Stern said, "I've got one, all right. With a large crater. In two days
I have to go to a rest place for it. It hurts right now."
"That's what I needed," Stern's mother said, puffing at a cigarette. "I
don't have enough. That's the perfect extra thing I need to carry."
Stern's father, standing small and round-shouldered, shook his head
gravely and said, "You've got to take care of yourself. That's what
happens. I've told you that and I've told you that."
Uncle Babe leaned forward, staring widely, and said, "I like a piece of
fish on a night like this, but I don't like the way it smells."
"I'm going to have a drink," said Stern's mother. "And I don't need any
comments either. Do you know where I'd be if I wasn't able to take a
little drink?" She swallowed some Scotch from a shot glass and said, "I
don't have any reason to drink, do I? No reason in the world."
"Maybe I'll just go upstairs and lie down," Stern said. "It hurts
plenty inside me."
"I'm not going to worry about it," Stern's mother said. "I can't kill
myself. I've had disappointments in my life, too. Plenty of them. I
could tell you plenty."
"I am not interested in people's disappointments," Stern said. "My
stomach hurts me."
"All right, so I said something wrong," she said. "Look, darling, stay
downstairs awhile. Maybe it'll make you feel better. Talk to your Uncle
Babe. You love him. You know his head."
"Maybe we could all use a little music in our systems," she said,
instructing Stern's father to bring in a small accordion he carried in
the trunk of his car. As a boy, Stern had sung at home to his father's
accordion playing. His voice was not bad, and his mother had once taken
him to a talent agent, who'd had Stern sing into his ear and then
rejected him for poor head tones. But Stern's mother was rhapsodic over
his voice, and now, as Stern's father played some warm-up trills, she
sank into a chair and said, "Sing for me, darling. It'll make us all
feel better."
"I'm not singing anything," Stern said.
"All right, don't sing for me, sing for your Uncle Babe," she said.
"He's never heard your voice, and he's come all the way out here. He'll
faint when he hears you."
"Jesus," Stern said. "I'm thirty-four." But when his father played an
old ballad, he began to come in with the words.
"That voice," his mother said. "The same voice. I could die."
When he reached the bridge of the song, Stern said, "I'm not doing any
more of this. I told you about my stomach. Doesn't anybody realize my
stomach hurts? I've got a goddamned ulcer. I have to go away to a home."
"_Don't_ sing," said Stern's mother. "What am I going to do--put a
bullet through my head? I only had an idea. I thought it would be good
for everybody." Stern's father continued through the song, as though
respecting a show-business tradition that no matter how adverse the
circumstances, all numbers are to be completed. Uncle Babe leaned
across to Stern's mother and said, "Listen, did you take a look at my
shirt? I don't like the feel of it. It doesn't feel good on my skin."
"The crazy bastard doesn't even hear the music," said Stern's mother.
"He's in a world of his own."
Stern's father wound up the ballad with an elaborate trilling effect,
and then Stern's mother said, "Isn't your wife home when you have an
ulcer?"
"She doesn't know about it yet," said Stern.
"She ought to be home if you're not feeling well," said Stern's father.
"I said she doesn't know. Listen, none of this is doing me any good.
I'm going upstairs on the bed. I'm going to a home in a few days, and
I've got to stay quiet until then. Nobody upset me about anything."
He went upstairs, and when his stomach touched the bed, it seemed to
puff up with pain like great baby cheeks and he had to roll over on his
back to be comfortable. A car moved into the driveway and he went to
the window and saw his wife hop out, come around and kiss a man through
the driver's window, and then run into the house. Stern got back into
bed. She was downstairs for a while, and then she ran up the steps and
knelt beside him and said, "What happened?"
"I've come up with an ulcer and there'll be some kind of institution in
a few days."
"Oh, that's not so bad," she said, her great eyes wide, kissing his
wrist. "You'll fix it right up in a few days."
"No, I won't," said Stern. "It's a big thing and it'll be in there for
a while. I may have to be away for a long time."
She was wearing a tight jumper that hugged her flaring thighs snugly;
the crease of her underwear showed through, and Stern had a sudden
fear that she had just thrown on her clothes in a great hurry.
"Where were you?" he asked. "I thought you don't go anywhere out here."
"I went to a modern dance class today for the first time," she said,
her eyes shimmering with warmth. "I thought it would give me an
interest."
