Listen Ruben Fontanez (14 page)

“I am sure,” I say. Perhaps he will use the bedspread. It is at the foot of my bed now. I can wear woolen socks. He puts the note back into his shirt pocket. If it gives him pleasure to protect me in this way, I think, it is the least I can do for him.

“I'll tell you the truth,” he says. “We don't got to worry much till Jackson himself gets sprung. I don't think the kid will do anything on his own, but I figure for a day or two—so long as he knows you're laid up, we better be careful just the same, you know what I mean? We just got to be sure there's somebody here with you all the time.” He stops. “You sure you don't want somethin' to eat? I brought some stuff for sandwiches. Cold cuts—or I can warm up some soup.”

“A sandwich would be nice,” I say. This pleases him. He goes to work at once, and fixes me corned beef on rye. My father, I remember, loved the end pieces of rye bread. His brother, my uncle Nathan, was a baker in the Bialy-stoker Bakery on East Broadway. When he visited us he would always bring a paper bag full of end pieces which my father would warm in the oven. “But if that bastard makes a mistake and comes again while I'm here,” Danny says, “I'll do to him just what he promises he's gonna do to you. You can count on it, Mister Meyers.” I sit up and rest the plate and sandwich on my lap. The rye bread is fresh. I do not doubt Danny's word. “I got the stuff, and I been waiting a long time—” I did not realize how hungry I was. He has made a sandwich for himself, also, and we eat together while he talks of his plans for Jackson's brother, and for Jackson himself. When I am finished I lie down again. He puts the dishes in the sink and stretches his arms above his head. “Ah, I'm talking too much, huh? I bet you want to get some shut-eye, don't you?” He and Marty will get along, I think, if only they can agree upon who will be in charge. “You look real tired, you know.”

“There are sheets in the bottom drawer of the dresser—” I begin, but he interrupts me and says he has a woolen bathrobe which will do. He will prop his feet up on my desk chair. The easy chair, he has discovered, is soft. He can sleep anywhere when he has had some beer, he reminds me. He begins to undress. He remembers something and laughs.

“Hey,” he says. “That girl that was up here before—”

“Nydia,” I say.

“Yeah.” He sucks on his lower lip.
“Marón!”
he says, wagging his hand. “What a piece. You got to hand it to those spies—their young girls are real lookers—”

“She is fifteen years old,” I say. “But they will not let her go to school because of the baby.”

“Serves her right,” he says. “Getting knocked up like—”

“She is married,” I say. “If she were not, despite the child, she would be allowed to go to school.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That's what I mean. These people got no sense about things.” He stops then. Something in my tone of voice has disturbed him. “I didn't mean nothing bad about her, using that language—” he says.

“It is all right,” I say. “I will visit her when I am better. She wants to speak with me about going to night school.”

“Yeah?” He sets his suitcase across the arms of the easy chair and opens it. His pajamas are striped, blue and white. “I give her credit then,” he says. He loosens his belt and lets his pants fall to the floor. He wears jockey-style underpants. His thighs are larger than I had imagined. Everywhere, he is full of hair. He chuckles to himself. “I got to hand it to you, though—”

In the hallway I hear the toilet and it reminds me of my own needs. I wonder if, like my students, I will be required to take a pass with me when I leave the room. The thought amuses me. I wonder too if my monkeys miss me. Well. It is not something I have ever given much thought to, but, in truth, I think the answer is that I do not enjoy teaching. I will be glad when it is over. Next year I will do translations. If my monkeys and cowboys miss me, that is their problem. Within three years there will be a new generation of monkeys in Junior High School Number 50 who will never have heard of Mad-Man Meyers. There will be no pictures to tell your story, Harry. But that is as it should be, after all. Danny is right. Mrs. Wenger's door closes. It is not even difficult to admit, you see: teaching has never given Harry Meyers any real pleasure. I deny nothing by saying so. My brothers did not know so much, after all. I was not so different. I held a job, I married, I saved some money. There is a good chance I will make it past sixty-nine. That is all.

