Roger and I didn’t talk much about what had happened on the way back. I don’t know if that would sound strange to someone reading these pages (now that Ruth’s out of my life, I can’t imagine who that someone would be), but it seemed perfectly comfortable to me, the most normal of all reactions. I’ve never been in a shooting war, but I imagine people who’ve been in a terrible battle and come out unscathed probably behave a lot like Roger and I did while returning to the city on the Metropolitan. We talked mostly about things that didn’t concern us personally. Roger said something about the loony-tune who’d shot Ronald Reagan and I mentioned that I’d read a galley of the new Peter Benchley and hadn’t cared for it much. We talked a bit about the weather. Mostly, though, we were silent. We did not compare notes; we made no effort to deconstruct or rationalize our visit to the House of Flowers. In fact, I believe we only mentioned our mad field-127
trip to Central Falls once during the entire two-hour train ride. Roger came back from the club car with sandwiches and Cokes. He passed me my share and I thanked him. I also offered to pay him. Roger laughed and said we were on expense account today—“visiting a potential author” was how he intended to write it up. And then he said in a casual just-asking voice, “That old man was really dead, wasn’t he?”
“No,” I said. “He was undead.”
“A zombie.”
“Right.”
“Like in Macumba Love.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“A movie,” he said. “The sort of thing Zenith House undoubtedly would have novelized if we’d been around in the fifties.”
And that was it.
We took a cab from Penn Station to 409 Park Avenue South, Roger once more getting a receipt and putting it carefully into his wallet. I was impressed, believe me.
The cabbie let us out across the street, in front of Smiler’s. There’s a new bum there—an old lady with wild white hair, the usual two plastic bags filled with unlikely possessions, a cup for passersby to put change into, and a guitar that looked a thousand years old. Around her neck she wore a sign reading LET JESUS GROW IN YOUR HEART. I shuddered at the sight of it. I remember thinking, I hope one lousy zombie hasn’t made me supersti-tious, and then turning away to hide a smile. Roger had gone into the gro-cery, and I didn’t want the homeless lady to think I was laughing at her. It might make waiting for Roger uncomfortable. They don’t mind getting into your face, those homeless people. In fact, I think they like it.
“Hey-you,” she said in a raspy, almost mannish voice. “Gimme-buck-I’ll-play-ya-tune.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll give you two if you won’t.”
“Fuck-yeah-gotta-deal,” she said, which was why Roger caught me stuffing two hard-earned dollars into a crazy lady’s tin cup just as he was coming 128
out of the store. He had a brown bag in one hand and an aspirin tin in the other. As he approached the corner, he popped the tin open and shook several tablets out. He tossed these into his mouth and began crunching them up. The thought of that taste made my eyes ache.
“You really shouldn’t give them money,” he said as we waited for the WALK light. “It encourages them.”
“You really shouldn’t chew aspirin, either, but you’re doing it,” I said. I was in no mood for a lecture.
“True,” he said, and offered me the tin as we crossed to our side of the street. “Want to try it?”
The odd thing was, I did. I took a couple and tossed them into my mouth, hating and relishing the bitter taste of the dissolving pills in equal measure. From behind us came a discordant jangle of guitar strings followed by a high and presumably female voice beginning to shriek “Just A Closer Walk With Thee.”
“Inside, quick,” Roger said, holding the lobby door for me. “Before my ears start to bleed.”
The Metropolitan left Central Falls late and arrived at Penn Station late—it’s an Amtrak thing—and the lobby of our building was almost deserted. When I glanced at my watch in the elevator, I saw that it was pressing quarter of six. “Bill, Sandra, and Herb,” I said. “What are you going to tell them?”
Roger looked at me as though I were nuts. “Everything,” he said. “It’s the only thing I can do. The plant in Riddley’s closet ain’t exactly Sweet William. Which reminds me—along with everything else, we’ve got to get a locksmith in tomorrow to change the lock on that door. Want to know my nightmare? Riddley comes back from Sweet Home Alabama, all unsuspect-ing, drops by on Sunday afternoon—”
“Why would he do that?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” Roger said testily. “It’s a nightmare, didn’t I say that?
And nightmares rarely make sense. That’s part of what makes them scary.
Maybe he wants to check that the wastebaskets got emptied while he was 129
gone, or something. Anyhow, he goes into his cubby, and while he’s feeling around for the light-switch, something slithers around his neck.”
