Listen Ruben Fontanez (17 page)

Marty chews his piece of toast. Let me tell you something: if the choice for Harry Meyers were death or baptism, he would choose baptism. “They gonna have a live virgin tonight?” Marty asks him.

Marty is reaching him. “Aiee—” Ruben cries, and holds the sides of his head. I hear a sound from across the room.

“Keep your eyes on the street,” Marty orders. Manuel obeys. Marty turns to me. “He's not telling you stories, Meyers—they hold these things up there, with girls sprawled on the altars and all this voodoo stuff—” He taps with his fork against his cup. “And who are we to say whether it's cock-eyed or not, right? One of these first days we might find out a lot of things aren't as cock-eyed as we thought. And I'll tell you something else.” His eyes narrow. I see a spot of egg yolk trapped in his braces. “They get some results. The stuff works. And that's all that counts in this world—”

I smell the tea brewing. The fragrance of raisin wine is lost. When I return, perhaps I will take my cowboys on a field trip. Such a mass would not seem strange to them, I am certain. But you know that already, don't you, Ruben Fontanez. You have looked in their windows. I wonder: I think you would have chosen death, but who can know such things. The great Rebbe Sholem stayed up for one thousand days and one thousand nights reading Torah in order to attain communion with the prophet Elijah. There is such a thing as Satan's Chassidism, you see. I have heard the cowboys argue about it. “You want to come?” The question is from Marty.

“I am an old man,” I say, and shrug.

“You not so old,” Ruben says. “There's a man—” He looks to his leader, a question in his eyes. Marty considers. Then he gives his consent. “There's a man up in Harlem, he real old. Nobody know how old he is.”

“We talked it over last night,” Marty says to me. “And we decided to put it to you—if you want to meet him or not—”

“You like him a lot, Mister Meyers,” Ruben says. “You never meet anybody like him. Some people say he is one hundred years old—”

“I'm not saying yes, I'm not saying no,” Marty says. “If you want to believe it, you believe it.” He has his green bag ready.

“You never see anybody so black,” Ruben says. I think of Jackson in his powder-blue earmuffs. For one night, at least, I have escaped, but I am certain Danny will request a telling of the story when he returns tonight. “He is our leader, Mister Meyers.” His voice drops. “Even Marty let him—”

“Cool it, Ruben,” Marty orders. His voice is sharp.

“I am sorry. But it the truth, Mister Meyers—like I tell you once. There lots of kids around the city making it like us, and we all—”

Marty slaps Ruben across the knuckles with the back of his spoon. “You finished eating?” he asks. “This place is beginning to give me the willies. The sooner we split out and take up our lookout, the better I'll like it.” He stands and Ruben does the same. “You had another note this morning,” he says to me.

I nod. It does not matter. Marty goes on. “Okay, now this friend of yours probably won't go to the cops, but you never can tell, right? We've got to cover ourselves—”

“All right,” I say.

“So don't think we're—you know—deserting you or anything—”

“Of course,” I say. I wonder, in truth, what it was like during the three days that Jackson and Gil lived in their hotel room together. It is something to consider, I suppose. The medical reports were inconclusive.

“I'll stay on the roof over there and watch the street,” Marty says. “Ruben, I want you to get up on top of this building, to make sure he doesn't come in through the backyards, and Manny, just to be sure, you'll guard the basement—” I sip my tea. My glands, I can tell, have subsided even more. I touch my neck. Along the right side there is a single friendly gland which insists on staying with me. Under my fingertips it rolls by itself. “We've been too careful for too long to let anything slip now, right? They won't get me, Meyers, you understand? Not now—”

I nod. Marty is slightly puzzled by the expression on my face, but it is not enough to stop him. “Another thing—I almost forgot,” he says. “You had a visitor this morning. Some joker with a seeded roll wrapped in a napkin—”

“Morris,” I say. “We were boys together—”

“Well, he trailed it out of here pretty quick when he saw us—so who knows who he'll be gabbing to.” He smiles from the side of his face. “You should have seen him, though—Ruben called him a cowboy and the guy nearly flipped—”

I turn to my monkey. He looks down. “I sorry, Mister Meyers,” he says. “I tell you the truth, I remember what you tell me in the restaurant about him. I just want to have some fun—” I begin to laugh with my guardians. “We try to call him back from the stairs, but he move too fast for us—”

“It is all right,” I say. “I will explain to him this weekend in the park.”

