Damnation of Adam Blessing (8 page)

Charity was frowning slightly. Adam reassured her. It was one of those nights when his liquor simply did not affect him.

“But let’s talk about you!” he said. He leaned back, no longer interested in eating the rest of the duck. “What are your summer plans?”

“I’m going to Europe,” she said. “Very soon.”

It was a surprise to Adam, but on this fantastic evening nothing daunted him.

“I’ll go along,” he said. “Where will we go? Rome is a bore, so let’s not go there.”

She laughed. He did not like that laugh. He asked her what she was laughing at, and she said she was not laughing at anything. “I mean it,” he said. He did, too. He would sell the
Stammbuch
tomorrow. He would let his helper run “The Mart” for the summer. It was his
Stammbuch;
it was his business, for that matter; he could do with The Mart what he pleased.

“Have you ever been to Europe, Adam?”

“Not because I couldn’t afford to go,” he said.

The waiter opened the second bottle of Moselle. Adam asked him if he had chilled it. The waiter smiled and nodded. Adam said to Charity: “Beaujolais and Swiss Dole are the only red wines that can be profitably chilled.”

“Don’t you want some coffee, Adam?”

Adam said, “Certainly!
After
dinner!”

A party at the table opposite them were smiling. Adam smiled back, giving a smart little salute with his right hand.

Adam said, “In Europe we’ll look Billy up! Won’t
he
be surprised!”

“I dare say,” said Charity. Then she said, “Adam, it’s very late and I’m tired.”

“Be glad you’re a rich girl,” said Adam. “You don’t have to go to work tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, Adam.”

“All the more reason for celebrating,” said Adam. “It’s Saturday night.”

As he said the words “Saturday night,” something seemed to want to occur to Adam, but nothing did. He reached for the neck of the wine bottle and poured himself another glass. Some of the wine splashed onto the tablecloth.

Adam said, “It’s the waiter’s job to pour the wine. This fellow’s not working very hard, is he?”

Suddenly Adam realized that Charity was calling the waiter.

“Look,” Adam said, “I didn’t mean to criticize him. I’m perfectly able to pour the wine. Let him alone. Let’s talk about our trip! We might even start off at Klatz, hmmm?”

Charity persisted in calling the waiter. Adam was pleased that she was looking out for him, trying to please him. He said, “It’s very nice of you, but maybe the fellow’s had a hard day. Sunday’s busy in Luchow’s, and tomorrow’s another new week. Let him be, Charity.”

Adam sipped his wine. He liked the idea of starting off their European jaunt in Klatz. They could drive to Geneva and visit Marshall Bollin. Adam made a mental note to learn to drive a car before they sailed.

When the waiter finally appeared, he presented Charity with the check.

Adam said, “Good God, this fellow really
is
falling down on the job!” He reached across and took the check from the table.

Charity said, “Pay it, Adam. And then let’s go!”

Adam couldn’t blame her. A bad waiter could ruin everything. Adam hated to leave a half-full bottle of wine, but Charity was right. He should pay up and leave, and not bother to tip either. It did not have to mean the evening was over. They were very near Greenwich Village. They could go to some nice bar and have a brandy.

“I’ll take care of everything,” he smiled at Charity. “Don’t let him upset you.”

The waiter’s handwriting was sloppy, and Adam had difficulty reading it. The
t
bars slanted downward and there were breaks in the lower sections of his o’s.

Adam said, “He’s not only lazy, he’s dishonest. You should see this writing, Charity.”

“Never mind it, Adam, please. Let’s go!”

“You’re absolutely right,” Adam said. Again the people at the opposite table smiled, and again Adam smiled back and gave another salute. They seemed to like him immensely. If the waiter had not been so irresponsible, Adam might well have asked them to join Charity and himself in a round of drinks.

When Adam reached for his wallet, it was gone. He searched all his pockets, twice. He said, “That does it!”

“Don’t shout, Adam!”

“I don’t mind a lazy waiter,” said Adam, “but I’ll not tolerate a thief!” “Adam, please!”

Adam said, “He stole my wallet, Charity! I can’t stand for that!”

“He didn’t steal your wallet. You must have it.”

“I don’t! That’s all there is to it!”

Charity looked angry. Again, Adam could not blame her. She said, “Wait a minute,” and left the table. By rights, Adam knew he should go with her while she complained to the management, but he had a rather dizzy sensation. The wine was probably inferior, he decided. Bad whisky could do the same thing. He sampled a bit more of the wine. He felt so dizzy that he had to steady one hand with the other as he raised the glass to his lips. Some of the wine spilled onto his shirt. He saw the people at the next table watching him.