"But I've come home with an ulcer," Stern said.
"I didn't know that," she said.
"Who was the one in the car?"
"José," she said. "The instructor. He picks up the students and takes
them home."
"I saw a kiss," said Stern, a slow and deadly beat beginning against
his stomach walls, as though fists inside him were pleading for
attention.
"Oh, that's just a thing he does, like show business. It was nothing."
"But I saw tongues," said Stern.
"No, you didn't," she said. "I can't help what _he_ did. I didn't use
my tongue."
"Oh my God, _then there was a tongue_."
Stern's mother and father came up to the room, followed by Uncle Babe.
All three stood in the doorway.
"That's some place for a wife to be when there's a sickness," said
Stern's mother. "Out of the house." She downed a shot of Scotch and
said, "And they wonder why I take a little drink."
"I'll be where I want," Stern's wife said, and his small father came
forth, shoved his nose into her face, and said, "You'll be home with
him."
Uncle Babe came into the room, eyes wide in the pale glare of the
single bedroom lamp, and said, "I smell gas; open the window,
somebody," and Stern had a picture of himself, thin and unshaven,
sitting in oversized clothes on the bench of one of Uncle Babe's
institutions, waiting for his son and wife to visit him, the boy
carrying a box of pralines for him, his favorites. The fists within him
stepped up the rhythm of their beat, and Stern began to roll from one
side of the bed to the other, hands tight around his stomach, as though
to keep it from falling apart. "Call Fabiola," he said in a whisper.
"Tell him no two days. I've got to go tonight. Oh, please, tell him
I've got to get started tonight."
* * * * *
Fabiola told Stern of pills that would take him through the night and
said he would arrange space at the home for the following morning.
Stern awakened blinking to an agonizingly warm and lovely summer day.
But the summer fragrance unsettled him; on such days his son would have
to stand without playmates, sucking a blanket on a barren lawn, and
Stern would at some point have to stand outside and perhaps see the
man a mile down the road. Dark and dreary weather made Stern rejoice,
because on such days there was no shame in staying inside the house,
where it was safe. Down deep at the center of him there was a small
capsule of glee that he was going to the home on this day; if dark
and terrible things happened then to his family, he could not be held
responsible. How could he prevent them if he was away in a home?
The midnight driveway kiss nagged at him now, and he reached for his
wife as though to nail her down, to stake a claim in her during his
absence, to mark her, change her in some way so there would be no
smoothly coordinated backseat tumbles with José during his absence.
She watched him like a great-eyed fourth-grade girl, but then her eyes
closed, her skin became cold, and she clung to him with a nervous,
clattering whimper, doing a private, rising-up kind of thing. He went
at her with a frenzy, as though by the sheer force of his connection
he could do something to her that would keep her quiet and safe and
chaste for two weeks, but when he fell to the side he saw with panic
that she was unchanged, unmarked, her skin still cold and unrelieved.
"Can you be a man again, my darling?"
"No," Stern said. "I've got something inside me. I've got to get up to
that home. Listen, can you give up that ballet thing when I'm away?"
"No, I don't want to. It's the first thing I've had."
"OK, then," he said. "But no more tongues. Can't you drive home by
yourself?"
"He drives the students home. The kissing is just a show-biz thing.
Can't you be a man one more time? I'm going to have to jump on a
telephone pole."
"I don't want you to say things like that," said Stern.
* * * * *
Outside, on the lawn, it occurred to Stern that he had never seen his
house during the week at this precise time of day. It was eleven in the
morning, a time when he was usually at work for two hours. He had gone
to work on schedule for many years, and in his mind he had felt that
if he ever stopped and stayed home one day, or left his job entirely,
he would die. And yet here he was, standing on the lawn, looking at
his home, and he was perfectly alive. Perhaps that was it, he thought;
perhaps all he had to do was to stop work for one day and see that he
could live and he would not have gotten the ulcer. His son came out and
said, "How long will you be away?"
"A little while," Stern said.
"I can't wait for a little while," the boy said.
"I'll be back soon."
"I can't wait till soon. Listen, do you know where we are?"
"Where?" Stern said.
"In God's hand; right on his pinkie, as a matter of fact."
"Who teaches him God things?" Stern said to his wife.
"The baby-sitter. She's inside."
Stern said, "She shouldn't." He wanted to go inside and tell her to
discontinue the God information, but he was afraid she would come after
him one night with a torch-bearing army of gentiles and tie him in a
church.
