30 Pieces of a Novel (32 page)

IN
THE
PARK
with his mother, sitting at a refreshment-stand table, she in her wheelchair, when a man with a bowl and a bell in the middle of it, and dollar bills and change around the bell, stops two young women walking and says, “Ring the bell and make a wish and don't tell Momma. You can make it in any language. Whatever you put in you'll get back a hundred times.” The women laugh and he says, “Say, this is serious business I'm talking here, proven facts. Make a wish after you stick a little donation in the kitty, and it gets me a good meal tonight, and I like to eat.” One of the women puts a coin in and holds up the bell. “Ring it,” the man says. “Concentrate on the clapper. Ignore the neighborhood and chirping trees and there's entirely too much green. Close your eyes, ring-a-ting gently, be relaxed.” She shuts her eyes, rings, puts the bell back in the bowl. He says, “Nice ring, one of the most refulgent I've heard. Is that a word?” One raises her shoulders, the other indicates with her face she doesn't know. “Don't ask me, or even if it was used right. Knowing the accuracy of my vocabulary, probably not. But my command is now your wish, and my digestive tract salutes you,” and he goes over to an older couple who've been watching them from the next table and says, “Ring the bell and make a wish, half price for seniors with IDs. Be relaxed, don't gloat. Close your eyes and stick some money in, and whatever your wish is don't tell Mommy. Never tell Mommy. And it gets me a good meal tonight, and do I love to eat? Even though I'm a skinny-marink, you're allowed to say I do.” The man of the couple puts a coin in and rings the bell. Gould knows the man with the bowl's eventually going to come to them. Hopes not, as he doesn't want to deal with the guy—wish, do anything like that—and is afraid what his mother might say. The man stops a woman holding a dog in her arm and says, “Make a wish and ring the bell. Half price for seniors with IDs, ten percent off that for women walking dogs, and a hundred percent off for anyone out here today on ice skates. You can make this wish in any language you choose, but don't tell Momma. Whatever you put in the pot—” and the woman says, “Catch me tomorrow,” and the man says, “That will do. I mean, that I will do, thank you,” and eyes Gould and holds the bowl out to him. “Ring the bell and make a wish. Whatever you put in the kitty you'll get back a hundredfold, and don't tell Mommy.” “This is my mommy, and there's nothing I want. So I don't see how getting back a hundred times of nothing I want will help me in any way.” “Your mommy then, maybe she wants to make a wish?” and Gould says, “No, why should she?” and looks at her and she's smiling at the man, and he says, “All right, maybe she does. Do you, Mom?” and she says, “What do I got to lose?” “Good,” for even that—the response and her smile—is something, and he puts a quarter in the bowl, the man looks at it as if he's used to getting more—though the last man gave only a quarter, and the young woman dropped a single coin in and by the sound of it he thought it was a quarter—and the man hands her the bell. “Close your eyes and wish, but don't forget to ring it,” and she shuts her eyes, opens them in a few seconds, and says, “What do I do?” “You ring the bell after you make a wish, and everything you wish for will come back to you a hundred-tenfold. But don't tell your momma, and you can make the wish in any language. French, Spanish, Pakistani—do you know Pakistani?” and she says, “What? Me? What?” and the man says, “Even if you don't, for who does?—and we don't even know if it is a language, so you're off the hook, Mommy—make a wish and you'll get back a hundred-ten times what you put in or, just to be even, a hundred times,” and she says, “I know what I'd wish for, and a hundred times that would be gratifying. It isn't money,” and the man says, “Don't snitch what it is or isn't. For it to come true, tell no one, not even your money—I mean your mommy.” “My mother's been dead a long time,” and the man says, “I'm sorry to hear the news, but I won't say it's surprising. Blessed be your mother and blessed be you, my dear lady, kaddish aforethought, though I'm no priest or certified clergy of any sort. I used to train alligators in Florida, I want you to know. But this is what I have to do to stay off welfare. A wishman. I would even change my last name to Wishman to make it official—to make it my first name, that would be eccentric—but people might mistake it for Wiseman, and that I'm not. Now close your eyes, hold the bell upright, concentrate on it, ignore your neighborhood, be relaxed, be gentle, and gently tinkle.” She shuts her eyes, opens them. “Did we put anything in your bowl?” and Gould says, “I took care of it,” and the man says, “Sparingly, though, so if either of you cares to contribute a