Читать книгу A New World - Robert M. Keane - Страница 12

Jim Meagher awoke Sunday morning at seven o’clock with a headache. He got up and pulled the shade, and lay down again for another five minutes, but he couldn’t sleep, so he put his shoes on and a sweatshirt over his pajamas and went downstairs. There was orange juice in a plastic container in the refrigerator, and he finished that, tilting it back on his head. He wanted to make coffee, but he knew there would be no chance of sleep after that, so he made tea. With a lot of milk and sugar, it tasted good.

He thought about Eva, and he went over the pros and cons of a plan he had been thinking about the night before: to invite her to that night’s party. He had about made up his mind to do it, in spite of his father. He wondered if it would be a good tactic to tell the father ahead of time, but he was doubtful. The father was liable to get mad, and this was no morning to alienate him, with the visit to Father Phelan in prospect.

He noticed how clean the kitchen was. The linoleum was spotless and the refrigerator shone like mother-of-pearl. Ralph was getting the full twenty-one-gun salute. There was even a basket of flowers on the table, with a red velvet ribbon around the base. Jim leaned close to read the tag: “pink and white sweetheart roses, babies’ breath and coxcomb.”

Florence padded down the stairs. Jim was surprised. She could usually sleep forever, cuddled up in a ball, especially on Sunday morning. She came into the kitchen wearing pajamas and her quilt-patterned housecoat. She had all kinds of metal in her hair. She looked at him in sleepy-eyed surprise: “What are you doing up?”

He asked her the same question and she replied that she couldn’t sleep.

“Where did you get this thing?” he asked, pointing to the flower basket.

“I bought it.”

“How much?”

“Ten dollars.”

She wasn’t awake yet or she wouldn’t have told him the price. “You’re out of your mind,” he cried. “You know that?”

“It’s a centerpiece for the table. Don’t you think it’s pretty?”

“For ten bucks it should be.”

“The babies’ breath is starting to die,” she said drowsily, fussing around in the basket.

“You want some tea?” he asked.

“Didn’t you make coffee?”

“No. I’m going back to bed.”

He poured her a cup of tea. She came to life as she drank it. “What did you do last night?” she asked.

“Went to the movies with Eva. I was thinking about asking her over this evening. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course.” She paused, then said, “Jimmy?”

She wanted something; it was in her voice. “What?”

“You know that piece you used to play on the piano?”

“‘Danny Boy’?”

“Yes. That one. Would you teach me it?”

“Teach you ‘Danny Boy’?”

“Yes.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Not the whole thing. Just a few notes.”

She got up and went to the piano in the living room. “Come on,” she called.

“It’s only a quarter after seven.”

“Just a few notes.”

“No. Daddy’s sleeping.”

“Just a few notes. You don’t have to play it loud. Hold the pedal down.”

She pestered him until finally he got up and went in to the piano.

“Play the right hand,” she said. He played the first dozen notes with one finger. She had her mouth pursed in absorption.

“Again.”

Then she tried the first few notes.

“It’s Ralph’s favorite song.”

“You can’t learn how to play the piano in five minutes.”

“Just show me those first couple of notes again.”

Jim played it again.

The father roared from the bedroom. “What in hell is going on down there?”

Florence flipped the wooden cover over the keys.

“It’s nothing, Daddy. I was just trying something. Go back to sleep.”

“Go to bed,” he roared.

“Okay. I am.”

The two of them went back to the kitchen. “What a stupid idea,” said Jim. Today of all days he didn’t want to aggravate the father.

They could hear him coming down the stairs. “Oh hell,” said Florence. “He’s up now.” She went to the living room to meet him.

“You don’t have to get up Daddy. It’s only twenty after seven.”

“I don’t know how a person is supposed to sleep when you’re thumping the piano down here. Are you gone cracked?”

“I was just practicing something,” she explained, following him into the kitchen. He had on the pants of one of his good blue suits and a pajama top. His gray-black hair was tousled.

“It’s a hell of an hour to be practicing something.”

