JR (13 page)

what was stopping up the plumbing in the junior high be careful, they're all over the floor …"

—Bat the, the junior high?

—There's programming for you… Gibbs knocked a shoe against the baseboard, —speak of tangibilitating unplanlessness where'd you pick up that language, Whiteback?

—You, you have to speak it when you talk to them here Senator we, this way, we'll get some paper towels in the boys' room, Dan? Can you just reach over and, reach that? turn that thing off?

—Still want to get together on this remote special Whiteback, put it on tape for these Foundation people after this disgraceful exhibition you put on here today we might be able to cut our losses…

—I said off Dan, not up …

—Send your remote unit out to my shelter, tie the whole thing in with what we…

—Off, the knob marked off …

—Leroy must have got these knobs on backwards.

—Out to the right, Whiteback led them in order of importance.

—Remember… ? said Gibbs over diCephalis' shoulder, glancing up at the portrait as he reached to close the door behind them —when Eisenhower's doctor told the press this country is very interested in bowel movements?

—It's marked boys…

The door swung the word Principal hollow behind their backs, leaving the only voice chiding in miniature from the desk where the telephone lay, the only face, where nothing had happened framed high on the wall there all this time to change the expression unchanged by a boy's lifetime at the country's helm "focusing on ideas rather than phrasing" with the plea "let's not forget, above all things,

the need of confidence and that, of course, I think nationally, it is what do you and I think of the prospects, do we want to go buy a refrigerator or something that is going to, that we think is useful and desirable in our families, or don't we? And it is just that simple in my mind."

Dead before their eyes, the clock severed another of the minutes that lacked the hour, —oh. Coming out? asked diCephalis and then, paused pulling at the lateral handle of the door under the word push,

—can I ride you somewhere?

—I'd rather you didn't, Gibbs said holding the door opened for him, stopping to find a cigarette, to pat pockets for the rattle of matches in

a box, gazing up at the Greek letters over the portal as he lit it and then back after the diminuendo of diCephalis' retreat until that reared off in the form of a car aiming its impressively gathered speed at its crippled mate in green parked just outside the gate where with a reassuring look around the blind corner, Leroy motioned him, full career ahead, a course halted shudderingly abrupt as from the green wreck at the curb emerged the amorphous figure of its owner holding a small rolled black umbrella by its handle of simulated birch, recoiling, at that instant, from the flamboyant arrival of diCephalis on the one hand and, on the other, a mail truck from the blind corner that passed like a shot.

—Gosh!

—That, that's mine, that umbrella.

—This? Gosh … And it was handed over on a note of apology given cyclopean definition by the loss of a lens.

—She took it by mistake. Not mine exactly, my little boy's, diCephalis shouted as the roar of his engine rose. —I took it by mistake … and as he swerved into the open Leroy's smile hung in the rearview mirror, down the block, through the arboreal slaughterhouse of Bur-goyne Street, he kept looking up to the mirror as though it might still be there, even glancing into a wall mirror passing through the studio corridor as if to find it and reflecting no recognition for the face he saw instead, none in fact till he came on three versions of his wife on as many monitoring screens doing what, in another costume and to other music, might have been the concluding swoop of a tango, prompting the director to select a static bit of folk art so that her program ended with an endearing gesture that never left the room.

Telephones right and left lay on desks, hung from cords, berating one another. —I'm looking for this Mister Bast… ?

—You are, eh?

He backed out of the man's way, turned by his wife's emergency and swept in its wake back the way he had come. —Well? What did they have to say? she asked as he swung the car door open for her.

—Who?

—Who! And now look what you've done, torn my sari. Who do you think? she pulled a silk fragment from a tear in the door steel, —the Foundation people, who! About my lesson, my… they saw it didn't they?

—Well not, not exactly all of it, they … he drowned his own voice with a roar of the engine.

—They what? Did they see any of it?

—Well they, of course, yes that part about the waste, the silk waste… ? The engine quieted, absorbed by its engagement with the gears which mounted the shift column in a rhythmical shimmy as the radio warmed.

—Waste! Then they didn't see, why didn't they? Why didn't they see all of it!

—Well you see they, there were some technical difficulties … he began, shifting in the seat as the space around them took life with a dementi trio from the radio.

—Technical! tell me technical! Technical like you or one of that crew of Whiteback's switching channels, technical! And turn off that noise. Noise, you'll hide in noise any chance you get… look out!

—But I called you to tell you they were there from the Foundation, he said as one of Burgoyne Street's limbs swung past her window. —If I didn't want them to see you would I even have called?

—Unless you manage to kill me first… she ducked away from her window, —no, you knew I'd find out they'd been there even if you didn't tell me ahead so this way you played it safe, technical! You think I can't see what you'd do to keep them from seeing me? Because

you're afraid they might have seen some talent, they might have seen somebody creative and I might get that Foundation grant and then where would you be? I'd be in India and where would you be!

—Well, I …

—Do you think … look out! Yes unless you kill me first, you're going to tell me you didn't see that limb? Do you think they didn't notice it? That you picked the dullest part of my lesson to show them and then switched to something else? What. That Glancy at the blackboard? or your scarface friend with the machines? Which one. Or that Miss Moneybags with the social studies and the fake French name and the bazooms, which one?

—But, moneybags … he started, and then appeared to concentrate on the prospect of a curve distantly ahead.

—I thought so, with that front of hers that's all you can look at, those French suits with nothing on under you don't dress like that on a teacher's salary. But don't get worried I'm not asking you for anything, if you think I'd ask for your support on anything at least of all in the arts, not after this performance. Not that it's anything different than the way you've always been, when I was having modern dance…

—But those lessons…

—And voice culture, singing…

—But those lessons…

—And painting, when I had it with Schepperman the support I got from you…

—But those lessons, I paid him for those lessons…

—Paid him! You paid him six months later as if that's even the kind of support I mean, paid him! I mean some kind of plain understanding of somebody that wants to express themself and he had more inspiration in one finger…

—Finger… muttered diCephalis, maneuvering the curve.

