Listen Ruben Fontanez (20 page)

Ruben and Manuel flank me on the left. “What you think, Mister Meyers?” Ruben asks. Manuel is almost a full head shorter than Ruben. They push through the turnstile ahead of me. Marty nudges me with his elbow. He tells me that before I awoke this morning, he and Ruben had been debating one of the proposals in the magazine articles. They were wondering about my opinion. In those states which permit capital punishment, the condemned man would be offered a choice: death or permanent anesthesia. A skilled medical team would use the man's brain and body for experimental studies. I have read the article, of course. I have considered the proposal. I think I know your feelings, my monkey, dolls or no dolls. You would want to be finished with things also, wouldn't you. And your leader wants only to solidify his control over you now. I sense it. Still, I should answer the question. I look at Marty. It is a strange peace you attempt, my young drummer. I think you would be glad at this point to allow Ruben such a slight victory. You would like me to confirm his fears. You must maintain morale in your organization. All does not go well between you. Before, in the subway car, you were trying to tell me something. Well. It is nothing to me. Harry Meyers does not need extra years.

“So they tinker with my brain,” Marty is saying. “Let them have a good time. What's it to me—?”

“Tell him, Mister Meyers!” Ruben is pleading with me. Manuel lights a cigarette. In this instance, I think, Harry Meyers would choose death. But you should not think it is because he has been intimidated, my friend.

“And who knows what might happen in the future, right? One of these first days they might…”

My ears are closed to him. “Tell him, Mister Meyers—!” Manuel blows the smoke into the air. In the change booth a gray-haired woman arranges copper tokens in stacks. “Tell him—” I see a policeman appear from the other side of the booth. He has spotted the smoke. I let myself fall a step behind. Ruben is too upset to notice. Marty is fixing his beret. Only Manuel senses something. He looks at me from under his heavy lids.

“Hey kid—”

They are gone, in three directions. Their speed is amazing. Ruben streaks up the left staircase, Marty the right. And faithful Manuel is bravest of all. He runs directly past the policeman, his cigarette clutched between his fingertips, his narrow body evading the policeman's grasp. It would, in fact, be difficult to hold such a boy. As for Harry Meyers, he is busy purchasing five additional tokens. The policeman starts after Manuel, but he is already out of sight. The man turns to the original exit and shrugs. I stare at him. His jaw is unsteady. He would like to do something that would not leave him appearing foolish, but Harry Meyers will not help him, I can assure you. He stands in the middle of the arcade, his action thwarted. Another train is approaching. The policeman moves now, and leans against the wall, muttering to himself. His words are louder for my benefit: epithets about Puerto Rican children. I show no response. He does not think of making a connection between Harry Meyers and the subway three. We are safe, I know. He slaps his nightstick into the palm of his hand to demonstrate his authority.

I deposit a token and push back through the turnstile. I am done following. I would not trade jobs with you, my friend. If I were to spend my life underground I should prefer not to work alone. When we first met, Marty said something about a position in his organization. I laugh to myself. I do not hold anything against him. He has his reasons, I am certain. Everybody is entitled to a theory. I go down the passageway leading to the uptown express. I glance behind, but the steps are those of a delivery boy carrying parcels on his shoulder.

It is a good thing he did not associate us with each other. Marty, you were careless. But Harry, in truth, you were most careless. Things are nearly done and you take foolish chances. Who knows what stories would be printed if all were known, if their presence in your room were reported in the newspapers. As for sheltering Ruben, it is difficult to know how your monkeys and cowboys would respond to such news. One thing is certain, though: you would no longer be Mad-Man Meyers. And it is best, with less than half a year remaining, to work from habit, to continue with the weapons you are familiar with.

I board the subway car and do not pay attention to those around me. Our train travels across the center set of rails. Beyond them, through the openings between moldy girders, I see the signs for the local stops: Canal, Bleeker, Spring, Astor Place. Above me a set of lights has gone out. Between cars a Negro boy in a red baseball cap surveys us all. A transit policeman pushes him aside, roughly, and swaggers through our car. It would be quite easy, as he passed, for a passenger to slip his gun from his holster. Manuel, I am certain, has considered the possibility.

