A Lost King: A Novel (13 page)

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she said.

He went for the car.

Peggy was wiping her tears away when she saw me.

“Paul,” she said, blushing. “Where were you?”

“I just came by,” I said.

“Why didn't you come in? I was looking for you.”

“I had some things to do.”

“It's a fine thing,” she said.

“What is?”

“You play the harmonica at everybody's wedding and you didn't even play one song for me.”

“I played enough songs for you. It was a waste of time. From now on I'll play songs for myself.”

“Where's your father?” she said. “We invited him.”

“He's home.”

“Is he all right? Is he feeling all right?”

“He's having trouble. With his bowels.”

“Really, Paul, what's the matter with you?”

“Nothing's the matter with me.”

“What a thing to say! And to a bride!”

“What was I supposed to say? He was dreaming of love and a star fell in his lap? My father's having his troubles. Just because you're a bride doesn't change his condition.”

Edmund drove up. He got out of the car.

“Where were you, Paul?” he said. “I didn't see you. Why didn't you come in and have something to eat?”

We stood there. They looked abandoned. Once again my heart ached with pity for them.

“Congratulations,” I said. “I want to wish you the best of everything. The very best. I mean it.”

“Oh, Paul,” she said. “You were always so sweet.”

Finally she gathered up her white gown and slipped into the car. She scolded Edmund for closing the door before she had the dress safely inside. As they drove off she turned to give me a long look. She wanted to be sure she was leaving a broken heart.

I stood there. My heart felt like a prune. I wanted to lie down and die right on the sidewalk. I looked around. Fire from the steel mills leaped on the sky. The night was choked with smoke and dust. I thought of my father. It was good to know I could go home and have it out with him.

He was drinking wine in the kitchen. I started to slam dishes and cups around. All at once we were in an argument.

“I don't think she was the girl for you,” he said.

“I guess not!”

“She's bowlegged, too.”

“I know, I know! I wanted a bowlegged girl!”

“Besides, she was too fat for you.”

“Too fat for what? I didn't have to carry her through life!”

“Maybe you'll wake up now.”

“Wake up to what, Pa?”

“To the way things are!”

“That's why I'm dreaming!”

“By Christ, you act like a baby! Hold still a minute! I'll warm a bottle for you and powder your ass! And then I'll tuck you in and sing you a lullaby!”

We argued and argued. I came close to tears. He blamed me for everything gone wrong. I blamed him. He started to throw his glass at me and then saw there was wine in it. He drained it off. He gave me a scornful look and went into the bedroom.

After a while I made a pot of coffee. I took a cup of it out on the porch. I sat in the rocker and tried to play the harmonica. There was no music in me. I went back into the kitchen to make peace with my father. I invited him to come out and talk things over. I picked up the
Plain Dealer
.

“Listen to this, Pa,” I said. “Here's your horoscope in the
Plain Dealer
. Are you listening? It says: ‘In romance, personal and domestic affairs, be diplomatic. Some unexpected situations may develop. It's an opportune time for making needed improvements; also for travel and holding conferences.' Did you hear that? Maybe we should light the candle and have a conference. A peace conference.”

I told him we should paint the house.

“I'll get that aluminum ladder from Theodore,” I said. “He says I can lift it with one finger. We should start before the bad weather sets in. I was thinking we'd paint the house white and the windows black. The windows will match the curtains. And then we'll plaster the cracks in the walls. And how about wine, Pa? We should make some wine. Some strong wine. Some very strong wine to keep us going. Wait then. Maybe we should make whiskey instead. We'll get drunk every day. We won't care what's happening because we won't know.”

I told him next year would be full of surprises for us.

“And another thing,” I said. “I took your advice, Pa. I ordered a rocking chair with a cushion. We'll rock together. We'll hold hands and rock and make plans for revenge.”

There was no sound from the bedroom.

