Chapter six

 

His wife and children came to see him, gathering loosely in an alcove off the corridor.

Maureen stayed on her feet, smoking.

Balled up knees to chest atop the HVAC window ledge, Arthur stared down at the confluence of 11th Street, Greenwich, and Seventh, lest the intersection disappear.

In a gown and foam slippers, Connie sat strange in a green Naugahyde armchair, his hand keeping gentle contact with the pole of his IV tree.

Conversation next to nil, all of them at a loss—except Steven, who hovered over Connie, combing his father's still-wet hair from a shower, playing the World's Greatest Barber, complete with old-country accent, offering the scene some relief.

"Don't-a you-a worry. I'm-a gonna give-a you a good-a cut. Don't be-a scared."

On their exit Connie thanked them for coming and it was Steven again who broke down crying and reached for his father as an elevator spilled open to the floor.

* * *

Those early days a gift, really, the urge lifted altogether, the absence of its calling an almost funny kind of puzzlement. Some tossing and turning, but after a month or two his skin stopped crawling and he began to sleep the night through.

The rooming house and its off-kilter staircase an unsuspected sanctuary.

They talked about everything, he and his new friends, unfolding their secrets and fears before each other, on long walks, across coffee shop tables.

* * *

Milling around, waiting for a meeting to start.

Connie's face: an animal trapped suddenly in a cage that is the world.

An older man named Richard grabbed him by the arm. "Don't run off, we're going out after."

Connie laughed—Richard's tone less invitation than instruction.

In the booth of a diner Richard said, "Do you want to save your marriage?"

"I don't know," Connie said.

"Fair enough. In the meantime we get you back into a job. You set up a standing appointment with the kids, a weekend morning breakfast. Regardless who shows up, you'll be there. Let them count on it. You keep the financial support going. Otherwise you leave it alone. You give time time. And you live in the rooms a while."

* * *

He took the A train out to Rockaway, plunging into the salt water and surf of his childhood.

He climbed up into a gravel barge down the docks of Chelsea to watch the sun set over the Hudson. Coiled against the river's chill, napping on the sunbaked gravel.

On a borrowed pair of skates he caught himself rolling through the city one late August afternoon, eating Bing cherries from a paper bag, the scaffolding of a former self seemingly dismantled overnight, a multitude of interrogations left in its wake.

I am a book unwritten. I am anybody's guess.

* * *

"Younger one?" May said.

"Yes," Connie said.

"Good-looking," May said, touching Steven's face. The boy met her eyes, his nine-year-old consciousness wide open at the top.

"Tell May what you want," Connie said.

"Can I get a waffle?" Steven said.

"Course you can," May said. "You want some bacon?"

Steven nodded yes, he would like some bacon.

When May walked away Connie said, "How's your brother?"

"Chump's there." Steven pointed out the window. Connie saw Arthur leaning against a building on the diagonal corner of 23rd and Eighth. "Looking for money is all."

"Stevie, do me a favor," Connie said, producing some cash. "Go run give it to him so he doesn't have to wait around."

"Okay, Pop."

"Careful the cars."

* * *

He found a spot working midnights in an art deco house up on Central Park West. The front car buzzed each morning at exactly 4:45 a.m. He retrieved a petite, famous choreographer from the penthouse who nodded a wordless greeting. In the still-dark hour he helped hail a cab which took her to a studio. And from this brief habitual interaction Connie thought, Forget class. It's not about a penthouse. Money cannot buy it.

* * *

That first change of seasons, summer into fall. Being called from a dream to the window of his room by what he thought a storm: there was no storm, just November's fallen leaves, swirling and fighting, chasing each other up and down the block, streaming up and over parked cars, rumbling from sewer to manhole cover and back again, the leaves beneath the streetlamps rendering every known plot—love affairs, screwball comedies, epic war stories. He watched the leaves in timeless wonder on his knees at the window, when he became conscious of himself, felt the quicksilver rush of existence surging through his body, and he was terrified, as if he had never seen a season change.

* * *

"I spoke to David," Richard said. "You're qualifying in two weeks."

* * *

The row of four windows above Lamston's were covered with a sun-repelling silverish material, each marked with a large block letter: B—O—W—L.

"Tell May what you want," Connie said.

"Bacon and eggs," Arthur said.

"Scrambled?" She wouldn't dream of touching this one's face. The hair on him.

"Over easy. And can I get the bacon well done, please?"

"Course you can."

"Also, a small orange juice. And some home fries. And can I get an English muffin instead of the toast?"

With comic exaggeration, May let the pad and pencil drop from her hands onto the table and gave Arthur a look.

He relented with a short laugh. "What?"

"It's the same order I've taken from your father for as long as you're alive!"

* * *

Anticipation of the moment had thrown him into panic and suddenly here it was, the scary hour of revelation.

They read a few things to get started, of which he heard not a word.

What he did hear was a very faint, repetitive sound whose source he never identified (but was the cellophane wrapping of the cigarette pack in his breast pocket and how it crinkled with each apprehensive pelt of his heart).

David looked down the large oak table of Xavier's library to offer an introduction, citing briefly with good humor the qualifier's initial, disruptive appearance 147 days earlier.

The room laughed, and applauded, before settling into silence.

"Connie, alcoholic."

They greeted him, gave him back his name, and he started to speak.

 

The End