Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone (17 page)

I had arrived during a break. The cast was on the lawn and when they saw the car toiling toward the house, they sent up a great cheer. Rags was standing on the porch.

“Boy,” she said, “that's by far the most exciting business we've got out of them all day. I wonder what makes
you
so popular. Could it be the grub?”

“It could be,” I said, “but, then, again, it might be my pretty brown eyes.”

“Come on, Leo. Your eyes can't begin to compete with those hamburgers.”

“Are you going to sit here on all this—
food
—all afternoon?” asked Madeleine, the company's leading lady, “or are you going to get up off it and give us some?” She winked at me. “And I know you know what I mean, honey. How are you? I hope you're not forgetting your red-hot mama?”

“How
could
I forget you? Sugar, you know I got to give you some.”

“Promises, promises. And I've been so
ravenous
for so long.” We laughed together. Madeleine and I always carried on like this, but I didn't know to what extent it was for real and I didn't know how to make the first move. She was about thirty, which was intimidating, blonde, rather hefty, but very nice. She was a respected minor actress, who had never been a leading lady before, divorced, with an eight-year-old daughter. The daughter was in the city, with Madeleine's parents.

The other kids came over and took away the boxes of food and drink and put them under a tree. They picked up their Cokes and hamburgers and dispersed. I got out of the car, and stretched, and sat down on the bottom step of the porch.

“Aren't you hungry?” Rags asked me.

“No,” I said. “I ate a big breakfast.” I looked up at her. “Aren't you?”

“God, no,” she said. “I'm directing this shambles. I can't eat until they've all gone home. Actors take away my appetite.”

“I smiled. “You're always with them,” I said. “You must eat an awful lot after they've gone home.”

“I think you're being impertinent,” Rags said, and laughed, and ground out her cigarette in the grass. She sat down on the porch step beside me.

“
Is
it a shambles?” I asked her. “I thought Lola said that it was going very well.”

“Lola daren't say anything else. It's her job to keep up everybody's morale—poor Lola. She's been walking around here these last few days like the white angel—the lady with the lamp.” She lit another cigarette and offered one to me, and lit it for me. “But it's
got
to be a shambles, boy, if you're dealing, on the same stage, with a group of untried amateurs and a group of aging, uncertain professionals. You spend half the time keeping them from each other's throats. And the play, just between you and me, is not exactly
Hamlet.
Oh, well.”

“Then why are you doing it?” I asked.

“Well—we think the play has something important to say. And why not try to jolt this town a little bit? Besides, it's a play they've
heard
of—it was done on Broadway.
With
Sylvia Sidney.”

Lola came over and sat down in the grass before us, like a girl.

“How'd you like that cheer you got?” Lola asked. “Wasn't that something? We rehearsed it all morning.”

“We might as well have,” Rags said grimly.

“Rags,” Lola said, “it didn't go badly. Really.”

“Madeleine will never learn how to hold that letter,” Rags murmured. “What's the matter with her? Doesn't she ever get any mail?”

“In my class this morning,” Lola said, “I told her to
hold the letter as though the letter were her final divorce papers—Madeleine's divorced, you know,” she said to me—“and to realize that now that she
is
divorced, she doesn't really want to be. I thought it began to make a difference in the way she held the letter. I really did.”

“Maybe,” Rags said, gloomily. “I
still
think she looks as though she were holding a raw pork chop.”

“Oh. You are such a perfectionist,” Lola said.

I ground out my cigarette and stood up. “I have to go,” I said.

“I hope we have those signs all over town,” said Lola.

“We don't yet,” I said, “but we will.”

“But they should have been up by now!”

“The kids are just getting finished. I'm going to collect them now. They'll be all over town in a couple of hours. Don't worry.”

“Oh! I'm not complaining about
you,
” said Lola. “You are really an exemplary model of industry and devotion. It's just—”

“Opening night nerves,” said Rags, and laughed grimly.

“Well. I think it will prove to be a very exciting theater experience.”

“Especially,” said Rags, “if he's sober.”

“How
is
it going over there today?” Lola asked me.

“He's sober today,” I said. I got into the car.

“And the others? How are they?”

“Like they've always been. No better. No worse.” I started the motor. “But, you know, I don't really have much time to watch rehearsals.”

“Leo! You are the rock on which we all depend. I trust that you are not
also
about to have an attack of temperament. You know that as soon as this
grueling
week is over, we will begin serious
work.
You have my word for that. And
Saul's
word.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “I'm glad. Because I sure am tired of being a rock.”

