Listen Ruben Fontanez (2 page)

“I will talk to her if you wish,” I say. “Though I don't think she'll care much for a teacher's advice.”

“Yeah, yeah—maybe you're right. I suppose I gotta be the one to do it.” He has been making drinks for us, and he hands me a glass. The outside is wet. “I would of done a better job with a boy. I mean, if she'd had an older brother, he could of helped too…” He makes a fist and shakes it. “Little Gil was some smart kid. He was only five and he was writing his name and adding and things. I ever tell you that?”

I nod. It is coming again. So soon this time. I drink and feel in my pocket for the note. Danny sits down next to me, leaning his body against my shoulder. “Listen,” he says, whispering. “That bastard Jackson will be gettin' out of the pen in less than a year, did you know that—?”

“No,” I say.

“Sure,” he says. “I been keepin' track of him through this guy in my union who knows somebody who got an in with the warden. He's been a real good boy up there—and that suits me fine.” He laughs to himself. “Don't tell the wife, but I got some goodies upstairs, hid, and me and some of the guys I work with at the plant, we're gonna get that bastard good.” He rubs his hands. “Gonna do to him just what he did to little Gil. We'll work him over good before we finish him off.” He has his body twisted now so that his face is in front of mine, our noses almost touching. I see his teeth, broken and stained. “And I'll tell you something else—off the record—I been speaking to guys and they say that even if I get caught, given the facts—you know, going back through the whole thing, with pictures of little Gil and all the stories from the papers—they'll probably give me a light manslaughter rap and suspend the sentence.” He takes his face away and smiles, benignly. “I'll tell you, though—I'd even do a year or two for a chance to do all I'm gonna do to that black bastard.” He punches the cushion of the couch several times, drinks from his glass, then throws his head back, eyes closed. “Dear Christ, it turns my stomach just to think of it all, Mister Meyers—“I wonder if it is time to show him the note. “That's all I been livin' for these last few years—to get even with that guy. Make him pay.” He reaches to the side of the couch and I know what is coming. The scrapbook:
Our Boy
in Gothic lettering on the cover.

He hesitates. “Ah, you don't wanna see this again, do you? It just brings back a lot of bad memories, I'll bet.”

I cannot, of course, refuse him. “No,” I say. “It is important for me to—” I can find no words.

He pats me on the shoulder, as if he is my father. “Later,” he says. “Maybe after dinner—cause I'm sure Jeannie wants to hear the story again, the way you tell it—about finding Gil in the park and Jackson hiding there and all. And you've had a hard week with those little bastards at school, I'll bet, huh?”

I do not respond. “Sure,” he says, putting the scrapbook down on an end table. “We'll save it for later, so you only have to tell it once. Hey Jeannie—!” he yells toward the kitchen. “Where the hell's the grub? Mister Meyers didn't come here just to shoot the breeze—he wants some of that good wop cooking—” She yells back, telling him to watch his language. He laughs. “That Gil—he was really something—I ever tell you how he used to imitate me? All the guys used to get a kick out of it when they'd come over and I'd bring him out at night and give him a little wine. ‘How's your old man?' they'd ask. ‘He's a dirty wop,' Gil would say.” He rubs the back of his wrist across his eyes. “Yeah, he was something—”

I take a chocolate-covered cherry from the box which Mrs. Santini has put on the coffee table before us. The cream is very sweet. Mary's magazines lie in front of me.
I Needed A Man Now But My Husband Was In The Army
. It is a real problem, I think, and one should not take it lightly. “You wanna go wash up—? I better give the wife a goose in the kitchen, or we'll be waiting here all night,” he says, rising above me.

I thank him and walk up the stairs. I hear them shout at one another, then laugh. Pictures of baby Gil adorn all the walls. In the upstairs hallway, above an electric heater, Danny stands with his arm around his wartime companions, their silver airplane behind them. Danny's face is very soft and young. His life was before him then. I enter the bathroom.

“Hey—how many times do I have to tell you to knock—?” Mary turns to me. “Oh, it's only you,” she says, and leans back toward the mirror, applying black paint to her eyes. She wears purple slacks and a pink brassiere which, I see when she turns and smiles at me, has a blue silk ribbon where the two cups meet. I do not see her radio.

“I'm sorry. Excuse me—” I say, and start to leave.

“You don't gotta go,” she says. “I'll be done in a minute. I can finish my hair in the bedroom. What a lousy house—only one bathroom in the whole place.”