Stern's wife drove the car, and as they passed the man's house down
the street Stern ducked down and made himself invisible, as though he
did not want the man to know of his triumph. Stern was certain that if
the man knew he had put Stern in a home, he would fly a dozen flags
thrillingly from every window.
On the highway, Stern watched his wife's knees, apart as they worked
the pedals; he imagined her dropping him off at the home, then going
immediately to a service station and allowing the attendant to make
love to her while her feet kept working the pedals so that she could
always say that she had driven all the way home without stopping. She
pulled into the driveway of the Grove Rest Home in the late afternoon
and Stern, saying goodbye, squeezed her flesh and kissed her through
her dress, as though by getting in these last touches he could somehow
ward off the gas station attendant.
_Part Three_
A giant picture of a somber, bewhiskered, constitutional-looking man
hung in the reception lobby. Stern took this to be Grove himself. The
lobby was a great, darkened, drafty place, and as Stern passed the
picture he instinctively ducked down a little, certain that Grove, in
setting up the home, had no idea people such as Stern would be applying
for admission. As Stern stood before the reception desk he expected an
entourage of Grove's descendants to run out with clenched fists and
veto him.
A tiny, gray-haired nurse looked up at him and said, "What can I do for
you, puddin'?" Stern told her who he was.
"Of course, dumplin'," she said, checking her records. "You're the new
intestinal. I'll get Lennie out for you. Does it hurt much?"
Stern said he'd had a bad night and asked what the rate was. She said
three dollars a day. "That includes your three meals and your evening
milk and cookie."
Stern had been ready to pay ten dollars a day and felt ashamed at
getting it for so little. She said, "Everyone pays the same rate, crumb
bun," and Stern said, "I'll donate a couch later when I get out."
A tall, handsome Negro with powerful jaw muscles came out on steel
crutches, moving slowly, adjusting clamps and gears as he clattered
forward. He was pushing a baggage cart, and he threw his legs out one
at a time behind it, as though he were casting them for fish.
"This is Lennie," said the nurse. "You'll like him. He's a sugarplum.
Lennie, this is Mr. Stern, your new intestinal."
"Very good," said the Negro. "Bags on the cart, Mr. Stern. Patients to
the left of me as we walk."
"I can handle them," said Stern. The Negro's jaw muscles bunched up,
and he said, "Patients to my left. Bags on the cart."
Stern, afraid of his great jaw muscles, tossed his bags on the cart,
and the Negro began to clatter forward, clamps and gears turning, leg
sections rasping and grinding out to the side, one at a time. Stern
fell in beside him, hands in his pockets, feigning a very slow walk, as
though he, too, took days to get places.
"Are you originally from New York?" Stern asked. "I just came from
there and it's funny, but the last guy I saw was a Negro artist friend
of mine."
"There'll be no dinner," said the Negro, sweat shimmering on his
forehead as he pushed the cart, looking straight ahead. "That's at
five. You're late for milk and cookie, too. One lateness is allowed on
that, though. Did the nurse furnish you with milk and cookie?"
"No," said Stern.
The Negro's jaw muscles tightened again, and he glared violently at
Stern. He released the cart, turned around after much shifting and
switching of gears, and began to make his way back to the nurse.
Stern walked several steps behind him. When the Negro got back to the
reception desk, he asked the nurse, "Did you give this intestinal milk
and cookie?"
"No, I didn't, old stocking," said the nurse.
"That's what he claim," said the Negro, freezing Stern with another
glare. Once again he shifted gears, arranged clamps, tugged and yanked
at elaborate mechanisms, and finally turned and walked complicatedly
down a dark ramplike hall, Stern falling in beside him. The darkness
was dropping swiftly; parallel to the ramp and off in the distance were
the blinking fights of a building that seemed to be set off by itself,
deliberately isolated. Crowd sounds were coming from it, as though from
a bleachers group that had remained long after a ball game.
"Is that where were going?" Stern asked the Negro.
"You're not to go there," he said. "That's Rosenkranz, where mentals
are to be taken. And you're not to be social with attendants at Grove,
such as myself."