“I might as well tell you the rest of it,” I said. “Sam Ross was talking to me. He says he'll have to let me go unless I do better. It was a kind of a shock, Pa. And there's something else. Can you stand more bad news? Brace yourself. It's a terrible thing that I lost Peggy. I realize that. But I lost something worse. Are you listening? Two thousand years, Pa. I lost two thousand years of history.”

Laughter was like sharp stones in me.

Sunday there was an advertisement in the
Plain Dealer
inviting a high-school graduate to apply for a personnel trainee job in the Clancy Wheel Works on the East Side. It sounded perfect. At last I would be doing the hiring. I told my father about it. Next morning I got up early and went over to that factory.

The job had been filled on Friday.

I rode the bus to the Public Square and strolled into the Terminal Tower. I called my father on the telephone. I put a handkerchief over the telephone and talked hard out of the corner of my mouth.

“Hello,” he said.

“Paul Christopher?” I said.

“He's not home. Who is this?”

“J. T. Williams of Clancy Wheel. Who's this?”

“His father.”

“Speak to Paul?”

“He's not home.”

“This Paul's father?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Well, sir, your son just left here. I can't use him in personnel, sir, but I want that boy. I'm determined to make a place for him. I want him as an inspector on the wheel line. By heaven, sir, your son belongs on wheels!”

He hung up.

I wandered around the station. A train was hissing in. I hurried over to welcome the travelers. Afterward I bought a pint of red raspberries at the fruit stand and a loaf of raisin bread at Kaase's Bakery. Nearby was a photography booth and so I took four pictures of myself.

My father was eating eggs when I got home.

“I brought some dessert for you,” I said. “Look here. A pint of red raspberries and a loaf of raisin bread.”

Carefully he wiped the plate with his bread.

“I was too late for that job,” I said. “They were running that ad in the paper since last Thursday. I'll go back with Sam until I find something better.”

He looked up at me.

“I was thinking,” he said. “I was thinking about your mother. And then I was thinking about our parents. And then I was thinking about their parents.”

“Were you?”

“And their parents and their parents. My head was spinning. It's unbelievable. Where's the end of it? Where's the beginning of it?”

“Who knows?”

“How long ago did it start? Ten thousand years ago? Was it fifty thousand? A million? Think of the comings and goings during that time. Think of the accidental meetings. I was wondering about it. And then guess what happened.”

“I don't know, Pa. But it's thrilling.”

“You came through the door. With red raspberries in your hand and a loaf of cinnamon bread under your arm.”

“It's raisin bread.”

“And the harmonica in your back pocket. A minute later you were telling me you were going out to sell watermelons tomorrow. Now think a little. Does it all come down to you?”

“I see what you mean. Well, it sort of looks that way.”

“Is that the way it looks?”

“But the story's not over, Pa. Don't forget that.”

“Keep talking.”

“I don't know what more to say. Wait then. I guess I did the right thing this morning. I thought it would be a good idea to take some pictures of myself. I was right. Just in case. Here they are, Pa. Four poses. One in profile.”

He gazed at those pictures.

“Maybe you were right,” he said. “Do you remember what you said the other night? Something about two thousand years of history lost? Maybe you were right.”

I went out. I sat in Lincoln Park for a while and then I walked over to the coffee house. I told Theodore about the situation at home. He advised me to see John Zalewski who was councilman of the ward.

“It's time for a plum to fall,” said Theodore.

“A plum?”

“One of those political jobs. All you do is show your face. Look at the job he got for old Saris. Saris works on that bridge over the Cuyahoga. He's what they call a bridge tender. He pushes a button to lift the bridge when a boat's coming through. The rest of the time he reads the newspapers.”

“It sounds good.”

“The trouble is, he's beginning to worry about everything in the world. And then there's Florio. Florio works in the liquor warehouse. He works about four hours a day if they watch him close. Lots of good jobs with the city, Paul. Maybe you'll work with the street department. They send you out in a truck and you drink coffee and straighten a few traffic signs. Maybe you'll be a park inspector. Or a building inspector. Tell John I sent you over.”