Inside my jacket, at the armpits, I feel perspiration. I glance toward her again and I see that, though she has her pale back to me, her eyes watch from the mirror. She works with a brush on her lips and sprinkles powder down her front. All the while, though, her eyes fix on me and I do not move. Her breasts are full and just before I turn my head away she shakes them gently into place.

“I'm done now,” she says. “Sorry I yelled—I thought you were my old man. That guy's always spying on me.” She picks up a plastic bag which contains her make-up and curlers, and comes toward me. I step to the side, but she stops in front of me. “Honest—I wanted to stay for you to eat with us. My old man's not such a bully when you're around.” I would like to smile, but I know I falter. The skin around my mouth is slack. She looks back to see if she has left anything on the sink and her breasts graze my chest. I smell baby powder. “I like you, Mister Meyers,” she says, and smiles. “I mean, I wish you'd come around when my folks aren't here sometime, so we can—you know—talk—”

I mumble something about her father's wish concerning her schoolwork, but the words are all wrong. She is pleased, I know, by my uneasiness. “I mean it,” she says. “You're okay. Not like these high school kids or my old man's friends.” She is gone at once. My shirt is sticking to my back and when I go to the sink and reach for the faucet, I almost knock over the drinking glass. The sound alarms me. Music begins again, down the hall. I relieve myself, fumbling like a child at the opening to my trousers, embarrassed at what I discover.

At the dinner table, despite Danny's urging, I leave my jacket on. Mary hardly looks my way and when she does there is nothing in her face to acknowledge what has taken place.

“Blessed Jesus, we thank you for the food we are about to eat and for all the blessings you have bestowed upon us. We ask your blessings upon this house, upon little Gil who resides with thee, and upon Mister Meyers who does so much good for us, Amen.” Danny looks up. He has said it in a single breath. “Hey, pass the wine around, Jeannie—don't hog it all—give some to Mister Meyers first.” He looks at me and winks. “Hope you don't mind my putting in a little word for you with our guy up there. It can't hurt, can it—even if—”

“Cut it, Danny,” his wife says.

“Cut what? Mister Meyers don't mind—pass the meatballs—I mean, if you can't be frank with a friend, what's the use?”

“Yeah, yeah—” Jean says. “My husband's a big philosopher.”

“At least I use my brain for more than warming seats—” He reaches over and takes the salt shaker from in front of Mary.

“The meatballs are very good,” I say, and it is the truth.

“Better not fill up—that's just the start—” Mrs. Santini says. She smiles at me. “I got your favorites for the main dish—chicken cacciatore with some gnocchi on the side.”

Danny beams. “The only time I get to eat good is when you come,” he says. “Chef Boyardee the rest of the time—”

“Hey,” she says. “That's not—”

More swiftly than I can follow he is up and behind her chair, hugging her around the neck, squeezing her tightly. “Can't you take a joke? I'll tell you the truth, Mister Meyers, she's one hell of a good cook. I can't complain about the food around here—”

“Stop it, will you?” Mary says to her parents.
“Stop—!”

“Look who's buttin' in—” Danny responds. “Since when ain't I allowed to do what I want with my own wife, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mary says, but she looks down at her plate, picking at a meatball with her fork. Danny releases his wife and returns to his seat.

“I bet you're lookin' forward to the end of this year,” he says to me. “Be rid of them animals for good, huh?”

“I suppose,” I say.

“I gotta hand it to you—I said the same thing to Jeannie before you got here—you got real dedication to your work, Mister Meyers, staying in that school with all that's happening. Didn't I say so, Jeannie?”

She nods. The doorbell rings, and Mary leaves. “You want any more, Danny?” Mrs. Santini asks. “Otherwise I'll get the main dish—”

“Real good tonight, Jeannie. You outdone yourself.” There is talking in the foyer. Mrs. Santini takes my plate. “You got any plans yet?”

“Plans?”

“For when you retire—I mean, do you know what you're gonna do with yourself?”

“No,” I say. “No plans. I will rest, I suppose. That is all. I am entitled.”

“You bet your sweet life you are,” Danny says. “I figured maybe you were gonna travel—go to Europe or Israel or one of them places. You'll be getting a pretty good pension from the city, I'll bet—”

“Tell Ma I'm sorry but I gotta go right now—” Mary says, her head in the doorway. “Nice seeing you again, Mister Meyers.” Her head is covered with a red and black kerchief. Brown curls frame her face. She does not even glance at me. A boy stands behind her, in the shadows, shifting his feet.

“Ain't you even gonna bring your guy in, to introduce him to Mister Meyers?” Danny asks.

