Chapter seven
During
the American Revolution, the Passaic Hotel was a gathering place of rebel
leaders. Washington and Lafayette spent hours talking with the son of its
owner, some locals nicknamed "Peter the Helpless," because a
grotesque illness had left him a near invalid. Most people called Peter
"the big-headed man" because his head was nearly as large as his
pathetic body. Someone had rigged up a chair with wheels that allowed the
boy/man to get around through the halls and tavern. But neither Washington nor Lafayette
seemed to pity Peter.
They
came to talk with him. For it seemed Peter had been endowed with a mind as good
as his body was bad, and both revolutionary heroes found Peter refreshingly
intelligent -- in a world of farms, farmers and Dutch slave owners.
Years
later, as a very old man, Lafayette would return to the Passaic Hotel looking
for Peter, only to be told that Peter had died before his 40th birthday.
************
"Maxwell,
if you don't wake up, I swear I'll dump a bucket of water over your head."
Maxwell
opened his eyes and saw Jack's oval face floating over him, the deep set eyes
heavy with a look of concern.
"Huh?"
"It's
time to get up," Jack said, stepping back from Maxwell's bunk. "It's
always ten o'clock."
"IN
THE MORNING?" Maxwell said, bolting into a sitting position on the bed.
"No,
at night -- of course, it's the morning. You must have forgotten to set your
alarm."
"What
about your alarm?" Maxwell snapped, managing to push his legs over the
side of the bed before the hangover hit him with a sudden surge of nausea.
"Don't
start that crap," Jack said. "We both know you're supposed to be the
responsible one in this apartment. But lately, you've been acting worse than
me. Ever since you started in with that dancer, you've been a regular pain in
the ass."
"Could
you stop talking so loud, I'm up."
"Jesus
Christ. You were drunk, weren't you? After all the times I've asked you to come
get plastered with me and you go off and..."
"I
was not drunk. I didn't even go out last night. You did, remember? But I guess
the lack of sleep over the last week or so got to me. If you want to do us both
a favor, you'll go down to the store and open up."
"Me?"
Jack said, taking a staggering step backwards, his expression showing his
horror.
"You've
opened up before, Jack," Maxwell said, slipping off the bed, his feet
seeming to travel a mile before slapping on the floor.
"Not
this late, I haven't," Jack said. "What if Mr. Harrison called? He'd
be bound to call back and I wouldn't want to be the one on this side of the
telephone when he does."
"You
exaggerate, as usual," Maxwell said, locating his robe, hanging on a hook
along the north wall. Maxwell stood, wavered, and stumbled towards the robe,
feeling his strength and balance begin their slow return. "Mr. Harrison's
not the ogre you make him out to be."
"Fine,
you talk to him if you're so fond of him," Jack said. "He gives me
the creeps. Every time he comes in, he looks at me as if I'm a thief."
"You’re
relatively new, Jack. Mr. Harrison needs time to get used to people."
"I
don’t care," Jack said, folding his large, hairy arms across his chest.
"I’m not talking to him nor am I going to that store until you’re there to
run interference. He might decide to blame this all on me."
"All
right, Jack," Kenny said with a sigh. "Just get dressed. I’ll go take
a shower."
************
Monday
morning downtown.
Workmen
and maids dashed madly for still moving buses at each corner, banging at the
sides, shouting, pleading, cursing for the unmoved drivers to let them out. All
as late for their jobs as Maxwell was for his. The sidewalk flooded with
Spanish, Italian and Polish women, temporary workers from the warehouses along
the river, sobering winos, petty street punks with scarred faces, business men,
lawyers, legal aids, bail bonds men, and hundreds of kids with ages ranging
from five to twenty, many without parents, many looking to hide from cops,
truant officers, parents and each other.
Jack
and Maxwell emerged from the front door into a flock of starch white uniforms,
black women waiting for the bus to Wayne where they served as maids,
housekeepers, baby sitters and all around help to the rich white Wayne wives
who did charity work and had no time for children or chores, with the host of
others it seemed unlike any Paterson Maxwell knew -- an African city perhaps,
or a Latin American city, with wealthy North American white corporations
exploiting local tribes for cheap labor.
Jack
eyed the crowd, his expression souring, his mid-west upbringing showing in his
clear distaste for crowds, blacks, or any sense of disorder -- the radios
blasting, horns honking, bus brakes squealing, kids crying, gangs shouting,
police sirens wailing, men groaning, winos moaning.