Marty pats me on the shoulder. “That's what I like to hear, Meyers—”

“In fact,” I say, “I will return to school on Monday.”

Ruben claps his hands. “See—?” he says to Marty. “I tell you. Mister Meyers got real spirit. He the only teacher at our school who—”

“Cool it, Ruben,” Marty says. He turns to me. “We'll see about that on Monday. You—”

“I said I will return on Monday.” I say it calmly. I do not need to ask permission anymore, you see.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Marty says. “Meanwhile we'll stake out this place and keep an eye on you—”

“When will you go to work?” I ask.

“That's our business,” he says. He does not wish to continue the discussion. “Okay, Manny—” he calls. “Let's move out.”

“No,” I say. “I am sorry, but it is not your business.” I am on the offensive now, you see. Marty stands up. I will shave and put on my good black suit. It is decided. “If I am keeping you from going to work—”

“We'll manage, Meyers—you don't worry about us, hear?” He slings his green bag over his shoulder, but his eyes are somewhat uncertain. You cannot intimidate Harry Meyers for long. Marty will have to learn also. “You've got enough of your own stuff to worry about—”

I turn to Ruben. “I would like to meet Manuel's sister,” I say to him.

“You like her a lot, Mister Meyers.” His eyes glow. “I want to bring her here to meet you, but Marty—”

“Women are a jinx,” Marty says. “How many times do I have to tell you that—?”

“The Indians would not let women be with them when they made their weapons,” Ruben says. “Marty has explained to us—”

Marty rolls his eyes. He is impatient. I am sorry, my young guardian, but this is the way it must be. “Look—you bring her here, you're asking for trouble, that's all. You can take it from me.” He points and Manuel goes back to the window. Then he sighs and sits down in the easy chair. “Okay, Meyers,” he says. “Let's keep things straight between us—what's the gripe? I'll tell you what—we'll work the night shift, when your friend gets back to take over, okay? That make you happy?”

From inside my night table I remove my shaving kit. “I will return to work on Monday,” I say, and I smile. “It is decided.”

“Okay, okay—but what's that got to do with us keeping a lookout for this guy who's after you—?”

“I think I would like to take a walk,” I say.

Marty rubs his chin. “So—?”

“So there is no need for you to continue—”

“Okay, okay. I got the picture,” he says, cutting me off.

I tell him that he does not understand. I am not ungrateful. I appreciate what he has done for me, but I want to get out some before I return to teaching on Monday. My monkey is delighted and he does not try to hide his happiness. Only Danny, I think, would be as happy about such a change in me. Perhaps I will take Ruben and his young lady to the restaurant with me one day next week. We will see. Sarah would be proud. It was what she always wanted, after all. Ruben asks me again about going to the mass and this time I say that I will consider. I have other things to do before then, though.

“Here,” Marty says. “I forgot,” and from his green bag he takes out a book. I know at once what its title is. I thank him and put it beside the gift my monkey has brought me. “We're even,” he says. It is a more expensive edition this time, in Spanish. “And I'll tell you something else,” he adds. “That stuff you and Ruben been reading about freezing people—you don't really put any stock in that hocus-pocus, do you?” Ruben's eyes flicker. It would not be a bad idea if he were to take the pins from my doll and use them for somebody else. “I mean, some of that mechanical heart stuff is okay—I was reading it all before you woke up—but anybody knows you can't freeze internal organs and then thaw them out right.” He gets no response from Harry Meyers. “Sure,” he says. “Freeze what you want—but nobody's been able to preserve even a mouse for a single day. It all goes cock-eyed in the thawing—”

He will not stop talking now, but it is all right. Harry Meyers is not disturbed by his theories. Nor is my monkey, I see. The cowboys know: all matter contains sparks of God. I take the doll in my hands, from where Ruben has left it on the pillow. I twist the pins and feel no pain. Perhaps you are right. Harry Meyers is not so old. “And don't you think for a minute that we're gonna let you go walking by yourself—” Marty is saying. “Around here, you could be knifed and you'd lay in some ditch over in Central Park for a month before anybody'd stop to see what was the matter—”

