Listen Ruben Fontanez (18 page)

He shrugs. “I no mean nothing, Mister Meyers,” he says.

“I remember,” I say again. In truth, I am not angry. My hand moves, impulsively, as if to touch his forehead. But I keep it at my side.

There are no messages in my mailbox this morning. Ruben tells me that he did not mean anything. There were things he did not understand.
“Lo siento
, Mister Meyers.” Again I tell him that it is all right. He believes me. He talks to me of what Marty has taught him about the Indians, of
heemanehs
and
berdaches
, skilled in embroidery, cooking and weapon-making. “It not so bad to be a fag if you an Indian,” he says.

Marty sighs. “Don't mind him, Meyers—you tell him something once, he makes a production out of it.” Manuel is at our heels, looking up and down the street. “The coast's clear,” Marty says. “This way—” And we walk toward Broadway. It is even warmer today than I had thought it was. In the crevice of my chin there are drops of sweat. At the corner, a crowd congregates outside the Riverside Funeral Chapel. I see the long black limousines lined up at the exit. The cars of the visitors are double-parked along both sides of the street. Sarah looks down on all of us.

Manuel is tugging at Marty's sleeve. He points and I too see the policeman who waits for us at the corner. “Listen, Meyers,” Marty says. “It'll be best if you don't stay too close to us—just to be safe. You never know, right?”

“But I promise him!” Ruben objects. “I tell him when he better he gone to see us in action—”

“Just hold your horses,” Marty says. He is very tense. “I got it all planned—don't worry.” We draw closer to him. “For everybody's sake, it's best if Meyers doesn't associate himself with us. Look: if we want to keep using the building there for a hideout—and if we're gonna be able to stay in the vicinity to keep an eye on Meyers here—there's no point in Johnny the Cop beginning to make any connection between him and us, right?” He lets his words linger in the air. I should not have worn a jacket under my overcoat. “Remember, he's got a reputation in this neighborhood. People know him—and you can bet the city'll be checking with all your teachers from school, right?”

Ruben nods. In the windows of the top floors I see faces of old men and women, looking down. They have several days still until their government money arrives. But the checks are always on time. On that morning of the month they wait downstairs. Next year Harry Meyers will join them. If they read this morning's newspaper they will know who the funeral is for. None of them, I see, stands directly in the middle of the window.

“Okay then,” Marty is saying. “If we want to be able to maneuver freely from now on, the four of us, listen to me. The best thing, see, is for you to stay about a half block behind us.” He is talking to me, I realize. “We'll keep an eye out so we don't lose you—” At the corner, cars are honking and a second policeman appears and waves them on. A young Puerto Rican boy peddles his Associated Food shopping cart through the traffic. I look behind and see that the garbage-can woman is crossing Columbus Avenue. Morris should try to get her to join his home. I will mention it to him. The doorman of building number 190 holds a car door open for one of his clients. On the other side of the street a couple passes, hand in hand, and I cannot tell which one is the man. They walk gracefully and Ruben's eyes follow them also. We do not look at one another. Danny's doll sticks out of his jacket pocket.

“We'll wait for you in the subway,” Marty says. “And you can come in the same cars with us, so long as you don't let on you know us, okay?”

I nod. It has been less than two weeks. I did not realize how much I missed my neighborhood. It will be difficult to move next year. “You gone to be surprised,” Ruben says. “Keep your eye on us—”

They move away from me. I wait and then follow. At the corner, most of the people seem glad to see one another. They laugh, they chatter, they kiss. The women wear fur coats. “At weddings and funerals,” I hear a woman say. Her hair is dyed a bluish shade of gray. From inside the chapel, the widow exits, a handkerchief at her mouth. A young man supports her by one arm. One of the funeral directors is giving instructions to the Negro limousine driver. They are very gentle as they lead the widow to the car. I must wait for her to pass. The sidewalk clears and people sob quietly. Ahead of me, I see that Ruben has backtracked to make certain I know they have turned the corner. Manuel glares at the policeman. Marty may be right about him. I would not doubt it. The widow is in the limousine now. She pleads with her son to allow somebody else to get in beside her, and she looks helplessly out of the car window. “You heard?” a man says to me.

