Plexus (58 page)

“Do
we
get any schnapps, mommy?” cried the little girl.

“It's ginger snaps, you dope!” yelled the boy.

“Well, at the bottom of the basket, wrapped in a wet napkin, they finally found the bottle of schnapps. It was from Utrecht, Holland, year 1926. To the three bears, however, it was just a bottle of schnapps. Now bears, as you know, never use corkscrews, so it was quite a job to get the cork out.…”

“You're wandering,” said MacGregor.

“That's what
you
think,” I said. “Just hold your horses.”

“Try to finish it by midnight,” he rejoined.

“Much sooner than that, don't worry. If you interrupt again, though, I
will
lose the thread.”

“Now this bottle,” I resumed, “was a very unusual bottle of schnapps. It had magic properties. When each bear in turn had taken a good swig, their heads began to spin. Yet, the more they drank, the more there was left to drink. They got dizzier and dizzier, groggier and groggier, thirstier and thirstier. Finally the polar bear said: ‘I'm going to drink it down to the last drop,' and, holding the bottle between his two paws, he poured it down his gullet. He drank and drank, and finally he did come to the last drop. He was lying on the floor, drunk as a pope; the bottle upside down, the neck halfway down his throat. As I say, he had just swallowed the very last drop. Had he put the bottle down, it would have refilled itself. But he didn't. He continued to hold it upside down, getting the last drop out of that very last drop. And then a miraculous thing took place. Suddenly, little Goldilocks came alive, clothes and all, just as she always was. She was doing a jig on the polar bear's stomach. When she began to sing, the three bears grew so frightened that they
fainted away, first the grizzly bear, then the polar bear, and then the Teddy bear…”

The little girl clapped her hands with delight.

“And now we're coming to the end of the story. The rain had stopped, the sky was bright and clear, the birds were singing, just as always. Little Goldilocks suddenly remembered that she had promised to be home for dinner. She gathered up her basket, looked around to make sure she had forgotten nothing, and started for the door. Suddenly she thought of the cowbell. ‘It would be fun to ring it just once more,' she said to herself. And with that, she climbed on to the stool, the one that was just right, and she rang with all her might. She rang it once, twice, three times—and then she fled as fast as her little legs would carry her. Outside, the little fellow with the dunce cap was waiting for her. ‘Quick, get on my back!' he ordered. ‘We'll make double time that way.' Goldilocks hopped on and away they raced, up dell and down dell, over the golden meadows, through the silvery brooks. When they had raced this way for about three hours, the little man said: ‘I'm getting weary, I'm going to put you down.' And he deposited her right there, at the edge of the woods. ‘Bear to the left,' he said, ‘and you can't miss it.' He was off again, just as mysteriously as he had come.…”

“Is that the end?” piped the boy, somewhat disappointed.

“No,” I said, “not quite. Now listen… Goldilocks did as she was told, bearing always to the left. In a very few minutes she was standing in front of her own door.”

“‘Why, Goldilocks,' said her mother, ‘What great big eyes you have!'

“‘All the better to eat you up!' said Goldilocks.

“‘Why, Goldilocks,' cried her father, ‘and where in hell did you put my bottle of schnapps?'

“‘I gave it to the three bears,' said Goldilocks dutifully.

“‘Goldilocks, you're telling me a fib,' said her father threateningly.

“‘I'm not either,' Goldilocks replied. ‘It's the God's truth.' Suddenly she remembered what she had read in the big book, about sin and how Jesus came to wipe away all sin. ‘Father,' she said, kneeling before him reverently, ‘I believe I've committed a sin.'

“‘Worse than that,' said her father, reaching for the strap, ‘you've committed larceny.' And without another word he began to belt and flay her. ‘I don't mind your visiting the three bears in the woods,' he said, as he plied the strap. ‘I don't mind a little fib now and then. But what I do mind is not to have a wee drop of schnapps when my throat is sore and parched.' He flayed her and belted her until Goldilocks was just a mass of welts and bruises. ‘And now,' he said, putting in an extra lick for the finish, ‘I'm going to give you a treat. I'm going to tell you the story of the three bears—or what happened to my bottle of schnapps.'

