No One Rides For Free - Larry Beinhart (33 page)

"He's just a friend . . . these days," she
said.

"It doesn't matter."

"What's happened? You look terrible."

"I better take a shower," I told her. "I
stink."

I walked into the bathroom and began to strip. I let
my stinking clothes fall to the floor. I turned on the shower and
stepped in. The heat felt good. Then I remembered the cocaine that
was left in my pocket. There was quite a bit. I stepped out of the
shower, not caring how wet the floor might get, and fumbled through
the pockets. I took it back into the shower with me and held the bag
open and let the rushing water flow through it. Two or three hundred
dollars of cocaine washed my feet, flowed through my toes and down
the drain.

Tomorrow, tomorrow I might regret it and go buy some
more. For the moment, I was trying to tell at least one devil to be
gone.

All the time I scrubbed, she stood there waiting. I
ran it hot to make me feel clean, then I ran it cold to shut the
pores and wake me. I stepped out and rubbed myself down. Half dry, I
said, "Let's talk," and she followed me into the living
room. The caftan was moist from the steam in the shower and clung to
the shape of her body. I was naked.

We sat on the couch.

"Your father," I told her, "never knew
the thing he was killed for."

The moisture gathered in the corners of her eyes. I
told her, as quick and simple as I could, who, what and why. As I
talked, she stayed silent, but her fist clenched and the tears
streamed down her cheeks. I watched the drops fall; they fell on her
breasts.

When I was done, I reached out to her. She grabbed my
hand, clung to it fiercely, then held it to her cheek tightly. I put
my other arm out and she came to me, sobbing loudly. Eventually, she
sat up and wiped her eyes, like a very little girl trying to face
adult realities.

"What will happen to . . . to that man?"

"It's already happened."

"What has?" she asked.

I told her.

"My God, Tony. Oh, my angel, what if they catch
you?"

"They won't," I said flatly, then my voice
turned harsh, saying, "Don't you see? What will it take to make
you see? I'm not an angel."

"To me you are. And I love you."

She reached out to me, with wonder, with awe. "Nobody
has ever done anything for me. Not like that. I've never known anyone
who would, or could." Her lips found mine. Our kisses were
fierce, biting. I held her to me, our bodies rocking, our hands
grabbing, as if our bodies could fold into each other.

"My angel, my angel," she said.

I was angry. I pushed away from her and stood up. "I
am not an angel. I don't know what I am, but I'm less than I should
be. I'm less than my father's son."

In her eyes what I had done was wonderful. In Vince's
eyes and Mike Paley's, it would have style; they would like it and be
happy to offer me further opportunities. Those opportunities would
pay for this woman that I loved. My father, whatever he might've
thought, was dead and had nothing to say.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

What was wrong? Once there was, or somewhere there
is, a world where what I had done was clean, bright, right. Maybe in
Uncle Vincent's world. Or the world he had come from, old Sicily.
Maybe in Haven's world, but I doubted that. Or maybe when Alan Ladd
played at Shane and said, "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta
do." But I didn't believe in John Wayne either. Was that what
was wrong?

"I don't know," I said.

"What about us? What do you want?"

I walked over to her. I stood before her naked. I
looked down at her, down into her green eyes, wide open and confused.
Down at her mouth, open, moist, hungry. I wanted to take her. Perhaps
she could see that; her hands reached out to hold me, settling on my
hips. When she touched me, my body shook, a shiver, a tremor. My
stomach turned with fear and anger, of myself, at myself, and it
rose, acid and acrid in my throat. I forced it back down inside me.
It showed somehow on my face, because I saw fear looking back at me.

I took her head in my hands. I wanted to kiss her, to
force her to taste how foul I was, I wanted her to share the bile
that was at the back of my mouth.

"What do you want?" she asked.

Did I want the short wild ride we would have? As
sweet as sugar and as clear as pain? Did I want to go for the money,
the gold, the girl, the everything? And pay the price that someday,
somehow, Paley and Vincent and Christina would ask. My fingers curled
through her hair. It was so soft, so line. Did I want to take her?
Yes, I did. I could, I could fuck my anger and confusion into her
mouth.

