Listen Ruben Fontanez (3 page)

“… I mean, the way I figure it, a man just ain't made to settle with one woman for more than, say, ten years at a time, don't you think? That's why—”

“All right,” I say, beginning. “All right. I can remember it as if it were yesterday. Sarah had been dead for a year and a half, but I would still walk through the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens every Sunday, winter or summer, the way we had done all those years.” Danny leans forward, intent, his eyes steady. Mrs. Santini tiptoes from the kitchen and sits across from me, wiping her hands on her apron, biting her lip. This is what they have been waiting for, and who am I to deny them their due. For, you see, I have done more, far more for them than merely save their son's life. I have not saved his life. That is more important. “My wife and I, as you know, lived on Eastern Parkway in those days, in a beautiful apartment house across from the Brooklyn Museum.” My voice is full. A man can do no more for his fellow man than this, I think. I am the man who did not do what no man could do. It is difficult, then, not to join my life to theirs. “And so I repeated our walks every Sunday, revisiting all the trails and gardens we had never, I can assure you, taken for granted. As for myself, I loved the pools of goldfish most, in front of the hothouse. Sarah loved the Japanese Gardens.” I wet my lips. “It was just before Christmas that Sunday and I had not come to the Gardens until late in the afternoon. It had snowed heavily and I wore galoshes. The gate to the Japanese Gardens was locked, but I knew a side trail—I believe I pointed it out to you when we went there one time—that let me in. It was a hazy day, bitter cold, and the snow had a hard crust of crystals, like a skin of ice, covering it. The trees and plants were more clear—separate—than usual that day. It is difficult to forget the sight.” I pause, but they do not stir. Well. I will finish. “I walked beyond the large boathouse and around the pond, past the rock gardens. The fountain in the Meditation Gardens was frozen over. I continued up the hill on the far side of the pond, heading in the direction of the cherry tree mall. I cannot recall what I was thinking about. The snow was solid and once or twice I almost slipped down the icy trails. I remember the sound my galoshes made as they crashed through the surface of the snow to where it was soft underneath.

“And then I saw the sparrows.” I open the scrapbook to the page which contains the map. It is time for that also, I suppose. I point with my finger to the spot marked by an X. “The newspapers never did have it correctly. I suppose they had their reasons. It was here—not where the X is—but here, near the grove of elms, that I halted.” I raise my arm and they follow the direction of my index finger. “You could still see the corner of the pond from the hill, frozen, and, in the distance, the roofs of the hothouses were visible. The spot was off the regular path, behind a rolling hill. But you have been there, of course. You know.” I close the scrapbook, soundlessly, and I smile. I can hear the remainder of the story, already told, but this does not diminish the very real thrill I feel again, the quickening. I am warm. I will tell you something: it is not their needs only which I indulge. “May I have some water, please?” I ask.

“What—?” Mrs. Santini asks.

“My mouth is dry—”

“Christ, move your ass, woman—” Danny says, but he does not move, or look in her direction. He remains rigid, his eyes fixed in my direction.

“Assume that the coffee table is a low hedge of bushes,” I say, standing up. “And your breakfront over there the outside edge of the elm grove—the door to the foyer a vague path that cut through the trees.” I pause to sip some water. “The sparrows were nibbling at the snow, there beyond the hedge, pecking at it, but there were no bread crumbs, only some vague pink spots which seemed curious to me. I thought at first that some of the more hardy Japanese plants were thriving—perhaps some exotic flower, the kind Sarah loved—perhaps it was defying the winter. So I moved forward, scattering the sparrows, and I saw that the pink marks were stains. I did not, I remember, even think of blood at the time. I looked up to see if something had been dripping. Then there—behind the nearest tree—I saw something else.” I back up, to the couch, and I continue to stare at the spot on the rug behind the coffee table. Their eyes are on it also, as if, if they looked long enough, something would materialize.