Maxwell
stared around with the same awe he’d felt when he’d first come here with
Charlie, struck by the shoulder to shoulder carnival where old ladies rummaged
through piles of cheap junk and the music of thirty or more dialects played in
the air with their never-ending speech, their talk completing with the talk of
hawkers and con men. Ten blocks of
sidewalks bins, full of clothing, fruit, housewares, electronics, black women
elbowing Latino women for their share, who in turn elbowed wiry white haired southside
white ladies, while fat Latino men clutched tiny puppies and cans of beer and
unshaven black men saturated with stronger booze sat in corner shops mocking
the whole scene with hoots at the black girls in white.
It was
the kind of poetry Maxwell could never hope to write, reverberating through the
sidewalks, off the store fronts, around the clothing racks, weaving in and out
of the grad facade of the former Palace theater -- this now after the fire
converted into a string of electronic stores, selling cheap radios, tape
recorders, watches and imitation jewelry -- a poetry so grand it seeped into
the blood and hurried the heart, drawing up an inexplicable excitement the
malls in Wayne could not equal, despite their polished floors and lighted
arches.
A bit
of Vaudeville still lingered here, shimmering of old Paterson, glinting from
behind the grimy glass and pealing paint like a friendly ghost. Maybe the
slurpy face of Lou Costello to whom the town claimed such devotion, dedicating
a whole plaza to the man. Or perhaps, it was old Joe Evelina, athlete, theater
man, known by his stage name of Jimmy Regan.
Joe,
born and raised in Paterson, once owned the Metro Theatrical Agency, a five
foot, eight inch man who had put on minstrel shows at the old theater in the
1940s, and had once driven all the way to Fort Dix during a blizzard to put on
a USO show. Creeley had talked of Joe often, and had taken the man’s passing as
if a member of his family.
But
neither Lou nor Joe had been able to soften the taunt mood that had come down
upon this city, unable to fight back against the misperceived notion of modern
the city had tried to adopt, poets, boxers, jazz musicians each suffering under
the yoke of a practical solution.
"Maybe
the city fathers should have left Paterson to the poets," Maxwell thought.
"We would have ruined the city better than leaving it like this, half
dead, half alive, not knowing which way it should go."
"Jesus
Christ!" Jack groaned as yet another woman banged into him, he and Maxwell
attempting to weave through the mass of people, but out of touch with their
rhythms. "What the hell is going on here anyway?"
It gets
busy this time of day,” Maxwell said.
"I
never noticed."
"Because
even you’ve never been this late."
"Remind
me not to let it happen again," Jack said. "Maybe we should have
taken your car."
"For
a three block drive? I’d wind up spending an hour looking for a parking place,
and then who’d know if Charlie was safe?"
"Nobody
would bother that hung of junk," Jack said.
"I
wouldn't want to take the chance."
Jack
sighed and hurried to catch up with Maxwell who had started down the western
side of the street, through the crowd of women to the corner where a jam of
buses, cars and cabs waited for the light, most trying to slip from the
historic district into the legal district and finding Main and Market in a
perpetual gridlock.
Legal
district was a misnomer. Paterson, although the county seat, and the home of
the superior court as well as the municipal court, and a federal court on top
of that, had only a few blocks of legal offices, with attorneys choosing to
drive in from offices outside the city. The New federal building which was
supposed to save Paterson, in the same manner the original Broadway bank was,
and the historic district was, had only added to the traffic woes -- lawyers
and clients cluttering the streets to and from the ramp to route 80, while the
ramp itself -- a prerequisite for having the federal building built -- blocked
off many of the former through streets, forcing traffic onto already
overcrowded venues like Main and Market.
"Another
wonderful example of brilliant urban planning," Maxwell thought, then
stiffened at the sight of a white-shirted guard standing in front of the
Passaic County Probation Department, roving eye of justice to which he had
reported weekly for over four years.
Maxwell
grabbed Jack's arm and propelled him forward through the gap in bumpers even
though the light had not changed.
"Hey!
What's your hurry!" Jack yelped, and yanked Maxwell back as a truck bore
down on them, rattling across the intersection from the other direction.
"We're
late," Maxwell said, continuing the other curb after the truck had passed.