“We don't have time. Sorry,” she says, and is gone.

“Get back here, you—” But the door is already closed. An instant later we hear the roar of an automobile engine, the screech of tires.

“Hot pants,” Danny says. “She's probably—ah, what's the difference—” He pops an olive into his mouth and leans toward me. “You get yourself on one of them cruises, Mister Meyers—take my advice. Do you a world of good to get out of this filthy city—I'd move myself if I didn't have all my savings tied up in this house—and my seniority at the plant. We got some of the coons living a block away now—and the rest'll be followin' them here pretty soon. You can count on it.” He sniffs. “But you get on one of them cruises, nice and clean, with plenty of sun and good eats, movies all the time—that's the life!” He leans back. “Meet yourself some rich widow—from what I hear, those cruises are crawlin' with women lookin' for guys like you.” He takes the pit from his mouth and places it carefully on the side of his plate. “You ain't over the hill by a long shot, from your looks. Hell, this guy Sam I was tellin' you about, he was getting on in years too, but it didn't stop him. When there were women around he went to town like a Jew in a junkyard—” He shakes his head from side to side. “I'll tell you, I wouldn't mind going too—we could have a good time, you and me.”

I begin to laugh, but my laughter turns quickly to coughing and Danny is beside me, a glass of water at my lips. “You okay?” he asks. The room darkens. I drink. “Hey—I didn't mean nothing. That's just—”

I pat his arm, indicating that it is all right. I clear my throat. “That is a new one for me,” I say. “A Jew in a junkyard—”

Danny sees that I am not offended and he is relieved. I am pleased that I make him happy. “You okay?” he asks again. He does care about me, you see, and that is no small thing.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”

He returns to his seat and begins laughing with me. “Not a bad idea, huh—gettin' on one of them cruises—you meet one of these rich old babes, you can sit pretty the rest of your life—”

Mrs. Santini brings in the main course and we eat. I drink wine now and then, and despite the talk which runs continuously from Danny's mouth, I find that I am comfortable here, at home. When I say anything, they pay attention, and that is something also. Now and then I see them glance toward the scrapbook, lying closed on the table, and I sense their eagerness. I wait. We finish the meal and I have still not begun. When I leave the table, though, I pick up the book and look at it.

No sound comes from them. There is no reason to tease. They are entitled also. I leaf through the pages, seeing the pictures of myself, in the
Daily News
, the
Post
, the
Journal-American
. They are all here. Harry Meyers, a citizen who did his duty. Harry Meyers, a teacher and a hero. Harry Meyers, at home with the bereaved family. Harry Meyers revisits the scene of the crime. Harry Meyers confronts Jackson.

I close the book and lay it on the couch, beside me. I should not be this way, but I need time also. They move and I sense their disappointment. Mrs. Santini begins clearing the dining table. I think of my room on the fourth floor of West 76th Street. I will return soon. It has been a long week. Ruben Fontanez of class 9-15 has been playing his devil's games. Next week, though, I will catch my wild-eyed monkey. It is a promise. I lean back, tired, relaxed, strangely at peace, and briefly, before I know it, I am a boy again and I have come home from synagogue, trailing behind my brothers, hoping my father will commend me for the strength of my singing. I had put my heart into my prayers that night, I remember. My father is leaning back against the old yellow doily, crocheted by my grandmother, and pinned to the couch to catch the oils from his hair. The meal is over, the neighbors have left, my brothers surround the dinner table chanting prayers and songs, and, in another room, my father wheezes against the corner of the couch, as small, it seems to me, as I am. There are crumbs on his beard and though his eyes are closed, his head sways slightly from side to side, and his lips move. Lai lai—ditty ditty dum dum, ditty ditty dum dum. But he does not hum to the tunes which come from my brothers. My father seems very happy. The room is brown, like an old photograph of itself. The lights on the gas range flame blue and low. I climb next to my father and try to hum the song he is humming. He ruffles my hair with his hand. I am warm. His eyes open. At first he does not seem to recognize me. I cannot understand why he does not continue to hum. “Go—sing with your brothers. Leave me.” He is gruff. I hum his melody for him but he twists my ear, forcing me from his couch. “Go. Leave me.” My skullcap falls to the floor and I pick it up quickly and kiss it. I smell my father's feet. I crawl a few feet away, then stand up and walk around the house, trying to remember my father's melody, to seize it, but it is already too late. I open my eyes. I wonder how long it is since this scene has moved before me. Danny is speaking, and has been, I realize, for some time.