I look into his eyes but I do not know what he is talking about. There is something familiar about his face. “She wants me,” he says. “It's terrible, terrible, that it should happen this way—when—” He gestures with his hands, disgusted, and gives me a brief hug. “I'm glad you came,” he says. “Believe me—” Then he is in the limousine. He sits in one of the folding leather chairs in the back. He waves to me. I do not move. The limousine edges away from the curb and the crowd is in motion once more. I smell the perfumes of middle-aged women. I move forward through their chattering. My monkey will make dolls of all of you, I think. If he could call Morris a cowboy, there is little he is not capable of. You should not look at Harry Meyers that way! I push forward, using my elbows, and I vow that I will not allow such people to come during visiting hours. Ruben will post the rules. Marty and Manuel will stand guard.

“Don't push so much, mister!” The voice comes from a man who seems almost as small as my smallest monkey. Under his coat, he wears a double-breasted suit. His breath smells like old socks, the smell of the synagogue at the end of Yom Kippur. I do not know how old he is, but it is not my fault if the man who died was younger than he was. “Don't fool with me,” I say, and shove him aside. Ruben slips from view. At the corner the crowd is thinner. People bargain with one another for rides home. They should have arranged things before, I think.

Don't you be a fool, Harry Meyers
. The voice comes to me directly, so that I stumble. Ahead of me, halfway toward 75th Street, on Amsterdam Avenue, my three boys wait. I am dizzy suddenly and a young helper from the funeral parlor has his eye on me, a jar of smelling salts in his hand. I do not need his aid, do you hear me? But what is this, Harry, I ask myself. A man is dead and you play games with three children. Is this a proper way to finish things—to wander around after two monkeys and a crazy fifteen-year-old? You are in such a hurry to get through the crowd, aren't you, Harry. For what? Dolls, fruit juices, Indians, visiting hours. It is you who are playing the fool, Harry Meyers. Don't you know that? I walk forward anyway, following. The young man sees that I am all right. He looks to the others. But my heart pounds fiercely and my shirt, I know, is already wet from sweat. Don't you play the fool, Harry Meyers. There have been enough games. Enough. The sidewalk rises slightly but I am careful. I slow down and I continue walking in a straight line. A man is dead and you play games with three children. It is insane, Harry.

They are in front of Al's Lock and Key Store now. In truth, they seem quite small. Despite Marty's beret, there is nothing conspicuous about them. They are only boys. I call to them but my lips do not move. Monday I will return to work. Harry Meyers will finish what he starts. He has no choice, after all. I should have stopped the dinners years ago. It will be more difficult now, but they will end. For now, though, I will follow my three students. It is pointless to try to get out of it after I have asserted myself. Marty would know how to manipulate such a change. You can be certain of that. This then, I suppose, is what has been decided, and your doll was not the cause, Ruben Fontanez. You can be certain of that also. My name is Harry Meyers, you see, and I have been teaching at John D. Wells Junior High School in Williamsburg since 1926 and at the end of the year, a month before I am sixty-five, I will be retired. And I will leave the pictures in the glass case. All right?

I follow them past the back wall of the Beacon Theater, past the Dori Donut Shop, the telephone company. The old men and women line the benches around Verdi Square, pigeons at their feet. Beyond them I see the sign for the Rutgers Church, the Hotel Westover. The corner of 72nd Street, where Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue crisscross, is filled with people. If I know Morris, he is sitting in Horn and Hardart's right now, trying to kid with the women who sit in the front section, the one that is roped off for those without escorts. My three children enter the subway kiosk and I follow them across the street. They wait for me on the downtown side of the turnstile. I give the man a dollar and he gives me five subway tokens. I will need some for next week.

The writing on the subway pillars does not interest me. I do not look at the people who wait on the platform. I do not look in the mirrors of the gum machines. I follow my orders and stay at a distance. My three young men confer at the front end of the platform, where it narrows like the bow of a ship. An express train leaves from the uptown side. I look down and watch a thin stream of water flow through the grime and filth between the subway tracks. The steel rails are smooth and silver. Manuel shuffles his feet nervously. In the subways he cannot smoke. I think of his sewer babies and wonder about Ruben's question: if they grow up by themselves, will they know how to speak. I see the lights of the Broadway Local as it enters the station at the far end and sways powerfully toward us. Ruben points. I step back. In the first car, the Negro train conductor appears to be asleep. Sewer babies, dinners, translations, frozen bodies: don't you play the fool, Harry Meyers. Enough. Finish what you have started. You have no choice, after all. But do not play the fool.

