Crowned Heads (39 page)

“No,” she replied, “I’m just going chasing rabbits.” Arming herself for this venture with nothing but a balloon, a Bobbitt promotional gimmick from the TV station, she took a taxi to the address. She was faced with a dingy brownstone building in a badly run-down neighborhood between Ninth and Tenth avenues. Holding tightly to her bag with one hand, the balloon with the other, she climbed the stairs and entered the vestibule. She read down the list of names alongside the buzzers, looking for J. F. Harboomsteen. There was none. Darn that boy, she thought, he’s had me and my twenty dollars. She rechecked the list, then went out. At the bottom of the stairs, lounging against the railing post, was a Puerto Rican. He smiled at her balloon, but it was her bag that she clutched more tightly.

“Are you looking for someone?” he asked in very good English. Nellie was so surprised it took her a moment to reply. “I’m looking for Mr. Harboomsteen,” she said. “I am told he lives in this building.”

The man pointed behind the staircase. “Down there,” he said. As she hurried toward the gate beside the ashcans, he called after her. “But be careful.”

“Careful?”

“He’s nutty.”

Nellie nodded, as if to say naturally he is, then took a step forward, then another, past the trash cans and down two steps into a cluttered areaway. A cat sat watching her. She watched it back, thinking it’s not cats I want, but rabbits. Under the brownstone steps she encountered a little iron grille, which she unlatched. There was a door beyond, no name plate, no bell. No one answered her knock, but from inside she could hear music. The door was ajar, she had only to push it, then she was inside a narrow hallway. “Hello?” she called. “Mr. Harboomsteen?” No reply. She stepped farther in, and went along the hall until she found another door. The music came from behind it. She took a large breath and made a small fist, and rapped. She waited, then rapped again. Someone was moving around beyond the door; she went on knocking until she heard several locks being unfastened. The door opened a crack, and through it she saw part of a face. The face had long hair and a beard; it was a very scruffy face. The eye blinked at her. “Excuse me,” she began, talking to the eye, which blinked again. “No one to home,” said a voice, and the door shut.

“Please,” she called, knocking on the closed door. “Please open.” No reply. “Please open the door,” she repeated, this time more severely. Then, “Mr. Harboomsteen, I shall not—I shall not go away. I will remain here knocking until this door is opened to me.” The only response was the music being turned up louder. Accordingly, she raised her voice. “I am a lady, and though I do not always act like one, I nonetheless insist upon being treated as such. Therefore, you will oblige me by opening this door immediately.” She was using her starchiest Missy Priss tone, but however starchy, it bore no results. She waited, arms crossed, her face growing redder, then she raised her hand, at the end of which was her large bag, and gave the door a fearful crack. “No more nonsense here,” she cried in a louder tone, “do you hear me? Open this door!” The bag swung on her hand, and with the other she felt its contents gingerly, wondering what she might have broken. Then, very quietly, she spoke again.

“Please, Robin? Just for old times’ sake?”

He opened the door then, and stood before her. She hardly recognized him, yet she knew that behind the long, unkempt hair and the beard that covered most of his face, it was Robin. He glanced uncertainly at her, more uncertainly at the balloon, then stepped aside as she came in. The shades were drawn, the room was in near darkness.

“Hello, Nellie,” he said. She did not reply immediately, but stood looking at him, wanting but not daring to cry. Wanting but not daring to throw herself into his arms. How thin he looked, how pale and drawn, how un-Robin. He returned her look with a jaunty carelessness, and offered her the only chair. She took it, and held her bag on her lap; the insides rattled dreadfully. He moved uncertainly to the far side of the room and turned on a light.

“Welcome to yesteryear,” he said.

“Oh, my,” she said, staring about her, “oh, my.”

It was an incredible sight, that room. It was not large, nor with much of a ceiling, and sparsely furnished: besides the chair only a table or two, an unmade day bed in the corner, a couple of lamps. But it was none of these that caused Nellie’s surprise; it was the other contents of the room. Even in the paltry light she could see what it held—not held, merely, but was crammed with: everywhere her glance rested it saw objects she recognized from the long ago past. A museum; Bobbittland revisited. Bobbitt mugs and breakfast bowls and plates on shelves, a Bobbitt rocking horse in the corner, Bobbitt boats and fire trucks, Bobbitt race cars, Bobbitt planes. There was a Bobbitt flying carpet, and riding it, a Bobbitt doll. More dolls tucked amid the toys—Bobbitt the policeman, the cowboy, the knight in armor, the royal prince. The dark walls were covered with yellowed photographs, familiar scenes from the movies:
Bobbitt Royal,
he with his paper crown,
Bobbitt and the Magic Castle, Bobbitt in Love,
the whole history of Bobbitt, that smiling, curly-headed face, gazing out at her with its mixture of wonder and candor, row after row, year after year, growing up.

