Damnation of Adam Blessing (16 page)

“Not here,” Adam said. “I’m a visitor.”

“This is the
ossario.
The people are buried here.”

“Where?”

“In the
ossario.
Excuse me. In those wells.” He pointed at the fenced-in area. “For the poor,
Signore.
This is where the poor rest. They cannot afford tombs and land is scarce in Rome, so we put them in the earth ten years. Then, when the time is up, the bones are dug up and they are buried here in a common grave.”

Adam’s eyes were blurred again from his tears. “Where are their friends who won’t bury them?” he said. “Where?”

The priest looked at him a moment. Adam leaned into him. “Where are his friends?”

The priest stepped away from Adam. He was smiling. He said something to the fat man and the fat man shook his head and held his nose with his fingers. The priest nodded.

“I’m not drunk if you think that,” said Adam. “Perhaps not,
Signore,
but you have a smell of it.” The priest turned and moved away, handing the fat man some lire.

“Wait!” Adam called.

The priest turned, hanging back, and Adam hurried across to him.

“You have no right to treat me this way,” said Adam.

“How did I treat you? I explained the
ossario
to you. I answered your questions.”

“You told the man I was drunk.”

“No,” said the priest, “I said you had a liquor breath. No more.”

“Why did you want to be unkind. You of all people! Isn’t there enough unkindness in the world. Today at Passetto’s I was snarled at because I accidentally knocked over a wine bottle, and now from a Father, this treatment!”

“Signore,
I am a student priest, not a Father, and I have no time. Go back to your hotel and rest,
Signore.
Good day.”

“Wait!” Adam said.

“Good day,
Signore!”
The priest walked fast, but Adam followed.

“Don’t you know what’s wrong? It’s wrong to talk about people behind their backs!”

The priest did not look back. Adam continued following him. A woman kneeling by a marble statue of a nun looked up at Adam from her prayers, her rosary dangling in her hand.

Adam called to her: “He runs away from me! He is supposed to be a priest!”

“Listen!” Adam called after the priest. “I have a confession!”

He was hot and now slightly dizzy again. The priest was far ahead of him now, but again he shouted, “I have a confession to make to you. A crime! Wait!” He caught hold of a marble man, leaned on him, starting to sob. The rain was falling harder now. Adam stumbled as he moved on. He picked himself up again. The knees of his trousers were damp and dirty. The rain seemed to come more, and the pink color of the sky was turning to gray. Adam was very tired. He could not make it to the gates of the cemetery. He stopped again, and then again he saw the marble woman with her arms beckoning to him. He walked past her to the house behind her. His thirst was tremendous, and as he looked in through the window at the oranges on the altar, he thought of biting into one and sucking out the juice. When he tried the door, he found it locked.

“Please let me in,” he whispered. He leaned his head against the door, felt the cool metal on his forehead. “Please let me in.”

Behind him he heard someone shouting in Italian.

He let go of the door handle, and stumbled toward the marble woman. There was more shouting, and he saw people running toward him, people he seemed to recognize, but it was all a dream, wasn’t it? He thought he heard Dorothy Schackleford’s voice, but he fell to his knees without knowing if this were true. He put his head down on the cold marble slab beside the marble woman. “You don’t have any name,” he said to the cold marble. Then he toppled over on his back in the wetness, his eyes barely able to see the marble woman’s face through his tears. He blinked his eyes and looked up at the face, and there were no features there, just as there was no name on the slab beneath her.

“And a lot you care!” said the marble woman.

THE FELLOW’S FLYER

Fellow’s Foundation, Rome Chapter

Amid the festivity of the Christmas Season, we pause to note with reluctance and sadness, that we are losing one of our most valuable and diligent Fellow’s workers. Adam Blessing is sailing for New York on the “Leonardo da Vinci,” December 19th. Our questions as to his future plans were answered in typical Adam fashion, with the simple and profound sentence: “My future is in the hands of Faith.”

