A Lost King: A Novel (7 page)

“You must be crazy, Paul. I never heard such things.”

“I want to marry you as soon as possible. I can't stand it much longer. And then I'll be in a position to scratch your leg. Really, Peggy, I love everything about you. I always did. I always will.”

“You shouldn't be saying these things. You really shouldn't.”

“Why shouldn't I? It's how I feel about you. Don't you hear me playing the harmonica at night? Sometimes I'm playing it just for you. And I make up songs for you, too. It's the truth. How about it if I come over and sit on your porch later? We'll make some plans. I'll bring a surprise for you.”

“A surprise? What is it?”

“A watermelon.”

“A watermelon?”

“As red as your lips. And maybe as sweet. I doubt it. But I'll find out later.”

“Keep your old watermelon!”

“Don't you like watermelon?”

“You're hopeless, Paul. You really and truly are.”

She left me there on the porch.

In the following days I found out that she was right about the neighbors. They whispered and laughed at me when I walked through the alley. I used to whistle or play the harmonica and everyone would wave and say hello. Now it was different.

“It's the watermelon boy,” one would say.

“Say, Paul, does that horse eat watermelon?”

“Do you ever look that horse in the eye, Paul?”

“Tell me something,” said the barber Regas. “Just one thing. How can I tell if a melon is sweet?”

“Tap it,” I said. “Tap it on the left side.”

“The left side? Which is the left side?”

“It's the side in your left hand. Tap it and listen close.”

“And then?”

“Cut it open and taste it.”

Regas laughed and laughed. Along with everyone he was laughing when that joke was forgotten. I started to slip out of the house like a thief and walk over to Scranton Avenue to meet Sam Ross. Laughter in the alley went a little hard with mockery and seemed to follow me everywhere. It followed my father closer. He was brooding until he turned completely against that job. Just about then I surprised him by going downtown to pay the semi-annual tax on the house. It came to ninety dollars. He thought it over and held it against me as though I had moved to undermine his remaining power and authority. He sat on the porch and blew up a cloud of pipe smoke when he saw me coming from work with a watermelon lifted like a prize in the palm of my hand.

Day after day I brought watermelon home. I brought quarters and halves and then for Sunday I brought a whole one. The refrigerator was loaded. I tried to eat as much as I was bringing. I would have a big smiling cut of it for supper. After cleaning the kitchen I played the harmonica. Music gave me a taste for more melon. I ate another piece and it washed me so fresh and clean inside that I played the harmonica again. Before going to bed I ate another piece of melon. Around three in the morning I woke to eat again. It was like a spell on me. My shirts and trousers and underclothes were stained with juice. I found seeds in my pockets and shoes. It seemed that whenever I turned around my father was watching me spit seeds idly into the garbage pail in front of my chair. There were times in the evening when the only sound was the tick of seeds against the sides of that metal pail. Toward the end I think my father was coming awake at three in the morning to stare in the dark and listen to the dry tick of seeds.

My talk failed to help the situation.

“This piece isn't bad,” I would say. “It's better than the one I had yesterday. Still, the one I had Monday was best of all. I wish I could find another melon like that. I was eating and wondering what was missing. I was eating and wondering and eating and wondering. And then it was gone and I knew what was missing. The piece was perfect and it was the rest of the melon that was missing. … Have we got time for some music before supper? It'll do you good.”

My father turned sullen. He didn't talk much and to spite me he wouldn't eat any watermelon. He would open the refrigerator and stand there with eyes blazing and that pipe aiming straight from his mouth. One afternoon I came into the yard with half a melon held high in my hand. He was sitting in the rocker on the porch. He was holding the sides of that chair as though to keep it from falling apart. His knuckles bulged into white marbles.

“What's that?” he said, though he could see it plain.

“Half a melon. It's a beauty, Pa.”

“We don't have enough yet?”

The next afternoon I came home with another half. He was waiting for me in the kitchen. I started talking to cheer him after his lonely day. I wanted to tease him just to hear his quick sour laughter.

“Sam says I'm doing fine,” I said. “He may raise my salary. One thing sure, he'll be giving me a whole watermelon every night. He says he'll stay ahead of us if it's the last thing he ever does. Not a half or a quarter, Pa. It'll be a whole one every day. But I don't want you to worry. I've got it all figured out. I'll take a day off work every week to eat and catch up with him.”

I opened the refrigerator. Watermelon bulged from every shelf.

“We should buy another refrigerator,” I said. “Now let's eat a piece of melon before putting this piece in. I'll take a half out to make room for this half. But I see you didn't eat any today. What a naughty boy you are. Do you know a strange thing is happening to me? It seems like all I think about is watermelon.”