“His foot,” Danny whispers. “His little foot—”

I nod, and bit by bit, question by question, he joins me in the recreation of that day. It would be too cruel to make him listen only. I do not deny him his right to relive what happened. We rediscover, then, the day, and we do so, not as you might think, by dwelling on things gory, but with tenderness and love. There are few men who have loved their sons as Danny has. We find his child together, the child the entire city had been searching for in its headlines for six days. We open the scrapbook and read again:

FIND MISSING BROOKLYN BOY SLAIN IN PARK
VICTIM,
5,
IS MURDERED, BEYOND RECOGNITION
Teacher Captures Murderer

Other accounts are more vivid. They detail the pieces of the crime. They inform us that Gil was sandy-haired, blue-eyed, and nude, his underclothes frozen nearby. Laboratory tests do not disclose whether he had been attacked sexually. According to the conductor of the preliminary autopsy, Kings County Physician, I. V. Freilicher, the death itself was caused by a five-inch blade, probably an ice pick or a marlin spike.

When we have finished, and have laid little Gil to rest among flowers and editorials, tears and inquiries, it is my turn again. “I heard a crunching over there,” I say, pointing toward the foyer. “I do not think I quite believed what I saw, you know. And as even the pictures in the paper show, there was something peaceful, something quite beautiful about the snow-white scene.” I pause. Their heads nod in agreement. My senses are dull, but I stand up again. “The crunching seemed to wake me, and I rose and looked in the direction of the sound. Something moved. Something dark. I was frightened, I will tell you that. The snow was shadowless and the darkening day obscured shapes and forms. But I saw the points of light come from his eyes.” I sigh. It is over. I can see the end. “After that it is all a blur. The results we know, but how I did it—?” I shrug.

“No,” Danny says, as he always does. “No. You—”

I put up my hand. “You would like to think I knew what I was doing then, but I cannot really say that I did. In my fear I must have picked up a rock. He—Jackson—he must have been as frightened as I was, for I do not remember that he tried to run away. He simply stood there as I approached, black and frozen, the idiot pair of blue earmuffs squeezing his face. That is all I remember. Then there were more red spots. Some incredible fury in me as I must have struck him down, and a strange, helpless look on his face as he succumbed—as if he were as puzzled at finding himself there as I was.” I have moved to the entrance of the foyer and I find myself with a fist raised above my head. I move back into the living room and sit down. I drink water quickly.

“Then you ran to get the police, right?” Danny asks. He stands. He knows that I am exhausted. He helps me.

“I suppose,” I say. “I really do not remember.”

“And when you got back with the cop from Eastern Parkway, that dumb jig was lying there near little Gil.”

“I still held the rock in my hand,” I say. “And Jackson was awake, huddled in his flimsy raincoat.”

“It took guts, Mister Meyers,” he says. “They had to put fifteen stitches in that coon's skull. You really put it to him.” He nods his head vigorously. “If not for you that guy'd probably still be on the loose, doing his sick stuff. You saved a lot of parents a lot of grief, Mister Meyers.” He picks up the scrapbook and he and his wife read through it. They hold hands and he pats her gently on the shoulder and kisses her on the cheek. Mrs. Santini cries and Danny tells her not to be ashamed. She is a woman. It is natural. Even he cries sometimes when he remembers.

Then Danny stands again and curses the judge and the N.A.A.C.P. and the government. For they were too merciful with Jackson. If he had not been black, Danny claims, he would have died in the electric chair. But clever lawyers worked on the jury's guilt—all those details about Jackson's boyhood, all those psychiatrists and social workers making excuses for him, all the tales about Jackson having kept Gil in his room for three days trying to revive him. Danny has been to that room, and he is obsessed with its filth, its location. The way to take care of Bedford-Stuyvesant, he says, is with bombs. Who knows, he asks, what Jackson was doing with Gil for those three days. Who knows, dear Christ, who knows, he asks. Jackson had been following Gil for weeks, Danny claims. He is positive. There was premeditation. It was not an act done out of some temporary rage, some insane fear. He shows me pictures in the scrapbook—those from the
National Enquirer
. Could such results come from the act of an enraged man? There is evident calculation in the deed. He is certain of it. And he will not rest on this earth until Jackson pays in full. I will tell you something: I believe him.

I take the note from my pocket and glance at it. I am to pay in full also, it seems. It is late, though, and I am too tired to begin anything new. I put the note back.

“As an educated man, let me ask you something, Mister Meyers.” He is intent. I think of the subway ride home. “What do you think—?”