Adam Blessing has been with Fellow’s a year in January, heading up our Alcoholics Anonymous Chapter. No one who has ever heard “our Adam” speak, can doubt how sorely we will miss him. His accounts of his recovery from a mental illness were an inspiration to all — his confidence, his very nearly spiritual enthusiasm for his work, will make it utterly impossible for anyone to take his place. He can be succeeded — yes, but there is no one quite like “our Adam.”

We have grown to think of him as our special “Blessing,” and our Treasury will be in mourning for a long time (as all Fellow’s members know by now, Adam was an unparalleled fund-raiser!). New Yorkers are in for a treat at the New Year’s meeting of A.A., which will be an open meeting, and which “our Adam” will address. Remember the date well: January 30th, at 8:00
P.M
. in Riverton Memorial Church on 5th Avenue and 90th Street.

We know Adam will be dropping in on another ex-Fellow’s worker, Mrs. Wilson Neer, our own Dorothy Schackleford, who lives in Brooklyn Heights, New York. Dorothy was one of our leading lights for two years, heading up the Fellow’s Children Center. Her cheerful smile and her hardy determination have been very much missed by all of us.

So, with our hearts full and our spirits inspired by Adam, we say
“Buon Natale,”
but never good-bye. And speaking for all of us, I would like to put it in a more personal vein … as Santayana once wrote: “I scarce know which part my greater be,/ What I keep of you, or you rob from me.”

“Hello,” said the voice.

“Hello.”

There was a pause. Luther Schneider turned his swivel chair slightly to the left, facing his office windows. He said again, “Hello?” He glanced across his desk at Matt

Flannery. “Do you think it’s Timmy calling from the country?” he whispered, as though Flannery knew any better than he himself knew. Flannery shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up, Lute.” He had a faint smile of encouragement on his face. Sometimes when Win was out of the house Mrs. MacGivern allowed Timmy to phone.

Schneider said again, “Hello? Timmy?”

“No, it’s not Timmy, Mr. Schneider.”

“Who is it?”

“I have something important to talk over with you. It’ll take a little time.”

“Who are you?” Schneider said. “A friend.”

“Oh.” Schneider looked across the desk at Matt and shrugged. Then he said into the phone’s mouthpiece. “Just what are you calling about?” … He was getting used to it. He had never realized before this litigation how many friends Win did not have. To date, six of her alleged friends had offered to make affidavits on his behalf. There was a small matter of money involved, naturally. Some of the other calls making the same offers were from former servants. Win had never had a way with the help, unless it was a way of turning even the most docile, third-floor, three-day-a-week servant into a raging, indignant threatening human soul, who quit only after the most unbelievable anathemas directed at Win. Three weeks ago a chauffeur in their employment for a year and a half, had called Schneider to offer to testify “free-of-charge, sir, that the bitch would as soon see your kid dead as see the sun come up the next morning.”

The voice on the telephone said: “You needn’t sound angry. You did a favor for me, and I want to repay you, that’s all.”

“You’d better get to the point,” said Luther Schneider. “I’m busy right now.”

“Oh, you’re not alone? I want to talk with you when you’re alone.”

“Good luck then,” said Schneider. He saw Matt frowning at him from across the desk. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “What?” he asked Matt. Matt said not to entirely discourage him.

“Can you call me later?” said Schneider to the telephone.

“Oh yes. I’m very patient, so don’t worry.”

“Try me in an hour,” said Schneider.

He heard the click, the line went dead, and then the dial tone, and he set the phone arm back in its cradle.

“Another offer to defame the good character of your charming wife, hmm?” Matt Flannery blew on his glasses and wiped them with a corner of his handkerchief. “I wonder if
she
gets many offers.”

“Probably thousands.”

“Let’s hope not one.”

Flannery put his glasses back on. He picked up the thin onion sheets in front of him, leafing through them. “I’m on page 13, Lute, section 4.”