“And that, my dear children, is the end.”

The story finished, the kids were hustled off to bed. We could now settle down comfortably to drink and chew the fat. MacGregor liked nothing better than to talk of old times. We were only in our thirties but we had twenty years of solid friendship between us, and besides, at that age one feels older than at fifty or sixty. Actually, both MacGregor and I were still in a period of prolonged adolescence.

Whenever MacGregor took up with a new girl it seemed imperative for him to look me up, get my approval of her, and then settle down for a long, sentimental talkfest. We had done it so many times that it was almost like playing a duet. The girl was supposed to sit there enchanted—and
to interrupt us now and then with a pertinent question. The duet always began by one of us asking if the other had seen or heard anything recently of George Marshall. I don't know why we instinctively chose this opening. We were like certain chess players who, no matter who the opponent may be, always open with the Scotch gambit.

“Have you seen George lately?” says I, apropos of nothing at all.

“You mean George Marshall?”

“Yeah, it seems ages since I've seen him.”

“No, Hen, to tell you the truth, I haven't. I suppose he's still going to the Village Saturday afternoons.”

“To dance?”

MacGregor smiled. “If you want to call it that, Henry.
You know George!”
He paused, then added: “George is a queer guy. I think I know less about him now than ever.”

“What?”

“Just that, Henry. That guy leads a double life. You ought to see him at home, with the wife and kids. You wouldn't know him.”

I confessed I hadn't seen George since he got married. “Never liked that wife of his.”

“You should talk to George about her sometime. How they manage to live together is a miracle. He gives her what she wants and in return he goes his own way. Boy, it's like skating on dynamite when you visit them: You know the sort of double talk George indulges in.…”

“Listen,” I interrupted, “do you remember that night in Greenpoint, when we were sitting in the back of some gin mill and George began a spiel about his mother, how the sun rose and set in her ass?”

“Jesus, Hen, you sure think of strange things. Sure, I remember. I remember every conversation we ever had, I guess. And the time and place. And whether I was drunk or sober.” He turned to Trix. “Are we boring you? You know, the three of us were great pals once. We had
some good times together, didn't we, Hen? Remember Maspeth—those athletic contests? We didn't have much to worry about, did we? Let's see, were you tied up with the widow then, or was that later?
Get this
, Trix.… Here's this guy hardly out of school and he falls in love with a woman old enough to be his mother. Wanted to marry her, too, didn't you, Hen?”

I grinned and gave a vague nod.

“Henry always falls hard. The serious sort, though you'd never think it to look at him.… But about George. As I was saying before, Hen, George is a different guy. He's at loose ends. Hates his work, loathes his wife, and the kids bore him to death. All he thinks of now is tail. And boy, does he chase it! Picks 'em younger and younger all the time. The last time I saw him he was in a hell of a mess with some fifteen year old—from his own school. (I still can't picture George as a principal, can you?) It began right in his office, it seems. Then he takes to meeting her at the dance hall. Finally he has the nerve to take her to a hotel—and register as man and wife.… The last I heard they were diddlin' one another in a vacant lot near the ball grounds. Some day, Hen, that guy's goin' to make the headlines. And boy, that won't make pleasant reading!”

At this point I had a flash of memory, so vivid and so complete, I could scarcely contain myself. It was like opening a Japanese fan. The picture was of a time when George and I were still twins, so to speak. I was then working for my father, which means I must have been twenty-two or -three. George Marshall had come down with a bad case of pneumonia which had kept him bedridden for several months. When he got well enough, his parents shipped him to the country—somewhere in New Jersey. It all started by my receiving a letter from him one day saying that he was recuperating fast and wouldn't I come to visit him. I was only too glad of the chance to
steal a few days' vacation, and so I sent him a wire saying I'd be there the following day.

It was late autumn. The countryside was cheerless. George met me at the station, with his young cousin, Herbie. (The farm was run by George's aunt and uncle, that is, his mother's sister and her husband.) The first words out of his mouth—as I might well have expected!—were to the effect that it was his mother who had saved his life. He was overjoyed to see me and appeared to be in excellent shape. He was brown and weather-beaten.