I didn’t have to ask him what sort of thing. All I had to do was remember the root that had slid its slim, earth-clotted length around Tina Barfield’s shoe.
The elevator doors opened on five and we walked down the hall, past BARCO NOVEL-TEAZ and CRANDALL & OVITZ (a couple of elderly but still cannibalistic lawyers specializing in litigation and liability) and my own personal favorite, Gimme The World Travel Agency. At the far end, guarded by a pair of blessedly plastic ferns, were our double doors with ZENITH HOUSE and AN APEX COMPANY on them in gold letters, the gold as fake as the ferns.
Roger shook out his keys and opened the door. Inside was a receptionist’s office with a desk, a gray carpet that at least tried not to look industrial, and walls with travel posters on them which Sandra had promoted from Rita Durst in Gimme The World. Other publishers no doubt decorate their reception areas with covers of their books blown up to poster-size, but an office decorated with oversized jacket art from Macho Man: Hanoi Firestorm, Ravisher’s Moon, and Rats from Hell probably wouldn’t have elevated anyone’s mood.
“Tomorrow’s one of LaShonda’s days,” I reminded Roger. LaShonda McHue comes in three days a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. She rarely ventures beyond her desk (where she mostly does her nails, calls her friends, and prinks at her hair with an Afro comb), and when Tina Barfield talked about “the circle,” I don’t think she meant our part-time receptionist.
“I know,” Roger said. “Luckily, the ladies’ room is down the hall past Novel-Teaz, and that’s the only place she ever goes.”
“But whatever can go wrong—”
“—will go wrong,” he finished. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He fetched a deep sigh.
“So are you going to show me our new mascot?”
“I suppose I better, hadn’t I?”
He lead me down the hall past his office and the other editorial offices.
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We made the little left-hand jog around the corner, where there were two more doors with the water-fountain between them. One of these doors was marked JANITOR; the other MAIL AND STORAGE. Roger picked through his keys again and put the right one in the lock of Riddley’s cubby.
“I locked it this morning before we left,” he explained.
“Under the circumstances, that was a pretty good call,” I said.
“I thought so,” he agreed. I was peripherally aware of him looking at me curiously as he pushed the door open. Then I was aware of nothing but the smell. That heavenly smell.
My grandmother used to take me to the store with her when she did her shopping—this was back in Green Bay—and what I liked the best was to push the button which operated the coffee-grinder in aisle three. What I smelled now was the wonderful aroma of fresh Five O’Clock Dark Roast. I could nearly see the bag with its red label, and I had a memory, so clear it was almost reality, of a small boy poking his nose into that bag for one final deep whiff before rolling the bag closed.
“Oh, wonderful,” I said in a small voice that was close to tears. My Gram has been dead for almost twenty years, but for that one moment she was alive again.
“What is it for you?” Roger asked. He sounded almost greedy. “I got strawberry shortcake, fresh out of the oven. Still hot enough to melt the whipped cream.”
“It’s coffee,” I said, stepping in. “Fresh-ground coffee.” I could even see the machine with its chrome chute and its three settings: Fine, Extra-Fine, and Coarse.
Then I saw the cubbyhole, and could say no more.
Like the greenhouse in Central Falls, it had become a jungle. But whereas in Tina Barfield’s jungle there had been plants of many kinds, here there was just ivy, ivy, and more ivy. It grew everywhere, twining over the handles of Riddley’s broom and window-washer, climbing along the shelves, running up the walls to the ceiling, where it grew along the tiles in tough, zig-zagging strands from which brilliant green leaves hung, some still open-131
ing. Riddley’s mop-bucket has itself become a large steel plant-pot from which a huge bush of ivy rises in a tangle of tendrils, leaves, and…
“What are those flowers?” I asked. “Those blue flowers? Never seen anything like those before, especially not on an ivy plant.”
“You’ve never seen anything like any of this before, period,” he said.
I had to admit I had not. On one of the shelves, just below several tins of floor-wax which had been almost buried in an avalanche of green leaves, was a tiny red clay pot. That was what the plant had originally come in. I was sure of it. There was a tiny plastic tag propped against it. I leaned closer and read what was written there through a convenient gap in the leaves: H I !
