Plexus (15 page)

Sometimes she would ask me to corroborate one of her outlandish statements, which I would do with a straight face, to O'Mara's astonishment. I would even embellish her statement with some fanciful facts of my own. To this she would nod her head gravely, as if it were God's truth I were
recounting, as if we had spoken of it time and again—or as though we had rehearsed it together.

In the realm of make believe she was thoroughly at home. She not only believed her own stories, she acted as if the fact that she had related them were proof of their veracity. Whereas, of course, everybody assumed quite the opposite. Everybody, I say. Which only made her more secure in her ways. Hers was distinctly a non-Euclidian logic.

I spoke of laughter. There was only one sort of laughter she ever indulged in—an hysterical laughter. Actually, she was almost devoid of humor. Those who aroused her sense of humor were usually people who were themselves devoid of humor. With Nahoum Yood, who was truly a humorist, she smiled. It was a good-natured smile, indulgent, affectionate, the sort one gives to a wayward child. Her smile, as a matter of fact, was quite a different thing from her laugh. Her smile was genuine and warming. It sprang from her sympathetic nervous system. Her laugh, on the other hand, was off key, raucous, disconcerting. The effect was harsh. I had known her for a long time before I ever heard her laugh. Between her laughter and her weeping there was scarcely any difference. At the theater she had learned how to laugh artificially. A terrifying thing to hear! It used to send shudders up my spine.

“You know what you two remind me of sometimes?” said O'Mara, snickering. “You remind me of a pair of confederates. All that's lacking is the old shell game.”

“It's nice and toasty here though, eh what?” I answered.

“Listen,” said O'Mara, his face utterly serious, “if we could stick it out here for a year or two I'd say it was worth while. We're in clover now, and don't I know it! I haven't relaxed this way for years. The funny thing is, I feel as if I were hiding away, as if I had committed a crime which I can't remember. It wouldn't surprise me at all if one day the police knocked at the door.”

Here we all laughed uproariously. The police! Too funny for words.

“Once I was rooming with a guy,” said O'Mara, beginning one of his never-ending stories, “and he was plain cuckoo. I didn't know it until someone from the asylum called for him. I swear to God he was the most normallooking person you ever saw, and he talked normal, and acted normal. In fact, that's what was the matter with him—he was too goddamned normal. I was on my uppers at the time, too disheartened to even look for work. He had a job as a motorman—on the Reid Avenue car line. On his swings he'd come back to the room and rest up. He'd always bring a bag of doughnuts along and soon as he took off his things he'd make coffee. He never said much. Mostly he'd sit by the window and manicure his nails. Sometimes he'd take a shower and a rub down. If he was in high spirits he'd suggest playing a game of pinochle. We'd always play for small stakes and he'd always let me win, though he knew I was cheating him. I never asked him any questions about his past and he never volunteered anything on his own. Every day was a new day. If it was cold he talked about the weather, how cold it was; if it was warm, he talked about how warm it was. He never complained about a thing, not even when his pay was reduced. That in itself ought to have made me suspicious, but it didn't. He was so kind and considerate, so unobtrusive and delicate, that the worst I could think of him was to call him dull. Yet I couldn't very well complain about that, seeing as how he was taking care of me. Never once did he suggest that I ought to be up and stirring. All he ever wanted to know was if I were comfortable or not. I understood, that he needed me, that he couldn't live alone—but that didn't make me suspicious either. Lots of people hate to live alone. Anyway, and why the hell I'm telling you all this I don't know, anyway, as I was saying before, one day there came a knock at the door and there stood the man from the asylum. Not a bad sort either, I must say. He moseyed
in quiet-like, sat down, and started talking to my friend. In that quiet, easy way he says—“Are you ready to go back with me?” Eakins, that was the guy's name, says, “Yes, of course,” in the same easy, quiet way. After a few minutes Eakins excused himself to go to the bathroom and pack his things. The officer, or whatever the hell he was, didn't seem at all uneasy about letting the fellow out of his sight. He started talking to me. (It was the first time he had addressed a word to me.) It took me a few minutes to realize that he took me for a nut too. I got wise when he began asking me all sorts of funny, queasy questions—“Do you like it here? Does he feed you well? Are you sure you're comfortable?” And so on. I was taken so unawares that I fell into the part as if it were made for me. Eakins had been in the bathroom a good fifteen minutes. I was getting fidgety, wondering how I would prove myself sane should the officer decide to take me along too. Suddenly the bathroom door opened softly. I looked up and there's Eakins stark naked, his hair completely shaved off and a douche bag hanging from his neck. He had a grin on his face that I had never seen before. I got a cold chill instanter.