"We'll
be a lot later if you get us killed," Jack said, and then stopped, pulling
Maxwell to a halt as well. Jack peered into Maxwell's face. "There's
something the matter with you? You looked scared as hell, and I don't mean from
that truck."
Maxwell shivered, and glanced up the street again, towards
the door where the guard stood, where people came and went, like ticks to a
clock, keeping this single appointment like they'd kept none before in their
lives, saving up their urine for the sample the man inside would want,
clutching keys and combs and all other metal objects so as to not set off the
metal detector as they moved through to the building's interior.
"Frightened
is the wrong word," Maxwell mumbled. "But I'd rather not stand here
like this."
"Why?"
Jack said, following the direction of Maxwell's gaze until his gaze rested on
the guard as well. He frowned. "Is that a cop?"
"Yes,"
Maxwell said.
"But
he's got a white shirt."
"He
works for the county."
"And
you're scared of him?"
"I
got into some trouble as a kid," Maxwell said. "I had to report to
that office. It was a humiliating experience. I haven't quite gotten over it
yet."
"When
you were a kid? That must have been twenty years ago."
"It
was and I don't want to talk about it," Maxwell said, moving on again, but
at a slower, less reckless rate.
"So
you're not as squeaky clean as you make out," Jack said triumphantly,
apparently waiting for this very opportunity to gloat.
"Drop
it, Jack."
"All
right, all right," Jack said. "I won't pry. God knows, you've never
pried into my past."
Maxwell
eyed him. "Is there something I should know about?"
Jack
shrugged. "I've had my confrontations with the law."
"I
guessed as much," Maxwell said.
"Hey,
it hasn't much to do with me being bad or good. When you wander as much as I
have, people look at you twice, and if something happens to go wrong, you're
the one they pick to have a talk with. But don't worry," Jack grinned,
"I haven't done anything that would keep me from running for president
someday."
"Don't
start with that again," Maxwell moaned, and nearly bumped into an old
woman with blue hair, her shopping bags full of junk striking at his legs.
"So
did you spend any time in jail?" Jack asked.
"Three
days," Maxwell mumbled.
"That's
all?" Jack said. "Were you in the drunk tank?"
"No,"
Maxwell said with a sigh. "The county jail."
"YOU
spent three days in the meat factory? And you survived?"
"Barely."
"But
how did you get sentenced to jail for three days?"
"I
wasn't sentenced, I was being held?"
"No
one would bail you out?"
"I
didn't call."
"You're
crazy."
"I
was scared to."
"Scared
enough to spend three days in jail with a bunch of savages?"
"It
was my uncle Charlie," Maxwell said. "I was involved with a liquor
store robbery. I was afraid to tell my uncle. He had warned me against hanging
around with the kid who committed it."
Jack
whistled. "Armed robbery. That's pretty heavy stuff. Was anybody
hurt?"
"The
attendant died."
Jack
stopped and stared. "You killed someone?"
"I
didn't say I did it, Jack," Maxwell said. "I was with the kid who
did."
"So
they booked you as an accessory."
"That's
how it ended up, but the cops thought I did it at first. Or at least, they
wanted to know who did."
"And
you wouldn't tell them?" Jack said incredulously.
"I
couldn't."
"Why
not?"
"I
promised I wouldn't."
"So
they charged you with murder?"
"Sort
of."
"That
is nuts. Did they catch you at the scene?"
"No,
later," Maxwell said. "Officer Wilson arrested me for pitching
pennies at city hall?"
"What?"
Jack said, a disbelieving laugh exploding out of him.
"I
was stoned and all mixed up."
"Now,
I've heard everything. Stoned? You?"
"I'm
not an innocent, Jack. I've had my share of craziness."
"You
hardly show it."
"I
choose the way I live. I like order because I've seen the other side and know
how dangerous chaos is. I had my three days in hell."
Jack
laughed.
"It
takes more than three days in a jail cell to know what happens on the dark side
of life," he said. "There are things going on all around you,
Maxwell, which you don't see. But you dabble on the edge, lucky enough not to
fall off. But that's the real danger. You dabble and dabble, growing more and
your sure of your footing, that the ugly side can't suck you in -- then it
does. It always does. Some people it sucks in quick. Others it teases for
years. But almost nobody escapes, and in the end, everybody winds up in the
same place, doing the same things, regretting they thought themselves clever
enough to never get caught."