At 14th Street I wander the corridors and make my way down a long ramp to the crosstown line. My shoes pinch my feet. I have not worn them for almost two weeks. Things seem lifeless here without you, my subway three. I am sorry I did not have time to tell you how exciting your performance was. Tonight will be too late. It too would only prolong matters. It will be difficult to disappoint you, Ruben Fontanez. You will know anyway, though. Soon. Your bones spread every day. You cannot do this forever. Perhaps this summer, you also, Manuel, will find that even the cigarettes cannot stop nature from taking your trade away from you. Marty can advise you then, if you are still working together. I would not count on it, though. My instincts tell me something there also.

The crosstown subway is old and I am more comfortable in it. Red plastic cushions do not interest me much. I prefer varnished straw. I see the boy in the red baseball cap riding in the adjacent car. His face is very black. He stands, but not in the doorway. He learns things also. I should have left my room earlier. There was no need to stay that long. I must, I suppose, have wanted certain things.

I choose to get out at Sixth Avenue. I will change at 59th Street and exit by Central Park. There is no need to pass by Verdi Square again. It is all right to help Nydia. If things are explained properly, Carlos will understand. In the D train I close my eyes. My throat feels strained. Perhaps I should visit the doctor, as Marty suggested. It is still winter and my resistance is not all it should be. I should get ready. Soon I will resume my odyssey. I will travel back and forth again, locked in subway cars with other people's breath, enclosed in classrooms with my students' assorted germs. I will climb the stairs, and push through the supermarkets, and who can predict what my dreams will be like. I will tell you this, though: I would not mind seeing Manuel perform again. There is grace in his body, and I would have to agree with the others that there may be more ways than one to measure a C.R.M.D. I will avoid you, Mr. Greenfeld. It will be best that way. I am not sure I would be able to restrain myself. When the frustrations mount, I will have my monkeys to work on, of course, but there will be little pleasure in that. If my three guardians want to maintain their present hideout, there is nothing I can do about it. And there is nothing I can do about your sandblasted cheek, don't you see? I do not fool myself. When I have decided more definitely, and my move is completed, I can let Danny know, I suppose. In a year, perhaps. When I am settled again. It would not do any harm. He does not have so much in this life.

I change for the AA train at 59th Street, and travel two more stops, to 81st Street. I get out at the front end and walk up the stairs. I look across the street at the stone wall which surrounds Central Park. I am too tired to take a walk now. At this point, until you reach the Great Lawn, it is uphill. In the playground I see the children climbing in the monkey bars and swinging in the swings. The mothers rest on the benches. I do not buy a paper from the man at the newspaper stand, nor do I take the shortcut by the planetarium, through Theodore Roosevelt Park. Columbus Avenue would depress me. I will need my strength. I proceed along Central Park West. Long lines of schoolchildren wait outside the museum with their teachers. Above them Theodore Roosevelt is flanked by an American Indian and an African. Why should I look at the children. I continue. I can see Ruben leading a charge into the giant war canoe in the lobby of the museum. Still, I do not look at the children. I sense, though, that their faces are different shades of brown, their bodies restless. What can it all mean to them, I wonder.

At the corner of West 77th Street I look up at the turrets of the museum, where the huge eagles watch over us all. The sun is not as strong as it was earlier and the building has a pinkish cast to it. It makes me think that it has been raining. The streets are dry. I pass the New York Historical Society. There are no lines of children here.

The fronts of the brownstones and graystones do not interest me today. There are few trees on West 76th Street. I do not want to meet Morris. I do not look for the garbage-can woman. I would rather not encounter anybody. The top sections of the old tenement windows at Columbus Avenue are made of beautiful stained glass. A sign in front of Sam's Hardware announces a sale. By this time, I am certain, my subway three have resumed their work. It is colder. There are no limousines parked at the far corner and that is just as well also.

In my room, the radiator has just gone on. I listen to its clanking. Danny's suitcase reminds me of what is to come. It was good of Marty to replace the book. We are all entitled to our theories, after all. Who can say what any man would do were he born with such spots. All right.
Morado
, Ruben Fontanez.
Morado
. I do not look at the magazine article, but I do not move it from my night table. My doll smiles at me. The pins mean nothing. I hang my coat in the closet and take off my jacket. In another day, perhaps, I will take a hot bath. Now I should avoid chills. I will undress in a minute.

