A Singular Man (17 page)

LADY IS MUTE BUT CAN HEAR.

"Jesus Christ lady. Make him a sign language will you. Who's going to pay for the damage. What's this country coming to, guy's out on the road, can't talk, can't hear. O.K. I know it's a crying shame to be without voice and that kind of affliction but who's paying for the damage."

HAVE YOU EVER FOOLED AROUND IN THE HORSE LATITUDES.

"Hey lady, read this while I'm getting soaked, see what he's said to me. I'm going to get the cops. Let's see your license."

I WILL THRASH YOU FROM COAST TO COAST

"You don't scare me buddy. Where's your license. Yeah, that's it, how can you have one if you're afflicted. Signal him that lady. Who's going to pay for the damage. I don't want any more of these messages. Who's going to pay. Just let me get your number."

Smith emitting a long low squeal, body in animal motion, canines showing, hands flashing up stretched in claws. Curly headed man jumping back from the car. Smith switched into gear. Dousing lights. Press down on the pedal. Miss Tomson's car leaping forward. A cry behind them. Roaring off in the dark down the rainy road. In the mirror the rear red glow of lights of the crash victim.

"Smith what are you doing."

"We must flee."

"You bastard if he's got my number I'm in prison for life. Police will be looking for us. He'll come after us."

"If he tries to turn around in that road he'll be in the mud for months."

"Front of the car must be ruined. I'm scared."

"Gende dents, absolutely have them put right for you. I am
sorry about this. We'll take this turning. Looks a friendly, empty road. I don't want to alarm you further Miss Tomson but I think we might best get both the car and ourselves in out of the rain."

Miss Tomson sitting eyes cast down. Hands folded quietly in her lap. Poor sorrowful girl. On a stormy night like this. Back in those days when she sat at her desk in Golf Street. Taking odd items of paper out of her drawers, which she slowly tore up. Then sat thinking hard. Until she would pick up her phone to call the hairdressers or Goliath at the kennels to whom she went woof woof, sweetie. With the marble replica of Miss Tomson on my tomb I will add Goliath on a leash. Have a little elevator to raise me up and down to view them once in awhile. Hello Sally, hi ya Goliath. Then get lowered to rest again. All automatic. Never need stir. Now she's next to me a few fabrics away. A good sport about the crash. Didn't even ask to drive. Touch her now and I will light up like electric. All so sweet heart. Pain in my chest of sadness. This car feels like driving a speed boat. I will stop in open sea and have a laugh with a perfect stranger passing in another racy craft.

"Miss Tomson, I think I'm lost."

"God."

"Think you better drive and I'll direct the way."

Smith pulling to the side of the road. Near an apple tree. Stone wall and bushes and pines. Miss Tomson sliding across. Discreet Smith, opening his door, taking one momentary look at one momentary pair of knees. Lightning brightening up the sky.

"I'll survey the damage, Miss Tomson,"

Shielding eyes against the head lamps. Feeling the front bumpers and fenders. Patting them. Backing the front tires in an off hand professional manner as one has seen Herbert the Chauffeur do.

"Miss Tomson, glad to say. Not bad fettle. Crack in the head lamp. Few dents. Obviously our adversaries car was of inferior quality."

Smith climbing back into the long vehicle. Faint dog smell of Goliath. His hairs on the floor carpet. Think of somewhere to go. Behind Miss Tomson's ear. With lips. And travel a nose into her hair. Slight sprinkle of mud on her would be more beauty than ever. To see her feet without shoes, my God. She lights a cigarette. Go down with that smoke into her lungs and lie there. Buried in her blond chest. Be her baby. Infantile though that be. Her dog shot down in warm blood, her car in collision. And she sits so calm.

"Miss Tomson before we drive off. I want to say I think you're a real sport."

"Do you."

"Yes. You could have blamed me. You had every right to do so. To lash out with words."

"Smith."

"Yes."

"You want the truth."

"Please."

"I am going to lash out."

"O."

"I'm windy about that guy we hit. He might be looking for a small source of income for life. Like dear Sir we would like to bleed you white, taking it in easy stages, so the blood lasts, you know what I mean Smith."

"I think so, Miss Tomson."

"Someone gets crosseyed trying to look in your window while you're undressing and they sue you for it."