"You
sound like one of the street preachers," Maxwell said.
"Some
of them know the score better than you do," Jack said. "They've been
there."
"Have
you?"
"I've
been close enough to know, dangling in a few places, moving on before I could
get sucked in too deep. Hey! What the hell are you stopping for now?"
Maxwell
had paused before one of the string of slightly higher class stores that
anchored the downtown business district, a store that had started out as
McCorys, then changed into sound alike names such as McCann's and now had a
sign saying Langston's outside, windows displaying the usual assortment of
kitchen wares, t-shirts, jogging outfits and such, only today, the window had a
theme, celebrating the continued victories of the New York Giants -- which some
claimed were on the way to the Superbowl: t-shirts, sweat shirts, bookbags,
lunch boxes, lighters, hats, coffee mugs, beer mugs, scarves, gloves,
notebooks, calendars, posters, cheerleading flags, even pens and pencils
bearing the unmistakable Blue and white logo of the team.
"I've
got to go in here," Maxwell said, pushing his way through a crowd of
Latino women and their kids, who had camped out in front of the door.
"What
for?" Jack asked, caught in the swirl of elbows as he tried to follow.
"I
have to buy something," Maxwell said, yanking open the glass door.
"But
you said we were late."
"I
know, I know," Maxwell mumbled. "Just wait."
Inside,
Maxwell found himself in a maze of aisles crowded with boxes and displays and
old women bent over each, examining the quality of sale items, or crawled along
each aisle like slugs, hunting for bargains in the various bins from sweaters
to pots and pans.
"You
need help?" one of the bored sales people asked, a sleepy-looking woman
who asked out of habit rather than conscientiousness.
"I'm
looking for the New York Giants stuff," Maxwell said.
The
woman pointed up the first aisle, Maxwell made his way towards the collection,
yanking out his wallet as he went.
***********
"It's
you again," Puck said flatly, as he stared up from the gutter, his body
hidden by the body of a car.
Maxwell
heard the voice, then -- in his usually dream way -- looked around for the
source, switching his school books from his right arm to his left the way
Charlie had taught him, his right hand now free to handle anything unexpected.
Seeing
Puck's face, Maxwell relaxed a little, though only someone as curious as Puck
would have noticed the change.
"Say,
are you scared of me or something?" Puck asked, working himself out from
under the car, his hands each clutching a wrench.
"No,"
Maxwell said. "But I know some kids who'd like to beat me up."
"What
for?"
Maxwell
shrugged. "I guess they like picking on people."
"You
mean they like picking on you?"
"They
like to try. Usually I don't let them."
"What
do you do, run away?"
"Sometimes,"
Maxwell said. "Sometimes I make them go away. Say, what are you doing down
there anyway, fixing your car."
Puck's
expression soured. "This isn't my car. I wouldn't be caught dead in no
station wagon."
"Then
what are you fixing it for?"
"I'm
not fixing anything, I taking it apart."
"What
for?"
"For
money, stupid. The parts shops on Straight Street pay good hard cash for spare
parts."
"You
mean you're stripping the car?" Maxwell said, more than slightly taken
back.
"Not
all of it," Puck said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his
grease-covered wrist, leaving a thin black streak across his forehead.
"Most of it isn't worth shit. I'm just getting what will sell."
"Aren't
you afraid of getting caught?"
"Na!
The cops around here are all too stupid, and anyone walking along is going to
think like you did, that I'm just fixing something. That's why I pick on old
clunkers like this. If this was a new Nova or any Corvette, you bet I'd be in
jail. But nobody steals parts from cars like these. And even I wouldn't do it,
if I couldn't trade some of this stuff for parts on my own car."
"Then
you have your own car?"
"Sure
I do. What do you take me for, a slug?"
"And
you fix it up?"
"Man,
I'm building it myself, one part at a time. It's a sweet machine, too, a 1960
Chevy Impala supersport."
"1960?
Isn't that kind of old?"
"Sure
it's old. It's a classic. That's the whole point. But it's a lot better than
most new cars on the road."
"Not
my uncle Charlie's car."
"Oh?
What's he driving, a Rambler?"
"Uncle
Charlie's got himself a Goat."
Puck
looked shocked, his mouth losing its sneer. "A new one?" he said, his
eyes focusing on Maxwell's face for the first time.
