Jenny and the Jaws of Life Page 9

  She sits at one end of the long dining table at the officers’ mess. At the other end the captain sits, and on both sides are communications officers, engineers, medical personnel, all in sleek dress uniforms, color-coded according to rank. She is exotic in frayed blue jeans and a T-shirt full of holes. She regards them coldly over the rim of her iridium snifter. What was it like, they want to know, to be alive in the mid-nineteen hundreds: a particularly savage era in human history. Yes, we were all savages, she tells them. We wore fur pelts and ate our young. She goes on like this, and eventually passes out and is carried to her room. The captain sits on her bed, brushes loose strands of unkempt golden hair away from her face, caresses her in troubled sleep. He decides not to put her off the ship after all. To keep her with him at any cost. She is so sad, so beautiful.

  He gives her various jobs: tending the ship’s extensive garden, helping out with the library, and so on. Everybody tries to make her feel necessary, but she can see through them. The prospect of being nothing more than a mascot, of living without purpose or function, is insupportable to her. She transports herself to a barren planet, and when they follow her she tries to kill herself, usually by jumping from a high place. The captain saves her, and beats her, and drags her back to the ship.

  She becomes the captain’s mistress, although she never experiences any strong feeling for him, or indeed for anyone else. She is loved, admired, enjoyed. She could not love the captain, really, as there is little about him to distinguish him from the others. He is just the one who loves her, and who forces her to live, and who punishes her for her stubborn refusal to believe that she is worthy of love, or respect. Her strangeness is forever a burden to her, a melancholy enchantment. Though unhappy, at least she is not bored, because their mission takes them to dangerous, unknown places.

  She arrives at the office early. The outer door is still locked, but once inside she sees that Mr. Hathaway is already here. The translucent glass of his closed door is bright with artificial light. She fixes him a mug of black coffee, knocks routinely before pushing open the door, screams! (the cup bounces on thick carpeting, splattering her ankles with scalding coffee) at the sight of him hanging, turning, somehow suspended from the ceiling (his belt, his tie), his face and protruding tongue purple-blue, the highly polished toes of his black shoes pointing down, inches above the mahogany desktop. She sags against the doorframe, shields her eyes. “Oh, you poor bastard.”

  Behind her she hears Miss Warden’s brisk morning footsteps. “Oh, he’s in. Let me just—”

  She pushes the old woman back, slams the door behind her. “Don’t go in there. Call the police.” (Somehow she is not surprised. Such a cold, remote, unsmiling man.)

  She has come into a lot of money and has used most of it to renovate an old warehouse in downtown Manhattan into a kind of nightclub. She employs excellent young rock and folk musicians. Often she performs with them, singing and dancing, and while not really talented, she has an ironic and witty presence; her audience appreciates that she performs out of generosity and daring; that there is nothing at stake when she performs. With the rest of her money, and with her profits, she is able to let the club double as a home for lost kids (runaways, misfits, delinquents) whom she hires in various capacities. They have their own rooms in the loft and plenty of money, so that they won’t have to steal or prostitute themselves, and to the extent that they allow her to mother them, she does. There is Jack, a black ex-junkie, the oldest, who holds himself aloof and hides behind an impassive mask, but who for reasons of his own is always there, always reliable. And Angelica, a vacuous, amoral little girl whom she tolerates, she supposes, because she is so pretty and her behavior so amusingly transparent. And sweet, bashful Jimmy, the stutterer. And Rudolph, who is searching for a handsome prince (“Toujours gai is my motto, kid”) but meantime settles for motorcycle crazies and paunchy, sad-eyed truck drivers. And many others, every one of them distinct and intricately made. Especially there is Beano (no one knows his real name; Jimmy suggested “Beano” and it stuck), a retarded man in his thirties or forties, placid, moon-faced, trusting. A balding angel. She finds him early one morning in the alley behind The Warehouse, peeing against the brick wall, his pants around his ankles. He is more startled than she: he says “Uh oh,” his mouth a perfect O in his bland pink face. He hobbles away from her, without the sense to pull his pants up, and shakes his head back and forth (“I’m in big trouble now!”) and she catches up with him, laughing, takes him inside, cleans him up and feeds him, and gives him work to do. He is in charge of the broom. Every morning he sweeps out the rooms upstairs, and every evening he sweeps the club spotless after closing time. Beano is really as much of a unifying force as she. He is everybody’s baby.

