A Singular Man (16 page)

"You're drunk."

"O me chief. You build tomb. Much money. Me have none. Me want money. Me want big suitcase full of. I will tell Mumchance to come get you. The MacGillicuddy. He come too on big boat. We all come on big boat. After you. You desert your wife and children in the sticks. Shame. Naughty. You have black help in your house. The Merry Mansion. Naughty. You ride with two way telephone in black auto. Naughty. I am old friend. We go college together. We depart. I go down. You go up. Evil. I walk hot pavements. You hide out in cool country. I fry egg on street corner. Nearly get hit by taxi. Ask man directions. He runs. I phone you. You run. Make escape. Me meet Jiffy. Jiffy is big joke. Me mount his wife. She say who on me summit. Me say me on summit. She old. She like it. Me like it. Ah George. Good to see you. Pale face. Her Majesty wept when you sailed away. She knew you in your celluloid penis stage. She said."

"Goodbye Bonniface."

Smith hands and feet on the rungs of the iron ladder up out of the ice house. Musty chill. Bonniface enthroned in the corner with the leather cushion on the ice blocks. Deep down in Pomfret Manor.

"George don't go. Listen to a little song on comb and paper."

Chase out

Cheats

Rid the world

Of suffering.

Jump on

Twisters

Rid the world

Of harm.

"Goodbye, Bonniface."

"Why don't you talk about your children George. And about ShirL Don't you love them. They frighten you too. Look for money from you. I scare you. Make you want to run. As the years go by George, there is less of life to spend and the risks are cheaper. Stay."

Backstairs maid shyly sitting with Bonniface on the ice. Smith stepping back from this dark chilly scene. The many months. Of bantering. Dear sir, we will get you. The phonecalls and doorknocks. Smith climbing the ladder. Bonniface. One last shout. George. Turning round. Calvin trembling in the hand. The drink shaking out over the glass. Brown liquid lurking on the lips. Bonni-face's eye quivering in their tears. Said George. Don't go. Don't hide. From me. Bear with me. I suffer.

Smith climbing the ladder. Stepping out into the endless cellar hall. Pressing the great ice house door closed.Smell of cinders along the corridor. In a door the vast machinery of boilers. Giant asbestos covered tanks. Whoosh of great spurts of oil, billowing into flame and roaring. Need all my money for myself. Bonniface married a debutante. Lost his glasses on a delayed honeymoon with the first six month old daughter. Who in the hot afternoon of a cheap city hotel slept on Bonniface's chest as he lay snatching a few moments rest between the narrow streets. It was after lunch. The baby crapped. Late in the afternoon with heart thumping to a knock on the door Bonniface awoke. He rose. Put the baba aside and brushed feverishly away the thing on his chest. God forbid. With his hair needing to lie back more presentably, he brushed it back with his hands. Smoothing it. O Jesus. In his distracted innocence he went to the door. To greet the debutante friend of his wife. She saw the aristocratic Bonniface. Attempting to bow. She screamed and fainted. George Smith heard the commotion because he was mounting the stairs. Just having arrived in town. And as she swooned he caught her. And then saw the spectre of the Bonniface. The awful. And fell backwards down the stairs, the debutante on top, both entwined, rolling to the bottom. Where they looked back up. Spectre on the landing. The Bonniface. Covered surely in shit. And this debutante head in hands in tears sobbing. The awful. The awful. She had been presented.

Tonight George Smith climbing up the servants* stairs of Pomfret Manor. Back sadly through the kitchen, giant pig ears sticking out of the pot simmering on the stove. Through the pantry, the workers, with rolled up sleeves washing glasses. And through the swing door to the dining room. A commotion of barks. Growls and lashing of teeth and savagery. Screams. Furniture breaking. Three gigantic animals shooting by. Round the tables and chairs. Flying blood and hair. A monstrous animal locked in mortal combat with the Jiffy wolf hounds. Claws scratching up the rugs and floors as they ripped into each sharp turn. Out of the room. Into other rooms. Back again. Random voices. In the melee.

"Ouch."

"Someone has fingered my wife."

"Give me ass or give me death."

"Sure."

"Gee. Thanks."

"I didn't want to see yon die."

Smith holding elbows high up to avoid the flashing fangs. An animal bigger than the wolf hounds tearing them to bits. Smith aghast. Attempt to relish this rare marvelous sight of dog eat dog. Gawd. Recognise that one. Goliath. Miss Tomson. It's your animal. And not so many hours ago. Mr. Jiffy from person to person, with extended hand, nice to see you, glad you're here. Now gone. Fleeing in all directions.