“ ‘Ready, sir,' he says, just as smooth as butter.

“ ‘Come now, Eakins,' said the officer, ‘you know better than to dress that way.'

“ ‘But I'm
not
dressed,' says Eakins blandly.

“ ‘That's what I mean,' said the officer. ‘Now go back and put your clothes on. That's a good fellow.'

“Eakins didn't budge, didn't move a muscle.

“ ‘What suit would you like me to wear?' he asks.

“ ‘The one you had on,' said the officer tartly.

“ ‘But it's all torn,' says Eakins, and with that he steps inside the bathroom. In a jiffy he's back in the doorway, holding the suit in his hands. It's in shreds.

“ ‘That's all right,' said the officer, trying not to appear disturbed, ‘your friend here will lend you a suit, I'm sure.'

“He turns to me. I explain that the only suit I've got is the one I'm wearing.

“ ‘That will do nicely,' he chirps.

“ ‘What?'
I yelled, ‘What am I goin' to wear?'

“ ‘A fig leaf,' he says, ‘and see that it don't shrink!'”

Just at this point there came a tapping on the window pane.

“The police, I bet!” shouted O'Mara.

I went to the window and drew up the shade. It was Osiecki, grinning that sheepish grin of his and gesticulating with his fingers.

“It's Osiecki,” I said, going to the door. “He's probably lit up.”

“Where are your companions?” I asked as I shook his hand.

“They deserted me,” he said. “Too many lice, I guess.… Is it O.K. to come in?” He hesitated at the doorway, not certain if he were welcome.

“Come in!” shouted O'Mara.

“Am I busting in on something?” He looked at Mona, not knowing who she was.

“This is my wife, Mona. Mona, this is a new friend of ours, Osiecki. He's had a little trouble lately. You don't mind if he stays a few minutes, do you?”

Mona immediately poured out a glass of Benedictine and offered him a piece of cake.

“What's this?” he asked, sniffing the liqueur. “How do you get it?” He looked from one to the other of us as if we were in possession of some dark secret.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Right now, fine!” he answered. “A little too good maybe. Can you smell it?” He blew his breath in our faces, grinning even more widely this time, like a rhododendron in full bloom.

“How are the lice coming along?” asked O'Mara in a casual tone.

At this Mona began to titter, then laughed outright.

“That's his trouble…” I started to explain.

“You can tell everything,” said Osiecki. “It's no secret
any more. We'll get to the bottom of it soon.” He raised himself up. “Excuse me, but I can't drink this stuff. Too much turpentine in it. Have you any coffee?”

“Of course,” said Mona. “Would you like a sandwich perhaps?”

“No, just some black coffee.…” He hung his head blushingly. “I've just had a tiff with my pals. They're getting fed up with me, I guess. I don't blame them either. They've taken a lot these last few months. You know, sometimes I think I
am
a bit screwy.” He paused to note the effect this might have on us.

“That's all right,” I said, “we're all a bit screwy. O'Mara here was just telling us a yarn about a nut he used to live with. You can be as whacky as you like, so long as you don't start breaking up the furniture.”

“You'd get queer yourself,” said Osiecki, “if you had those things sucking your blood all night—and all day too.” He rolled up his trousers to show us the marks they had left. His legs were a mass of scratches and blood clots. I felt damned sorry for him, sorry I had twitted him.

“Perhaps if you moved to another apartment…” I ventured to suggest.

“No use,” he said, looking ruefully at the floor. “They'll keep after me till I quit—or until I catch them redhanded.”

“I thought you were going to bring your girl around for dinner some evening?” said O'Mara.

“Sure, I am,” said Osiecki. “Right now, though, she's busy.”