To catch the next plum I hurried over to see the councilman. He lived across the street from Lincoln Park. His wife Lucy led me through the kitchen into the dining room. John Zalewski was talking on the telephone. He motioned me to a chair. He studied me and seemed to decide I was too small to be of much use. His brow was divided into two humps like that of an elephant and he had the flaring nostrils of a horse. Suddenly I was troubled. I wanted to leave there.

“Wait a minute,” he was saying, on the telephone. “Let me get this right. You were exceeding the speed limit. You crashed a red light. You hit a parked car. And you had a drink or two before you started. Now you want me to fix a judge. Is that right? … I see. How about a promotion on your job, Nick? How about a scholarship at Western Reserve for the kid? Jesus Christ Almighty, wake up! Never mind. Why should you wake up after forty years? … All right, all right. I'll be there when your case comes up. Isn't your wife expecting? … Bring her with you. And don't send me cartons of cigarettes, Nick. It doesn't mean a thing to me.”

He hung up. He watched me and waited. I told him Theodore had sent me over to see about a job.

“Are you a neighborhood kid?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Lincoln Court. My name is Paul Christopher.”

“Christopher? Are you Carl's boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you type?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you drive a car? Got a license?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you operate any machines?”

“No, sir.”

“You should run for office.”

He started to write a letter. He wrote slowly as a child and then he studied his work. He read it again and again.

“This letter will introduce you to Sam Curry,” he said. “He's a personal friend of mine. He's a supervisor at the Dairy Carton Company. You don't want a city job.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don't.”

“Don't I?”

“What do you want with a city job? Private industry is the place for a young man. You want a job with a future. Sam Curry will see to it that you have every chance.”

“I'll do my best.”

“I'm counting on you. This is a personal recommendation. Just watch your step. Keep your mouth shut and keep your eyes and ears open. Sam Curry will be watching you. So will I.”

I felt that everyone in the city would be watching me.

“How's Carl?” he said. “How's your father?”

“Well, he's having trouble with his stomach. And his back.”

“Who isn't? Do you know I used to be his crane oiler in the steel mill? I think he was the best damn crane operator they ever had. He could lay that bucket down on a handful of ore. I saw him work sixteen-hour turns and he used to sing and shout up there all the time. Did he ever take you up there?”

“No, sir.”

“He worked in this little cabin. The bucket hung on cables from a trolley, you know. The trolley rolled on tracks from the hatches to the pit. Remember the cars with gearshift handles coming up from the floor? I guess you don't. Wait a minute. I think the sport cars got them now. Well, there were three handles in the operator's cabin. One of them was to move the crane from hatch to hatch. The others were to open and close the bucket. There were two other handles right on those handles. For moving the trolley. And then there were steam and brake pedals on the floor. I think that's about right. Well, the operator had to control everything. Why, your father was like a tiger up there. I'll never forget his gloves. They were black and shiny like metal from the way he gripped those handles.”

“He's got a pair of those gloves at home.”

“I sort of like your looks, Paul. Aren't you the one who's been working on that watermelon wagon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's no job for a young man. This is what you want. A good start somewhere. I'll be watching your progress. Good luck and give my best to your father.”

I shook hands with him and left. I went over to see Sam Curry at the Dairy Carton Company in Parma. He was chewing a cigar and blowing clouds of smoke. He kept glancing at me while reading the letter from John Zalewski. He finished the letter and gave me a challenging look.

“Well, all right then,” he said. “I'll get you started as a feeder on the gluing machine. You'll work nights for a month and then you'll go on the day shift. You'll learn every phase of the operation. Plastic packaging is a relatively new field. The company's as new as the building here. You're getting in on the ground floor. No one's been here longer than a year. How's it strike you?”

“Very good, sir.”

