Listen Ruben Fontanez (9 page)

Ahead of me, at an equal distance from the window, I see my reflection, suspended over West 76th Street. Even Danny would not be able to say to me that I am looking good. These past ten days have not been easy. So. I will rest for the remainder of this week. There is Thursday and Friday. Then the weekend. Perhaps I will return to school on Monday. But we will see. It is not such a bad thing that I try my room for a while. This year can be next year.

Directly under the window Carlos exits and, as he crosses the street, he drums on the hood of a black car with his fingertips. He passes the old garbage-can woman and says good morning. She ignores him and I watch as she works her way up the street, from garbage can to garbage can, filling the shopping bags that sag from both her arms. One of the men on his way to the synagogue tries to give her some money, but she pushes him away. It does not surprise me. What good is a piece of green paper, after all, when you are searching for lost treasure.

I raise the shade of my other window and then move back into my room. I smooth down the sheets on my bed, and over the blankets I arrange the blue chenille bedspread. Sarah looks at me from the dresser, the two of us framed in silver, leaning toward one another, standing under the willow tree in the Botanic Gardens. Behind us is a brook and in the distance you can see the hothouses. My walls are without pictures. Perhaps when the year ends, I think, I will take the contents of the glass-enclosed bulletin board with me. You cannot fool yourself for long, Harry Meyers. You have been leaving your walls bare for a good reason. Soon. Soon they will receive their proper covering. Danny will be pleased. He and Jean can come to dinner then.

It is something to consider, I tell myself, as I run the water from the faucet into my teapot. The school may protest, but when Harry Meyers can no longer stand in front of a class, there will be nothing of him in a school building, I promise you that. If they have copies made, that is their business. I cannot stop them. The original, though, will stay with me.

On my gas burner the water boils and I drop tea leaves to the bottom of the pot, then turn the flame off. I leave the room and go to the bathroom in the hall. There is a slight burning sensation as I relieve myself. I credit this to my swollen glands. I wonder what my cowboys are doing without me, or if they have hired a teacher to take my place. There is a pattering of feet and as I exit a door closes at the rear of the landing. One day I will corner you also, Mrs. Wenger, and make you tell me your story. I will get Morris to put you on his list. At your age, you would be a fine investment for his home.

I open the door to my room, then close it without going inside. I wait. Mrs. Wenger steps from her room and when she sees me standing opposite her, no more than twenty feet away, her toothless mouth opens in surprise. I try to see into her room, behind her. Her bathrobe is made of black silk, and she pulls it tightly around her withered body. But she does not move forward or backward. I start to smile, but my lips quiver. In the lines of her face I sense only one thing: she will not move. We have been neighbors for eight years, Mrs. Wenger, ever since that dark night your young couple deposited you here with much whispering. I nod good morning. We should speak to one another, Mrs. Wenger. She does not move. I try to smile again. Her knuckles are white where she clutches her robe. All right. Enough. I turn and open the door to my own room. I hear her take a step. I look back and she stops. I shrug, my hands up, my palms exposed. “I am an old man,” I say.

In my room I chew on a piece of rye bread and drink tea. The tea warms my chest. I go to the window and, in the bottom of the boarded-up buildings across the street I see what looks like a small fire. Shadows move swiftly across the rubble. I rub my eyes and look again. I see nothing. It is only the early morning sun playing tricks, I tell myself.

Below me the prayers are ended and the men return from the synagogue. At number 171, between the fourth and fifth floors, tucked in the corner, where the buildings join, I see that your face is still there, Sarah. Do not worry, my wife. The wreckers will not get you. Amid the baroque stone carvings, you gaze at me, your cheek sandblasted, soot in your hair. I had lived here for five years before I noticed you, among the shadows and stained glass. My eyes wander over the buildings to either side of you, up and down their faces, tracing the outlines of useless ornaments, of cupids and lions' heads and medallions. They will not get you. Believe me, Sarah.

I telephone Mrs. Davies and tell her that I am still sick. She starts to tell me that all the teachers are concerned about my health, but I cut her off. I tell her that she will get no more telephone messages from Harry Meyers. I do not care about regulations. When I am ready to return I will be in touch. If there are emergencies, I have a mailbox.