Gently slowly down the staircase in die great hall. One hand on the banister. Breasts large and blue, turned for a moment east and west. With high hips, legs starring at the shoulder blades. Like all the tall buildings in town. She said herself like some guy was sixty miles up. Wearing one gold and one silver slipper. Smiling ever so lightly as her dog was winning. Jiffy shouting to stop. Stop. Get that animal out of here. Guests vanishing to the safety of the mosquitoes outdoors. And then the shout of stand back. Stand back everybody. Stand back. Bang.

A smoking gun. Huge Goliath felled. Mouth bared with useless fangs and terrible blood. Legs still running. One twitch. And stopping. The two yelping whimpering wolf hounds dragged away. Alive. Silence in Pomfret Manor. And Smith saw across the yellow flickering candle light the saucer green eyes of Sally Tomson cast down on the gathering. And the dead brown body of Goliath.

All dog

All dead.

12

T
ALL
blue Miss Tomson lonely and aloof. Descending the stairs and crossing the hall of Pomfret. She stood trembling among the silent guests. Biting her stiffened lips. Eyes moist. White lids thinly holding back the tears. On the dark floor the light blood. Fumes of gunpowder in the air. As she walked up to George Smith and said, take me out of here.

Outside and beyond the stone shadowy porch of Pomfret. Smith standing with Miss Tomson. A wind and purple stormy clouds in a moonlit sky. Along by the cars collected like dark animals crouched on the drive. Her white pearls on her throat she wore months ago on the train. Sad gangling arms from her blue dress. Tears trickling down her face.

Smith driving Miss Tomson's long sleek black vehicle slowly away. Car lights flashing across spruce trees, faint flower beds and a gabled shingled dog house, a figure throwing a glittering dog collar in the window.

"Smith the only thing 1 ever owned was that dog. And that shit shot him. Thoughtful some bastard giving me the collar back."

"Your dog was winning."

"That was no reason to kill him. Men stink. What's left for me."

"Miss Tomson it's not the end of the world to be dogless. I had a dog when I was a little boy, called Brownie."

"Was he shot."

"No. He died a natural death of disease."

"Well then Smith how do you know. I just saw my dog killed."

"Which way do I turn."

"I don't care just get us away. They can push me dead on a cart down a long hall of some hospital."

"Don't say that Miss Tomson, please."

"Guys use you. If you love him. Give him everything and they want to get rid of you. You're a chain around his neck. I always had Goliath. Jesus. Any good guy's already married with kids. Already with a padlock and chain. I don't want to be fine. Or beautiful. I want a baby. A rocking chair. A porch in the country undoing my sweater to put it on the nipple. Who wants to be fine. The rats win."

"That's not always true, Miss Tomson."

"You just don't know, Smith. What were you doing at that lousy party,"

"A neighborly invite to a jamboree."

"Don't shit me Smith. I'm just too depressed. What were you doing there."

"Tell me about these gears. This right for third."

"You're doing fine. Just drive. You got a license."

"No. But I learned about gear shifting as a child."

"Jesus."

Smith motoring north. Past another entrance to Pomfret. Row of granite farm buildings on the road. Down a steep hill through the woods. High wire fence. Locking in Bonniface. Who as I drove Miss Tomson's car out of Pomfret seemed to be a shadow reeling beside the road, arms outstretched, coatless and shouting.

Stop

I am Bonnif ace

Disposer of dead

Calvin helper of

The maimed

Clementine, the

Illustrious

Banjaxed and cuckolded

And Cedric too.

Stop.

You bastard Smith.

In these trying times. Of swindles, dog death and utter loneliness, where just another sad body naked next to mine can mean a whole world of peace and tenderness. Miss Tomson who gives money to beggars, violinists, street corner kids jigging with a homemade band, the mute and blind. Any helpless thing she would lift up and love. Like all tall women. When I became a bum drowned in drink. And walk that wasteland street like all the others kicked out of family and home, severed, unshaved, unlaundered and unpressed. Miss Tomson will take my tattered leery self, say O Jesus Smith, you poor poor guy. Feed from the crumbs in the palm of her hand. Lift up my faint face. To hers so fair.

"How many cylinders have we here, Miss Tomson."

"Eight."

"My."

Lonely headlights far away on another road. A red Barn. Stone wall above a sunken field. Hides of cows grazing in the night. Use a glass of milk with this cake beside me. Branches bending over the road, grey upturned leaves in the headlights. Monstrous purring engine whispering under this long black hood charging through the dark. Toting this peach, strawberry and cream. My delirious appetite.