“And it's all I think about,” he said, softly.

“Do you know what happened about three this morning?”

“And it's all I think about,” he was saying, even more softly.

“I was eating this piece of melon and when I finished it the bottom of the pail was black with seeds. Now listen to this. A watermelon grows from one seed. Isn't that right? But there'll be a hundred seeds in the watermelon that grew from one seed. This means each watermelon has enough seeds to give a hundred watermelons. And these watermelons have enough seeds for thousands and thousands. And then millions and millions. What does this mean? I was thinking about it. I was thinking maybe God wanted to make sure there'd be enough watermelons so that everyone everywhere would have them until the end of the world. Plant all those wasted seeds and in a few years we'd have watermelons piled up into whole ranges of mountains. Why, it's just like God was planning a big feast where everyone sits and eats watermelon. Sam says there's no end to it.”

“Sam is wrong!” cried my father. “Sam is wrong! There'll be an end to it! I'm making an end right now!”

He tore open the refrigerator. He pounced on those melons and started throwing them out the window and door. Melons went flying through the air to split open on the porch and in the yard. Neighbors gathered. Peggy was there. My father threw out every piece but the one on the table. I picked it up. I was so excited that I threw it out the window to join him in the uproar.

“So much for Sam!” he cried. “And so much for God's plans again! It's the end of the watermelons! Do you understand? And I'm sick of this job! Everyone's laughing at you! You're making a jackass out of yourself! And me, too!”

“Maybe we should talk this over.”

“Why did I work all these years? So you could sell watermelons from a wagon? Is that it? Wake up! You live in a country where you can be anything you want and look what the hell you're doing! You're going backward full speed! The next thing I know you'll be sailing back to the old country to herd sheep! Get out! And clean up that mess out there!”

I swept up those broken melons and threw several pails of water to keep flies away. Afterward I sat on the porch step. My father stormed around the house until dark and then he came out to rock his fury away in the chair at the other end of the porch. There was the red glow of steel mill fire in the sky. Smokestacks seemed to be bobbing like black masts out of a midnight harbor. Sudden white smoke billowed from a distant stack and for an instant froze in a kind of fairyland tower in the dark. Now I heard the rhythmic creak of the rocking chair. I played the harmonica with it. My father rocked a little faster to free the creak of the chair from my song. I played faster. Suddenly he was rocking so fast that I stopped playing. I burst into laughter. His hair was white as the smoke and he was bowing and rearing in that chair as though astride some runaway horse in the night.

Time and again my father warned me that men lost power when they talked too much. I told him he was losing power in telling me about it and he said he started to lose power the day I spoke my first word.

“It's in the family,” I said. “You must be losing it to me.”

“And you lose it to everyone,” he said.

He was right. I told everyone in Lincoln Court about my next job even before I started to work. I had this interview with the personnel director of the Big Deal grocery store chain. His name was John Whipple and he offered to put me on a training course that would qualify me in four weeks to work as an assistant butcher in any Big Deal store in the country. He took such a fancy to me that he spent an hour telling me the story of his rise to success. He traced that success to perseverance and loyalty.

“An ounce of loyalty is worth a pound of cleverness,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now I see you've been selling watermelons.”

“It was a sort of a temporary job.”

“It means you've been dealing with the public. It's the hardest thing in the world. What do you make of the American people?”

“Well, they like watermelon.”

“I like you, Paul,” he said. “You've been watching me like a hawk. You're alert and you've had experience that might be helpful. We want young men like you. We want men with potential for growth. We want you to grow with the company. We're building new stores all the time. All over the world. And it isn't just to sell food for a profit. That's the obvious reason. Our president, G. W. Whitcomb, sees it in another light. Mr. Whitcomb says the American people may not be thinking straight or even thinking at all. But they have energy and they need food. We'll be everywhere to supply good clean food to keep this energy at a high level. Until the wonderful things happen.”

“The wonderful things?”

“The wonderful things this energy will create.”

“When do I start work, Mr. Whipple?”

“Good boy. Then you want to be part of this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know I can count on you. I knew it the minute I saw you. Now don't let me down. We're on the wing here. Learn how to fly.”

“I'll learn, sir.”

“Think you'll be happy in this organization?”

“I know I will.”

“You're hired, Paul Christopher.”

I would train for one month in the main cooler and then work as an assistant butcher in the Big Deal store on the South Side. Promotions would follow fast. I thanked John Whipple and left him. I hurried over to that store on the South Side and told the manager Horace P. Willis that I would soon be working in his meat department.

