, but we had a report of a large amount of noise in the vicinity. From your house, in fact.”

“We’re having a little party. It’s my son’s First Communion.” He smiled down at me, “isn’t that so, Paul?”

I nodded, looking up at the policeman’s badge. He had a black leather holster on his hip. There was a gun inside – I saw the handle! What an amazing day!

“I got to ask you to tone it down, ’else I’ll have to make a report.”

“There’ll be no more cause for complaint.” My father reached into his pocket and extracted a bill, folding it into his palm. “By the way, I’m curious, who made the call?”

The policeman nodded at the house across the street.

“That figures.”

Everybody called them Old Mr. Southworth and Old Mrs. Southworth but I knew them only as shadows moving behind screens and curtains. My mother brought supper for Old Mr. Southworth whenever Old Mrs. Southworth went into the hospital which seemed quite often. Nothing wrong with their hearing, though.

“Next time, invite the old folks,” the policeman winked at me, “then make all the noise you want.”

My father reached out and shook the policeman’s hand. The bill disappeared. “Good advice, Bernie, we’ll do that.”

The policeman put his hat on and gave us a salute. “Just keep it down so everybody gets along.”

As he went down the steps I caught a glimpse of Old Mr. Southworth ducking away from his window. The policeman opened the door to his cruiser and my father patted my head. “Let this be a lesson to you, ti-Paul. It is important to have friends in the right places. You never know when it’ll come in handy.”

STANDING ON THE STEPS, I heard something happening. We went back inside – on the arm of the couch was Uncle Albert, tuning his fiddle. My father broke into a big grin. The last time the Bernard clan visited I was dragged to a dance at the Mongenais Club next to the French Church and was bored out of my mind until Uncle Albert sat in with the band and started playing. It was really something, this bear of a man with the huge hands making magic from a little piece of wood, his heavy shoes thudding out the beat.

“Fiona! Allons! Venons!” Uncle Albert yelled across the room. “A duet! Just for you I learned some Irish tunes!”

My mother was moving around the room, picking up dishes. Her jaw set, she shook her head firmly.

“Aw, c’mon! Just a coupl’a songs!”

“You go ahead, Albert. I’m not in the mood.”

His face fell. I was disappointed, too. It was fun hearing her play the piano with other people. Usually she played alone and sang, from old books with German and French words, sheet music with blue covers and men and women in canoes under the moon, or Molly Malone and Galway Bay her mother always asked for. But this time it was not to be.

Then Uncle Albert unwound and put the fiddle to his chin, and the room quieted. He began sawing away, first a slow number then a fast one that everybody clapped to. Next the Irish Washerwoman and Aunt Moira stepped forward, kicking up her feet. Nothing ever kept her from having a good time. She collapsed into a chair out of breath. The music went on. People sat on the floor, singing. I thought maybe I should take piano lessons like my mother wanted. Catherine had since she was five and I had to admit wasn’t bad. I liked music but hated the idea of being inside on a nice day. Maybe later when I was older.

Around three, everybody began to stand and stretch. After much fussing with coats and hats, dishes people brought and so on, the house began emptying out. Outside under the hoop, Uncle Albert had his hand on my father’s shoulder. My father was nodding. A few minutes later, I saw Tante Jeanette carrying her suitcase into the living room. What was happening? My father came back in, looking gloomy. Uncle Albert was shaking his head.

“No, no, better we get back tonight. Rest up tomorrow, be ready for the week.”

Cousin Céline came up to me. “Thank you for letting us be part of your big day,” she said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. Céline was small and pretty and smelled nice. Tante Geneviève put her arms around me. “Come see us, ti-Paul, we be disappointed if you don’t.” They filed out to their cars, luggage piled into the trunks, a lot of hugging and tears. I looked around. I knew Jim had taken off, but... “Where’s mom?” I asked.

My father frowned and shook his head.

After the cars pulled away, I went looking for her. My search ended at the bedroom door. Catherine saw me standing there. “Ma was really mad about the lamp and the fighting and Dad didn’t stop it and the police came. It was so embarrassing!” She tossed her head, “I bet you don’t even know how it started!” She was right, I had no clue.

“Steve made a joke about Tante Geneviève’s moustache, and Pierre...”

“Her what?”

“Her moustache, fool! You mean you never noticed it?”

Sure, there was a little dark fuzz there... actually if you thought about it, it did look odd, but it wasn’t a moustache. Women didn’t have moustaches. I didn’t know what it was.

“Pièrre told Steve to take it back, but he wouldn’t, that’s what started it! See!”

Well, I didn’t blame Pièrre. If somebody made fun of my mother, I’d fight him, too.

“And who ever heard of people coming to visit and not telling you ahead,” Catherine was going on. “Of course Ma wouldn’t play the piano! How could he even ask? Good thing they left, if you ask me! Good riddance!”

First up next morning, I did my usual house patrol. My parents’ door was closed but this early that was normal. What wasn’t, finding my father on the couch in a blanket, his legs over the arm like Uncle Albert’s the night before, but this morning no lamp on the floor, no lamp at all. Chin in hand I sat on the stairs, pondering the remains of my perfect day