The fluorescent lights in the subway car seem too bright. The car is no more than half full. The rush hour is past. That is something I do not look forward to. In the spring, the smell of bodies is something terrible. It is worse when I return from my cowboys than when I go in the morning. Then I can still smell the fragrances of secretaries' perfumes. The doors close and we rumble away through the dark tunnel. Marty enters my car and he holds his drums under his arm. He looks my way but acts as if I am a stranger. My two monkeys pass through the opening between the first and second car, and Ruben slides the door closed behind them. Manuel sits in the corner. Above him is an advertisement of a blond woman with a large open mouth. I think of getting off at 66th Street and walking back home, but that would be pointless, I know. I wonder where Manuel's sister is. Despite the fact that I will no longer have to ride the subways, I do not look forward to the summer. When my windows are open at night the noises keep me awake. Across the street, under the rooms of the old people, the chattering from the Puerto Rican families is endless. I will never sleep on my back. That is certain. Harry Meyers does not fool himself about such things. I remember the sound of beer bottles breaking on the pavement, of radios playing Latin American music. They are louder in hot weather. Perhaps I will move before then.

At 66th Street I close my eyes. I trust Marty to tell me when it is time to get off. The sound of the train knocking through the tunnels is comforting. I have always slept well in subways. There is a high-pitched screeching as we curve toward 59th Street, but it does not bother me. I am feeling much better. The sweat on my back is drying. I touch my throat and cheeks, pleased by their smoothness. Tonight I will convince Danny that there is no further need for him to stay with me. I touch the side of my throat and at first I cannot find the friendly gland. I place it. I am reassured.

The train stops but I do not open my eyes. I hear people shuffle in and out. Next to me I feel somebody's arm, but there is enough room. I am not pressed. Don't you be a fool, Harry Meyers. It is the voice again, though this time, I think, I am merely remembering the sound. I do not stumble or grow dizzy. I do not even sway. It is all right, though, all this talk of whether I will sleep on my back or my side, of cowboys, of monkeys, of Manuel's sister, of glands. It means nothing. I know now, you see. I have told you. I am Harry Meyers and I have been teaching at John D. Wells Junior High School since 1926 and at the end of this year, a month before I am sixty-five, I will retire. I know that my three guardians are at the other end of the car and that I am following them. In truth, it is less complicated this way. Let things run their course. A few silly thoughts can remain. We do not need to dismiss them all at once. It would not be natural for Harry Meyers to deny what he cares about, after all. It is true that he plays games with children, but it is also true that he cares about them. He would not deny it.

It is a thought I can live with. Marty is right about my room giving one the willies. There is no need any longer to accumulate money. I have put away more than enough to defend myself from clinics and welfare. A new room, an air-conditioner, a trip, some mild adventure—if these too are games, that will be all right. Well. It will not be easy to separate from them. I feel drowsy. I will sleep well again tonight. Perhaps, when I have returned to school, I can tell them that the police know something. They have seen us together, I will say. They are interviewing me. We will separate as friends. I wish them well.

And there will be no more dinners. I will think of something there also. Marty is right. One must cope. The tunnel grows longer, pinching together at the end. Specks of light flicker as they move toward the bottom. I see the widow being supported by the young man. A man is dead and you follow three crazy children. I hear more noise.

I open my eyes and see the waists of people all around me. I look over my shoulder and see the sign: Times Square. I do not recall stopping at 50th Street. I cannot see to the front end of the car. Perhaps we have already been separated. I do not look at the words on the newspaper that the man standing in front of me holds. Near me, somebody is carrying his lunch. I smell tuna fish. My eyes close again. It is just as well. There is no need to check the
Times
. Whoever it was, let him rest in peace. It is nothing to me. The doors to the train remain open. I hear the air release itself from the brakes. We idle. It is warmer now. There are more important things to be done. I must telephone the Yeshiva before sundown and explain to them. If I lose the job, though, that will not be a catastrophe either. I have enough money. The doors close. We are moving again. I feel myself relaxing. Things are very black. A pleasant drumming sound rolls through the car. I wonder if we will ride all the way into Brooklyn. Perhaps we will visit Marty's Mohawk friends in Gowanus. It is no small thing to build a bridge. Simon and I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge together, I remember. Sarah and I did not, though we talked of doing it. The Japanese Gardens were sufficient for us, I suppose. Who is Sarah, Harry.