—What? Yes, mock me, go ahead. Just repeat what I say, go ahead.

If you knew how childish it sounds this jealousy of yours, because that's all it is. Jealousy. You're afraid somebody else may try to do something, aren't you. With your book, just because you're having trouble writing

your book, you're afraid somebody else may do something creative, aren't you. Aren't you… !

—But no, my book…

—Aren't you. Can't you answer me? Aren't you?

—But my book, no. It isn't. Creative I mean, it isn't supposed to be it's just on measurement, measuring things, it's nothing to do with creative, my book…

—My book! My book! That's all we ever hear from you my book, well let me just tell you something that's to don't be surprised if somebody else has a book, that's all. Just don't be surprised! And she fixed unflinching on the passing gantlet of apartment house existences dismantled and laid out side by side on aprons of grass affording the embattled privacy of city stoops, sheltered by awnings of rippling

yellow plastic blazoning heraldic initials in old world black letter, mounting names discreetly hidden a bare year since in the Brooklyn telephone directory on sentry carriage lamps, ships' lanterns in authentic replica, a livid pastel wagon wheel swooning at a rustic angle, a demented wheelbarrow choked with stalked memories of flowers, a family of metal flamingoes, of ducks, of playful elves, till with a narrow miss for the cast iron potbellied stove painted pink and sporting a naked geranium stem from its lid the car left the pavement.

—Just don't act too surprised.

—Yes, well, we're home, he said motionless.

—Home! The car wavered into silence. She sat staring out, long lashes sticking at the corners. —If you'd ever, even, just given me that.

He hesitated, swallowed, and got out, to round the back of the car in no hurry until, approaching the other side of it, he opened her door in a lively manner as though he might have been waiting here to deliver her from a drive with someone neither of them cared for. —That

young man, he said briskly now, —the one I brought over? You were going to give him some pointers before he went on, did you… see him? His lesson, I mean… ?

—I certainly did not. I was getting my own ready. Do you think there's nothing to it but standing in front of a camera? Why.

—Why? what…

—Why what! You asked me if I saw his lesson. No. Why. I suppose you're going to tell me he could have given me some pointers.

—No in fact, I didn't see it either and I heard, I heard there were some technical difficulties.

Safe ahead, she stopped. —I could have told you that, the minute they see talent or sensitivity they sabotage it with technical difficulties and from talking to that young man if you look at his eyes, you can tell a person by their hands haven't I said that? And he has more artistic sensitivity look out, if you step on this…

—In one finger, he muttered behind her on the flagstone path, restraining the umbrella.

—Finger. Yes in one finger. You're doing it again and it's childish, a

child could see through you the way your jealousy sticks out because you're afraid of everything aren't you, afraid of life, living, anything that lives and grows…

—Finger, he muttered reaching for the aluminum frame door that bore his initials in the large as it slammed with the sound of a shot.

An elderly dog eyed him from under the table but did not move.

—Hello Dad, he said, and hooked the umbrella to a room divider supporting the old man and several sculptured primitives, all eminently male, that locked that wistful gaze beyond the silent rise and fall of fingers parading the sweeter for being unheard melody up and down the saxophone, propped erect in this mad pursuit of whatever men or gods those were to prompt a halt with —She has a dirty mind.

—Who? diCephalis asked vaguely, his hands now filling with the contents of an inside pocket, a tape measure, an automatic pencil calibrated in centimeters, a notebook thumb indexed with attached pen bearing magnifying glass or, as it turned in his hand, magnifying glass bearing pen, digits, holes, and the legend Do not fold or mutilate

borne on a green card, an orange card, on two, three, four white cards, a length of string, a length of twine, a wallet glazed with soiled attentions, a linen counter, a perforation gauge, a letter with a four place number as its return address.

—I wouldn't let her bring things like that into any house of mine, muttered the old man shifting from one ham to the other beneath the belittling thrust of a primitive insistence particularly African. — Nobody's built like that. They couldn't walk around. What… ? He looked up, —yes the dog, the dog smells something terrible today, don't he … and he settled back to the spirit ditty of no tone struggling to escape his fingers on the saxophone erect, as diCephalis started a round of turning off lights. Foyer, hall, bathroom, foyer, closet, side door, snap, snap, snap snap he made his way along stuffing his pockets again with everything but the letter and a newspaper clipping stuck to it, snap, snap, into the bedroom.

—What are you doing?

—We don't need all these lights on in rooms nobody's in.

—All these lights, she said to her streaked image in the glass, removing lashes.

—Are you using the typewriter?

—Do I look like I'm using the typewriter?

—Well no, I meant, just these papers…

—Just these papers! Throw them out. It's just my project summary for the Foundation grant throw it out! What are all those papers you're dumping there.

—Nothing. A questionnaire I'm filling out.

—Nothing. I'll bet nothing. For a job? Your name must be as well known in personnel offices as Santy Claus.

—But in this one there's no name it's, they use computers. He brandished a flyer carrying a man's face eradicated by punched holes

and numbers. —They use, they call it coded anonymity, where they can make more meaningful evaluations of qualifi…

—What do you need to put your anonymity in code for?

—Respecting the dignity of the private individ…

—Nobody knows who you are anyway. Nora! Stop that racket! what in God's name are they doing, can't you stop them? And what's this, right in with my face creams. More papers.

—Oh that, I've been looking for that.

—Well this is a good place for it, nobody would steal it here.

—Who would steal it anywhere? It's for refinancing our mortgage.

—Refinancing? What's that, you're borrowing more?