“I usually charge admission for this,” he said dryly, sitting on the edge of the day bed, which dipped and creaked as it took his weight. “How did you find me?”

Nellie told him.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for a long time,” she said.

“I know.” He laughed. “I’ve seen your messages.”

“But you didn’t bother to answer them,” she returned crisply.

“No.”

“Why? Why, Robin?”

He shifted his weight; the bed groaned. “I—” He brought his hands up with a hopeless gesture, and let them fall to his lap. “You see how it is with me.”

“Yes. I see. I see very well.”

“I didn’t want you to find out.”

“I have already found out everything I need to know about you.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Indeed I have, and a good deal more to boot.” She shook her head determinedly. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except that I’ve found you.”

He slipped her a rueful smile. “Me? Who am I, Nellie?”

“You’re Robin Ransome. You’re Bobbitt.” She glanced at the window. “Do you know … what is happening to Bobbitt?”

“I know. But there isn’t any Bobbitt, you see.”

“Of course there is. I’m looking at him.”

He shook his head. “Dear Nellie, what you’re looking at is—Well, you know what they call us—‘has-beens.’ There isn’t any more Bobbitt and to tell the truth there really isn’t any Robin Ransome. Only Mr. Harboomsteen.”

“The names don’t matter.”

“Ah, but they do, you see,” he said sadly. “Names matter very much. You can call yourself anything you want to—Bobbitt, Bobby Ransome, Lord Ransome, Robin—it doesn’t matter what, but it doesn’t make you any more of a person.”

“Everybody is a person.”

“I suppose. Except in certain instances.” He smiled at her. “I played you a dirty trick, Nellie. I’m sorry. Really truly true.”

“If I did not believe that, I would not be here. I have gone to considerable lengths to find you.”

He had got up off the creaking bed and was moving aimlessly about the room, lingering over various objects, his back to her. When he turned again he held a teddy bear in his arms; the Bobbitt bear.

“‘Garumph,’ said the bear. ‘Harumph,’ said Missy Priss in her starchiest voice and giving the bear’s nose a tweak. ‘Oh, my goo’ness,’ said Bobbitt, and they all ran down the path together.” Robin said the lines in a mocking, self-deprecating way that brought out one of Nellie’s fiercest looks.

“Stop that,” she ordered. She pointed toward the window and repeated her words. “Robin, do you know the marvelous thing that has happened out there?”

“I haven’t been out today. Since you have no umbrella, I assume it isn’t raining. Is the sun shining?”

“I am not speaking of the weather. Do you know what is happening all over this city?”

“As you see, I have no television, and I seldom read the papers.”

“Robin, you’re famous!” she exclaimed. “As famous as ever. All over again!”

“Is that a fact?” Whatever the fact, it appeared of no interest to him. He stood on one foot, then the other, scratching his head. “It’s very nice, but I don’t want to be famous all over again.”

“They
want
you.” There were tears in her eyes. “The most wonderful thing has happened.”

“Are there still wonderful things?” he murmured, almost to himself. “I doubt it. And I doubt they want me.”

“But they do. They
do.
”

He shook his head and toyed with the bear. “They want someone else. They want that curly-headed little darling in his shorties and a big white collar. They want that yard-wide smile and a little dance. Look at me, Nellie, take a good look.
This
is me, not
that
one.” He sat on the bed again, hugging the bear. He moved to the wall corner, where he sat with his knees drawn up, the bear perched on top of them.

“Nellie—” He faltered, then began again. “Nellie, I told you a lot of stories. They were mostly lies. I did a terrible thing to you—”

“I said it didn’t matter.”

“It does matter, unfortunately. Will you hear one more story? No, you needn’t fear, it’s not another fairy tale. I won’t make it up this time. It’s really truly true. You remember the night we went for the ride in the hansom, through the park?”

“I shall never forget it,” she said quietly.