"It's
still got it's sticker on the window."
"Does
he let you drive it?"
"Yeah."
"Then
why aren't you driving it now?"
"I
don't have my license yet."
"What
do you need a license for?" Puck asked. "I don't have one."
"Aren't
you afraid of the cops?"
"I
told you, they're too stupid. Besides, none of them has been able to catch me
yet."
"Your
Impala is that fast?"
"Anything
I drive has got to be that fast, and my impala will be faster once I get it up
on the road."
"You
mean it doesn't work yet?"
"I
don't have all the parts. But I will. And soon. And them I'm going to blow this
town and forget all about it."
"Where
are you gonna go?"
"Any
place is better than Paterson," Puck said, his lips twisted into a snarl.
"But I've got a hankering for Nashville."
"Why
there?"
"Because
it's got everything I'll never need, women, music, dope and booze."
Maxwell
stepped back, his face growing a little red, especially around the nose.
"I've
got to go now," he said softly.
"What's
the matter? Did I say something wrong?" Puck asked, sliding out further
from under the car, revealing more of his torso and the grease-stained t-shirt
he wore.
"No,
nothing's wrong. It's just my Uncle Charlie. He's waiting to take me
driving."
"Yeah,
I'll bet," Puck laughed, now almost completely free of the car, and nearly
completely covered with road grime and grease. "You know what I think? I
think you're scared of me. I think you don't even have an Uncle Charlie, and if
you, he doesn’t' have no GTO, and he isn't waiting to let you drive,
neither."
"I
do to have an uncle Charlie and he is going to let me drive!" Maxwell
protested.
"Prove
it," Puck said, pushing himself to his feet, brushing off his arms.
Maxwell
looked puzzled, slowly scratching behind his ear with a forefinger.
"How?"
"Take
me with you. Let me see you driving this brand new GTO."
"I
don't know if I can."
"So
I thought."
"No,
no, I mean with the way you are. Maybe if you went home and took a bath. Uncle
Charlie is really particular about people being clean when they get in his
car."
"I
don't have no home."
"But
when I saw you the other day you were getting a bottle for your mother..."
"I
was doing her chores," Puck said. "I don't really live there, and I
wouldn't be welcome back unless I brought another bottle with me. And since I
don't have the money for that, I guess I can't get no bath."
"What
about your father? Wouldn't he let you get washed up there?"
"That
faggot! He's the last person he'd let come up to his lost. Not after what I did
to him."
"Wh-What
did you do?"
"I
broke his Goddamn nose."
"Why?"
"Because
he tried to poke me."
"I
don't understand."
"He's
a faggot, man. He tried to put his ding dong up my asshole, like he's tried to
do since I could walk. It's one of the reasons why Ma's not with him any
more."
Maxwell
stuttered, but could emit no words. He had never heard such talk before or even
imagined them. Kids at school used terms like "faggot" and
"fairy" loosely, but all the talk Maxwell heard centered around
girls, girls who got "poked" from every height and angle.
"I've
got to go now," Maxwell said, and started to retreat.
"What
about me? How am I going to know that you're not lying?"
Maxwell
paused, then frowned, and a moment later, brightened.
"I'll
tell you what," he said. "You wait right there and I'll drive by and
wave."
"You
will?" Puck said, and seemed surprised. Then, he frowned. "You're not
bullshiting me, are you? I'm not gonna find myself standing around her for an
hour and have you not show up, am I?"
"I'll
be here," Maxwell assured him.
"You'd
better be," Puck said.
***********
"So
what are you going to do, dump the stuff on the bar and say: `Here, Lady, I
thought you might like all this shit?'" Jack asked, wiping the last of the
grease from his hands as he moved around the counter to go lock the front door.
Business
had kept them busy all day, despite their late arrival, with a non-stop stream
of customers wanting nearly every odd thing on the menu, from Swiss cheese and
pepper steaks to deep fried corndogs or sundogs Maxwell's legs ached.
The
feared call from Mr. Harrison had not come. If the man knew of their tardiness,
he hadn't made a point of it. Jack looked weary and relieved, and Maxwell felt
like a kid who had cut school and not gotten caught.
"I'm
still working that out," Maxwell mumbled, fishing out the two shopping
bags into which the variety store clerk had dumped his purchases.