It is past eight o'clock. I dial the business office of the telephone company and tell them what to do. I am pleased with my decision. It is a start, at least. I feel my throat, gently, and find that my glands, under my jawbone, are not as enlarged as they have been. The lumps wiggle under my fingers. My buzzer startles me. I ring back, but I am puzzled. It is too early for Morris, and Nydia does not need to ring from outside. I rub my unshaven cheek with my fingertips. If it is Jackson's brother, I realize, I am not ready for him yet. Even these ten days have not been enough. I would like more time. That is not so much to ask, after all.

I go to the door and double-lock it, then press my ear to the wood. Someone is taking the stairs two at a time. The footsteps are light and there is more than one person, I am certain of it. The steps reach my landing and stop. They approach my door and there is a rapping of knuckles on wood. I do not answer. I hear the shuffling of feet. They whisper. The knocking comes again, louder. “It's me—” I recognize the voice at once. I should not be surprised. “Open up quick, Mister Meyers. You got to. Please—”

I step away from the door and I tie the belt of my robe more tightly. The knocking comes again. “Please, Mister Meyers, you got to let me in quick. I telling you the truth—”

I will not touch the doorknob. I can see the cowboys swinging in the trees, humming to each other. I look at the window, but there are no branches there, no leaves. Only the faces of other brownstones. I remember the way the pigeon felt in my palms. “Go away,” I say. “Go away, Ruben Fontanez.” But I am not certain, after, that I have spoken the words aloud. I move backwards into my room. I lift my teacup and drink, but the tea is already cool. I shiver. Morris is right. The knocking is more insistent. The doll on the fireplace smiles. It is all too ridiculous. The light from the window flashes from the pins as if they are made of silver. A dream is only a dream, Harry.

“You got to let me in, Mister Meyers.” He pauses. “It's my mother.” I do not move. “That the truth—”

I breathe in deeply. I can hear my heart. I am glad, at least, that my bed is made, my room neat. Go away. Go away, Ruben Fontanez. The cowboys stroke their beards. I wonder if I should have said what I did about Sandy Koufax. That was foolish, Harry. Someone is moving away from the door. “Okay,” Ruben says. “I tell you why so you listen to me.” I wait.
“Mi madre
, Mister Meyers.
¡Mi madre es muerto!
That the truth.
Mi madre
, Mister Meyers. I telling you—”

His voice is desperate. The room seems to tilt slightly. I cannot stop myself, you see. I fumble at the lock and pull the door open. Ruben steps into the room and I lock the door behind him. He glides swiftly to the windows and looks down, then up.

“I lost him,” Ruben says. He smiles at me and his eyes are soft. “You should of seen us go in and out of the subways,” he says, shaking his head. “We too fast for them—”

I stay by the door. “I am sorry,” I begin.

Ruben nods. “Like I tell you when we eat together: she real sick.” For a second I think I see something glow in his eyes. “Real sick—” He walks around my room, observing, touching the furniture. He inspects the opening to the fireplace and taps on the black iron that has sealed it shut. He picks up the doll. “You still got this—”

I nod.

“I tell you the truth,” he says. “Of all the ones I do, this my favorite.” He fondles the head and rearranges the paper-clip eyeglasses. “It really look like you, you know? My art teacher, she say I got talent, I should be a real artist someday, for money—” He puts the doll down, crosses the room and lifts the picture from the dresser. “This your wife?” he asks, but before I can answer, the picture is back on the dresser and Ruben is at my sink, taking a glass of water for himself. “This place not so bad,” he says. “It be better if they open up the fireplace.”

He drinks the glass of water in one swallow and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “They got all the others,” he says. “That why I got to come here.” He sits down on the edge of my bed and looks at me. “I got no place to go to, Mister Meyers.” He rests his head in his hands. I am wary. I would like to see the expression in his eyes. “That why I come here. I got nobody. I been hiding out in places for three days now, and I thinking a lot about what I done to you—you know?” He does not look up. “I figure I got to take a chance and come speak with you.” The light from the window glances off his forehead. I sit down now, in my easy chair, across the room from him. In my ears there is a high-pitched ringing sound. “I remember what you say to me,” he says.

“I am sorry about your mother,” I offer.

He shrugs and glances toward the window. I follow his eyes to the rooftops across the street. “They want to put me in one of them places for guys who got no parents—”

“An orphanage,” I say.