I turned the car around.

“Boy,” Rags said, “you don't seem to realize that you're getting a college education in the theater.”

“I'd feel better about being in college,” I said, “if somebody would give me a test.”

“All right,” Lola said, “you shall have your test. Now, off with you. Good-bye.”

“Good-night, ladies,” I said, and I drove away.

When I drove past the toolshed this time, Barbara and Jerry were nowhere to be seen. I drove up Bull Dog Road and collected the signs from the other kids, and then drove to our shack. Barbara was in the shower and Jerry was on the porch, scrubbing himself with turpentine. He looked as though he were in makeup to play a wounded soldier. “You're a mess,” I told him, and came up the porch steps and sat down in one of the rocking chairs.

“You're a mess, too,” he said mildly. “What's the matter, native son? The theater getting you down?”

“The theater, shit,” I said. “It's all this fucking running around.”

“Do not despair,” said Jerry. “You will make your mark. I think I got paint on my shoulder. You want to rub it out for me?”

I got up and took the rag and scrubbed his left shoulder blade. “Christ, you stink,” I said.

“Sometimes I can't stand myself.” Jerry grinned. He took the rag from me and walked into the kitchen. “You want a beer?”

“Yeah. You coming to town to help me with those signs?”

“Hold your horses. I'll be ready just as soon as Barbara comes out of the shower and I can wash this stink off me.” He came out with a bottle of beer and two glasses. “Here.” He poured beer into my glass and then into his own, and he sat down. “That's better. First time I've sat down this whole fucking day.”

“Yeah. We might as well be working for the railroad.”

“Well. You asked for it,” Jerry said.

“It must be nice to be philosophical.”

“It is. You ought to try it.”

He lit two cigarettes and gave one to me. We listened to Barbara singing.

“Do you want another pail of water?” Jerry yelled.

“
I've got those mad about him, sad about him, Lord, I can't be glad without him
—what?”

“I asked you if you wanted another pail of water?”

“No, thank you! I'll be right out.” And she went on singing:
“I'm not the first on his list, I'd never be missed, I wish I had a dime for every girl he's kissed, I swear, I'd be a millionaire—”

Jerry and I looked at each other and smiled. “She's quite a girl,” said Jerry. Then he blushed. “I don't think I'm good enough for her.”

“Oh. You're out of your fucking mind.”

“You really think so?”

He asked it so very humbly that I looked over at him as though it were the first time I'd ever seen him.

“Of course I think so. What are you worrying yourself about? She's happy. Listen to her sing.”

“I don't think she's singing because of me,” Jerry
said. “She just likes to sing.” He paused. “She says singing will help her in her career.”

“He's just an ornery sort of guy and yet I'll love him till I die, poor me!”
We heard the water splashing over her. “Jerry! Towel!”

“Coming, princess!” He picked up a bath towel from the porch rail and handed it in to Barbara. He came back and sat down in the rocking chair, and, in a moment, she appeared, covered with the towel. She ran up the porch steps.

“Ah!” she cried, seeing me, “the overseer is back. I'll be ready in a minute. Jerry, take your shower!”

“Yes, princess,” Jerry said. He winked at me. “You want to fill the bucket for me? Or maybe you want to take a shower first?”

“No. Go ahead. After you. I told you how you stink.” He hesitated. “Go on, idiot. I'll fill the buckets. Then you can fill them for me.”

“Okay,” he said, “I'll start soaping myself. I won't be long,” and he stepped out of his shorts and stepped into the wooden cubicle. I detached the two buckets from their platform at the top of the cubicle and filled one with fairly hot water and one with fairly cold water and replaced them. “You're on,” I told him, and went back to the porch.

I heard him yell and heard the water splashing and heard Barbara singing in the room. I lit a cigarette and drank my beer. As soon as the signs were up, our working day would be over and it was not yet five o'clock. “Hey!” I yelled, “why don't we have dinner in town?”

“I don't think we have enough money,” Barbara said. She shouted to Jerry, “Jerry, do you have any money?
Besides—Leo—we were supposed to work on our scene tonight. You remember?”

“The hell with it. I think we ought to take a night off from that scene. Really. I've got six dollars.”

“I think I've got about ten dollars,” Jerry shouted. “Look in my pants pockets. How much do you have, princess?”

“I've only got five,” she informed him, singing it out like an aria, and arrived at the door, scrubbed and tomboyish, in an old white shirt of Jerry's and some blue pants of her own. “May I have a cigarette, sir?” she asked, and came over and leaned on my rocking chair.

