Seventh Avenue (43 page)

“
I’ve got something to tell you, you little
mother-fucker
,” Jay broke
in. “These dresses are last
year’s
and Blunt’s got a factory full of
them. They only sold in brown and
black,
and you’re out of stock on
them.”

“
Now hold on, friend.”

“
I’m not your
friend
.
I’m your enemy. And you’re out of a job.”

“
Who the hell do you think you are? I work for Blunt.”

“
And Blunt does what I tell him to do, or he’s up shit’s creek. Now
come into the office or do you want me to get tough and call the cops.
You’ll get three years for fraud and embezzling.”

“
You don’t scare me.”

“
I will, don’t worry.”

They walked into the office in silence like pallbearers at a funeral.

“
All done, Mr. Blackman. The messenger
service’ll
be here in
half an hour. And the goods should come by three. I just rang the
office.”

“
You Jay Blackman?” Stevens asked, white-faced.

Jay dialed a number and waited.

“
Mr. Blunt in? Tell him
it’s
Jay Blackman.”

“
Jay? Hiya. How’s the boy?” Blunt said affably.

“
Not bad, not good, Milty. I’m afraid I’ve got some unpleasant
news for you.”

“
Oh, Jay?”

“
You know that 506 number that you copied from me last season?”

“
Yeah, sure.”

“
How much was it?”

“
Hang on? Hey, you’re not sore, are you?”

“
Why should I be? It helped my own sales. They took one look at
your
schmata
and bought me for two bucks more.”

“
It was thirty-six dollars a dozen.”

“
Not a hundred and twenty?”

Willie and Stevens left the
room,
and Jay and Rhoda stood staring
at each other.

“
You finished?” Jay asked the man at the desk.

“
I’ll go back to the office,” he said.

“
Take the day off. You’ve done a good morning’s work.”

Jay slipped a hip flask out of his pocket and took a long pull.

“
You never liked booze, or I’d offer you one,” he said to Rhoda.

“
I never remember you walking around with a bar.”

“
You take pills and I drink a little too much. There’s not much
to choose between the two.”

“
You told Blunt I was your wife. Shouldn’t you have said ex-wife?”

“
It didn’t cross my mind.”

“
Eva’d
take offense.”

“
Eva?” Jay shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

“
You’re going to marry her, aren’t you?”

“
Who knows?”

“
Jay, I’m very grateful for what you’ve done. There’s still some
feeling left, isn’t there?”

“
You’re a good person, Rhoda. And I’ve hurt you. If I can make
it
up .
. .” He put on his hat and coat and started for the door. “A
few of my people will be down this afternoon to unpack the mer
chandise
I’ve given you. They’ll set up the sale as well, Every rag,
five bucks. Take it or leave it. Don’t fight success, Rhoda, and you’ll
do all right. You’re peddling rags to Brooklyn
housewives. T
hey don’t
want to know from Paris fashions. Give Neal a kiss from
me
and tell
him I’ll see him on Sunday as usual.”

A week after that, on an icy Monday, Jay and Eva were married in
Syracuse. He could see out of the window, over the judge’s
shoulder,
the snow blanketed streets and people in galoshes and boots
trudging through the slush. As he stood there listening to the judge
intoning the words of the marriage ceremony, he had a vision of Terry
and himself lying on the sand
-
the timbre of her voice a bit high-pitched with a broad “a” sound. Beneath the exterior of gentility and
gracious
living,
she had been just as dirty as him - something that had
crawled out of a fetid and contaminated cloaca - with the same emotional needs. As with most philanderers, a strong puritan reaction to
smut was submerged in the muddy waters of Jay’s life fluids; he could
accept wallowing in the mud with Eva, because he knew they were
cut from the same piece of material, but he had imagined Terry
belonged to some illusory high caste
that
he had dreamed of joining. The real estate venture with Fredericks had fallen through
shortly
afterwards
. He had received an amicable letter with his check
enclosed, stressing the fact that his investment would not be secure.
Property was a
gamble,
and Doug didn’t like to endanger funds given
by friends. “Friends” was a nice touch
that
was not wasted on Jay.

The judge had a powdery belt of dandruff on the shoulder of his
navy blue serge suit, which gave it the appearance of a carefully
crocheted lace shawl, and Jay had a nagging desire to brush it off.

“
Do you take this
woman .
. . ?”

A man slipped on the icy
pavement,
and a little boy helped him
up and took his hand. How would Neal feel about Eva?

“
To have and to
hold .
. .”