He looked straight ahead as he took his zigzagging, clanking, spastic
steps, and Stern was somehow convinced that this man was doing the most
important work in the world. That there was nothing of greater moment
than being the attendant for intestinals and being in charge of baggage
carriers. Despite his complicated legs, he seemed a terribly strong man
to Stern, who felt that even were he to flee to the Netherlands after
a milk and cookie infraction, getting a fifteen-hour start, the Negro
would go after him Porgy-like and catch him eventually. He wondered
if somehow he might not be able to enlist the Negro and his great jaw
muscles to fight the man down the street. He saw the man knocking the
Negro down seven or eight times and the Negro disgustedly wiping off
his clean intern's jacket, making clamp and gear adjustments, and
then, handsome face serious and determined, great jaw muscles bunched,
coming on to squeeze the life out of the kike man's throat.
They came finally to the end of the ramp and to a two-story dormitory,
which Lennie identified as Griggs. He pointed to a room right inside
the entrance and said, "One is not ever to enter the staff room. There
is to be a line outside for medicines and, later, for milk and cookie.
There'll be no leaving the grounds either; otherwise, strict penalties
will ensue."
Stern's room was on the second floor. It took double the usual number
of gear shiftings and fastener slidings for the Negro to mount the
stairs, and when he was up there his jaw muscles were lumped enormously
and his white intern's jacket was soaked. Stern said, "Thank you for
all your trouble," and the Negro, after opening the room door, said,
"One is to obey all rules here on the premises."
Stern's room was long and thin and rancid, as though aging merchant
marine bosuns with kidney difficulties had spent their lives in it. A
small middle-aged man with a caved-in chest and loose pouches under his
eyes sat on one of the two beds in the dim light and said, "Hey, what's
this?"
"What?" asked Stern.
The man had arranged his hands in a tangled way, as though he were
scrubbing them, and was holding them against a lamp so that a clumping,
knobby shadow showed against the wall.
"I don't know what that is," Stern said.
"See the dingus? See the wang-wang?"
"What do you mean?" Stern asked.
"You know. It's sexeroo. Screwerino."
Stern looked at the shadows again and, as the man manipulated his
fingers, Stern thought he could make out a rough picture of a pair of
sexual organs in contact.
"That's pretty good," Stern said.
"Check these," the man said, pulling a medallion out of his T-shirt and
beckoning Stern closer. Stern looked at it, a carving of a lion and a
deer, which turned into a pair of male and female genitals when tilted
at an angle.
"See the dingus? Can you see the wang-wang? You want to hold it and
fool around with it awhile?"
Stern actually wanted to get a better look at it, but he said, "No,
thanks. I'm just getting in here and I want to take it easy. I'm going
to just lie down and not do anything for a while."
"I got that last set from a guy carved them in prison. Listen, do you
want me to do another one on the wall? I can do blowing."
"I just want to lie down here," said Stern, "and take it easy the first
night. I have some things on my mind."
Stern got down on the bed and thought again about the man down the
street. He imagined coming home and finding out that the man had moved
away, unable to make his mortgage payments. Or that he had developed
a lower-back injury, so that the least motion would cause him agony.
Stern saw himself running over with extended hand and showing the man
that he would not take advantage of him, that he would not fight him
in his weakened condition, that Jews forgive. He wanted opportunities
to demonstrate that Jews are magnanimous, that Jews are sweet and hold
no grudges. He pictured the man's boy falling down a well, and Stern,
with sleeves rolled up, being the first to volunteer to work day and
night digging adjacent holes to get him out. Or the man's child being
stricken with a rare disease and Stern anonymously sending checks to
pay the medical bills but somehow letting the man know it was really
Stern. And then he saw himself and the man becoming fast friends from
that point on, Stern inviting him in to the city to meet Belavista,
showing the man he didn't mind his work clothes. But mostly he wanted
the back injury, and clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes hard, as
though just by straining he could make it happen. If only there was
a way, he thought, that he could pay to make it happen--even a large
figure like $8,000, which he would work off at $10 a week.
His room-mate asked, "Do you mind any farting?" And Stern said, "I
don't have any views on that."
"I cut loose a few," said the man, "but I wanted to ask, because I know
a lot of the younger ones object."
The room was thick with the smell of merchant marine sheets, and Stern
sat up, touching his stomach to see whether it had gotten any better
since he had come to the home.
"I've got something in here and I wonder how long I'm going to have to
take to get it out of here," Stern said.
"I've got the weakness is all that's wrong with me," said the man.