mite more to secure your wish a hundredfold, it'll be received generously. When I was a trainer in Florida, there were three female alligators to each male. I don't think that's the rule throughout the world Loricata population. When the lady alligator was in heat, we'd open the hatch to her quarters to let the gentleman alligator in. That's all I'll say on the matter. Then I went into the alligator glove business and was doing well till accessories of any sort made with that skin were outlawed. It's still legal in Paraguay, but it gets too steamy there and the natives are restless. But make a wish and you'll get it back a hundred times, and don't tell Sonny. Tell nobody. This is a private wish,” and Gould says, “Make it already, Mom,” and she shuts her eyes, man says, “Don't forget to ring the bell after and put something in the pot if you can; it'll help me get a good meal tonight, and do I like to eat? Don't ask.” “I told you, I already put something in,” and the man says, “So you did, thanks. Then this one's on the house; if it's her first and only wish, then it isn't.” She moves her lips, rings the bell, opens her eyes, and raises them, as if thinking of something. “Now put the bell back—that seemed like a very good wish—and don't tell Junior,” and, to Gould, “You know anyone else here?—got an in, we'll say, at that third table?—because I can really use the business and my tummy the activity, not to mention my underemployed digestive system. I make a big killing from it, I'll cut you in ten percent,” and he says, “Sorry.” “Have a kind day, nice lady,” and goes to some people at the refreshment counter and does the routine for them. His mother's staring at the paths in front of them with lots of people walking, cycling, roller-blading, smiles when she sees a small child or a wheeled or carried baby. Wishes, he thinks, what bunk. But if he were making one—forced: “A wish or your life”—what? Nothing, or maybe for a little more money to live on, but how would that come? so forget it. But these are wishes, magically granted or you've passed some tests to earn them, so, more money, but that's not what he wants. That he not get tired so early in the day so he could have the energy to do more than he does? Come on. Good health he's got, along with good teeth, just that all the daily chores and work wear him down. So maybe that there wouldn't be so many chores, but then who'd do them? And besides, he wouldn't want anybody else but his family around or in his way. More hair on top and to be six-three, his goal as a teen? Maybe a young beauty to go along with it risk-free for a day? No, just kidding. Then why'd he think it? Because he was kidding. Example of his lack of imagination. So, for more imagination for things to wish for. But there's really nothing he wants for himself; he wasn't just brushing the guy off before. Now, for others: peace and prosperity and such for the whole world, of course, but that's so dull, general, and insincere. Then: all the land mines of the world dug up, the guns and bombs and stuff chucked. Get smaller: his wife being well, able to walk, his kids well too: no big sicknesses, horrors, dangers, et cetera. His mother to be well. But she's lived a long life and her health's been pretty good, considering, so what should one expect? as that guy with that no-surprise line sort of said. Just no debilitating illness and pain and long-drawn-out death. And for now that she could get around on her own more, see better—because she can hardly read print an inch high and she loved newspapers and books—and her disposition much better, and that they had more to say to each other. He takes her to the park and they just sit there, each staring at the people passing, into space, off with their own thoughts, like this one. That they had long conversations about lots of things, that her hearing was better too so she wouldn't have to say back so much, “What? What?” or, more often, pretend she heard him. But to have something to say. Wishes he did and she responded to it and he responded to that and the two to three hours they spent together nearly every day went quickly and enjoyably for both and they'd look forward to seeing each other the next day. Well, maybe they still do—he knows he likes getting her out and a good lunch in her—but also to the liveliness of it. But they don't talk much: she usually with the same questions and answers that have little to do with anything. “Where are the children, in school?” and he'll say, “Camp.” “Camp?” and he'll say, “Day camp, I pick them up after I leave you at home.” “When does school begin for them?” and he'll say, “It just finished. It's June. It doesn't start again till the first week in September, almost three months away.” “They're done with it? You must be very proud. How's your wife?”