"What do you want?" she asked.

No. I loved her, and there was something tender in me
still. No, I didn't want her to be the receptacle of my fear.

"I love you, my angel, I love you."

I wanted to go home. To see Glenda and hope that she
loved me enough to let me come home. Start turning the past into the
memories that it ought to be, not the living, ongoing reality it
sometimes is.

"What do you want?" she asked, and she was
so beautiful. I hadn't realized I was sweating until a drop fell on
her breast. Or maybe it was a tear. Or even something else.

"I'm going home."

END

HE WAS ALONE (AS IN REALITY)
UPON HIS HUMBLE BED,
when imagination brought
to his ears the sound of many voices again singing the slow and
monotonous psalm which was interrupted by the outcries of some unseen
things who attempted to enter his chamber, and, amid yells of fear
and execrations of anger, bade him, "Arise and come forth and
aid;" then the coffined form, which slept so quietly below,
stood by his side and in beseeching accents bade him. "Arise and
save what is beautiful."

Come back when fog drifts out over the city
And sleep puts her kind hands on all these poor
devils

Come back when the policeman is in another street
And Beatrice will let you see her thin soul under
the paint

Come back to the corner and tell them what brand of
poison you
    
want
Ask them why your very own dear lady is always on
the lay

Somebody will pick up the pieces, somebody will put
you to
    
bed
You're a great guy, God she's the finest broad in
all the world

Take it easy, partner, death is not such a bad chaser
And you didn't mix this one anyway

They were all right, the lot of them, it wasn't up to
them
And they knew it; if somebody had come
along and said,
I've got a spot for a
two-legged animal in the world I'm working
    
on,
They wouldn't have made
anything like they had been made.
They were
wise that this man—business was just a matter
Of
putting it in and taking it out, and that went all the way
From throwing up cathedrals to getting hot pants
over Kathy.
Maybe there was something to get
steamed about, maybe it was

Baseball to grow a beard and end up on a cross so
that a lot
Of hysteria cases could have
something to slap around;
Maybe the old Greek
boy knew what he was doing when he
    
hemlocked
It out, loving the
heels who hobbled him; maybe little French
    
Joan
Got a kick out of the
English hot-foot; the boys at the corner
    
bar
Were willing to believe it.
No skin off their noses. But what was
    
hard
Was when you get a snoot
full and all you can think to say starts
    
with s
And you know damn well
you're a good guy and you'll never
    
meet a dame
Who really has your
address, who can really dot your t's or cross
    
your i's

Come back when it's old home week in this particular
hell
And you can bum enough nickels to take
the fallen angels out
I sat down and said
beer thinking Scotch and there by God
Was my
woman just as I had always known she would be
And
I went over to her and she said come home with me
Like
that, raining a bit, will you get wet? no, let's hurry,
Climbing the stairs behind her, watching; what's
your name?
Lorraine, don't make so much
noise, the landlady; buzz her, I
    
said,
Wondering how God would
have gotten it all into this little tail;
Key
in the lock, light; hello, you 're lovely did you know that?
She was all right, all of her, it was up to me and I
knew it; let's
Talk first, do you mind? I
said no and she said some female stuff
Husband
on the lam and I've never done this before tonight; me,
    
I
Put all my cards on the table
and dealt myself live aces, great
    
God

I was wanting it then but she said some more things
and started
Tb cry and I slammed on my coat
and said you lousy bitch which
    
shut
Her up and I put my key in
the lock

And when it's open, when you've got it, when it's all
yours,
When nobody else in all the world is
where you are,
When your arms have really
gone around something,
When your thighs know
all the answers to all the questions,
Why is
there always one bead of sweat that doesn't come from
    
either of your faces?

Come back when sleep drifts out over the city
And the good God puts His hands on all these poor
devils.
---
Kenneth Patchen