Jack
turned the door latch and then closed the blinds, before slowly ambling back to
the counter where he collected and stacked dishes for washing. He glanced at
Maxwell as if wanting to say something, but Maxwell turned away, feeling the
tension in that silence.
"Do
we still have boxes in the back?" Maxwell asked.
"I
suppose so," Jack mumbled, twisting on the faucet. Scalding hot water
plunged down into the metal sink, cascading over the stained dishes. Jack took
up the squeeze bottle of dish soap and applied its contents liberally into the
flow. A parade of white bubbles appeared, dropping off the edge of the top
dish. Jack stared down into the froth, his mouth slightly sour, then he
blinked, looked puzzled, and turned towards Maxwell. "What the hell do you
need a box for?"
"To
put the stuff into, stupid."
"You
mean you're going to march into a go-go bar carrying a box for hamburger
rolls?"
"Does
it matter?"
"It
does if you're trying to impress the bitch."
"I'm
not trying to impress her; I'm trying to distract her." "It's
the same thing and you don't do that with no box from this place," Jack
said, yanking on a pair of well-worn yellow rubber gloves. "Show some
class, boy. If you're committed to this insanity, do it with style."
"How
would I go about doing that?"
"Pack
the stuff up as if you were giving the bitch a mink coat -- shinny wrapping
paper, ribbons and bows. Then go in there like you wanted her to marry
you."
Maxwell
fingered the string handle of one of the shopping bags, then slowly shook his
head.
"That's
not me," he mumbled.
"I
know it's not you," Jack said. "We're not selling YOU here, we're
selling a distraction -- this is a dancer, a woman who's got certain ideas
about what's classy and what's not. You're not going to grab her attention
walking in there like a truck driver, handing all this junk to her in a
cardboard box."
"If
I walk in any other way, she'll know I'm up to something."
"Of
course, she will," Jack laughed, thrusting his gloved hands deep into the
scalding water, stirring up the bubbles and the filth from the plates.
"She's going to know this is all a con no matter what you do -- that's the
way all women are. They don't mind being conned as long as it doesn't look too
obvious, and if it is too obvious (the way this is), they want it spectacular,
like one huge show. The bigger the entertainment value, the more willing
they'll be to go along with it."
Maxwell
stared across the counter at Jack, his gaze suddenly hard.
"You're
a cynical song of a bitch," he said.
"I'm
not cynical at all," Jack said. "I'm realistic. I've been around this
block a few more times than you have."
"I'm
not so sure that's true," Maxwell said.
"Oh?"
Jack asked, turning, one gloved hand gripping a half cleaned plate, the other
gripping only suds, the froth of which dripped slowly to the floor. "Just
how many women have you romanced?"
"Numbers
are not important," Maxwell said.
"HOW
MANY?" Jack asked. "And that ding-bat poet friend who shows up
unannounced doesn't count. She doesn't need romancing and you don't love her. I
want a number, Max. Two, three, maybe four women?"
With
the bags and their contents shuddering slightly in his hands, Maxwell stared
away towards the front of the store, towards the passing faces of the changing
crowd.
"Well?"
Jack asked.
"One,"
Maxwell muttered.
"What
was that?" Jack asked, leaning closer, holding up one yellowed glove to
his ear in a gesture of mock deafness. "Would you mind saying that a
little louder?"
"I
SAID ONE!" Maxwell snapped, the obviously inadequate number bounding
around the room like a public address.
Jack
blinked, then swallowed slowly, hiss stout neck reacting to his surprise with a
series of gulps, as his eyes stared on with sudden regret -- as if now knew he
shouldn't have brought up the subject in the first place, as if he had suddenly
treaded on uncertain ground.
"That
explains a lot," he said finally.
"I’m
glad," Maxwell said coldly. "Now maybe you can drop the whole
issue."
"Who
was she?"
"Damn
it, Jack," Maxwell exploded, hand slamming down on the counter. Tea spoons
and forks, coffee cups and dinner plates rattled. "I said drop it and I
mean it. I don't want to discuss Suzanne here."
"Suzanne?"
Jack said. "Was she a dancer, too?"
Maxwell,
whose energy seemed expended by the explosion, sagged and stared down into the
bag of gifts at her lap. "She was at the end, but she didn't start out
that way."
"Was
she a poet, then?" Jack asked. "Like your whacko friend, Mary
Jane?"