Lips widening on Miss Tomson's jaw. A smile like the whole world is going to break down in general laughter. I die to put my mouth on hers. Touch each one of those white white teeth.

"You're not bitter Miss Tomson."

"No Smith."

"What makes you smile."

"Just thought of that newspaper report about you. I want to know, did you really fart or something on the steps of Dynamo House. Report it to the Sanitation Department, that was rich. I read it about twenty times. Sweet, a crowd gathering around to watch you. Smith you should find some nice girl marry and have kids."

Miss Tomson starting the immense engine. Any wind she made would be mystical. Not like some of the dust raisers Bonniface has sent up in his time, blowing out window panes, joining a little group known as the Musical Dynamiters. He lies when he says membership is confined to those who can backfire in morse code.

An exquisite driver Miss Tomson. Hands so lightly on the steering. Each cog enslaved by her touch. Ahead a house behind three great pines. White porch. Closed up for night.

"Miss Tomson. I'll find out where we are."

"Gee we just can't bang on someone's door. You'll get shot this time of night."

"Nonsense. I know how to handle hicks."

Smith in the rain. Softening now. Faint flash of moon. Miss Tomson's black vehicle purring under these high evergreens. Tall gate in the iron fence. Hammock tied between two pines. Stone path round the house and another to the wide porch. All the pine cones. Windows from ceiling to floor. Saturday with all Sunday ahead. My throat is dry. Squeak up courage. How can I say it. I want her body next to mine. Hide from all the coming snows. Taste her golden juice. A hidden spring in the nicest little mound of hair in all the world. Go out of my mind thinking like this. Come back realism, big monolithic friend. Miss Tomson says find some nice girl. Have kiddies. Gather little problems, drown in one big one. Rap this door five times. Way to deal with hicks out here, let them know one is a slicker right off. Have a correspondence while waiting.

Dear Sir,

Where are you. So much cash is missing, we would feel better if we knew.

Yours,

Those Who Had Faith

In You

P.S. We abided by your regulations, won't you even give us an inkling.

Dear Investors:

It so happens I was reflecting in my mop closet near my office and I regard your greedy communication as a breach of faith. Therefore I am absconding with the funds.

(Up) Yours (If necessary)

G.S.

Inside this white clapboard mansion, foot steps approaching, down stairs, and along a hall. Help a stranger lost on the road. Tomato garden and great barn down an incline with the woods behind. Flicking hayseed from the hair. Filling their quiet rural moments with bushwacking and wang pulling. In Cinder Village there's a hick called puller Pete, whispered with one so long, took ten minutes to unfurl. Just see the glow of Miss Tomson's cigarette in the car as it brightens. Nor will she ever know how I kept one of her long golden hairs she left behind in Golf Street as a bookmark.

"Who is it, out there."

"I'm lost on the road can you tell me where I am."

"You're right here, stranger. You got me out of bed. Clear off before I sprinkle your ass with buckshot."

"I beg your pardon."

"You heard me."

Smith retreating backwards a step. Not going to be easy to gain a foothold of rapport here.

"It's a dire emergency."

"Don't try to be a smart cookee stranger."

Smith shifting weight. Turning briefly to survey the rear for running. It would finish me forever with Miss Tomson to be caught coward. This double grey door. Through which the buckshot will come. This is no moor of college days setting forth with Bonniface arsebone in heather, gamekeeper toting the decanter of sherry. All kinds of crazy game raining out of the sky. Please mister behind that door. You've got me wracked with fear, and I've got Miss Tomson the most exquisite human of them all sitting out there in the car.

"All I want is the general geographic location of this spot."

"Clear off. How do I know that's all you want."

"I'd like to make a phone call, too."

Lace on the window. This hick won't see the reason of the slicker. Kind who wears a shirt with the detached collar. Life seems to be out of doors these days. This critter inside might really let go with a barrel, if I whisper lilly livered in the keyhole. Or slip a mute card under the door.

DON'T BE A SHID AS WELL AS A HICK.

A hand laid itself upon George Smith's shoulder. Stiffening without letting out a squeal. Turning. Miss Tom-son nodding her head back to the car. Smith enough's happened already without you getting shot. Reaching the iron fence gate. A voice from the house.