"All the best steak I bought him. Perfect report on his three medical checkups. Never even had worms. Could have shown him in the dog show."

"Mustn't dwell on it Miss Tomson. You look terribly good tonight."

"You really mean it Smith. Do I look O.K."

"You do. There's a road house. Let's stop. Get you a drink."

First few fat drops of rain. Speckling the steps up to a porch under a neon sign. Jerry's Night Spot. Dark interior. Smith tripping over legs, leading Miss Tomson to the dim bar. White coated bar tender, eyes full of I know more than you think. Here come two pupils.

"What'll it be."

"Scotch for me Smith."

"Two scotch."

"Rightio."

"Smith you look kind of handsome. Wish it wasn't that my dog gets killed just when I see you out of the blue again. You made the papers, even. How are you doing with your enemies."

"They have vowed to get me. I will escape by submarine."

"Ha ha."

"Good to see you laugh again, Miss Tomson."

Smith surveying her in the faint light. Not so sad now. Lanky arms nearly to her knees. Hair a blond blowable softness. Cool long fingers of her hand. Must touch so lightly the dashboard of her car, quietly lit panorama of switches, clocks and dials. My little dog I owned had big brown spots on the lids when he closed his eyes. Never cried when he died. Bonniface back in Pomfret. Paralysis in his extremities. Upheaval in the keester. I steal away north and east under the aristocratic weeping rain. With thick wads of fresh treasury bills clutched under the armpits. Looking for homecooked food. While building a little empire. House in the country. Flat in town. Retreats in the woods. Sultry with peace and other things. Thank you spider.

"Smith do you get any letters anymore."

Smith extracts an envelope. Handing it to Miss Tom-son. Who holds it up in the purple tinted light. A yellow paper, address embossed in red.

Eel Street

Easter

(There is no time like the present)

George Smith,

c/o The Game dub

South Park Side

Dear Sir,

It has come to our attention that you would wish to wrestle. We are not without strength. But rather we would wish you wasn't to insist to a grapple. We hope you will forget you thought you was able to take on anybody.

We remain not kidding,

A. M. D. C.

(For The Committee)

"Very interesting. Have you answered itff

"No."

"Tell them Smith you're a mountain girl and not a guy at all. And hope they're gentlemen and supply chaperones. A debutante. And when you wrestle reporters might be watching. These initials be a name like Al Moygrain Diltor Cranzgot. Ask him if he wants to try some thigh trembling. Sign your letter, the knee."

"Miss Tomson, wish you still were working for me."

"I know, it's sad."

"You take the horror away."

"But now Smith. Your picture and write up in the papers. Made you kind of famous. Take the pressure off. I mean they worry a little more about giving you a pair of cement shoes to walk across the river with. Down there in the mud people would wonder where you are."

Miss Tomson handing the letter back to Smith. Giving the paper one final flick with her long nail. You know Smith I got something to tell you but not now. Smith sneaking a look at his present shoes. And up again at her face. As she stares into her drink. Twisting it. Cubes of ice spinning around. Rocking and clinking on the tall sides of the glass. Seemed blue shadows round her large eyes. Go back to get Miss Martin. Or Bonniface. Never. Sniff the wheat drifting up through soda bubbles. This Miss Tomson. God was cruel to make just one of her.

"Smith, this true you putting up a memorial to yourself. Isn't that kind of conceited. And expensive. What's the point. What does it matter what happens when you die."

"It matters all the days you live, Miss Tomson."

"Looking at you Smith like this you're a strange one."

"What would make you happy, Miss Tomson."

"A guy with a large soul. Not the small sneaky rats careening around these days. You got some more grey hairs Smith. Why don't you get married before you turn white. Tonight for me is curtains. I'm beginning to understand a guy like you. I could never be faithful to one guy. Even if he was steady and dependable. What is a guy anyway but just a prick and you write your name on it with a wedding. And he goes looking for more names. And no wedding. What is a guy. But just a prick. That's the way it is, Smith."

"Miss Tomson, I've left Miss Martin and a friend back there."

"What's she doing up here, Smith. Sony. Maybe it's personal or something. They'll be all right. In that skunk's house. Smith, you move on a lot of levels. Can even drive a car. I'm amazed. I like you driving me too, I feel safe. You know I've never really had a chance to talk to you before."

Miss Tomson standing, this night now, Saturday, north, rain sprinkling tree tops in the wood, a new decision on her face. Miss Tomson, your confidence makes me feel I've turned over a new safe leaf with cars.

