Listen Ruben Fontanez (12 page)

I shake the sleep from my head and lean closer.
“¡Mira!”
Ruben whispers and he points a bony finger to the lower region of Marty's back, where, along the right side of his spine I see what Ruben has been referring to.
“¡Morado!”
Ruben says, breathless. I shrug, at first, thinking they are ordinary birthmarks.
“¡Morado!”
I look more closely and see that my monkey is correct. The spots are not the usual brown, but a dull shade of purple.

“Yes,” I say. “All right.” Marty moves away from us and tucks his shirt in quickly. He is annoyed.

“He does not like to show them—” Ruben says. “So I got to thank you, Mister Meyers. It is not every—”

“Cool it, Ruben,” Marty says. “I showed the spots, right? Now just cool it—”

“But—” I begin.

“¡Morado!
Ah
¡morado!”
My monkey is in a trance. “Ah
morado—
”

Marty grabs him from behind with one hand, squeezing his neck. He knows the pressure points also. “How many times I got to tell you something?” He shoves Ruben away, but my monkey still smiles. His eyes are glazed.

“But—” I begin.

“Look,” Marty says, approaching my bed. “They're just Mongolian spots, see? They're not so unusual.”

“The Indians come from Mongolia,” Ruben whispers. “Marty has taught us. They crossed from Siberia. They too were hairless—”

“Cool it, Ruben,” Marty says. “I told you—”

“The spots do not lie, Mister Meyers,” Ruben says. “Señora Rosa—”

“Señora Rosa eats it,” Marty says. He raises a hand and Ruben retreats to the fireplace. He takes the packet of earth from his pocket but Marty sneers at him. All right. I will leave my Persian slippers for Manuel. It is decided. And my bedspread for Nydia. Ruben stands by the window now, fondling my likeness, playing with the pins. After all, I think, he is only a boy. I was right the first time. “Listen,” Marty is saying. He is next to me now and he speaks so that Ruben cannot hear. “Man to man, what do you think—? Just because I got the spots and I don't have much hair yet, I think I'm an Indian?” He laughs to himself and clicks his tongue. His hand is on my knee. “I'm not that far gone, Meyers. Right? Not yet. Maybe my old man could sell those doctors a bill of goods. Sure. With all his money, you think they were gonna—”

“But I—”

He is angered by my interruption. He stands over me now and commands me to look at him. He unbuttons his shirt and pulls up his undershirt. “Okay?” he says. “You get a good look?” I nod. He rolls up his trousers and shows me his legs. Ruben's eyes dance wildly.
“¡Mira! ¡Mira!”
he says, breathless. “Now I'm showing you this once and for all, Meyers, and that's it, right? You got questions, you fire away now. It's the only chance you'll get, you hear?”

I shrug. “I am an old man,” I say.

Marty smiles from the side of his face. He pats me on the shoulder and speaks confidently again. “Look,” he is saying, “so I'm not straight and narrow like my older brothers, right? So I got these spots. And no hair yet, right? So what am I supposed to do, let people use it against me?” He taps the side of his head with his forefinger. “That's what they'd like, I'll tell you that. But you won't get me to suck around my old man the way they do. With all his money I still showed him, you hear?” He moves his head up and down. “They won't get me.” His grip on my knee is firm. I enjoy the sound of his voice. It has an edge to it. It comes from his throat. “They won't get me, you understand?”

I shrug. Sarah would comfort you, my young rebel.

“Okay, okay,” he says. My silence bothers him. “You want to hear the whole thing, don't you? You want it spelled out, black and white, right?” He stops and his eyes rivet on mine. They are gray, I see. But what color are my monkey's eyes, I wonder. I cannot recall. I can see him clearly—when he danced on the desk, in the street below his home—and I can see his eyes flashing. Yet I cannot recall their color. “You and me, Meyers, we understand one another, right?” I nod. “You have spots,” I say, and I try to smile. Marty winks. “Okay,” he says, so that Ruben can hear. He lowers his voice again and talks to me like a true friend. We will share his secret. “Okay,” he is saying. “So I say to myself—Marty, what are you gonna do about it? Right? And you know what the answer is—”

I look at him. “Compensate,” he says. He laughs again. “I turn it into an asset, see?” He glances toward Ruben. “Like keeping my men in line—you know what I mean? Giving them all that Indian stuff—”

“The spots do not lie,” Ruben says. He is closer to us, holding his doll, and I wonder if he has heard everything Marty has been saying. As for me, I would prefer it. There should be no secrets.