He saw Jim. “Are you up too?” He went to the stove. “Is there no coffee made?”

“No,” said Jim.

“What are you drinking?”

“Tea.”

“You couldn’t make a pot of coffee?”

Jim got up from the chair. “I’ll make it now.”

“I’ll make it myself,” said the father. “Sit down.” He measured out the coffee and water, and put the pot on to boil. Then he sat at the table with the two children. “There’s neither one of you can make coffee as good as your father, anyway.”

“What time will you be back from Fordham today?” Florence asked him.

Jim gave her a look: she would have to bring it up.

“When I can,” said the father. “About three, I suppose.”

“They’re coming around that time,” said Florence, “so don’t delay.”

“What would I delay for?”

“How do you like the centerpiece?”

Harry looked at the flowers. “It’s all right,” he said. “The whole house looks grand. You did hard work.”

Florence beamed. “You’re going to like them, Daddy. I know you will.”

“I don’t know of any reason why not.”

“We’ll have fun. We can have some people in this evening. Jim is having Eva.”

There were often times Jim wanted to strangle Florence, and this was another one. If he hired a sound truck and announced his business up and down the avenue, it wouldn’t be half as effective as telling Florence. The father got his hackles up right away at the mention of Eva. “The Polack?”

“She’s not a Polack, Dad,” said Jim. “Her mother and father are Hungarian-born Americans, and she’s an American-born American.”

The father made a noise with his mouth. “Were you out with her again last night?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Have you intentions of marrying this girl?”

Jim was startled. “Who? Eva?”

“If you’re going out with her every week, certainly she has expectations.”

“We don’t go out every week.”

“Well it’s damn near to every week if it’s not every week.”

“It’s not anything serious.”

“Indeed ’n’ I hope it’s not anything serious. You haven’t your school finished yet. You haven’t a tosser in your pocket. Is there any sense in courting a girl?”

“What do you mean, courting?” Jim forced a laugh. “We’re just friends.”

The father made a guttural noise that was the equivalent of “horse shit,” but he didn’t say it.

“You’re making a big thing out of nothing,” said Jim.

“I’m just warning you for your own good.”

Jim stood up to leave. “Is it all right if I have her in this evening? I mean, you won’t take that for a formal engagement, I hope, if she comes this evening?”

“Have her in if you want,” the father replied. “She’ll be glad enough of something to eat, I suppose.”

“She doesn’t need anything to eat,” Jim retorted. “They eat better than we do.”

“Sure.”

Jim left the kitchen before they could get started on the Hairy Apple again. Was there anywhere a more pig-headed man?

Jim got to his room and nestled under the covers again. His resting spot was still warm, and it felt good. But he couldn’t sleep; he didn’t have any peace of mind. In a way, he had been looking forward to his act of revolt when he would bring Eva into the house. Now that it was all set, the father had taken all the pleasure out of it with his talk of expectations and marriage. Maybe she did have expectations of marriage. Why shouldn’t she? He’d make a good husband too. He imagined himself married to Eva. He could almost see her in the bed with him. He fell into a half-sleep, and he dreamt that he and Eva had their wedding night. It was a delightful dream.

But then the dream continued. Eva was standing in the front hallway of the Meagher home with her belly pushing out a maternity dress, and Mr. Meagher was standing beside her livid with rage. Jim, backed up against the wall, had chains around his arms and legs, and the father was shouting, “You gave her expectations! You gave her expectations!”

A huge, shapeless monster was suddenly descending on him, swallowing him.

He felt himself plunging off a precipice.

He fell down into hell, into the eternal fires.

He screamed.

Florence ran into the bedroom, and Jim suddenly became aware that he was lying on the floor beside the bed, tangled in the bedclothes.

“Jim! Jim! What’s the matter with you? You’re white as a sheet!”

She helped him untangle the bedclothes, and he got loose, and stood up and sat on the bed. “I’m all right.”

She bent over and looked into his face. She felt his forehead for a temperature. “Are you worried about school? God, you’re in a sweat.”

“I’m all right.”