“Welcome aboard,” he said, smiling.

Horace took me on a tour of that supermarket. It was almost as large as Lincoln Park. Above there was light enough to turn midnight into noon. Nothing was hidden. Rows and rows of stainless-steel shelves were loaded with fruit and vegetables and canned goods. It was a feast of color. All the employees wore white uniforms and white hats. They were smiling and smiling until it seemed there would be a sudden tremendous wave of laughter sweeping through that store. I talked for a while with the chief butcher Herman Bauer. He kept squeezing my hand like a sponge. He was eager to have me with him. I was so delighted that I went out and told everyone in the alley about the new job.

It was too soon to start work the very next day. I had put it off until the following week just to enjoy thinking and talking about it. Sam Ross wished me luck and reminded me that I could go out with him whenever I wanted. My father seemed pleased by the news.

“I'll learn how to cut meat in one month,” I told him. “But it's only the first step on the ladder.”

“Look out the first step isn't loose.”

“I'll be an assistant butcher for a while and then pretty soon I'll be in charge of that meat department.”

“Pretty soon? It's in the same sentence.”

“I'll be waiting for you, Pa. Come and find me. I'll be wearing a white uniform and a white hat like a big marsh-mallow. And I'll have a badge with my picture and name on it. Guess what?”

“There's more? Besides the badge?”

“I was talking to the butcher Herman Bauer. He told me to smile when they take my picture for that badge. Everybody remembers a smiling face. And he told me to be polite to customers. Sometimes a customer praises you to the manager. When it happens the manager puts a gold star by your name. And when you get a lot of stars he calls you in.”

“What happens?”

“What happens? He showers you with stars and gives you a kiss. What do you think happens? He promotes you. Why, I'll smile myself into a store of my own in no time. And then I can laugh a little. Come and find me, Pa. I'll be the one counting stars. Now there's something else. This Herman Bauer must be well over sixty years old. You'd think he was a wreck.”

“You mean I'd know it.”

“I wish you'd go over and see him. What a picture of health. He put his hand on me like a clamp. What strength. And why not? He eats the best of everything. Every night he takes home a pound of the choice cuts of meat. It's not allowed but everybody looks the other way.”

“Everybody steals and so nobody's a thief.”

“Herman told me he planned to work until he was eighty years old and then he'll play for twenty years.”

“At what? Living?”

“I was looking at the picture on his badge. I couldn't believe it was the same man. I looked at Herman and at the picture and at Herman. What a change since he started work in that store. From a lamb to a lion. I couldn't believe it was the same man.”

“Well?”

“It wasn't the same man, Pa. The picture on the badge was a picture of his brother who died two years ago. They worked together. Herman lost his own badge and he's wearing his brother's until he gets a new one. Guess what? I told him to smile when they take his picture.”

“I think I've had enough of you for a while.”

“Mr. Whipple was right. I've been on the wing since I left him. I think I'll fly over and tell Peggy the good news.”

Peggy was waiting for me on the porch step. She smiled and the light in her eyes whispered an invitation to be sweet and then cruel and then sweeter still in the night. An excitement gripped me as though I heard the sudden pounding music of a parade. I started to talk about the silver of moon and stars beyond the smoke. She interrupted to talk about my new job.

“I heard about it,” she said. “It sounds very nice.”

“Doesn't it? He's putting me under this course of training. It won't be long now. He says he'll have me off the streets in no time.”

“It's a job with a future.”

“I'll end up as the manager of one of those Big Deal stores.”

“I don't see why not.”

“Neither do I. I really don't. They may even send me to open a store in Mexico or South America. Come with me, Peggy. I'll be wearing a white uniform and a white hat like a chef. I'll tell everybody I'm going somewhere to cook for a king.”

“You'll look cute, Paul.”

“Say my name again, Peggy.”

“Don't you hear it enough?”

“Not like that. And I never even hear it at home. I wonder if my father forgot it. I'll remind him.”

“Paul then. Paul, Paul.”

For a long moment we were watching each other in the night. A light went on behind us in the kitchen. I touched her hand and we stood up. We strolled out of the alley and around the corner to Lincoln Park. It was deserted. Wind was stealing softly through the leaves of maple and sycamore. Holding my breath, I leaned over to kiss her hand. She turned to me and we kissed under the trees. Her clinging lips were moist on mine. Her body was ripe and sweet and willing. Her breasts were pressing all round my heart. I kissed her lips again and again. Suddenly they opened for me and that hot sweet rush of breath took my own away. I was melting inside with love and longing for her. In the same moment it flashed through my mind that this was a much better thing than playing the harmonica.