“Listen to me, Meyers,” Marty says. There is urgency in his voice. “I'm shooting straight with you. I showed my old man and I can show you—”

I smile. His threats do not disturb me. “He knows everything about the Indians,” Ruben says. “Ask him—”

“Sure, Ruben baby. Sure,” he says, and winks at me. “See what I mean? Where I want 'em. See—?”

Marty moves away from the bed without waiting for a response from me. In the middle of the room he turns and points a finger in my direction. “You want to believe it, you believe it. You don't, don't. It's no skin off my ass—”

I nod. “Of course,” I say. But I know that Harry Meyers disturbs him. He looks out the window and chews on his lip. I had a scheme once also, Marty, and I spent many nights drawing up the proposal. Sarah encouraged me. “There's Manny,” Marty says. “He's got the goods—”

Marty turns sideways and the light from the window catches his silver brace and flashes at me. “Look,” he says. “Just cool it, both of you.” He does not look at us. “You, Meyers, I told the story once, I'm not explaining again. I don't make a practice of repeating myself, you hear?” The buzzer sounds and I start to get up, but Ruben presses the button at the side of the door. If the Board of Education had accepted the plan, my monkey, you and your brothers would have grown up on farms. You might have qualified also, Marty. Get them away from the homes, I explained. Tear down the schools. Use the money to buy land upstate. Build work-farms. Sarah smiled. I had energy then. Like you, Marty. “Okay. Wait outside,” he says to Ruben. He is pacing now, nervous. “I got to straighten something out.”

Ruben obeys. But you did not wait long enough, Sarah. And Harry Meyers was doing it more to please you than because he cared. That seems to be the truth. I showed a draft to a school supervisor I knew. He was sympathetic, but he let me know how unoriginal my plan was. And he reminded me of the obstacles that waited at Livingston Street, the technicalities, the endurance I would need to get even a hearing. It was only a dream, Sarah. I wonder if I ever thought otherwise. From his canvas bag, Marty takes out a pair of drums. “They're bongos.” He laughs, but his laugh is forced. “Ruben and Manny call them my tom-toms.” I do not smile. I hear whispering outside the door. Marty looks at me. “Look,” he says. “I want to settle this once and for all, Meyers, you understand?” He sits on my bed. “I mean, man to man, who knows why or when I got hooked on this Indian bit, right? But I did.” He licks his lips. “And I'll tell you something else—I know all the theories, too, you hear?”

“I do not understand—” I say.

“C'mon, c'mon—” he says. “Sure you do. Don't make out like you're innocent. You don't fool me. Ruben told you all about me already, right? About why I'm on the lam—” He does not wait for an answer. He would surely have been a leader at the farm. “But the theories don't matter. So long as I cope, right? And I cope in this world, Meyers. I'll tell you that. They won't get me, you hear?”

“Of course,” I say.

The door is open and Marty's arms are around the shoulders of his two monkeys. “Compensate, man. Compensate.” They walk before me. “Jesus,” he says. “At twenty-five smackers a session, you know how we could be living now, Ruben baby? In style, man. Style—”

“We making it,” Ruben says.

Marty takes the grocery bag from Manuel and he and Ruben empty its contents on my kitchen table. I count six large cans. “Good boy, Manny,” Marty says. “I didn't know what your favorite was, so we got you a selection—apricot, pineapple, orange, grapefruit—two each of the apricot and orange, okay?”

“I will pay you,” I say.

Marty laughs. “Manny knows the owner,” he says. “It's for good will, right, Manny my boy?”

Manuel takes a package of cigarettes from his side pocket, then a paper bag from under his shirt.

“And use this,” Marty says, handing me a small plastic container. I read the label. It is Triaminicin, a nasal decongestant. “Most of this junk is for the birds—and the prices are way out of line—but it relieves symptoms. You can't get any good stuff unless you have a prescription.” I sit up straight and press the sides of the plastic bottle, spraying into each nostril. “Okay—now lie back down,” Marty says.

