A Bad Man (7 page)

“Hmph,” she said.

Spread your legs, he thought. Touch your right tit with your left instep.

The oxen were in line now and the farmer stepped back. “Gee-up,” he yelled, waving his hat at them. “Gee-UP!” The animals stepped forward powerfully, taking up the slack on their chain harness. They strained at the heavy sled, stumbling, their muscles jumping suddenly under their thick flesh. “
Gee-UP!
Whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh, whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh!” The burdened sled nine feet forward in the dirt.

The crowd applauded, Feldman’s son clapping with them.

“Thataway, William, good work there, Joe,” he called. Hey, Willy, yo, Jo, he wanted to call aloud. Hey hey. Hi yo. Hee hee. Yo yo. Hey hi yo hee ho! Whoosh, boys. Whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh.

“I thought I saw William spit there, Joe. No fair greasing the runners,” the announcer said.

Feldman’s son laughed.

“All right, folks,” the announcer said, “next up’s a pair of brown Swiss from the Stubb-Logan farm over county in Leeds. That’s George Stubb up front, Mr. Gumm at the hitch. You been feeding them roosters, George? They look to me like they did some growing since the last pull.”

At 9,500 pounds only Huncher and Stoop and the Leggings brothers were still in the contest. The matched yellows, his favorites because they were the crowd’s, were unable to move the sled even after three trys.

He applauded as Joe Huncher led the team away. He leaned forward and cupping his hands shouted down at them: “That was near five tons on that sled there, Joseph. Hose those boys down now, William. Hose those boys down.” Stoop waved vaguely toward the unfamiliar voice, and Feldman’s son smiled. “A man works up a sweat doing that kind of pulling,” he said to his neighbor.

The Leggings brothers led their oxen, sleek and black as massive seals, toward the sled to make the hitch. They maneuvered them back carefully and one brother slapped the ring solidly onto the peg.

“Come,” the other brother commanded. “Come. Come. Come.” The two beasts struggled viciously forward. It seemed they would strangle themselves against the yoke. They stretched their necks; their bodies queerly lengthened. There was a moment of furious stasis when Feldman’s son thought that either the chain must break or the beasts themselves snap back against the sled, breaking their legs. Then he saw the thick wooden runners scrape briefly sideways, and the animals dragged the load five feet.

The announcer called the brothers up to collect their prize.

“Just a minute. Hold your oxes,” a voice called. It was his father, standing in front of the judge’s stand looking up. “Your Honor,” he called, “Your Honor.”

The crowd recognized him, laughing. The boy heard his father’s name repeated like a rumor up and down the grandstands.

“What is it?” the announcer asked over the loudspeaker.

“Your Honor,” Feldman said, “the contest ain’t over.”

“Of course it’s over. What do you mean it’s not over?”

It sounded like a routine. The son wondered if it was. “It’s part of the show,” he turned around and told the woman behind him. “It’s part of the show, Miz Johnson.”

“Now what’s the meaning of this interruption, Isidore?” the announcer asked.

Yeah, Izidore, what? the son thought. Vat iz diz?

“These Leggings brothers are waiting for their check,” said the announcer.

“It’s not fair,” Feldman shouted. “Anyway, the little one pushed from behind.” The crowd roared. “Let it stand, but give a man a chance, Your Honor.”

“What are you saying, Isidore? You mean you want to be in the contest too?”

His father flexed his arm, and the crowd laughed harder than before.”

“Do you folks think Isidore Feldman here should take his turn?” They cheered. “All right, Isidore, let’s see what you can do then,” the announcer said.

Feldman walked past the sled and looked at it for a moment but did not stop. “Cement,” he called roughly, pointing to the massive blocks chain-belted to the sled. “Cement for sale. Cash and carry.”

“Make your hitch there, Isidore,” the announcer called. He seemed annoyed. The son had an idea now it might not be an act.

Alarmingly, Feldman suddenly began to run. As he ran he shouted up to them, blowing out his phrases in gasps. “Wait, wait—while you’re here—I’ve got—something to show you.” He ran across the small stadium and pushed open a gate in the low wall. Feldman’s son recognized the wagon, piled incredibly high. His father placed himself inside the long wood handles and bent far forward, like one in a storm. A tarpaulin had been spread over the load, so that it looked like a mountain. He seemed heroic. The people gasped as the wheels began slowly to turn and the wagon, the mountain inside it, began to move. He came steadily forward. “Talk about strength,” he intoned as he came, “heavy as earth, terrible tons, see how I pull it, drag it along, I break all the records, an ant of a man, prudent as squirrel, thrifty as greed, they’ll be a winter, who’ll make me warm?”