Luther Schneider leaned back in his swivel chair, fondling his pipe while his lawyer began. “Section Four. On page 32 of her affidavit, Plaintiff states she was struck repeatedly by defendant on the night of September 16, and submits a doctor’s report describing — ”

Her neck. Schneider brushed a large hand through his gray hair and sighed. He had come close to strangling her that night. He had found her feeding Timmy whisky on a teaspoon to put him to sleep. A teaspoon won’t hurt, she had said. Timmy was screaming, his face lobster-color; a teaspoon won’t hurt his crazy head, for Christ’s sake, she had said, falling in her drunkenness across Timmy.

“and vigorously deny that Plaintiff threatened her life then or at any other time,” Matt Flannery continued, “and that pursuant to Section 309 of the Civil Practice Act — ”

Luther Schneider remembered the Christmas a year ago, trimming the tree with Timmy downstairs. Win had come from upstairs, holding the whisky bottle by the neck, singing “I’ve Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” — funny, how the mind remembered even the smallest details, like the song she sang then, and how he had stepped on a silvery-blue bulb on his way to her, trying to get her out of Timmy’s sight before he saw she was naked. She wanted to know what the hell crazy kids knew about naked women anyway. “You’re his mother — ” yelling it; and Win yelling back just as loud: “I didn’t give birth to that monster!” … “I’ll kill you,” he had said. Going around and around on the victrola — the Christmas carols:

Holy infant, mother and child;
Yes, I’ll kill you, he had said. She laughed at him: “So you can be with her, Lute! Spawn another creep with her?” … Timmy watching everything, dressed in a pair of one-piece pajamas, standing under the tree:
Sleep in heavenly peace.

Schneider only half-listened to Matt Flannery. He shut his eyes as though with that motion he could shut out the pictures in his mind’s eye as well, the thousand snapshots there — the rewards, the punishments, take your choice; Kate leaning over in the morning to put her bra on, something that simple, recorded as well as Win in a rage at the doctor, the year Timmy was three and they knew for certain he was unbalanced, the blue vein that stuck out in her neck and her screaming: “The hospital gave us the wrong goddam baby, and you send this idiot back and tell them to find out where ours is!” … Kate and Timmy walking ahead of him the day they all went to the Central Park Zoo, the sudden sight of Timmy skipping, holding to Kate’s hand … as well as Timmy hiding behind the shower curtain in the upstairs bathroom of the house in Bucks County, five o’clock in the afternoon when Luther Schneider had come home early; telling Timmy, no, son, Mommy isn’t after you with a knife. You dreamed it, son … lying to him … Schneider opened his eyes and looked across at Matt.

“I didn’t hear you, Matt.”

“I said, ‘That’s it.’ Of course, I don’t think any of it will stop Win or her lawyers, but it might impress the court, the parts about her mistreatment of Tim anyway … that’s what we really want. Tim!”

Luther Schneider said, “For the time being, that’s all. I’m going to marry Kate, Matt.”

“First things first, Lute. Watch that damn temper of yours, if you want my opinion.” Matt was stuffing papers into his briefcase, removing his glasses, and rubbing his eyes. “I mean it. Don’t knock her around any more. Hell, you know I’d like to help you knock Win from here to the Battery, but it doesn’t show up well in court, Lute.”

“I don’t want to knock her anywhere.” Luther Schneider sighed.

“I know. She practically begs you to slug her. I know that. It’s better you’re apart for a while. Mrs. MacGivern will look out for Tim.”

“I’m not really worried for the time being about him.”

“Mrs. MacGivern’s good with him, Lute.”

“I know. She can handle Win when she has to, too.”

Flannery got his overcoat from the leather couch in Schneider’s office. “I’ll be glad when Kate gets back here and things are normal again. I liked the way she used to take care of me. Get me into this thing and all,” said Matt, sticking an arm in his overcoat sleeve. “She still in Bermuda?”

“Yes.”

“A wonderful girl,” said Flannery. “And that’s an unqualified endorsement.” He smiled and shook Schneider’s hand, saying, “I know it’s unsolicited too, but I like her Lute, for the record, hmm?”