“You laughed and said I was such a boy, such a little, little boy. I said to you, Nellie, I don’t want to grow up; I don’t care if I never do.” He rose suddenly and ran his finger along a shelf of books, until he found what he wanted; he sat with the book on the bed, turning pages in the dim light, then said:

“Listen to this, Nell. ‘Peter: I ran away the day I was born … because I heard father and mother talking of what I was to be when I became a man. I want always to be a little boy and to have fun; so I ran away to Kensington Gardens and lived a long time among the fairies.’” He turned some more pages until he found another place and read again. “‘Peter: Would you send me to school? Mrs. Darling: Yes. Peter: And then to an office? Mrs. Darling: I suppose so. Peter: Soon I should be a man? Mrs. Darling: Very soon. Peter: I don’t want to go to school and learn solemn things. No one’s going to catch me, lady, and make me a man. I want always to be a little boy and have fun.’” He shut the book and set it aside and picked up the bear again. “Any ninny can tell you that that’s
Peter Pan.
It’s also Master Bobby Ransome. I know
you
think it is. Twenty years isn’t such a long time that I can’t remember back to that little fellow Vi Ueberroth stumbled across one rainy afternoon having tea and said he ought to be in the cinema. And I wanted to, so badly, I wanted to be a great big movie star. And you know something—I knew I could. I wanted to see my name up in lights over the biggest movie theater in Dublin. Me ma wanted me to come home and be an ordinary little boy. But Aunt Moira persuaded her. After I played with Fedora, I thought, Oh, boy, this is it, this is the most wonderful thing. And so it was. Then I went to Hollywood and Papa Baer and Mama Baer and everyone was so nice, and I thought, Well, Bobby, that’s just the way it’s supposed to be, and Little Willie, and all the rest. You can’t imagine what it was like for me, a poor dumb Irish cluck who’d never been as far as Liverpool and there I was having my feet stuck in Grauman’s cement. We were poor, Nellie; I mean
poor.
My dad was a hatter, nothing more; he brushed felt in a hat factory in Galway—not where the castles are and the fine houses, but in the back of a dirty room, brushing felts every day of his life. It drove him crazy y’know? The mad hatter, we called him. Well, now, Papa Baer didn’t want folks knowing I was the offspring of a mad hatter, so first off he gives me another father. All made up, a make-believe one—Lord Ransome—and next thing you know I’ve got a make-believe ma and she’s a Lady. Fancy that. Just like in the movie. Little waif adopted by rich folks. They didn’t even bother writing a new script. Life imitating art, so t’speak. Course, no one bothered to find out the truth; they took that as the truth. Well, now, I says to myself, this is all pretty swell, it’s nice being in Hollywood and doing so well. There we were living in a nice little house, just like I used to dream of, and if it’d stopped right there I guess I might’ve been happy.”

“But you
were
happy,” Nellie interjected. “You were such a happy little boy.” She gave him a doubtful look. “
Weren’t
you?”

“Ah, wasn’t I, though? Happy as a cat up a tree. Except I wasn’t.”

Her look turned to surprise. “You weren’t?”

“Never. What I was, was scared. Every blasted minute I was scared down to my socks. From the minute they put me in front of a camera, scared. The worst sort of stage fright you could think of. I like to threw up every time I had to run out on a stage with that yard-wide grin and do my numbers. All those folks out there, watching, and me having to be good. Flop sweat, that’s what I had, flop sweat. You remember I told you about that party at Willie Marsh’s house. All that Hollywood royalty all over the place and me being taken about to meet everybody famous. I was supposed to be one of them. But I was just scared. They got me up to sing and dance with Willie, with Noël Coward—they were old hands, but not me. ‘Oh, he’s a natural,’ they said, but I wasn’t. I
should
have been happy; God knows they liked me. Maybe it was Aunt Moira….”

“What has she to do with it?”

“Auntie? I’ll give you an example. You remember the little dog Willie gave to me? I called him Rags.”

“Rags. I remember.”

“You remember they always gave me a scene where I had to cry. Aunt Moira would come marching into my dressing trailer and she would set me down and say, ‘See here now, Bobby, it’s about your little dog Rags that you love so much…. Well, Bobby, I’m sorry to say it, but Rags is dead. Run over in the street. He’s gone, Bobby, under the sod he is.’ Well, you can bet I cried. Poor Rags wasn’t dead at all, but she made me believe it, and I could cry buckets. Just turn the camera on and let me go. Well, it seemed to me that if telling a little story like that—that poor Rags was dead—to get what you wanted was all right, any kind of story you could tell would be all right. So I started telling stories. And I’ve been telling stories all my life, to get what I wanted. It’s just a way you get into, then you can’t get out of it. Then you grow up—no, sorry; take it back—get bigger, and the stories get bigger, become real whoppers, but people still believe them. It’s so easy to make people believe, Nellie; the poor fools’ll believe anything you tell them.”