Listen Ruben Fontanez (11 page)

Marty spits toward the street and turns away. My monkey asks if it is all right to have told him where Harry Meyers lives. I say it is and I step back. When I turn, I see that the brightness outside has imposed a ghostly reflection on the inside of my room. I see the rectangle of my window, the shape of the boy on the edge of the roof silhouetted in its frame. They linger above my rug. I hear a hissing sound inside my skull, behind my nose. My eyes tear, my head is heavy. I stumble and catch hold of the back of a wooden chair. Ruben is beside me at once. I breathe quickly and he leads me to the bed. Manuel brings a glass of water.

“It is all right,” I say. I drink and the water is cold. “The sun has made me dizzy. That is all.”

Manuel blows his smoke away from me. “Marty be here in a minute,” Ruben says. “He know what medicine to get. We run down for you.”

“It was the sun,” I say. “I am all right.”

“Maybe you gone to lie down for a while,” Ruben says. He takes my pillow out from under the spread.

I grab at his shoulder and spin him away. “Stop it!” I command. “I said I am all right.” The shouting irritates my throat. I cough and Ruben moves toward me again. “Go away,” I say. “Go away, Ruben Fontanez.” Manuel is poised behind him, his eyelids drooping. “Go,” I say. “Leave me.”

I sit down on the bed. The room turns slowly. I will have Morris lower the heat. Enough, Harry. Enough. The buzzer sounds. “Go,” I say. “Leave me, Ruben Fontanez.”

“But you got to meet Marty,” Ruben says. He is holding the doll now and his body before me is misshapen and blurred. His forehead is huge. He plays with the pins, but there are no pains in my chest. The cold has settled in my head. “I tell him all about you.” Ruben puts the doll back on the mantel. “He says he heard about you anyway. He says people know you because of what you did on the bulletin board.” I lift my head. “He says he seen you in the neighborhood before. People know you, Mister Meyers. That the truth—”

It is not so bad to be sick, I think. I can understand why people go to hospitals. All right, all right, Ruben. The visiting hour is not yet over. If we are lucky, Morris will come before Marty leaves. We can share the sweet roll. I will invite Mrs. Wenger to join us, and the Oriental from upstairs, the two young men who occupy the garden apartment on the ground floor. The garbage-can woman also, if you like. Soon the entire neighborhood will surround my bed, Ruben. Soon. Miss Teitlebaum and Mrs. Davies and Mr. Greenfeld will come also. Danny and Jean and Mary and the policeman. They will read to me of my heroism. I will post a notice at the foot of the staircase with the hours listed. We will have rules and regulations, you see. Carlos will bring his friends. Menachem Schiffenbauer will lead a pilgrimage. The Rebbe will dance around my bed. Morris can invite the men who share his room and we will see if the builders can arrange something for you also, Sarah.

I have heard no steps, but suddenly there is knocking on the door. “I promise you, Mister Meyers. You not gone to be sorry—” I hear the lock move. I put the spread back over the pillow and tuck it in on the sides. Perhaps I will invest in a portable television set so that my cowboys will have something to do when they visit me. They can watch their sporting events and debate with Manuel about batting averages.

“This is my good friend Marty,” Ruben is saying. “He is our leader.”

A tiny hand is in mine. Its fingers are cold and smooth, the grip is firm. “What's the good word, Meyers?” a voice asks. I look at the boy and his smile is set in the side of his face. Across his top row of teeth is a strip of silver. Across his forehead, around his mouth, his chin, are numberless blackheads. “I heard about you too,” he says, from the side of his face. He pumps my hand some more. “I respect a guy like you, Meyers.” He releases my hand, pats me on the shoulder, then turns to Manuel. “You got a butt for me, Manny my boy?” he asks.

Manuel gives him a cigarette. My new visitor closes his eyes when he inhales and the smoke drifts from the corners of his thin mouth. He is no taller than my two monkeys and when he opens his eyes and stares at me I must close my own. His eyes, of course, are the eyes of a cowboy. I am not surprised. It is no use. Resign yourself, Harry. Soon. They will all be here. Visiting hours will be without end. I look at him as he paces around the room. A green canvas bookbag hangs over his left shoulder. On the side of his head is a black beret. His face is round, his nose large, his movements silent and graceful despite the fact that he is heavy. Perhaps, I think, perhaps you too have been hanging in trees this morning, Marty, and dancing across lawns. Your beret is covering your beard. You cannot fool Harry Meyers.