He had been able to help
Rhoda,
and he was pleased with himself.
What had been impossible in marriage had proved expedient in
dissolution. Neal had
eyes .
. . such terribly deep eyes that swallowed Jay up whenever he looked at him. The eyes didn’t
look. T
hey
peered through the layers of defenses
that
Jay had erected. The
hero’s armor weighed him down. The eyes probed, and Jay was
stripped naked. How could he get to Neal? Which button should he
press? He couldn’t buy him off, because he had an innate contempt
for money that was almost patrician. He belonged to the caste that
Jay had failed to get into.

“
From this day
forward .
. . ?”

And
Immie
, what had become of
Immie
? Was he still serving greasy
hamburgers and heartburn coffee in the same all-night dive on Delancey
Street?
And Barney Green? Could he make you laugh! Once
he thought he had seen Barney in a nightclub. But it couldn’t have
been Barney because the man was wearing a waiter’s uniform.

“
I do,” he heard his voice carry in the high-ceilinged chamber,
with its rows of books in a glass case. A
man
living in a glass cage.
Eva lifted her white veil. Rose colored lipstick didn’t suit her - too
much blue in it.

He pressed his mouth against hers and tasted treacly chemicals.
A nauseating taste. He’d have to tell her to take it off. The judge
shook his head
excitedly,
and dandruff floated through the air. Outside it had begun to snow heavily, and an Ontario wind yelped like a banshee as figures now dim through the frosted window struggled to
cross the street, and cars stalled.

“
Ten dollars a bottle, I’ve never had champagne that cost so much,”
the judge’s wife, an old lady dressed in a Gibson Girl blouse and a
tweed skirt two sizes too small, intoned to the gods.

“
You want to get away from this weather,” the judge said. “What
say? Ah, Cuba. Havana? Well, well, well, I always smoke their cigars.
A friendly race? Of
course,
they
are,
Mother. All brown-skinned people are friendly. I remember
reading .
. .”

The chauffeur-driven car took them to the airport, and Blake,
the factory manager, handed Jay a bottle of scotch to see them
through the flight.
Change at La Guardia Airport for a direct flight to
Havana.
Brown-skinned people, he thought, opening
the bottle
of
scotch, are friendly. The stewardess brought them a setup of ice and
glasses and Jay offered her a ten-dollar tip, which she declined.
Company rules. Eva held the bottle firmly in her hands; her nails
were painted silver. She looked like a
whore,
he thought.

“
No more of this,” she said, “once we get settled. Have a place of
our own. A proper home. Only to be social.” She tipped the bottle
and gave them triples.
“I’m so happy, Jay darling.
It’s been worth all
the heartache.”

“
The heartache?”

“
We love each other, so we’ve made each other suffer.”

“
Of course. Here’s looking at you.” Chivas Regal, trust Blake. A
good guy.

The engines revved
up,
and the plane started to move like a snowbird leaving the arctic or coming home to it.

“
After your mother died . . .”

“
Let’s not talk about her.”

“
Sorry, hon. It reminds you . . .”

“
Of good things. Of old smells, good smells.”

“
Funny memory.”

“
I always remember with my nose. That way I don’t forget.”

“
I only remember camphor.
Our house stank of it.
I sent my mother
a telegram.”

“
You’re a good girl,” he closed his hand around hers.

“
We’re off. A new beginning.”

With the same ending, he thought bitterly.

The room overlooked the sea. A calm emerald
and blue sea with palm fronds flickering gently in the distance.

“
Jay, the bathroom’s all tiled. Mosaic. I think we’ll have something
similar when we build
the house.
And for God’s sake will you look
at
this.
It looks
like .
. . but it’s not.”

“
A bidet.”

“
I want one.”

“
Why get a small one? I’ll get you the giant size.”

“
Oh, Jay, you’re kidding. They only make one size.”

“
I’ll be in
the bar
when you’ve finished unpacking.”

“
Now, Jay . . .”

“
About an hour?”

“
Not too much.”

“
I know when to stop. I’ve been well trained.”

The barman asked him if he wanted to go to a whorehouse and
Jay said yes. A taxi driver approached him as he left the bar.

“
Usted el señor?”

Jay nodded. A road that snaked around the harbor eventually
found its way to a small cobbled street on a hill. There was a smell of
bread coming from a shop opposite the bar he entered. He followed
the driver up a flight of
stairs,
and a woman of about fifty flashed a
welcoming smile at him. The taxi driver said to the woman: “Un
señor .
. . Un caballero. Americano.”

She shook her
head,
and her smile broadened into an expanse of
ivory-colored teeth. The girls were all pretty and young. The oldest
was about eighteen, and he went with her. He smoked a cigarette
in the room, tossed her ten dollars and as she was about to remove
her suspender
belt,
he changed his mind and left. The driver came
after him, volatile and upset. Jay handed him five
dollars,
and he was
soothed. Jay went into
the bakery
and bought a loaf of bread, still
hot from the oven, and ate it in the back of
the taxi
on the way back
to the hotel.