He nods. “I tell you the truth, Mister Meyers. I kill myself before I go to one of them places. I hear stories about what they do to you there.” He shakes his head up and down, and moves from the bed. His eyes look straight at me. “I promise you one thing, Mister Meyers—someday I gone to go there and get my brothers and sisters out—”

I can feel his breath on me. “You—you cannot stay here,” I say.

He moves away from me, to the window. For an instant, he seems puzzled. Then he laughs. “You think I come here for that?” He rubs his chin and continues to laugh to himself. He stops and eyes me. “I tell you before—I just come to talk with you about what I gone to do with my life. I remember what you say to me in the restaurant. I was listening, Mister Meyers. Like I tell you—”

There is something in his voice which makes me uneasy. I see his reflection in the window. “I remember what happened, also,” I say, with more firmness. “Do not play games with me, Ruben Fontanez.”

His eyes are on me. The light at the window is too bright for me to see his face. Behind me, at the door, I hear a scratching sound. “Okay,” Ruben says. “I tell you the real truth, Mister Meyers.” He is sitting on the bed again. “I hear you not been in the school and I think maybe it because of what I did—so I want to see for myself—” He is up from the bed again. He examines my desk. He picks up the copy of
Don Quixote
but it does not interest him and he leaves it. “Like I tell you, we see you here, where you live. We work around here sometimes, so I figure I stop by to make sure.”

The sound at the door disturbs me, but my monkey does not seem to hear it. He tells me of the mistake he made three days ago, when they buried his mother. He should not have gone, he says. “They almost get me, but I too fast for them.” He is laughing. He stands by the fireplace, touching my likeness with his fingertips. “I guess you not supposed to think it funny, in a place like that, but they chase me all over, through the flowers and things—”

The noise at the door is more insistent. Ruben glances toward it. He asks if it is all right, but he does not wait for an answer. When he opens the door, I stand and pull at the belt of my robe. Another monkey is there, crouched low. Ruben whispers to him. The monkey enters behind Ruben, slouching, and moves silently to a corner of the room, next to the window. He squats and draws in on a cigarette so that the hollows in his cheeks show.

Ruben asks me if I know Manuel Alvarez and I nod. His body seems to be made of sticks and his eyelids hang down. “Manuel is my good friend,” Ruben says. “He work with us for the money.” He puts a hand on Manuel's shoulder. “When they chasing me all around, he keep the stuff for me, even though it scare him.” Then Ruben is next to me, his hand in front of my eyes. He whispers. “You know what I got? Aiee—they not be able to do nothing to me when I got this!”

The room is too warm and I feel sleepy again. The smoke from Manuel's cigarettes lingers near the ceiling. Morris will be here soon. He will know if this is happening or not. You can depend on Morris. I will have him deliver a message to Danny. Ruben's hand is in front of my lips now. He opens it, revealing a black palm.
“Mi madre
, Mister Meyers,” he whispers. He curls his fingers over the dirt and his hand trembles.
“¡Mi madre!”
His hand opens again and the lumps of earth are under my nose. I sniff but I can smell nothing. “This from my mother's grave, Mister Meyers.” He skips backwards and spins around. His feet move lightly. He shows the earth to Manuel and Manuel slides away. He grinds his cigarette out under his heel and lights another one, sucking on it.
“¡Bruja! ¡Bruja!”
Ruben breathes as he circles the room. He looks through the window at the street below and shakes his fist at it.
“¡Bruja!”
he sings.
“¡Bruja!”
He turns his head toward me, over his shoulder. “Those dolls just for fun,” he says. “With this I gone to be able to work real
brujería
—like Señora Rosa from our village.”

He crouches down next to Manuel and speaks with great gentleness. “You remember Señora Rosa, Manuel. From the island—” Manuel seems to nod, but I cannot be sure. Ruben turns away from him and searches the surface of my desk. He finds an envelope and asks if it is all right to use it. I nod. He pours the earth into the envelope, then licks it closed and puts it carefully into his side pocket. “They be waiting for me, Mister Meyers. They see me take the dirt. That when the man from the place come after me. I run fast. Manuel, he waiting for me behind a grave and I give it to him in his pocket.” He rubs his hand over Manuel's head, and whispers to him in Spanish, telling him how brave he was. He assures him that there is no danger. Only the person who steals the earth has the power to summon the dead person's spirit. He has told him this before, I can tell, but Manuel is not yet convinced.