“Sit down, sit down,” he is saying to me. “Ruben tells me you've been sick, so I don't want you playing host to me, right?” He brushes his hair from his forehead and when I see him shove the ends under his beret I remember Morris in his green wool hat. He is laughing and talking to me. “He made one of you too, huh?” he says. I nod. He holds it next to my face. “Ruben baby,” he says. “I got to hand it to you—you've got the talent. Right, Meyers?”

I nod.

“One of your best, one of your best,” Marty says as he places my likeness back on the fireplace mantel. Ruben informs Marty that when I am better he has offered to take me to see them in action. He wonders if he has done the right thing. Marty stands in front of me, his two assistants behind him. I smile at him, but in truth, my stomach is very weak. I taste something sour. Now that there is no telephone service, perhaps it will speed the arrival of Jackson's brother. It will be best, after all, if things are accomplished quickly. “I respect a guy like you, Meyers,” Marty says. “I want you to know that.” I see Ruben's eyes, smiling shyly. “I mean it. The way you handle the kids in Ruben's school—what you did in the park—” He clicks his tongue. “So what I've been thinking is this: if you want, when you retire at the end of the year, maybe we can find a place for you in our outfit.” His hand is on my shoulder, monkey eyes glistening behind him. “You don't have to say yes or no. Think it over, right? Wait till you get a chance to see us operate, and if—”

I nod. There is silence. Then he is laughing at my puzzled expression. His arms are around the shoulders of his two monkeys. “Ah, I'm just putting you on, Meyers—don't mind me.” He swings the canvas bag and it falls on the bed next to me. “What's the good word, Ruben baby?” he asks. “You give the slip to that joker from the city yet?”

Ruben tells Marty about his escape in the cemetery and Marty praises him. Manuel edges his way between the two of them and whispers something in Marty's ear. “It is true,” Ruben says. Marty pounds Manuel on the back. “Manny, you're the most!” he says. They go to the window together, talking and giggling and then Marty returns. “Listen,” he says. His tone is confidential. “I don't like to butt into anybody's business, but you ought to do something about that guy Greenfeld at your school, Meyers.” He sits down next to me. “Put him wise, man, or one of these first days he's not gonna look so pretty.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, points at Manuel, and laughs. His laugh is gentle, a boy's laugh. I do not mind it. “That Manny!” he says, shaking his head. “You know what he did yesterday?” He leans against me, his hand cupped over his mouth. “What he's been promising: he gave Greenfeld a good kick in the nuts.” He sucks on his lower lip. “Bam!” he says, socking his fist into the palm of his hand. “Right in the old bazoojies!” He moves away again. “I only wish I'd been there, Manny my boy,” he says, and Manuel shuffles at Marty's heels, his eyes wide open, his mouth sucking on a fresh cigarette. Ruben stands by the fireplace.

“I'm telling you something, Meyers,” Marty whispers to me. “If this Greenfeld is a friend of yours, put him wise, man.” He leans close to me and for an instant my nose clears. I see his braces and smell his breath as it comes toward me. It is sweet. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Listen to me: Manny's a born killer,” he whispers. “I'm telling you something, Meyers. Man to man and I'm not putting you on about this. I can tell.” He looks around. “A born killer.”

“Mr. Greenfeld is no friend of mine,” I say.

“Okay, okay,” Marty says, irritated. “But I'm speaking straight to you—I know Manny, what makes him tick. He'll kill the guy one of these first days, marine or no marine. You mark my word.”

“Mr. Greenfeld is no marine.”

“That's what I said: marine or no marine.” His grip on my shoulder tightens. “Manny's no C.R.M.D., Meyers—I'm giving it to you straight, right? If he—”

I rip his hand from my shoulder. “Stop!” I say. “Get out! Out!” I shove against his chest and he slides from my view. My monkeys draw near. “Stop!” I cry, and I am on my feet. My fists are raised and all around me I can feel the cold and the snow. “Stop.” I am taller than my three adversaries. “Get out, get out—” I see Marty's silhouette as he stands on top of the brownstones across the street. I will get him a longer plank of wood. Then he can cross 76th Street from one side to the other without walking up and down so many flights. It is the least I can do. “All right,” I say. Do not expect the garbage-can woman to notice you, though, my friend. All right. Have it your way. It is nothing to me. I tell them other things as well. Things that are on my mind. When I am done I let myself rest on the bed. I am entitled. There is no need to pretend about my health. I do not need to wait for the end of visiting hours. Harry Meyers can rest if he wants to. Danny will protect me.