Danny rinses his face in the kitchen sink. I sit up, with my feet on the floor, and I notice how much space there is between my pajama top and my body. “I am going to the bathroom. In the hall,” I say. It is easier this way, to announce it. He nods and says he will go when I come back. We are roommates. I put my bathrobe and slippers on and as I walk from my room I hear Carlos' voice, rising through the stairwell, cursing his young wife.
“¡Puta! ¡Puta!”
Objects knock against walls. Under me, on the third floor, Mrs. Wright looks out. She asks me how I am feeling and then yells in an opposite direction for quiet. When Carlos' door opens, I move away from the wood bannister. I close the bathroom door behind me, and sit. Mrs. Wenger has warmed the seat for me and I am grateful to her. I bring up some phlegm and lean to the left, spitting it into the sink. Simon and I shared a bed on Howard Street. Simon, Simon, you knew no shame. You candled eggs until your death. Well. The earth lies above all of you now, my brothers. The same is true for your wives, for aunts, for uncles, for cousins. But it is all right. As you can see, Harry Meyers has enough visitors. There must be some nephews and nieces left somewhere, but they do not matter. You had your arm around my shoulder on the trip, didn't you, Simon? First in the train, and then in the wagon, we sat next to our father. Down the left side of my body, from under the armpits, there is some pain. Nothing is easy anymore. I trace the shapes on the tiled floor, endless rows of six-sided marble pieces. I wonder if they were laid out in straight rows or if a single tile was the original center, and all the others were attached from there, in a widening circle. On Howard Street the bathroom floor was the same. There is something to be said for a brownstone. Perhaps I will rescue you after all, Sarah. I told you about that trip, I remember. We visited the chicken farms which sent us our eggs. It is the first time I can remember going beyond New York. I could not have been more than five years old and Simon and I wore our good suits. I had never seen such farms before. By comparison, the ones in Brooklyn were gardens. I will tell you something: it was a real adventure to journey over dirt roads and have my father make transactions. Simon and I were allowed to play with the baby chickens. And I think I understood the connection between these distant New Jersey farms and my father's butter and egg warehouse. I was not a simple child, after all. It seems strange now to think that some of those men, dressed like true cowboys, but without beards, were Jews as we were Jews. I must have thought all the Jews in America lived in New York City. You loved my father, Sarah, didn't you, though you knew him less than a year. Well, I am entitled to a few memories. The visiting hours are not yet over. I hear steps. I am interested in what Jackson's brother had to say this time, but I can wait to see the note. Let Danny have some pleasure. I will be better soon. We will evaluate my situation. His original suggestion may be worth considering. Another trip does not sound so terrible to Harry Meyers. The room, as Danny suggests, is not adequate, and I do not fool myself really, about what the pictures will add.

Outside, it is totally silent, and then, suddenly, a high-pitched shriek splits the air. It is followed by the sounds of bodies struggling. I have been finished for some time. I take care of myself, then put my robe back on. I pull the chain but even the rush of water does not drown out the sound. Perhaps the tiles were laid out in diagonal rows, beginning in a corner.

“Aiee—!” A body crashes against my door. It is my fault. I should have said something before. I did not think.
“¡Ahora
, Manuel!
¡Asesino!”
Mrs. Wright is on the landing again. She promises to move from the building tomorrow morning. Carlos no longer needs to curse his wife. He sends his abuse in my direction. Mrs. Wenger's door does not move.

In my room, the action is almost completed. Marty's head is jammed in the opening of the fireplace, against the black, metal. His beret lies on the floor next to him. Danny's hand is locked at his throat. Manuel crawls along Danny's striped pajamas, his fingers clawing at his back. My other monkey is dancing and singing, his fist clenched above his head. He asks Marty if it is time to use it, but Marty does not give him the signal. He gags and continues to struggle. Ruben takes the pins from my doll and begins sticking them into Danny's legs. “Now, Manny boy—” Marty says. Manuel opens his mouth as wide as he can, then clamps his monkey's teeth into the back of Danny's neck. Danny howls and as he reaches behind him to get at Manuel, Marty gives him a vicious chop with the side of his hand. My guardian rolls onto his side, away from the fireplace. Ruben dances with delight.
“Ahora
, Manuel,” he chants.
“¡Ahora!”
Something shines in Manuel's hand. He yanks at Danny's hair, but the greasy strands slip through his fingers. “The scalp,” Marty says. His forearm is pressed across Danny's neck, Manuel's legs surround his stomach, and now my own monkey sits astride his thighs, backwards, working at his feet. I think of Gulliver, tied down by his own monkeys and I wonder if there has ever been a Spanish-Hebrew version of that. Ruben's hands move up and down. Danny is choking. I move forward to separate my visitors. They have not noticed me.