Manuel places a full glass of juice on my night table. I look at it. From its color I can tell that it is apricot nectar. My favorite. I will give some to Morris. He will share the oatmeal with me also. I taste the medicine as it drips down at the back of my throat.

“I gone to bring you something else,” Ruben says. “When we come back. It be a surprise—” Manuel is careful to blow the smoke away from me.

“Your head should begin to clear in about five to ten minutes,” Marty says. “You rest up now and you'll be okay.” He pauses. “If you're not, you don't have to pay us, right?” He explains then to his two monkeys that the Indian custom of paying the medicine man only if he cures the patient, was, of course, derived from the Chinese custom. He winks at me. Not all the tribes practiced it, he says. Ruben says it was the same with Señora Rosa. I sit up and drink the juice. It is thick and soothing. It is all right if I doze. Morris will be buzzing me soon. Nydia will come to confer. “If you think of anything else you need, you just write it down,” Marty says. “Then leave the rest to Manny.”

Ruben leans my doll against the lamp, on my night table, beside the juice glass. I do not mind. It pleases him that I have kept it, I know. And the pains in my chest are almost gone. My glands will be down in a day or two, I am certain. Then I will return. Ruben leans close to me. “Manuel's sister say she like me,” he says. “She waiting for us downstairs, to go to work—”

I smile. I feel very drowsy, peaceful. Ruben, you will not even need to storm the hospitals. With your charm, you will get past the policemen with ease. Marty will work from the rooftops. I reach for my eyeglasses, on the night table. I will see what color your eyes are, my monkey. “We'll split now,” Marty is saying. “You rest up. When we get back from work, we'll stop by. Okay?”

“I bring you a surprise,” Ruben says. The door opens. “I see you later. We gone to make our money now.”

The door locks automatically. I am not afraid to dream this time. It will be all right. My three young men are going to work. I drink some more juice and hum to myself. Already my nose has stopped dripping. I will sleep until Morris comes, then I will talk with Nydia. By next Monday I will return to school. Before then, if my health continues to improve, I will take up Ruben's offer.

When my nose clears, I shift onto my side. Then I turn to my stomach. It is dark. The shades are pulled down and I cannot see the brownstones across the street. I will look into my monkey's eyes when he returns. It is too late now. I hear the children singing. Their voices are pleasant and soft.
Whistle while you work… Hitler is a jerk… Mussolini is a meanie
…

FIVE

I
HEAR
a swishing sound. My body is in a sweat, the covers are heavy, my pajamas stick to me. Underneath, the sheets are warm and damp. Someone has laid another blanket on top of me. I do not move. I cannot remember the last time my sleep was so black and dreamless. I do not mind, though. I have had enough cowboys in trees, enough dolls, enough even of you, Sarah. You never did answer my question about your extra years, you know.

I breathe in. My sinuses are clear. Sarah, Sarah. It is all right. I don't hold it against you, believe me. The swishing continues. I lie half on my side, half on my stomach, my arms locked around the pillow. I can hear the Rebbe singing. My eyes are terribly thick. It seems a shame to open them. Perhaps my monkeys have returned. Morris should have been here long ago, unless my sleep has been more brief than I can realize. There is no way of knowing, after all. I reach my hand across and touch the juice glass, then my eyeglasses.

The room is still dark. The window shades are drawn, but I can see my likeness smiling at me. In a corner of the room the swishing persists. I swallow and feel the lumps slide along the underside of my jaw. A shape moves. I pull the chain of my lamp and the sound stops. The shape is that of a woman, I see. She moves silently across the room and I watch her dark outline. She carries a long pole.

“Sarah—”

“It only me, Mister Meyers,” she says. “Nydia—”

I nod. “It is all right, child,” I say. On the farm, the girls would have lived separately. There would have been useful work for them. I had plans.

“Here,” she says, and pours juice into my glass. “The boy say to give it to you when you wake up.” The mop rests against the railing at the foot of my bed. There is a white pill next to the juice glass and I put it on my tongue. Nydia sits across from me now, by the fireplace. I drink and the liquid soothes my throat. I slip a finger behind my glasses and wipe the sleep from the inner edge of my eye. The light from my lamp makes a circle on the floor and leaves Nydia's face in shadows. I see only her legs, her sandals, the gray wool skirt that falls across her knees.