“About what?”

“About what he did to Gil during those three days.” His voice is low, tense. “I mean, what do you think he was
really
doing in that room?”

My mind reels at the thought. If only I would divulge the best of my own fantasies, I could bring him endless joy, I know. But it is too late. If I live until sixty-nine we will need things to talk about during the remaining years. “Who knows, Danny,” I say. “Who knows. Only Jackson and Gil.”

“Yeah,” he says, and pounds his fist. “Yeah.”

Then I tell him how late it is, how tired I am, how much I enjoyed the dinner. Mrs. Santini thanks me for the candy. Danny offers to drive me home, but I decline. The subway is quicker, I tell him, and the roads will be treacherous. He curses his daughter who rides the icy highways. Mrs. Santini helps me with my overcoat. At the subway station, we wait downstairs, beside the change booth. When the train comes Danny shakes my hand in both of his and thanks me again. He puts a token in the slot for me. It is a Lexington Avenue Express and I stay awake until Nevins Street, where I change for the Seventh Avenue Line. Then I sleep.

At 42nd Street I stir. The train is as crowded as if it were noon. I smell liquor and cigarettes. The floor of the car is wet and brown, filthy from the slush on people's feet. As the train lurches forward, a young Negro, a black kerchief tied tightly around his skull, an earring in his ear, almost falls into my lap. He apologizes through glazed eyes, gold teeth. A transit policeman pushes through the crowd, pausing to look at each girl. One of them responds with her eyes and he rests his hand on the handle of his gun. I feel dizzy. At 72nd Street I rise. A young man and his girl are halfway up the steps, kissing, and we must all step around them. Upstairs there are more policemen, crowded around a drunken man, laughing at his obscenities. Verdi Square is deserted. I cross Amsterdam Avenue and pass the Telephone Company office, the Trini Restaurant, the Dori Donut Shop, where all the homosexuals have gathered. A policeman lingers in front, twirling his nightstick. At the curb, behind the green newsstand, a silver-haired man in a red convertible chatters in the cold, bargaining with a young man. A figure slouches from view. I hasten after it and grab the arm of a familiar black overcoat.

Morris looks at me, his nose dripping. “So—it's a crime, Harry?” he asks. “It's a crime for an old man to get lonesome? Leave me alone. Go to your mansion.”

“Morris,” I say. “Why—?”

“You?” he asks. “You're not around young boys all day?” His eyes sparkle from the cold.

“Go home, Morris. Go home. Before you do something foolish.”

“I just came for a walk—the nurse let me out.” He smiles. “It's a special privilege. Forgive what I said. I just look, Harry. Believe me—”

“Of course,” I say. “Go home.”

“I'll see you in the park tomorrow?” he asks. “We'll talk? You'll consider?”

“All right, all right,” I say. “In the park. Only go home now.”

Morris gives me his blessing: I should be well and buy the bed next to his. I walk home, looking at my galoshes, avoiding stares. In my room, I undress quickly. I drink more water, I wash, I relieve myself in the hallway bathroom. I lie down. The room is black. I try not to think of the evening that has just passed. I count backwards from one hundred but it does not help and I must turn onto my stomach. It is too late to fight. Tomorrow night I will go to sleep earlier and try harder. Perhaps I will fall asleep on my back then.

It is not for comfort's sake that I work at this, you see. Here I am practical, I can assure you. Harry Meyers has been to enough hospital rooms, he has seen enough oxygen tents to know: when the heart attack comes, the man who can rest on his back has a distinct advantage.

On my stomach, I taste the sauce from the meatballs. It was Saturday night, I realize, not Friday. That is why all the neighbors had gathered in our apartment. I wonder why I confused it with Friday night. Friday night was for our family only. That is why my father could rest. I sniffed the spices from the silver
havdallah
box. I remember that also, my brothers, believe me, so do not look at me that way. I roll to my side and place the pillow half under my head, half under my chest. My nose drips slightly. I stretch my toes and listen to the sound of the radiator. I wonder if Mary is home yet. I remember her smile and I imagine her in the car with her young man. The windows are steamed. Such thoughts relax me. I sleep.