I pull down one shade, then move to the other window. An ambulance is waiting in front of the Park West Hospital, double-parked. A man with a white beard moves under me to the synagogue. Across the street, leaning against the hood of an old yellow Buick, looking in my direction, I see the boy in the red baseball cap. He looks straight at me and he smiles slowly from his black face. What is left of the sunlight flashes from a gold front tooth.

SEVEN

D
ESPITE WHAT WAITS
for me in the street below, my sleep has been long and deep. I do not remember dreaming. Let me tell you something, though: I would not mind dreaming about you, Manuel. I stretch my body and find that it does not ache. I curl my feet against the warm sheet and hear the bones in my large toes crack at the joints. Perhaps, together, we will lead a parade down West 76th Street. The children from the sewers and Ruben's brothers and sisters and the old people from Morris's home—they will all come dancing behind us. It would not be an unpleasant dream to have. All my monkeys will have their transistor radios turned up high, my cowboys will be dressed in elegant black silk, my Spanish girls will jangle tambourines above their heads and shake their young bodies to the music. We will march across the city. Who would be able to stop us, after all.

But today, I hear, my guardians have a different journey planned for me. Well. It will be easier to let them have their way. They whisper to keep from waking me. It is all right. As I have told you, Harry Meyers is ready for anything. It is only to Harlem, they say. It is all right. Afterwards, I think, I can tell them that they were right about Danny and the police. You were right, Marty, I will say. He could not be trusted. That is why we must separate, you see. There is no point any longer in thoughts of invading the hospitals. Admit it, Harry. Let them go. I will tell you something: though I see myself behind Manuel, with Ruben and Marty at my sides, marching across the city, and though I know I smile at such a thought, do you think I am unaware of how foolish it all is. I remember stumbling. I do not need to hear that voice again. I know. I have told you already that I am Harry Meyers and that I have been teaching since 1926 and that I will be retired at the end of this year. There is no need to glory in the knowledge. Remember this: the mother of Ruben Fontanez is dead also, and though he plays with the earth from her grave and makes dolls, the fact is not diminished. Though a man may be dead and Harry Meyers may play games with three children, Ruben Fontanez did not come here for nothing. Believe me.

As soon as he hears me stir, he is beside me. The urgency in his voice makes me realize that I will not be able to replace his loyalty so easily. “You don't got to go if you don't want to,” he says.

“He can make up his own mind,” Marty says.

I feel my monkey's body, pressing against me. “Listen: I
got
to go,” he says. Marty has turned on the lamp by the easy chair. Manuel is beside him. “You don't, Mister Meyers. I telling you something,” he says. “You got to listen to me—”

“It is all right, Ruben,” I say, and lift my legs from under the covers.

“If you don't want to come with us,” Marty says, “all you have to do is say the word and we'll take off by ourselves. It's nothing to me one way or the other.”

I know, of course, that if I do not go this time, it will have to be some other time. We should not prolong things. “I will go with you,” I say.

Ruben's fingers press into my arm. “He's
loco
, Mister Meyers—I telling you!” His eyes are frantic. “What he did to Manuel—! He
loco
, Mister Meyers—”

Manuel hisses but Marty keeps him from moving toward Ruben. Well. I was right about that also, you see. My instincts have not deserted me. Ruben stands in front of me, ready for his two comrades. Marty was right about Manuel, though. I can see it now. His body is poised. Despite his superior size, my own faithful monkey would not stand a chance. “Easy, Manny boy,” Marty says. “Easy. You just stay put now.” He walks toward Ruben and I see my monkey's fingers curl into his palms. “You too, Ruben baby,” Marty says, but he senses that Ruben is not going to let him by. He considers, momentarily, and he chooses to stop. He sits down in the chair by the fireplace and avoids looking at my monkey. “Okay, Meyers—I'll give it to you straight, otherwise Ruben here won't rest easy,” he says. “And we all have to work together on this, right?” He makes a sucking sound as he slides the inside of his lower lip across his top row of teeth. Ruben does not move. Manuel crouches, puffing on a cigarette. His right hand touches his pocket. What I see now is no dream. Like my own monkey, I can sense what the end would be and I am not embarrassed by such fears. It would not be so bad, after all, if Danny would, in fact, do what I will say he did. Marty is very calm now and this, I realize, disturbs me more than anything else. I would rather be going. We should be done with things. I reach for my shoes. “All that happened was this, see—”