I take a clean shirt from the bottom drawer of my dresser. Danny's pajamas, I see, are folded neatly on my desk chair. His suitcase stands between my dresser and my desk. In the frame, Sarah and a younger Harry Meyers appear to be very happy. “You stayed in number 171 last night, didn't you?” I say, and Marty nods his head. He says that all the derelicts and runaways in the city use such buildings. The police do not bother with them, especially in winter.

“There is no need for you to follow me,” I say. If visitors come by while I am out, they will have to wait. I am ready to accept Ruben's invitation, you see. It is not fair, I tell them, now that my cold has disappeared, for them to lose another day's work. I will see you in action, my monkey.

“You sure?” Marty asks. He does not like the idea, of course, but it is difficult for him to say so.

“I am sure,” I say.

Ruben can hardly restrain himself. “Oh man, Mister Meyers—I been waiting to show you how we work—we really gone to surprise you!”

“Okay, okay,” Marty says. “It's your skin, Meyers. But if you land up flat on your back again, don't say I didn't try to talk you out of it—”

I assure him I will not. I must shave now, I say. Marty tells me not to waste time. Now that both Morris and Danny know about them, he says, it is best to hurry from my room. He reminds us about the man from the orphanage who is tracing Ruben's whereabouts, about Mr. Greenfeld, and about the men who search for him. He pauses. I know that he would like me to ask who it is that follows him, but Harry Meyers will not give him the satisfaction. It is not the time for such things. I will do nothing with your vague clues, my young fugitive. Before long, you see, the theories will be stripped away. We will see what we will see.

Marty's reminders have made my two monkeys uneasy. They pace nervously in my tiny room. Through the window I see that the sun is shining brightly over West 76th Street. It did not snow yesterday, despite predictions, so there will be no slush, no ice. There are no great dangers. Mr. Greenfeld will sleep in the lounge. Marty will evade his father and his father's doctors. Ruben has little to fear. He is right, after all. One monkey more or less means little to anyone. They already have his brothers and sisters as hostages. They can play a waiting game.

When I am finished shaving I stop in the hallway. Somebody new has moved into the empty room next to the Oriental. I hear words from a television set. The coughing is that of an old man. I listen at Mrs. Wenger's door. There is no sound. I knock and hear something move inside. That is all. I just wanted to be sure. I return to my own room and step out of my pajamas. When I return tonight I will take a bath. As I change into my good suit, my monkeys do not look at my body. I do not look at it, either. I know it well. My three guardians keep their backs to me, their eyes on the street.

I tie the laces of my shoes, and, after my jacket is on, select a tie. I put my overcoat on. “I am ready,” I say. I take the mop. Marty, however, grabs it from me. “Don't be a hero,” he says, as we leave the room. “If you get tired, say the word.”

On the third floor, Mrs. Wright opens her door to greet us. I smell liquor on her breath. Behind her a plaque in brilliant colors explains why God gave his only begotten son. Still, she has little affection for my three students, I can tell. I explain to her that they are from my official class. On the second floor landing, I knock at Nydia's door, but there is no answer. “She must be in the park with the baby,” I say.

“If we're going to work, let's go,” Marty says.

“I was not suggesting we visit her,” I say.

“Sure,” my sullen warrior responds.

I show them the hall closet on the first floor, for the mop, and I notice that the visiting hours have been taken down from the wall. That is just as well, I think, since Harry Meyers will no longer be receiving visitors. If such a thing happens again I will need larger accommodations. Danny is right. At the very least, a room with another door, to provide for all the entrances and exits. One of the young men who shares the garden apartment opens the door and asks how I am feeling. I introduce him to my three students and he smiles. His apartment smells of cologne.

“I am going for a walk,” I say.

He tells me to enjoy myself and I realize that he undoubtedly envies me, to have three such young friends. Ruben cannot stop smiling. I look at him. “I remember,” I say to him.