“The scalp,” Marty whispers. “The scalp—”

“Enough,” I say. “Stop—”

Marty turns toward me. A gurgling sound comes from Danny's throat. He can neither move nor speak. In the middle of the floor, on my rug, he seems to fill the entire room. “Is this joker—?” Marty stops to catch his breath. “Is he a friend of yours, Meyers?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Easy then, Manny boy,” Marty says. His breathing is difficult. “Easy.” He lifts his forearm. “And don't you try any smart stuff, mister,” he says to Danny. “We're taking Meyers' word, you understand?”

Ruben stands and places the pins back in my doll. Danny sits up. He rubs at his neck where Marty has been applying pressure. “Put the blade away,” Marty says, his arm around Manuel. He speaks softly. “Some other time—right?”

Manuel retreats to a corner of the room. He squats, and, in the shadows, I see only the red glow of his cigarette.

Danny is in a daze. He holds a handkerchief where Manuel has done his work. “They are boys from my school,” I explain to him. “It is all right—”

“Yeah,” he says, and turns away from me. He feels he has let me down, I know. He is embarrassed. There is nothing I can do. It would be useless to tell him that it was three against one, for they were only boys.

“I told you, didn't I?” Marty is saying. He is close to me, his beret perched once again on the side of his head. “A born killer. If you hadn't stopped us—”

“I am sorry,” I say to Danny. “I should have told you I was expecting them to return. They were here earlier today. They were the ones who brought me the cans of juice.”

Danny has put his bathrobe on. He opens a can of beer and his hand is trembling. “How much do I owe you kids?” he asks Marty.

“Forget it,” Marty says.

“C'mon,” Danny says. His voice is stronger. “What's fair is fair—we don't want no charity—”

“Make it two bucks,” Marty says, and he winks at Ruben. My monkey's eyes are shining.

“You sure?” Danny says, and, from his pants, which hang over the easy chair, he takes his wallet. Marty says that he is sure and Danny hands him two single dollar bills.

My monkey has discovered something, I see. He moves closer to Danny. Suddenly his eyes open wide and he is smiling. “I know you!” he exclaims. He twists his lopsided head toward Danny. “You the father,” he says.
“Mi madre
, I am sorry. Oh man—if I see your face at the beginning we not jump you like that—”

“Jump me?” Danny waves a hand at him. “C'mon, kid, don't tell me no stories—you walked in here and I got you before—”

Ruben ignores Danny's protest and turns to his leader. “He is the father in the pictures!” he says. Marty looks at Danny carefully now, and nods his head. Everything will be all right, I know. Ruben's eyes move downward. “We sorry about your boy,” he says.

“Sure,” Danny says. He looks at me. He has regained some of his composure. Ruben seems sad. He does not have anything else to say. He too is thinking about the pictures. Manuel sits silently in the corner. Marty is at my desk, waiting. Danny is at my side. “Listen—do they know about—” His voice is low. He hesitates. “You know—the notes—?”

“No,” I say. “There is no need—”

“You mean Jackson's brother?” Marty says. He comes to us. Danny is surprised at first. Marty laughs and pats him on the back. “Take it easy,” he says. “We know, right?” Danny leaves me. He is puzzled, but he looks at me in a way which makes me certain that he and Marty understand one another. I knew it would happen, you see. Danny rubs his chin. He seems almost ready to assert himself and, in truth, I am happy for him.

“That's why I come here, see,” Danny explains to them. They are quiet. He has their attention. He begins to recount the tale of what he will do to Jackson's brother if he should visit us. Manuel rises from his corner and listens with the others. They sit in a semicircle around Danny, on the rug, and they look with envy at his suitcase. “If I'd of known you kids were keepin' an eye on Mister Meyers I never would of jumped you like I did—”