“The grub is wonderful, Hen,” he said. “It's a real farm, you know.”

To me it looked much like any other farm—sort of seedy, grubby and run-down. His aunt was a stout, kindhearted, motherly creature whom George worshiped, apparently, almost as much as he did his mother. Herbie, the son, was a bit of a zany. A blabbermouth too. But what got me at once was the look of wonder in his eyes. He evidently idolized George. And then the way we talked to one another was something new for him. It was hard to shake him off our heels.

The first thing we did—I remember it so well—was to have a tall glass of milk. Rich milk. Milk such as I hadn't tasted since I was a boy. “Drink five and six of them a day,” says George. He cut me a thick slice of homemade bread, spread some country butter over it, and over that some homemade jam.

“Did you bring any old clothes with you, Hen?”

I confessed I hadn't thought of that.

“Never mind, I'll lend you my things. You've got to wear old clothes here. You'll see.”

He looked pointedly at Herbie. “Eh, Herbie?”

I had arrived on the afternoon train. It was now getting on to dark. “Change your clothes, Hen, and we'll take a brisk hike. Dinner won't be ready till seven. Got to work up an appetite, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Herbie, “we're going to have chicken tonight.”

And in the next breath he asked me if I were a good runner.

George gave me a sly wink. “He's crazy about games, Hen.”

When I met them at the foot of the stairs I was handed a big stick. “Better wear your gloves,” said Herbie.

He threw me a big woollen muffler.

“All set?” says George. “Come on, let's hurry.” And he starts off at a record-breaking clip.

“Why the hurry?” said I. “Where are we going?”

“Down by the station,” said Herbie.

“And what's down there?”

“You'll see. Won't he, George?”

The station was a dismal, forlorn affair. A line of freight cars were standing there, waiting for milk cans, no doubt.

“Listen,” said George, slowing up a bit to keep in step with me, “the idea is to take the lead. You know what I mean!” He talked rapidly, mumbling the words, as if there were something secretive connected with our actions. “Up to now there's been just Herbie and me: we've had to make our own fun. Nothing to worry about, Hen. You'll get on to it quick enough. Just follow me.”

I was more than ever baffled by this quixotic piece of information. As we hopped along Herbie became positively electrified. He gabbled like an old turkey cock.

George opened the door of the station softly, stealthily, and peered inside. An old drunk was snoozing away on the bench. “Here,” said George, grabbing my hat and stuffing an old cap in my hand, “wear this!” He shoves a crazy-looking contraption on his own head and pins a badge on his coat. “You stay here,” he commands, “and I'll open shop. Do just as Herbie does and you'll be all right.”

As George ducks into the office and opens the ticket
window Herbie pulls me by the hand. “This is it, Hen,” says he, going up to the window where George is already standing, pretending to make up the train schedule.

“Sir, I would like to buy a ticket,” says Herbie in a timid voice.

“A ticket to where?” says George, frowning, “We've got all kinds of tickets here. Do you want first, second, or third class? Let's see, the Weehawken Express pulls out of here in about eight minutes. She's making a connection with the Denver and Rio Grande at Omaha Junction.
Any baggage?”

“Please sir, I don't know where I want to go yet.”

“Whaddaya mean, you don't know where you want to go? What do you think this is—
a lottery?
Who's that man behind you? Any relation of yours?”

Herbie turns round to look at me and blinks.

“He's my great-uncle, sir. Wants to go to Winnipeg, but he's not sure when.”

“Tell him to step up here. What's the matter with him—is he deaf or just hard of hearing?”

Herbie pushed me in front of him. We look at each other, George Marshall and I, as if we had never seen each other before.

“I just
came
from Winnipeg,” says I. “Isn't there some other place I could go to?”

“I could sell you a ticket to New Brunswick, but there wouldn't be much in it for the company. We've got to make ends meet, you know. Now here's a nice looking ticket for Spuyten Duyvil—how would that suit you? Or would you like something more expensive?”