—it must be she can't remember Sally's name, as she never uses it when she asks a question like this—and he'll say, “Fine, good as can be expected.” “Glad to hear it. But you leave her home alone?” and he'll say, “It's all right, she can get around, and I call her every other hour or so, just in case.” “Good,” and often right after that, “Where is home for you these days?” and he'll say, “We're in our apartment here now. But usually we're in Baltimore, where I work, and in July we're going to Maine, but we'll see you on the way back for a week.” “You're lucky, all that traveling,” or, “It must be nice in Maine, not hot like this city, though I've never been there so I can't say,” and he'll say, “You've been there—just not recently; it's become too difficult for you. I've explained all this to you before,” and she'll say, “Have I been there? How come I can't remember? You must be kidding with me,” and he'll say, “I'm not. You'd stay for a week to ten days, come in and out by plane. I'm sorry,” and sometimes she'll say, “What for? You should live it up while you can,” and he'll say, “Having you there wasn't a problem. We liked it, and it gave you a good rest,” and she'll say, “Why, what did I say?” Then later she'll ask again about the children, where are they today, how come he didn't bring them with him, he knows she loves to see them too. “Are they all right? You're not holding anything back from me?” and he'll say, “They're in day camp now, I told you that, Mom, and I brought them over to see you a few days ago,” and she'll say, “Did you? It must have been longer than that, else I would have remembered. My memory has lapses, but it's not so bad as you think. Has school started for them yet?” and so on. Then, somewhere in all this, that she knows his girls have birthdays the same month and she always gives them presents and she forgot to this year and wants to write out two checks and doesn't want him saying no. “How much do you think I should give? Be honest, I don't want you to think I'm cheap, but would twenty dollars each be enough?” and he'll say, “You're right. They're two weeks apart and in the same month, November, and you gave them checks for their birthdays last year.” “What month is it now?” and he'll say, “June,” and she'll say, “June, so soon? I thought it was that other month.” “What other month?” because her doctor once told him that when she gets things wrong like this to ask her what she thinks it is, like if she says, “I want to go home now,” when she is home, he should say, “Why, where do you think you are now?” and she'll say, “Just one of the months: November. How can it be June?” and he'll say something like, “Time goes, you know,” or, “How can it be November? Really, Mom, it's so warm and all the trees are full of leaves and it doesn't look or smell anything like November. November has a decomposing smell in the park around that time of the year, leaves rotting and turning and blowing down around you and so forth. And the trees are already half bare and it's usually much colder than it is now; we could never be sitting here like we are, or not for as long,” and she'll say, “So it isn't November. You're right, how could it be? A real dumb mistake, so shoot the old dog,” and he'll say, “No, it's nothing. Not one everybody would make, but my memory or sense of where I am occasionally plays tricks on me too.” So he wishes they had more to say, she wouldn't repeat herself so much, was more in touch with things. But for him, what? He's losing it too and he wishes he wasn't. What he's said to her about his memory and sense of things—some truth to it. Can't remember lots of things. Can't find his memo book he puts things down in to help his memory.
Loses his pen, watch, keys, wallet, glasses all the time. Finds them in the most unlikely spots—refrigerator once, kitchen cabinets a couple of times. Loses his ability to speak coherently sometimes, but in a way where when he tries correcting himself he forgets what he started out to say and then bumbles all over himself trying to correct that. So, wish? For a younger, better brain, twice the capacity and memory it has now, but that can't be what the man meant. That he was livelier. Usually physically energetic, but never an especially interesting guy to anyone, he's become even duller and more boring lately, barely says anything anymore, so why's he think if her mind and hearing were in better shape, he'd be able to have a good conversation with her? He's interested in his kids and what they do and a few books and some items in the paper day to day and his work, but nothing that he likes to talk about, and other than for some things his wife does, that's about it. Wine, but after the first two sips, he just drinks it, so that's the list. And wine and food and stuff, unless he really got involved in cooking, shouldn't be on it. Music, but just to listen to at home and in the car, so probably a few other things. He feels sorry—