"Smith, will you pardon me while I go and powder off my tears."

Smith down from his stool A litde bow. Her rear. Agony to have it near again. In my own litde lonely world. Touch one of those spheres. Have to get drunk to get brave. To descend easily to the cheap antics. Never get my hands on her. Oceans apart. She breezes right into my life and suddenly I'm standing up to my hips. In mystical shit. She can see and smell. Twisting every little word to make me sound deep, strong, preferably on the brow of the hill, yes, thank you, a little wind through the grey flecked locks, thank you, sunset please, music, some serious variations, low chords please, for Smith's earth shaking meaningful thoughts. And I just know my fly would be open.

"Smith wake up. I'm back. You look like you're in a trance."

"Sorry, Miss Tomson."

"Smith, I like you. You cheer me up. Nice tie you're wearing."

"Thanks."

Suggesting another scotch each for the road. Before stepping out in the night shuddering with high wind. Lightning zigzagging the black heaven as they left. Miss Tomson taking Smith's arm, running together across the cinder parking lot to her car. Inside warm and dry. She said well Smith. Well Miss Tomson.

"Gee let's just drive. Just anywhere for awhile in all this rain."

Long black machine pulling away. Across a sidewalk and out on the concrete road. Smith at the gleaming controls. Rain musically on the roof. Flooding down on the windscreen, twin wipers flashing back and forth. She turns sideways, facing me. Her dry sweet smell, light blue.

"Smith do you think I'll ever have a chance. Be like other women. That's what I know, I'm crippled by what I want, because I don't know what it is. Go down that aisle with a bunch of lillies in my arms with some jerk. Where do you find a real man today. I ought to hold interviews."

Smith's hands gripped to the steering. Eyes searching out through the rain and yellow beam of headlights reaching in the blackness. Miss Tomson's bullets. Land in the heart. After a long day, with all sorts of mystery. And brain throbbing just above the ears. Miss Tomson I'm an applicant begging for an interview. I drive. See. So smoothly down this road cut out of rock. Could help you in the fight for a fair share of human thrills. In the hall of Pomfret you chose me of all the crowd. My composure nearly exploded. Wish I had just once patted Goliath. But in those Golf Street office days I needed all my fingers. My heart is not all cold and black. And if it were. We could make a good mixture and color scheme.

Hesitate a moment before smashing the hopes of another. Sally. Tiny smudge of purple on your lids. Never say you'll die. Such an expensive car. All this soft black leather. Black angel. You'll have wings. And up on top of my tomb. You'll stand as a statue. I'll put you there. A sentinel. All sad and Sally.

Dashboard's calm clock ticking after two. Air comes in warm over the engine. Swish sound as Miss Tomson uncrosses her legs. A car approaching on this strange winding road. Which straightens now round this turn through the sheets of rain. And cracking thunder. Fox and toads and woodchucks cowering everywhere. Always find time to think of little animals. Even while guiding all this horsepower.

"Smith aren't you a little on the wrong side of the road."

"I rather think not."

"I think you are. There's a car coming."

"He seems to have more than his share."

"But you're on the wrong side Smith."

"Nonsense this vehicle approaching obviously contains a road hog."

"This is my car. You're on the wrong side of the road."

"Please Miss Tomson I'm present commander of this tank. Stubborn rascal. If he thinks for one second I'm going to swerve to avoid his oncoming rush he has one vast foolish figment of his imagination to endure."

"No. George."

"Get into your own lane you wretch."

"O no."

Squeal of tires. Crumpling of steel fabric. Abrupt meeting of bumpers fenders and headlamps. Lights go out and on again. To illuminate this complicated outing. And eight cylinder concussion.

Small curly headed man ejecting himself onto the road. Falls. Slowly picking himself up, wiping the wet from his person. Raising an outstretched finger pointing as he advances in the glaring head lights and plummeting rain.

"Jesus Christ Miss Tomson, you're quite right I'm on the wrong side of the road. Let me handle this." the wrong side of the road. Let me handle "First it's my dog. Now it's my car."

"Just leave this to me Miss Tomson."

George Smith drawing a card from his wallet Handing it out through an opened inch of window to the curly headed man momentarily stopping his cascade of words bordering on vituperation. The man reading in the cloudburst.

DEAF MUTE
—
WATCH MY SIGNS.

"Come on mister. Hey lady, who's going to pay for die damage to my car. You were right on the wrong side of the road."

Smith handing out another card. Man holding it up in his wavering headlights.