"OK. Stranger, you can use the telephone."

Tomson and Smith stopping under the pines.

"Ah see Miss Tomson."

"Guess you're just a sweet guy Smith."

"Miss Tomson, I may as well ask you right here. Will you come with me to a port in this storm."

She stood still and tall and strange under the pines, lips apart. Eyes crinkling. Looking into the eyes of George Smith. At his lips. Nose and into the left eye and then the right. Hers with flecks of so many colors, yellow with green making a magic blue. Dripping rain drops spotting her dress. One silver slipper, one gold. How do I say now, forget it. I was kidding. Just one of those things you suddenly blurt out. Just wanted a port to be safe. And it sounds so stark and maybe even sneaky. Speak. I take it back. Right into my mouth again, down my throat and into my heart where it came from near the bottom. Let me go Miss Tomson. Let me run.

"You poor guy, Smith. You really want me to come to a port with you don't you. I like that.'1

Night. Rain and her black car sitting on the road, glistening with a few bumps and scratches too. A carpet of brown needles and pine cones. Two of us. Besides the hick with the shot gun. Her eyes light up because every single part of her lives there. I swallow mouth juices. Head full of tears. Pressing on my eyes. Hardly speak ever again. But must because if I don't the world will go rushing on without us.

"Yesh."

All so quiet now. Famished and lonely adrift at sea. And land on a shore. She says yesh and I can't believe my luck, or ears. This blond flower circled by so many bees. And your long strand of hair I've kept all these months. Each time I took it from the book I would let it gently curl in my hand and feel it between my lips. And some voice breaks this stillness.

"Hey you out there, you want this telephone or don't you."

Smith with a large leap took the four grey stairs landing on the porch at speed. A commotion inside. Hick levelling the blunderbuss at this sudden assaulting shadow. One thing to be squeezed out in a population explosion and distinctly another to be blasted for sprightliness.

The double grey doors on the porch opening. A squat man with strands of grey in the hair. Under a blue woolly dressing gown his shirt showing with the detached collar missing. Shuffling ahead of Smith, heels of his slippers clacking. Telephone hanging on the wall. Next to a colored white bowl with a great green flower.Wow, little spine shiver, seen one other flower like that. Just one second before the alligator tried to clamp its jaws on my arm in the Jiffy conservatory. And how does one work this antique telephone.

"Just wind her up mister."

"I see."

"Operator's usually asleep this time of night. Sorry I kinda levelled my gun at you. You came up them steps kinda fast."

"Where are we here."

"This is called Green Flower Corners. After the flower."

"O."

"Down the dirt road three miles, is the main route. Past the cemetery. Turn left follow the dirt road. You'll see signs."

"Thank you. Hello. Operator."

"Hello."

"Operator, I want the Hotel Boar."

"Sir, don't you know the number."

"I think it's Bug 2-7222. But there's a life at stake. Do please look it up."

"Please spell that, caller."

"B for bugger, U for unseemly, G for goose."

"Pardon but gee I like your voice, it's really cultured. I'll connect you."

"Thank you, operator."

Little clicks, strange small sounds of voices on these wires over fields and through deserted woods.

"Here's your party, sir."

"Hello, this is George Smith, I want to speak to the maitre de hotel."

"He's asleep, this is Norbert can I help yon, Mr. Smith."

"Hello Norbert, this is an emergency. I require a suite within the hour."

"O sure, like the last time you needed it £ast."

"I beg your pardon."

"Sorry Mr. Smith, I was meaning maybe the same suite. Saw your picture in the papers. Gee, just like to ask a question, what's your recipe for success Mr. Smith."

"Keep your mind free of emotional ingredients when looking for profits."

"Gosh. Simple as that."

"Yes. I'm in rather a hurry, if you wouldn't mind organising."

"O sure. Good to talk to someone who knows what he's talking about."

"I'd like the key left in the lock of the suite."

"Now this emotional ingredient, that how you function, Mr. Smith, I mean pardon me for asking this time of night."

"Morning."

"Yeah morning."

"And I'm imposing upon the graciousness of a country citizen. This is an emergency."

"O sure. Just remembering that. Free the mind of emotional ingredients when looking for profits. I need investment advice. My wife wants to know why you want to spend all that good money getting buried."