Maxwell
shrugged.
"I
suppose so," he said. "At least, she had aspirations to write when we
went to college together. I heard she got pretty far, then..."
"You've
seen her recently?"
Maxwell's
stare rose, hard and cold with a painful fury. "No," he said.
"At least, I haven't seen her face to face."
Something
in this warned Jack as the humor faded from his face.
"Say,
pal, I didn't mean to touch a nerve."
Maxwell
continued to stare, and then sagged again.
"I
know you didn't," he said. "I saw Suzanne's picture in the
newspaper."
"In
the newspaper?"
Maxwell
took the crumbling newsprint from his pocket and unfolded it on the counter,
Jack's eyes growing wider as he did.
"You
mean the bitch who tried to jump off the Paterson falls?"
Maxwell
nodded.
Jack
glanced down at the newspaper, read a few lines, then looked at Maxwell again.
"It
says here, the cops took her to St. Joe's. Did you look for her there?"
"Yes."
"Well,
then?"
"They
let her go."
"WHAT?"
Jack exploded. "You mean after she tried to take a freakin leap like that.
Are those people crazy?"
"They
said she didn't have insurance. So they put her on the outpatient list. Only
she never came back and they won't give me her home address."
Jack
nodded, the dishes and the shrinking soap bubbles forgotten in the sink behind
him, his gaze lost to some sad memory of his own. Aft a moment, he blinked,
signed and finally laughed, bitterly.
"What
a bunch of fools," he mumbled. "Doctors, lawyers and cops. You'd
think they'd want to bend over backwards to help a guy like you. But no, she's
probably off in some dive, plotting another leap."
"You
think so?" Brain asked, his voice so sharp that Jack stopped, swallowed,
then shook his head.
"No,"
he said. "I was just spouting at the mouth as usual."
"But
suicides usually try more than once."
"But
not all of them. I had a cousin once who..."
"Women
do, and women generally mean it more than men when they make the attempt."
"Let's
skip it," Jack said, looking back down at the stuff Maxwell had gathered
on the counter. "Now what kind of box did you have in mind for..."
"She
danced, too," Maxwell said.
"Who?"
"Suzzane."
"Max,
you're starting to piss me off with this stuff."
"I
don't mean a strip dancer," Maxwell said. "She started out wanting
something more than that. She wanted to study ballet, and did, and thought she
could make it in New York"
"
`What do you think if I tried out somewhere,' she'd ask me, and I always said,
`Why not?'
"
`Do you think I have the talent?'
"
`Talent? Sure. Will power is another thing. With any of the arts, you've got to
stick to it, no matter what.'
"
`But what if I don't get anywhere? Wouldn't I be wasting my life when I could
be doing something else?'
"
`What else is there?' I asked.
"
`I could have a career, in an office or something.'
"
`That's just another kind of wasted time,' I told her. `You can make a lot of
money that way and still feel empty when you're done. You have to have some fun
in your life or you shouldn't bother. My Uncle Charlie told me the only thing
you take with you at the end is the fun -- or the pain. He told me that if I
wanted to write songs, I should, because later, no matter how much money I
made, no matter what kind of career I got, I would always regret not writing
those songs.'
"
`Couldn't you do both?'
"
`It would never come out right,' I said. `You can't take a half-hearted shot at
art. It's all or nothing.'
"
`Then you think I should try?'
"
`Sure, why not?' I said."
"Did
she?" Jack asked, leaning on the counter, his eyes showing his growing
interest.
Maxwell
shrugged. "She went off. I don't know how far she got."
"You
didn't go with her?"
"There
didn't seem to be room for both of us, her art and me."
"But
you're an artist yourself."
"I
think so. She didn't. She hated my poetry and thought my country music was
vulgar."
"My
God! What a stuck up bitch."
"Maybe.
But something obviously bright her sharply down to earth, something that made
her want to leap off the falls. I haven't seen her in many years, and would
like to find out what happens before she vanishes from my life again. I'd like
to know if there's anything I can do to help her."
Jack's
gaze narrowed. "You're not thinking about getting back together with her,
are you?"
Maxwell
shook his head and sighed. "No, I’m afraid there's not much hope in that,
even if she wasn't trying to actively kill herself."
"I
don't get you?"
"It's
not important. Now tell me more about your packaging plans."
Comments
Post a Comment