Marty barks orders and there is water at my lips, in Manuel's hands. Ruben is behind me on the bed, sitting on his haunches, rubbing my shoulders at either side of my neck. Marty has removed my eyeglasses and, with his thumb and forefingers, he applies pressure at the bridge of my nose, pressing against the inner edge of my eye sockets. I do not struggle. He takes his hands away and I feel an easing of the tension that is truly wonderful. He repeats the procedure. I sigh, then cough lightly, clearing my throat. “Take it easy,” Marty is saying to me. “Just relax.” I breathe deeply and the room shifts. I lean to one side but Marty straightens me. “Okay, okay,” he says and takes something from the pocket of his jacket. “Take a whiff of this—”

He passes something green in front of my nose. I sniff and my nostrils quiver. My eyes smart. “Better?” he asks.

“It is only a cold,” I say.

“Sure, sure,” he says. His face is in front of mine and when he lowers the lid of my right eye and looks in, I do not fight him. “He's talking straight,” Marty says to his monkeys. “It's only a cold. But you need to rest, Meyers. Plenty of sleep, lots of fluid and you'll be as good as new.” He goes to the refrigerator and opens it. Then he inspects my cabinet. He wets the end of a pencil with his tongue and writes on a piece of paper. The paper is given to Manuel. “Be careful,” Ruben says. The door opens and closes.

Marty tells me to get under the covers and I do what he says. The sheets are cool, but I do not forget the warmth of your thighs, Sarah. I wink at Ruben and he smiles. There is no need to tell him of the dream. Marty sits down across from me, in my easy chair, from where he can command a view of the street. I am certain he is the equal of my cowboys in cunning. He tells me to close my eyes and I do. The room is warmer now and I pull the covers tight under my chin. I apologize to them for not having shaved. Ruben tells me that Marty will never have to shave. Marty ignores him. It is nothing to me. “I telling you the truth, Mister Meyers,” Ruben says. I believe you, my monkey. I look at Marty. So, I think, it is as I thought: you are a beardless cowboy, a pale monkey. “Show him your spots,” Ruben says.

“After Manny gets back with the goods, we're gonna have to split out,” Marty says. He exhales. “Now that he gave it to Greenfeld, all three of us are on the lam—”

“Show him your spots,” Ruben says again, but Marty continues to ignore him. He tells me that it is too bad that I do not have a hole in the septum of my nose, for if I did he could tie a twig of baywood there and within twenty-four hours my cold would be gone. It is guaranteed. I do not doubt his word. After all, Ruben claims that he will never have to shave. And he has spots. I hum to myself.
Whistle while you work
… I feel my mattress bend and I know that Ruben is beside me. “You got to tell him to show you the spots.” Ruben says to me. “Please, Mister Meyers—” I raise my eyelids. Ah, Ruben, Ruben. Harry Meyers does not make the same mistake twice. I will keep my hands under the covers, believe me. I breathe through my mouth. “It's why he don't got to shave.”

“Cool it, Ruben,” Marty says. “Let the guy get some shut-eye.”

“On his back,” Ruben whispers to me.

That is all. Marty yanks my monkey from the bed. I open my eyes and watch Ruben dance around Marty, feinting with his hands. There is a swishing sound, a thud, and my monkey is on the floor, his leader on top of him, twisting his arm upwards in the small of his back. Ruben winces. “Tell him, Mister Meyers. Please—the spots!” Marty applies more pressure and I fear for my monkey's arm. “Tell him,” Ruben says. All right, I think. Enough. “All right,” I say. “The spots—”

“Ah,” Marty says, and he releases Ruben at once. “Dirty pool, Ruben baby. Dirty pool.” He steps across my monkey and sneers at him.
“Su madre
—” he begins, but Ruben is happy, I see. His expression is triumphant. I sit up, leaning on one elbow. Marty is talking. “Okay?” He stands in front of me, bent over, his jacket and shirt jerked up over his head. His back is pink and young. Ruben claps his hands and stands beside him.
“¡Mira!”
he exclaims.
“¡Mira!”

“Okay?” Marty asks, again. “I can't stay like this all day—”