“What’s the matter? Tell me.”

“There’s nothing the matter.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“You’re not getting a grippe?”

“Oh, stop it, will you? I’m all right. Let me get dressed.”

She left. He dressed and went to Mass. Sitting in church, he felt a heavy load of guilt. He had added a new betrayal. The dream wasn’t difficult to interpret: as soon as he had gotten Eva pregnant, he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. Good, kind, sweet Eva.

Yesterday, when everything was going wrong—Phelan called him a sneak, his father told him he wasn’t worth a shit, Florence told him there was something wrong with him—he went to Eva and she had bound up the wounds, and he betrayed her now too.

It was just a dream. But it wasn’t just a dream. It was him. His stomach was bouncing.

He left Mass, chastened, resolved to do good things.

Florence was waiting for him at home. “Jimmy? Would you do me a favor?”

“What?”

She was hesitant even to ask. “It’s a trip all the way downtown.”

“For what?”

“I forgot the cranberry sauce.”

“Okay.”

He was so compliant, she couldn’t believe it. “Do you feel all right?”

“Yeah, I’m all right.”

“I’ll make breakfast for you.”

He sat at the kitchen table and pulled the sports section out of the Times.

His father always bought the Times on Sunday before he went to Mass. It was the thickest paper on the newsstand, and therefore obviously worth the money. Florence fried Canadian bacon, chicken livers, blood pudding, slices of tomato dipped in batter, and two eggs. She was a great cook. Amid a constant stream of conversation, he tried to read Arthur Daley’s sports column. “You don’t mind if Ralph is bartender today, do you?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“You don’t mind if Ralph is bartender?”

“No. Of course not. What do I care?”

“It will make him feel good,” she said. “And it will give him something to do.”

She poured two cups of coffee and brought one to Jim, and sat opposite him to drink the other. He continued to read the paper, and nodded automatically as she talked.

“It’s not that he’s that way, really. It’s his mother. He says that she influenced his sense of himself. She’s very fearful. She put all kinds of restrictions on him when he was growing up. She wouldn’t let him go to the pool when the other kids went, because she was afraid he would get some kind of a germ. And she didn’t want him to drive. And things like that. He says she practically destroyed his self-concept. He needs a lot of reassurance. You like him, don’t you, Jim?”

“Huh?”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Yeah, he’s a nice guy.”

“He’s kind. Sometimes lawyers are shrewd and hard, but he’s not that way. He’s got brains too. He presents his own cases, and that’s very unusual. Usually the younger ones just help the older ones in court. But he presents his own. And he wins. He just needs someone to tell him all the time that he’s good. To give him confidence.”

She brought over the plate of food, and Jim put the paper down. “It’s a terrific position for a young lawyer,” she continued. “Like Ralph says, he can go in a hundred different directions. Dewey was District Attorney in New York, you know.”

“Yeah, it’s a good job,” said Jim, opening the yolks of the eggs with the prongs of the fork.

“I hope everything goes all right today.”

“You’re really sweating this dinner, aren’t you?”

“They’re not as easy to land when they’re over thirty.”

Jim looked at her in surprise. It was such a naked declaration, especially for Florence.

“The mother will be watching like a hawk today,” Florence went on, “And she can ruin me before I ever have a chance.”

“What is she? A real dragon?”

“She doesn’t want to lose her baby.”

“At thirty-three he’s not exactly a baby.”

“Well, you know. Talk to her today, will you?”

“Who? The mother?”

“Be nice to her,” said Florence.

“Yeah, all right.”

“I’m worried about Daddy,” she said.

“Don’t worry. He’ll be a big hit.”

“If the mother annoys him, he’s liable to tell her off.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jim. “He’ll be a big hit.”

“Do you think so?”

“Sure. He appeals to the masochist in women.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m only kidding. He goes over big with the women, though. You’ll see.”

“I’m worrying about Arthur,” she went on. “If he comes in high, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“I’ll keep an eye open,” said Jim. “And steer him out if I have to.”

“You will?” she said, encouraging him.

“Yes.”