“Bad wine!” he called. “Poison! And my wallet stolen in the deal.”

“Poor thing!” one of the women said to the man beside her. It was nice of the woman to sympathize. They were all nice people.

“Thank you,” Adam cried out. “It’s a good thing to know people care!”

He had more of the wine, holding it in his right hand, which was steadied by his right elbow leaning on the table. With his left hand he propped up his right arm, pushing the glass toward his mouth. Then the glass fell out of his hand, and the wine spilled all over his shirt, his suit, and the tablecloth. Another waiter — not his own — came hustling across the room.

“Ask my waiter to bring me another glass!” said Adam.

“If you’ll come with me you can talk to your waiter,” said the other waiter.

Adam shook his head from side to side with amazement.

What kind of a place was it where the customers went to the waiters!

“Come on, sir!” the other waiter said. He had Adam’s arm and he was actually trying to pull Adam to his feet. Adam felt very sad for the people at the next table. They would be treated the same way, no doubt, and they were nice people. Adam stood up, leaning against the other waiter.

“What kind of a place is this?” he said to the whole room. “You don’t deserve this! Hang on to your wallets!”

The nice woman at the next table looked very sad. Adam wanted to comfort her. He tried to walk across to her, but the waiter pulled him back. Adam called to her: “Don’t stay here! Look what’s happening to me!”

Tears were suddenly streaming down his cheeks. They were all such nice people, all duped too. “Look at the handwriting,” Adam said. He wanted to explain it, to tell them all to notice their waiters’ handwritings, but he felt too tired now, and the waiter was stronger; the waiter was propelling him out of the room.

His own waiter was waiting at the
EXIT
with a man in a dark suit. The manager? … Adam pointed his finger at the man. “My wallet! I can’t pay until the waiter gives it back.”

“The lady has settled already, sir,” said the man. “Good night, sir.”

“The lady?” Adam said. What lady? The one at the next table who had smiled? Adam wanted to thank her, but the man in the dark suit had already opened the door, and Adam walked into the fresh air like a newly-freed prisoner.

“Here’s the cab money she left for him,” a voice said behind him.

Adam stood in the clean cool night. He saw his waiter out in the street trying to hail a taxi. He was making a get-away, Adam decided, and he had Adam’s wallet with him. Adam began to cry again. Didn’t anyone care that there were thieves loose in the world? He asked some of the people who passed him there on Fourteenth Street, but they only laughed, and the more they laughed, the more Adam wept.

Adam had no clothes on when he woke up Sunday noon. The thin Airmail Special was wadded up in his hand like a dirty tissue, so he did not pay it any attention right away. It had been pushed under his door last night. He had read it when he returned to Billy’s apartment, but he did not remember it. He did not remember anything — not immediately. He lay on his stomach, his face in the pillow, his hands and wrists under the pillow. Columns of sunlight striped his back and his buttocks, and he could tell by the smell of everything that it was a very hot May day, no breeze and muggy.

• • •

It took him several long seconds to discover where he was and what day it was; then a few more such seconds to realize how he felt. Gradually, painfully, his memory began the play-back of last night. As far as it went, it was a faithful reproduction, but it ended with the waiter bringing a second bottle of wine. The rest was sketchy. His wallet had been stolen. Charity had complained to the management. A woman at the next table had paid the bill. He was not certain about any of it. He could not even remember taking Charity home, nor could he recall his arrival at Billy’s. Here he was at any rate, so he must have seen her home, too; he had no recollection of an argument either. So far, so good.

• • •

A dream. Billy’s father had died. Billy had told him to leave Charity alone. Or had Billy called him? A ringing phone seemed to stick in his memory; ringing, ringing, and he had not been able to pull himself from bed and answer it…. Was that right? He lay there thinking about it until his thirst became unbearable.

When he sat up, he saw his clothes strewn about the bedroom. Beside the night table, on one of the Etruscan chairs, was his wallet. He took that in at the same time he felt the wad of thin airmail paper balled up in his fist. His wallet had not been stolen after all, but he
distinctly
remembered … never mind. The letter next. Geneva postmark.