  Her lover is a police lieutenant, a hulking, taciturn man of Russian descent. He is honorable, incorruptible, but dangerous and tough and quick-tempered. There is a long, puckered knife scar on his left thigh, another much uglier scar on his left shoulder, from a bullet wound, wide and deep enough to accommodate the tips of two fingers, the tip of a tongue; the ring finger of his right hand ends at the first joint, sliced off clean. His body is heavily muscled, fleshy, with a stevedore’s massive shoulders and rounded back. On his chest is a luxurious pelt of black and gray and white.

  She visits him in his small, sparsely furnished apartment on the Upper West Side. There is no question of her moving in, although occasionally she spends the night. He has a fraying, comfortably sprung sofa, a battered coffee table, a handsome old bookcase with glass doors, half-filled with ragged, leather-bound classics, and on the bottom shelf a carved teakwood box containing photographs, of his parents, brave, grim-faced young immigrants, of his many brothers and sisters, of his children from a failed marriage, all grown now; an ancient gas stove, Philco refrigerator, heavy iron pots, canisters of coffee beans and herbs, pint jars of wild thyme honey, tiny jars and cans of exotic spices; and in the bedroom no curtains, nothing on the pale green walls, no carpet; two bureaus, cheap and functional; a steel-frame single bed.

  They never go out. They have little to say to each other. His dominion over her is total within these walls. Outside, her life is her own. She takes care of the people at the club; he takes care of her. If he is ever brutal, even vicious, it is her doing. They understand this.

  She sits at one end of the old couch, her slippered feet propped on the coffee table. He lies asleep along the length of the couch, his head cradled in her lap. He looks tired. Grave. Disappointed. In her? Or is he dreaming? And how can she ever know, when he is only…

  Oh, how she wants.

  She brushes his forehead with her fingertips, her dry lips. He smells of honey, tobacco, and horses. She lets her head fall back, closes her eyes. Sleeps.

  (And remembers a story she read when she was very young, really young, still young, about a woman who spent all her time in front of mirrors. Her house glittered with fabulous mirrors of every description. Gold-leafed Sheratons, girandoles with candle sconces, Chinese Chippendales. And one night, when she was pirouetting before them in a long white dress, she danced right inside a cheval glass and was never seen again. She wonders why this story ever frightened her.)

  The time is now, and with two vivid exceptions there is not much to choose between the worlds. She does not know how this happened. One world is slightly more hilarious, and populated, occasionally, with famous, challenging people. But mostly she sees there people she truly knows, true friends, true enemies. She just sees them more often, that’s all. And in more brilliant circumstances. Sometimes the police lieutenant drops by, but she can never get him to stay for long. Not a very bright man, really. Not interesting. His brooding, humorless face makes her sad. Like running across an old friend selling Fuller brushes. Or a ghostly dinosaur.

  Still, she would have kept him with her, if she could.

  And yet, here is this ridiculous airplane, which is going down. Sick, sputtering engine sounds, fire on the wings, screams. Men and women scream
ing. Should she be screaming too? Not if she has to think about it. The ending of a pointless life hardly calls for such display. Delayed stillbirth. She keeps her eyes wide open, looks left and right, back and front, at fellow passengers, at gaily colored airborne flight bags, at the uprushing ground; registering everything. This much at least she will experience in full.

  Somehow they are safely down, but not safe: everywhere flames and thick smoke from burning plastic. She is nervous but knows better than to battle for the exits, so she sits, as if in a theater when the movie ends, and watches through acrid haze as the others scramble and scuffle and tumble. No class, no style. There’s a woman with her elbow in an old man’s eye.