“Busy doing what?” asked O'Mara.

“I don't know. I've learned not to ask unnecessary questions.” He gave us another big grin. This time his teeth wobbled a little. I notice that his mouth was full of braces.

“I dropped in,” he continued, “because I saw the lights burning. I hate to go home, you know. (Grin: meaning more lice.) You don't mind my staying a few minutes, do you? I like this place—it's cheerful.”

“It should be,” said O'Mara, “we're living on velvet.”

“I wish I could say the same,” droned Osiecki. “Drawing plans all day and playing the pianola at night is no fun.”

“But you've got a girl,” said O'Mara. “That ought to give you a little fun.” He chortled.

Osiecki's ferret-like eyes grew small as pin points. He looked at O'Mara sharply, almost hostilely. “You're not trying to pump me, are you?” he asked.

O'Mara smiled good-naturedly and shook his head. He was just about to open his mouth when Osiecki spoke up again.

“She's another tribulation,” he began.

“Please,” said Mona, “don't feel that you have to tell us everything. I think we've been asking altogether too many questions.”

“Oh, that's all right, I don't mind being grilled. I just wondered how he knew about my girl.”

“I don't know a thing,” said O'Mara. “I just made a simple remark. Skip it!”

“I don't want to skip it,” said Osiecki. “It's better to get it off one's chest.” He paused with head down, not forgetting however to munch his sandwich. After a few moments he looked up, smiling like a cherub, finished eating his sandwich, stood up and reached for his hat and coat. “I'll tell you some other time,” he said. “It's getting late.”

At the door, as we were shaking hands, he grinned again and said: “By the way, any time you're hard pressed, just let me know—I can always lend you a little something to tide you over.”

“I'll walk you home, if you like,” said O'Mara, not knowing how else to express appreciation of this unexpected kindness.

“Thanks, but I'd rather be alone now. You never can tell…” and with that Osiecki took off at a trot.

“What about that guy Eakins you were telling us about?” I said, soon as the door had closed behind Osiecki.

“I'll tell you some other time,” said O'Mara, giving us one of Osiecki's grins.

“There wasn't a word of truth in it,” said Mona, tripping to the bathroom.

“You're right,” said O'Mara. “I just imagined it.”

“Come on,” I said, “you can tell
me
.”

“All right,” he said, “since you want the truth, I'll give it to you. To begin with, there was no guy Eakins—it was my brother. He was hiding away for a while. You remember I told you once how we ran away from the orphan asylum together? Well, it was ten years—maybe more—before we met again. He had gone to Texas where he became a cowpuncher. A good guy, if ever there was one. Then he got into a brawl with someone—he must have been drunk—and he killed the guy.”

He took a sip of Benedictine, then continued: “It was all like I told you, except of course he wasn't batty. The man who came for him was a Ranger. He scared the shit out of me, I can tell you. Anyway, I undressed, like he told me to, and I handed the clothes to my brother. He was taller and bigger than me in every way, and I knew he'd never get into that suit. But I handed it to him and he went back to the bathroom to get dressed. I hoped he'd have sense enough to climb out by the bathroom window. I couldn't understand why the Ranger was giving him such leeway, but then I figured being from Texas he had his own way of doing things. Anyway, suddenly I got the bright idea to dash out into the street naked and yell “Murder! Murder!” at the top of my lungs. I got as far as the stairs and there I tripped on the rug. The big guy was right on top of me. He held one hand over my mouth and dragged me back to the room. “Pretty cute, mister, ain't you?” he said, giving me a gentle cuff in the jaw. “Now if that brother of yours gets out the window he won't get very far. My men are waiting for him right outside.”

“At that moment my brother walked into the room just
as quiet and easy as ever. He looked like a circus freak in that suit—and his hair all shaved off.

“ ‘No use, Ted,' he said, ‘they've got me.'

“ ‘What am I going to do for clothes?' I bawled.

“ ‘I'll mail the suit back to you when we get to Texas,' he said. Then he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some crumpled bills. ‘Maybe this will hold you a while,' he said. ‘It was good to see you again. Take care of yourself.' and with that they left.”