M Y N A M E I S Z E N I T H
I A M A G I F T T O J O H N
F R O M R O B E R T A
“That bastard Riddley,” I said. “And just by the way, are we really supposed to believe that anyone coming in here would see nothing but one modest little ivy-plant? None of the rest of this…” I waved my arm.
“I can’t answer that question for sure, but it’s certainly what the lady said, isn’t it? And the lady also said that anyone coming in here might not get out again.”
I saw that one tendril had already grown out the door.
“You better get some garlic,” I breathed. “And quick.”
Roger opened the bag he’d brought out of Smiler’s. I looked in and was not exactly surprised to see that it was full of garlic buds.
“You’re on top of things,” I said. “I have to give it to you, Roger—you’re on top.”
“It’s why I’m the boss,” he said solemnly. We stared at each other for a moment, then began to giggle. It was a supremely weird moment…but not the supremely weird moment. I suddenly realized I had an idea for a novel.
This came to me, it seemed, out of a clear blue sky. That was the supremely weird moment.
And I take that clear-blue-sky thing back. The idea wafted to me on the 132
scent of Five O’Clock Coffee, the kind I used to grind for my grandmother in Price’s All-Purpose Grocery, back in Green Bay when the world was young…or when I was. I’m certainly not going to summarize my Grand Idea here—not at five past midnight—but take it from me when I say it’s a good idea, one that makes Maymonth look like what it really was: a dry-wind graduate thesis masquerading as a novel.
“Holy shit,” I breathed.
Roger looked at me, almost slyly. “Getting a few interesting notions, are you?”
“You know it.”
“Yes,” he said, “I do. I knew we had to go to Central Falls and see the Barfield woman even before you showed me that letter, Johnny. I got the idea in here. Last night. Come on, let’s get out of here. Let’s…” His eyes sparkled in a funny way. I’d seen it before, but couldn’t remember quite where. “Let’s let it grow in peace.”
We spent the next fifteen minutes busting garlic buds and rubbing them up the sides of the door between Reception and Editorial. Over the lintel and the jamb, as well. The smell made my eyes water, but I suppose it’ll be a little better by tomorrow. At least I hope so. By the time we finished, the place smelled as I imagine a turn-of-the-century tenement in Little Italy might, with all the women making spaghetti sauce.
“You know,” I said as we finished, “we’re nuts to be marking the bound-ary out here. What we should be doing is putting garlic on the door to Riddley’s janitor-closet. Keeping it in there.”
“I don’t think that’s the way it’s supposed to work,” he said. “I think we’re supposed to more or less let it loose in Editorial.”
“Watch us grow,” I said. I should have been afraid—I’m afraid now, God knows—but I wasn’t then. And I had placed that look in his eyes, too, that feverish sparkle. My best friend in the fifth grade was a kid named Randy Wettermark. And one day, when we stopped in the candy store after school for Pez or something, Randy hawked a Spiderman comic-book. Just put it under his jacket and walked out. Roger had that same look on his face.
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Christ, what a day. What an amazing day. My brain feels the way your gut does when you eat not just too much but much too much. I’m going to bed. Hope to heaven I sleep.
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F R O M T H E D I S P A T C H E S O F I R O N - G U T S H E C K S L E R
Apr 1 81
0600 hrs
Pk Ave So NYC
City successfully infiltrated. Objective in view. Not this very moment of course. My current location=alley behind Smiler’s Market, corner Pk & 32nd. Workplace of Designated Jew almost directly across from my bivouac. Disguised as “Crazy Guitar Gertie” and worked like a charm. No gun but good knife in plastic bag #1 of “homeless person” crap. 2 foremen of the Antichrist working at Satan’s House of Zenith showed up 1730
hours yesterday afternoon. One (code name ROGER DODGER) went into market. Bought garlic by smell. Supposed to improve sex-life, HA!! Other (code name JOHN THE BAPTIST) waited outside. Back to me. Could have killed him with no problem. One quick slash. Jugular and carotid. Old commando move. This old dog remembers all his old tricks. Didn’t, of course. Must wait for Designated Jew. If others stay out of my way, they may live. If they don’t, they will certainly die. No prisoners. BAPTIST
gave me two dollars. Cheapskate! Best plan still seems to wait until weekend (i.e. Apr 4-5) and then infiltrate building. Lie low inside until Monday 135