  Everyone is gone and it’s her turn now, which is a good thing, as she is starting to panic. Fire has spread to much of the carpeting and upholstery. She coughs, breathes through a paper napkin. Almost free, she crouches in the emergency exit, at the summit of an inflated yellow chute. In the distance she can see people running toward the shelter of the terminal. She’d better hurry. But then (whimpers, wails, angry infant squall) she is not the last after all, there are all these children! Children! abandoned, everywhere she looks, pinned under twisted armrests, piles of fallen suitcases. Furious naked baby in the luggage rack!

  To the survivors in the terminal she is an oddly shaped dark speck against the background of the burning silver plane. A human being, they realize. A woman, running with bulky parcels. Drop them, you idiot! No, wait, those aren’t—children! My babies! She’ll never make it, it’s going to blow! Stay back! She’s on her own! Come on, Lady!!!

  Live TV coverage (how?), wild cheering. Great background music. The news story of the century. “Graphic Message of Hope for a Dispirited World.” Talk shows? Movie rights?

  No. She hobbles, loaded down with children. She sails, buoyant with children. One under each arm, one hanging on in back, baby in a sling around her neck. Somebody’s pet dog, released from its carry-case, yapping at her feet. She runs on silly high-heeled shoes, pumps poorly muscled, sooty legs; thin silk skirt bunched high between her thighs; reddened, sweaty face distorted with effort. A ludicrous figure, grotesque, foreshortened through the rippling heat. She has never been so happy. If she lives she will tell them only, I am grateful. How lucky I am, to have had this chance! And then, to have done the right thing! How lucky I am, and silly, and so happy.

  And, at the same time, a small crowd has formed on the twilit city street. At its center lies an old, old man, emaciated under layers of Salvation Army coats. His head and hands are caked with layers of dirt and filth. Wens and scabs cover his hairless, unprotected scalp. One dirty yellow eye is almost obscured by a livid, knobby growth. He smells so terrible that people move away or edge back in according to the direction of the shifting wind. He moves his arms and legs feebly, and from his throat comes a low, liquid rattling. It is bitter cold. Whatever is wrong with him he won’t last much longer this way. Someone drops a woolen scarf over him, hastens back to the circle. Someone leaves to call an ambulance. The crowd whispers. Disgusting old wino, Isn’t that awful, Somebody’s baby once.

  She steps forward, reluctant. No choice, though. Nothing brave about this: she must. She kneels beside him, gags, hovers above him until she is accustomed to the stench. Foul reek of sick breath, excrement, ancient sweat. She lifts his head, nestles it on her lap. Her leg, bent awkwardly under her, scrapes against icy cement. He speaks: her name? She can’t quite tell. Honey? Honey? I’m right here. His hands scrabble at her coat front. She lets it fall open, admitting bitter cold. His frozen fingers work the buttons of her blouse. His yellow eyes are avid, bright. He coughs with frustration. Sighing she opens her blouse and frees one breast. The nipple blooms in the freezing wind. He can raise his head by himself, but she must bend low to let him feed. He is toothless. His crusty lips abrade her skin. His eyes are shut tight, oozing milky tears. Maybe he isn’t really dying. Wouldn’t that be funny. If he winked at her and gave her a pinch, Gotcha, Little Girl. What difference would it make? She spreads her coat out, sheltering them both together, cups the bony skull in her hands, and rocks him, humming “Moonglow.”

  The crowd is gone, the street empty, silent.

  No one sees this:

  A nameless old man and a childless, middle-aged woman, an unremarkable woman, slowly rocking, crooning nonsense; achieving some kind of peace.

  Anticipatory Grief

  When her father died he was fifty-one, and her mother fifty, and her husband fifty-four; and she was twenty-nine. Her father was a charmer, immature, monumentally self-centered; an irresponsible, forgetful promiser; a good and honorable man. All his life he sold the products of Ralston Purina, Stokely-Van Camp, and the Mason Jar Company to the grocery stores of southern California. He knew the names of all the managers of all two hundred seventy-eight stores in his region; he knew their wives’ names and the ages of their children. He believed in his products, and liked his customers, and never did anything underhanded. “Which is why,” Rebecca’s mother often said, “the company does such good business. Your father doesn’t cheat on his taxes or offer bribes, or deceive people, ever. Your father is an unusual man.” Rebecca’s mother inspired both her children with pride in family, in both its history and its living members, and as a child Rebecca believed her father to be a figure of legendary accomplishments. “My father has integrity,” she told her friends at school. “My father can charm the birds out of the trees.” Long before he died, of course, she knew he was not really so extraordinary.