“Thanks,” Schneider said.

“It’s starting to snow out. Better not stay late.” He waved and started out the door. Before it shut, he said, “Let me know if anything comes of that phone call, hear?”

“Another bum steer, probably,” Schneider said.

Still, he waited at his desk for the telephone to ring. He was in the middle of a letter to Kate Weeks when the operator signaled an incoming outside call. He had made a rule that all incoming-outsides be put through on a direct wire. Matt’s suggestion. Operators intimidate the real leads along with the phonies, Matt had said; we can’t pick and choose; have to hear them all.

The voice said, “Can we talk privately for a while now?”

“Yes.”

“I read in the papers about the troubles you’ve been having. I know you have to take precautions. Your wire could be tapped, I suppose.”

Schneider said, “No melodramatics, hmmm? My wire is not tapped. Just get on with it.”

“I’m sorry about all your trouble. I would have come home earlier if I had known. I read about it in Rome.”

“Rome!” Schneider said.

“Oh, I know it wasn’t in the foreign press. I got some back newspapers from another American. Scandal sheets, you know.”

“And?”

“And I came home.” “Just to help me, hmm?” “Yes.”

“I see.” Schneider shook his head and sighed, swinging his chair around to face the window and watch the snow falling.

“I’m sorry about all your trouble. Your wife has been very unkind. I hate unkindness.”

“Are you a former friend of Win’s or a former servant?” said Schneider.

“I’m your friend.”

“Yes, of course … of course. Granted that, how did you know Win?”

“I didn’t. I only saw her once. On the street. Near your place on Ninety-first.”

“What is it you want Mr. — Mr. — ”

“You wouldn’t know my name, Mr. Schneider. I thought by now you might have guessed who I am.”

Schneider rubbed his forehead with the palm of his left hand, an expression of exasperation on his lean countenance. “Well, I didn’t guess. I’m sorry. I’m not good at guessing.”

“I sent Timmy a tiny Basque fishing boat from Biarritz. I think that was the first gift. Oh, I know it’s presumptuous to use the word gift — ” Schneider’s eyes grew wide with amazement as he leaned forward, holding the phone even closer to his ear, as though it was impossible to believe what he was hearing. The Basque fishing boat from Biarritz, the cock-eyed red sail attached to it. It had arrived that fall when Win was having another of her “rests” at the Hartford Retreat. Schneider had made a note to ask her who they knew who might be vacationing in southern France. It had slipped his mind to ask her; the gift had been passed along to Timmy with no special significance attached to it…. It had taken Luther Schneider over a year to put the puzzle together; another gift from Paris — this one for him, the helmet-shaped silver cream jug. They had both been sent to the Ninety-first Street apartment. The jug he had not taken with him to the country. He had not mentioned it to Win either. It had arrived shortly after she had found out about Kate, and everything that arrived was reason for suspicion, every Christmas gift, birthday gift, letter, bill — it was nearly the worst period of their marriage. He had left it with the rest of his silver…. There was a food broker — Saperstein, or Sardonspore — some name like that, for whom he had once done a favor. Schneider had heard he was in Europe for General Foods. Perhaps he was the donor, Schneider had thought, but it was an unconvincing explanation. The jug was very expensive, well over $600…. The piece in the puzzle, which Schneider needed to solve the matter, arrived from Rome. The punch-ladle; the card with “greetings” and “thanks for your faith in me.” … Then he knew. The silver salt spoons, the Basque cap for Timmy, the miniature Vatican City Swiss Guard — he knew who had sent all of them. Win would have had a lot of satisfaction in the knowledge that Timmy’s kidnapper was again in touch with Schneider. She was the main one to say he would hear from him again. When Schneider had paid the ransom, it was Win in her shrill tones who promised: “This is just the beginning of what you’re going to pay that fellow!”

• • •

“… none of the gifts would have been possible without your trust in me,” the voice was saying, “and now I’m going to pay you back.”