"I've had it ever since I left the circuit. I did comedy vignettes. I
used to get fifty-two straight weeks in those days, but snappers killed
me off and I can't work any more. You see, I never used many snappers,
maybe three a night. What I'd do is work around m'crowd, futz them
along a little, nurse them, slowly giving them the business, and then,
maybe after twenty minutes, I'd come in with m'snapper. I'd use maybe
three a night, four tops. Nowadays the new ducks throw them out a mile
a minute, no futzing in between, just one after another. Anyone who
books you wants you to shoot out a million snappers before he'll even
consider you. Well, I just couldn't change my style, and now I've got
the weakness."
"I don't know what to say to any of that," Stern said. "I'm just here
to get rid of something I've got in here."
"Suck what?" said the man.
"What do you mean?" asked Stern.
"That's one of them. One of my old snappers. I'd ask a Saturday night
bunch if they had any special song requests, and when they hollered out
a few, I'd take my time, do a little business with m'feet, and then say
to them, 'Suck what?'"
The room seemed to have gotten narrower, and Stern was afraid that
someone would seal him in with the merchant marine sheets and the old
actor.
"I'm just going to go out and get the feel of the place," Stern said,
getting up from the bed.
Stern walked outside in the hall and got his first look at the half
man. Starting with his neck and going all the way down his body, about
half had been cut away. In the shadows, with a handkerchief around his
neck and a violin in his hand, he made a beseeching sound at Stern. His
voice seemed to come from some place a foot away from him and sounded
like a radio turned on a little too loud and tuned in to a small,
dying station in New Jersey. Stern walked ahead, his face frozen, as
though he did not see the man, and on the way down the steps he heard
an off-key violin melody played with sorrow and no skill, muffled by a
closed door. Stern wondered whether at some future date, when halves
started to be taken out of him, he too would be farmed off to a home to
sit unloved in the shadows and play a tortured violin.
Downstairs on the front porch a scattering of people talked beneath
a great insect-covered bulb. An old man, gray-haired, draped over a
wooden banister like a blanket, winked deeply and called Stern forward.
In the weeks to come, Stern was to see him clinging insect-like against
poles, draped over rails, propped up against walls, but never really
standing. Whenever the people at Griggs moved somewhere as a unit,
to meals or to the outdoor stadium, the strongest would always carry
Rooney, who weighed very little, and see that he was perched or
propped up or laid comfortably against something. His main concern was
the amount of money great people had or earned, and his remarks were
waspish on this subject. He poked Stern in the ribs and said, "Hey,
the President don't make much dough, does he? I mean, he really has to
hustle to scrape up cigarette money." He chuckled deeply and, poking
Stern again, said, "You know who else is starving to death? Xavier
Cugat. I mean, he really don't know where his next cuppa coffee's
comin' from." He became convulsed with laughter. "He goes to one of
them pay toilets, he's got all holy hell to scare up a dime. Jesus," he
said, choking with laughter and poking Stern, "we wouldn't want to be
in his shoes, would we? We sure are lucky not to be Cugie." He started
to slip off the rail and Stern caught him and propped him up again.
"Thanks, kid," said Rooney. "All them guys are starving, you know."
A tall, nervous, erupting teen-age boy was on the porch, pushing back
and forth in a wheelchair a Greek youth who Stern learned had had a leg
freshly cut off in a street fight. A blond nurse with flowering hips
passed by and the Greek boy said, "The last day I'm going to jazz that
broad. They're going to let me out, see. That's when I tear-ass up the
steps and catch her on the second floor and jazz her good. I going to
jazz her so she stays jazzed."
"Where are you tear-assin'?" said the tall boy. He combed his blond
hair nervously with one hand as he pushed the wheelchair. "You got one
leg gone."
"Shut up, tithead," said the Greek boy, concentrating hard. "I jazz
her. Then they come after me and I cut out to Harlem. I cut out so they
never find me."
"Where you cuttin'?" asked the tall, nervous boy. "You can't cut
nowhere."
"You're a tithead," said the boy in the wheelchair.
Stern approached the pair and the tall, blond boy said, "How are you,
fat ass? Jesus," he said to the boy in the wheelchair, "you ever see
such a fat ass?"
Stern smiled thinly, as though this were a great joke and not an insult.
"I've put on a little weight because of something I've got inside me,"
he said. "It certainly is a lovely night."