  He had just sat down to supper. “I feel funny, Martha,” he said. Her mother’s back was to him—she was at the counter pouring tea into two glasses of ice—and when she turned around he was on his feet, bent forward, massaging his left shoulder; he fell to the floor before she could move, and he was dead by the time she got to him. This much she told her children, and no more; nothing of what she said, or did. She may have rocked him in her arms. She waited for some time after the ambulance left before calling them: Charlie, who lived down the street, and Rebecca, her firstborn, a continent away.

  Rebecca lay in the yellow bathtub, her hair pinned up to keep it dry. She was thinking of nothing in particular. She lifted the cake of Ivory soap from the water and held it under her nose, enjoying the smell; she drew letters and spiral designs on its waxy white surface with her fingertips.

  “Hello,” said Simon, poking his head around the shower curtain, and then he stepped into the tub, long and naked and graceful, and sat down cross-legged at the faucet end.

  She drew up her legs to accommodate him. “Hello,” she said, idly stroking his bony calves with her big toe. “You sure are pretty,” she said, and to her he was, although she spoke this time out of habit, her mind unengaged.

  He soaped himself vigorously, methodically, splashed his face with water cupped in his long hands. “The Celtics blew it in the last minute,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes and flopped around in a parody of shock.

  “Smell my foot,” he said, sticking his big pink foot in her face.

  “Smell this,” she said, and the phone began to ring as her foot cleared the water. Only cranks called after midnight. “Obscene phone call,” she said, “It’s for you.”

  He arose dripping, with a sigh and a smile, grabbed a towel and went into the bedroom. He was so good to her. “Yes, Martha,” she heard him say, and she was on her feet.

  “Is it Charlie or Dad?” She stood next to him, shivering; he balanced the receiver between ear and shoulder and wrapped his towel tight around her, tucking in one edge to hold it in place.

  He listened, his face expressionless. “Martha,” he said, “I’ll put her on. She’s right here.”

  He handed the phone to her. “It’s about your father,” he said. His gray eyes watched her; he was waiting for a sign.

  “Is he dead, Mom?” She regarded her husband unblinking, proud, as she listened to her mother’s calm voice. After hanging up she asked him, “Do you want to fly out w
ith me?” and heard with small surprise the pleasant, almost musical sound of her question. He nodded, and took her by the shoulders and shook her a little, very gently; he smiled and his face was full of love.

  While he made plane reservations, and arranged for someone to take his classes for the next week, she packed, deliberating brightly over each article. It’s warm out there in December, she thought; we won’t need heavy coats. She packed his good gray three-piece suit, and white shirt with blue pinstripes, and wrapped his shoes in plastic bags. For herself she chose a dark green woolen dress that she never wore because they both thought it dowdy. She folded nightgowns, blue jeans, blouses, underwear, with uncharacteristic precision, stacked and restacked everything in the suitcase in quest of the optimum arrangement. She filled his battered old toilet kit with shampoo, toothpaste and brushes, razor and soap. She glided smoothly through the apartment; her body felt light and well oiled. “Do you think you’ll want to swim? In the pool? I’ll pack your suit.”

  He shook his head no, his eyes a little wary, as he waited for someone to confirm their reservation. He held a pencil poised above a note pad, a column of times. He looked his full age, sitting there on the edge of the bed, watching her, all the lovely creases in his face deep hollows in the dim light.

  She hurried to the dining room closet and pulled a Filene’s box down from the top shelf. “Open this,” she said, as he hung up the phone.

  “We’re flying out at 7:30 this morning, with connections in New York and Chicago.”

  “Go on, open it. I got it for you for Christmas, but it’s just a little present, and I want you to have it now.” He lifted off the cover and revealed beige pajamas with light blue piping on the collar, nestled in white tissue paper.