He brought the wagon to rest a few feet from the grandstand and straightened up. He turned around, and grabbing one corner of the tarpaulin, pulled at it fiercely. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, shouting, “
THE INVENTORY!
”

“Things,” he called, “things here. Things as they are. Thingamabobs and thingamajigs, dinguses and whatsits. Whatdayacallits, whatchamacallits. Gadgets and gewgaws. Kits and caboodle. Stuff. Stuff here!” He stood beside the pile, studying it. “What’s to be done with the unsalable thing?” He pulled at his sleeve like one reaching into dishwater for a sunken spoon and slipped his hand with gingerly gentleness into the center of the pile. “Teakettle,” he said. He pulled out a teakettle.

“We will trade together,” he said seriously. He advanced to the railing at the foot of the stands, the small kettle swinging like a censer before him. “Diaspora,” he called. “America, Midwest, Bible Belt, corn country, county fairgrounds, grandstand. Last stop for the Diaspora, everyone off.” He recognized his son in the stands and winked hugely. “All right,” he said, “I just blew in on the trade winds, and I’m hot see, and dusty see, and I’m smelling of profit and smelling of loss, and it’s heady stuff, heady. I could probably use a shower and a good night’s sleep, but business is business and a deal is a deal.” He held out the kettle. “All right,” he said, “This from the East. All from the East, where commerce begins. Consumers, consumers, purchasers, folks. I bring the bazaar. I’ve spared no expense. Down from the mountains, over the deserts, up from the seas. On the hump of a camel, the back of an ass. All right. Here is the kettle, who drinks the tea?” He leaped over the low rail and rushed into the stands. “Buy,” he demanded, “buy, damnit,
buy, I say!
” He chose a farmer and thrust the kettle into the man’s hand. He waited. The man tried to give the kettle back, but Feldman’s father wouldn’t take it; he folded his arms and dodged, bobbing and weaving like a boxer. “Pay up,” he shouted, “a deal is a deal.” The man made one more attempt to give it back. “All sales final,” his father said. “Read your contract.” At last the man, embarrassed, dug into his overalls and gave him a coin. His father held it up for the crowd to see. “Object’s no money,” he said scornfully. Passing his son, he took the sheet of notebook paper the boy still held. He sold it, then returned to the wagon. “Come,” he said over his shoulder. “Come. Come. Come.” Several followed him.

Again and again Feldman dipped into his pile. He pulled things out, handling, caressing, rubbing value into everything he touched. He signaled them closer. “Come,” he called to those still in the stands. “Come. Come. Come.” One by one they left the stands to crowd round his wagon. In ten minutes only his son was still in the stands. His father climbed into the wagon and yelled to the announcer. “I win, Your Honor.” He indicated the large crowd beneath him that he had brought from the stands. He pointed suddenly to his son. “I can’t move that item,” he confessed.

He disappeared behind his inventory. “I’ve got the goods,” he shouted, “and that ain’t bad.” In half an hour the pile had diminished, and his father, still in the wagon, seemed to have grown taller. He waved to his son. “Are you learning anything?” he called to him over the heads of the crowd.

Gradually the people began to drift away. There were still two or three things unsold, and Feldman reached down and held a man’s arm. “Wait,” he roared, “where are you going? You think I’m through with you? This is winter I’m talking about. This is the cold, sad solstice. Just because the sun is shining over us now, you think it’s stuck up there? You take too much for granted. You buy something, you hear me?” He bent down and picked up a carved, heavy leg from an old dining-room table. “Here,” he said. “A wonderful club. For your enemies. You got enemies? No? Then build a table over it and invite your friends to supper.”

Finally there was nothing left to sell and the people had all gone. His father still stood in the wagon, tall, forlorn as a giant. The oxen passed beside him, led by their owners. “What’s to be done with the unsalable thing?” Feldman crooned.

His son, in the stands, stared at him without moving. “What is the unsalable thing?” he called.