“All right then. I'll set up an appointment for you with the company doctor. You'll get a free physical examination and free life and hospitalization insurance. You'll share in the company profits. You'll get a production bonus at the end of the year. Come in tomorrow. I'll have your papers ready. By the way, how's John?”

“He said he's having trouble with his stomach.”

“Who isn't these days? All right then.”

That night I called Sam Ross and told him about the job. He wished me good luck and then reminded me that my job on the wagon would always be waiting. I felt uneasy. It seemed he was putting a spell on me.

Early next morning I went back to see the doctor in his basement office across the street from the plant. He pronounced me in excellent condition. I went to the company office and filled out applications. They took my picture and said they would have a badge ready for me when I started work that night. I went home and told my father that I was trying a new job. I told no one else and yet by noon on the following day everyone in the alley knew about it.

Just before eleven that night I arrived for work. I was carrying my lunch in a brown paper bag. A foreman called Schultz was waiting for me in front of the narrow black time clock. He shook my hand. He gave me the badge and I pinned it over my heart. I punched my new time card in on the clock. A hard little bell rang. I put the card in the black rack and followed Schultz to a kind of conveyor belt.

“This is where you work,” he said. “You'll feed plastic milk cartons in this machine. The cartons will be glued up and then carried on this belt to the other end of the floor. They'll be stacked over there and made ready for shipment to the dairies. Take a handful of these cartons and lay them down in here like this. The machine will do the rest of the work. It'll take them in one at a time and pass them down to those two girls over there. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put your lunch down. Watch me a minute.”

Without moving his feet he turned to grab a stack of the red milk cartons from the dolly beside him. He turned back and slapped them down into a cagelike iron mouth. Those cartons were drawn in fast with hard snapping noises. By the time Schultz turned back with the second stack the first one was nearly gone. He slapped in the second stack. One by one the cartons were drawn in from the bottom.

“It's easy to adjust yourself to this machine,” he said. “It isn't too fast and it isn't too slowly. I mean slow. It never speeds up and never slows down. Listen to it. What do you hear?”

“A buzzing sound.”

“The gluing machine is hungry,” said Schultz. “Nothing's happening in there. Now listen when I put these cartons in.”

It sounded again like repeated bulldog bites on bone. Schultz watched the whizzing cartons with bright blue eyes. His head jerked slightly when the last carton disappeared from the floor of the mouth. He turned and slapped in another stack of cartons. He was leaning over to watch. His mouth opened a little and his blue eyes went round as marbles. His head jerked again with the last carton.

“This machine really takes them in.” he said. “Do you know I started on this gluing machine? That's right. It was my first job in this place. Now it's your job.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did Mr. Curry tell you about the bonus here?”

“He mentioned it.”

“The bonus depends on profit. Profit depends on production. Production depends on us and we depend on each other here. It's like a family arrangement in this place. Everyone is trying to do more than their share. Now we'll be counting on you to come through for us.”

He shook my hand and went away.

The gluing machine was buzzing. I started to feed it. With both hands I gathered a stack of cartons from the dolly and slapped it down into the cagelike mouth. I turned for another stack. I turned back to find the mouth gaping empty at me. The machine was buzzing in an angry way. I slapped in the second stack of cartons. I started to move faster. Finally I unloaded that dolly and turned back in triumph. A man was pushing another loaded dolly into place for me. For a moment I stopped to look at it. Buzzing started in the machine. Surely everyone on the floor could hear it.

There was no time for me to watch what was happening. I turned to gather a stack of cartons. My glance went from the dolly to the black time clock on the wall. In the middle of my turn to the machine I saw a naked blazing bulb of light down in the distant corner of the plant. Above me were rows and rows of shining new light fixtures and so I began to wonder what lay under that lone bulb in the corner. I slapped the cartons into the mouth and glanced down at the beautiful red hair of the girl standing at the opposite end of the gluing machine. I slapped and turned. My eyes jumped from the clock to the bulb to the flaming hair of that girl.