We sat on a park bench near the playground and swimming pool. We looked around as though waiting to be introduced to each other. Foolishly, I started to talk again.

“When I start work in that store, Peggy, I'll bring a surprise for you every day. Do you know they have lobster from South Africa?”

“It sounds dreamy.”

“And peas and potatoes from Belgium. Those potatoes are like little white marbles.”

We strolled back and sat on her porch. All was dark and quiet in the house. We twined our fingers and kissed again and again. I kissed her pale eyes and dark fragrant hair. Soon I was exploring the milky pulsing warmth of her throat. No longer could I keep my hands away from the curving places of her body.

“You shouldn't,” she whispered. “Please, Paul.”

“But I should. You mean I mustn't.”

“Well then, you mustn't.”

“My darling Peggy. But why don't we do it?”

“You don't mean it.”

“I do mean it. I love you and I want to marry you.”

“Is that what you mean?”

“I mean everything. I mean business. Let's get married on the day after I get my first pay.”

“Why do you get so serious? How can you say such a thing?”

“I say what I feel. What do you want me to say?”

“You don't have any plans or anything. It's just words.”

“Plans for what?”

“For what? For everything. Where would we live?”

“Where would we live? We'd live in my house.”

“Are you serious, Paul?”

“Of course I'm serious. Why do you keep saying that? It's like you're asking if I'm in my right mind.”

“Well, are you? Do you expect me to live in Lincoln Court?”

“Of course. What's wrong with Lincoln Court? It's where you do live. What's the matter with you?”

“Is this a place for children to grow up in?”

“I don't understand. It's the place if it's where they are.”

“I see.”

“What is this, Peggy? Children grow up wherever they are. Children are like flowers.”

“Then you don't see anything wrong in having your children here? And living the rest of your life here?”

“What's wrong with it?”

“What's right with it?”

“Your mother and father are here. You were born here. And it's a good thing they didn't feel like you do. Where would you be?”

“I'm not going to die here, Paul.”

“You mean you're looking for a better place to die? I don't understand this. What difference does it make where we live?”

“All right then. What would we live on?”

“But I've got this wonderful job.”

“You didn't even start yet. Is this what you offer a girl?”

“What is all this? I love you. I'll take care of you always. I can do a lot of things. I can cook and wash clothes and clean house. I know how to shop for food. I'm good-natured and I make up songs. Ask anyone about Paul Christopher.”

“You don't understand how things are with me. Do you really expect me to spend the rest of my life in this smoke and dirt? I watched my mother get old and gray in this alley. I won't let it happen to me.”

“But where is this other place you're talking about? This place where the children are supposed to be and nobody gets gray? Is it in the city limits? It must be one of those new suburbs. Is it Parma Heights? I heard taxes were high there.”

“I don't want to discuss it with you.”

“Let me tell you a story. They say my uncle used to tell it. Once upon a time there was an old man. He was sitting in a chair and all he had left in the world was a pile of old strings and some pieces of wood. Now his chair was uncomfortable and he complained about it. And then he complained about the room the chair was in and then the house the room was in. And then he complained about the street where the house was and then the city and then the world. Do you know what they did? They put a cushion on his chair. And then he didn't know what to say and so he took the old strings and those pieces of wood and he made himself a harp. And then he began to make music for everyone who came to the house. And then he made music for the city and the world. Do you know what I think? I'll have to find a cushion for the chair of my darling Peggy.”

“There's just no use talking to you. Good night.”

“Wait then. How about another kiss?”

“No.”

“Wait then. At least scratch your leg before you go. Think of it. Two thousand years of history lost.”

“You're impossible, Paul. Now I'm sure of it.”

She went in and closed the door.

I walked home. My father was sitting in the rocker on the porch. He was smoking his pipe. For a moment it troubled me to see him sitting alone in the night. Suddenly I felt sure he had been waiting for me to come home and talk and tease him a little. I wanted to give him the delight that Peggy had given me.

“Well, sir, we meet again,” I said. “I'd like to remind you that my name is Paul. I stopped by to let you know it won't be long now.”

“For what?”

“Three more days and I start work on that new job.”

“That's why I'm up. I was waiting to hear more about it.”

“This will be a wonderful year. First I'll get married. And then I'll paint the house. I'll borrow that aluminum ladder from Theodore Ampazis. He says I can lift it with one finger. I'll paint the house white and then I'll start on the inside. I'll plaster the cracks in the walls and paint every room. And then I'll buy a car and we'll take long rides down along the lake in the evening. Do you know what? I've been thinking about your cousin in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania. In fact, I was waiting for him the other day. What's his name?”