• • •

For twenty-five minutes he was sick in the bathroom. In between bouts of nausea, Adam sat on the top of the toilet cover, holding his head with his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. He could feel nothing about Marshall Bollin’s death, only rage at Billy. In his mind he composed several letters to Billy. I’ll-do-as-I-please letters and Who-do-you-think-you-are! letters. One of them said: “Of course I won’t write you a sympathy note concerning your father. What a break for him to have you eternally out of his sight! I would rather write him a note of congratulations! … Another said that Charity Cadwallader, for all her “alleged” fabulous ancestry, had come to Adam offering her wares in the venerable tradition of any common whore…. After his sickness subsided, Adam got up and made himself an Alka-Seltzer. While he watched the bubbles, waiting for the tablets to dissolve, he composed another letter. Short, subtle, designed to infuriate Billy. In it he said he felt he could handle Charity; in fact, they would probably travel through Europe together this summer.

• • •

He did not even bother to dress. He sat naked at Billy’s tambour desk, scratching the words across a piece of Billy’s stationery, using Billy’s quill pen. The phone interrupted him; a girl’s voice. He did not recognize it.

“Yes, this is Adam. Who’s this?”

“Eloise Siden, remember?”

“Eloise Siden … I think I remember.”

“Dot’s roomie.”

Then he did remember. The girl from Texas who booked New York to Caracas and smelled of garlic. “Oh, how are you?” said Adam.

“I’m
fine, bub, but I can’t say the same for Dot, thanks to you! Who in blue blazes do you think you are, bub! I suppose it’s your idea of fun to stand someone up! First you get her to do your dirty work and show up at the confounded funeral service and then you hightail it off someplace else and don’t even — ”

God! Adam held the telephone arm away from his ear. He had completely forgotten the service for Mrs. Auerbach last night; forgotten his date for dinner afterward with Dorothy Schackleford!

“Listen!” he tried to interrupt Eloise Siden’s bombardment, but he was glad that he could not, for he did not know what he would have said anyway. He was lower than a rat, said Eloise Siden, too low for worms to crawl under him. Eloise and Shirley Spriggs and Rose Marie Scoppettone and Norman had been up until all hours trying to quiet Dorothy down.

“Dotty said you must have been in an accident,” Eloise Siden continued, “and she kept making us phone your place, but I knew the straight poop, bub! You never fooled me for a minute! Norman either! He’d like to plant one on your kisser good!”

Again, Adam held the telephone arm away. Shirley Spriggs, the girl in the Japanese kimona who had vowed not to dance for two years; and Rose Marie, whose last name meant “big gun” in Italian; who answered ”
Mais
oui.”
Norman, fat bald slob Norman…. Adam could picture the whole affair…. Tomorrow he would call Dorothy Schackleford at her office. He would think of
some
explanation. He would take her to dinner at Ficklin’s, the fancy restaurant without menus; he might even get theater tickets. It would be easy enough to straighten out the whole business where Dorothy Shackleford was concerned, but what about Geismar? Lately Geismar was sarcastic and suspicious, as though he were sitting in judgment. Adam knew Geismar had attended Mrs. Auerbach’s service; Geismar was a goody-goody if Adam had ever seen one. Adam would have to invent an air-tight excuse for
that
one! He brought the phone back to his ear. Eloise Siden was calling him a two-faced turd. Adam hung up on her.

• • •

He finished the letter to Billy, addressed it and sealed the envelope. Tomorrow he would sell Goethe’s son’s
Stammbuch.
With part of the money he would replace what he had spent from the sale of “The Lucy Baker album.” That would satisfy Geismar that Adam was doing nothing crooked. The
Stammbuch
was Adam’s, after all; he did not have to wait for the will to be probated to sell something that was already his. With the rest of the money, Adam would go to Europe with Charity. He would still have enough left over to live on for years! … When he returned from Europe, he would re-open The Mart. He would remodel it, hire several helpers, and expand the business. He would marry Charity and invite Billy to be best man. He would name his first son after Billy. Oh, he would show Billy some tricks! Adam’s spirits began to soar! His headache went and he began to feel marvellous. He would ask Billy to be his son’s godfather. Adam laughed aloud. He even felt a certain affection for Billy at that moment. Life would become a game he would play with Billy. It was a fascinating idea. Perhaps Adam would one day write a novel about it — call it
The Eternal Contest.
It would be a best seller and Adam would dedicate it to Billy. Adam was so pleased with his reflections that he walked to the kitchen and made himself a Bloody Mary. Since he did not know Charity’s telephone number, and it was not listed, the only choice Adam had was to call on her. He would do just that after his drink. He would shower and shave and dress in his new chalk-striped black wool worsted suit. If the florist was open on Sunday, he would buy a bouquet for Charity’s mother. He drank the Bloody Mary, hoping that both Mr. and Mrs. Cadwallader would be at home. After all, he smiled to himself, he had to meet his future in-laws sometime, didn’t he?