“The unsalable thing? My God, don’t you know?”

“No.”

“No?”

“You never told me.”

They were shouting to each other.

“I didn’t?”

“Not once.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“I had to tell you? You couldn’t guess?”

“I never bothered.”

“Some son.”

“Well?”

“Well what? What well?”

“What is it?”

“What is what?”

“The unsalable thing.”

“It’s me,” he said.

A year later his father began to cough. The boy was always with him now on the wagon. During the choking, heavy seizures, brought on, it seemed, by the swelling, passionate spiels themselves, his son would take over the cries, shouting madder and madder things into the streets. The cough grew worse; it would begin as soon as he started to speak.

Feldman went to the doctor. “It’s cancer,” he told his son. “I’m dying.”

“Can he operate?”

His father shook his head. “It’s terminal.” He coughed.

“Terminal,” his son repeated the word.

“Sure,” his father said, coughing so that he could hardly be understood. “Last stop for the Diaspora. Everyone off.”

The boy went to the doctor and conferred with him.

Three months later, when the old man died, his son got in touch with the doctor. They argued some more, but it was no use. The doctor, on behalf of the tiny hospital, could offer him only fifteen dollars for the body.

6

W
here are
you
going?” the guard asked.

“I’ve been sick in my cell, and I never got an assignment. I was told that I had to see a guard.”

“Plubo. You have to see Plubo.”

“Yes. Him.”

“Where’s your pass? You can’t get through here without a pass.”

“Where do I get a pass?”

“The Fink makes out the passes in this wing. Or the warden if he’s around.”

“Where do I find the Fink?”

“Through that door.” He pointed down a long corridor.

Feldman began to walk toward it.

“Wait a minute, you.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll need a permission slip to get a pass from the Fink. The Fink is only a trusty. He can’t write one up on his own authority.”

“Where do I get a permission slip?”

“From a guard.”

Feldman waited.

“Oh,
I
can’t give you one if that’s what you think. You get permission slips from pencil men. There have to be rules,” he said.

“Where do I find a pencil man?”

“Return to your cell. Don’t you know anything? The pencil man is the counter.”

Oh, he thought. There were major counts four times a day when a bell rang and the prisoners had to freeze, as in a fairy tale or a child’s game. Minor counts occurred every half-hour, when a guard came through carrying a clipboard. He was the counter, the pencil man. Feldman went back to his cell. He found out he had just missed the pencil man and would have to wait twenty-five minutes for the next one.

He lay down on his cot to wait, but he fell asleep. When he woke he called out to some convicts playing Monopoly in the corridor. “Has the pencil man been through?”

“Ten minutes ago,” a man said.”

Feldman sat up and waited for the next pencil man. When he saw him he called out at once.

“Thirty-eight,” the pencil man said. “Remind me. I stopped at thirty-eight. What is it?”

Feldman explained what he needed.

He showed the permission slip to the Fink, and the Fink gave him a pass. Feldman started to walk off.

“Hold it, smart guy.”

“What?”

“Let’s have that permission slip back. That has to be destroyed. Got any cigarettes?”

“Yes.”

“Give us four smokes. What are they, plain-tipped or filters?”

“Filter.”

“Give us
six
smokes, and I’ll let you keep the permission slip.”

“I don’t need it.”

“You don’t need it now, but suppose you need it later? Suppose that? Suppose you miss your pencil man and have to wait half an hour?”

Feldman nodded.”

“You see?” the Fink said. “You can never find a pencil man when you need one.”

“But the slip is dated.”

“Only the quarter. It’s the loophole. There’s got to be rules and there’s got to be loopholes. You don’t know anything about this place, do you?”

“I guess not,” Feldman said.

“That’s all right,” the Fink said. “Some of the lifers don’t know much more than you do. The oldest lifers are still learning. Not even the warden knows everything about it.”

Feldman gave him the cigarettes.

The Fink winked. “At lunch rub it in the butter.”

“Why?”

“It preserves it. Otherwise the permission slip gets all yellow and wrinkled. You grease it down, that won’t happen.”

“Oh.”

“Usually I get a couple more cigarettes for that tip.”

“I see.”

“It’s not part of the service.”

“I gave you my last cigarettes.”

“Better yet. You owe me. In this place always get a guy to owe you.”