“Certainly, princess.” I lit one for her and gave it to her. “There you go.”

“Princess is something Jerry picked up from you and now I think you've picked it up from Jerry. I don't really like it. Why do you call me princess?”

“It's in tribute to your birth.” She blew a great cloud of smoke into my face. “Why don't you like it?”

“I think you're making fun of me.”

“I'm not making fun of you. Jerry's not making fun of you—God knows. Don't think like that.” I watched her. “We're just teasing you a little bit.” Then I said, “It's only because we love you.”

“Ah!” She moved away and sat down in the other rocking chair. “Can I have a sip of your beer, please?”

I gave her my glass. I asked, “Shall we have dinner in town?”

“Okay. I don't think Jerry feels like cooking tonight—and I can't cook at all—and you're not much better.” She sipped my beer. “But I want to get back here early, so I can get up early.”

“Okay. I've got to get up, too.”

“Hey!” Jerry yelled, “throw me a towel!”

“Just a minute,” Barbara said, and gave me back my beer and rushed into their room. In a moment she reappeared, laughing helplessly, leaning against the door. She waved a small face towel in front of her. I began to laugh. “Jerry,” Barbara called, “we only have one towel left. And it's—Jerry—it's pretty small.”

“Will you two stop fucking around and bring me a
towel?
Leo, you got a towel upstairs? I'm
wet!
”

“I'll get you a towel. But you can come on out now. Barbara won't look.” I got out of the chair and started up the stairs. “I'll bring it to you inside.” I ran up the stairs to my room. I heard the cubicle door open and slam and I heard Jerry yell,
“Geronimo!”
as he ran up the porch steps. I came back down the stairs with two towels, and tossed one towel into their room where they both were, Barbara still laughing. I cried, “Hurry up! I need a couple of pails of water.” And, to show that I meant business, I took off my T-shirt. “We've still got to hang up those signs, children.”

“Okay,” Jerry yelled, “okay. Go on in, I'll fill up the buckets.” And he threw a towel around him and went into the kitchen. I heard him running water and I took off my shoes and socks, took off my pants and walked into the cubicle. I took off my shorts and hung them on the nail and hung my towel on the nail and picked up the soap. “You're on,” yelled Jerry, and then I was alone with the water and the soap and my body.

We drove into town at exactly six o'clock—so the courthouse clock informed us—and by seven we had placed our last sign in the window of the pizza joint which we had virtually taken over. The people who ran this joint weren't natives of the town—thank God; in
fact, they weren't natives of the country. They came from Sicily, I think, they hadn't been in America long, and they were beginning to be gravely confused. They—the old mother and father, the sons and daughters and in-laws—still considered, in their barbaric, possessive, and affectionate fashion, that they were responsible for each other, that what happened to one affected all. This showed in their manner with each other and this manner marked them as foreign. This meant, of course, that they were disreputable and so we naturally gravitated there—it was our oasis. Neither had this Sicilian family yet arrived at anything resembling a perfect comprehension of what color meant in America, and so it was the only place in town where Negroes sometimes ate and drank, or, rather, it was the only place in town where Negroes and whites sometimes ate and drank together. Only the younger members of the family, and of these mainly the women, were beginning to suspect what this meant for their status and might mean for the material future of their children. One sensed this in their worried frowns, in their occasional hesitations, above all in their steadily developing realization that the respectable people never ate their pizzas at the brightly colored tables, but always took them out. They were not yet materially menaced, for soldiers came, and sailors, and frequent travelers, and laborers; and these all had money to spend. But the soldiers and the sailors often brought their girls—rather dubious, rather dangerous girls—and so did the travelers, and the laborers were loud. It was inevitable that some of the town Negroes would also appear, inevitable that the Sicilians would not have the sense to turn them away—it was against the law to turn them away, though this was not their reason—and inevitable, immediately thereafter,
that the guardians of the law should descend to deepen the Sicilian confusion. They began to stare at the Negro laborers, who, after all, were often there with white laborers, eating and drinking and laughing and cursing, exactly like the laborers they still remembered, with the definite and desperate intention of discovering what was wrong with them. It began to occur to the women that there might be something wrong with being a laborer, since it meant, apparently—they were indeed confused—that one had to be friends with Negroes. They had seen where the Negroes lived by now, and how they lived. But they had yet to ascend high enough in the American scale to become reconciled to the American confusion; they had not yet learned to despise Negroes, because they were still bemused by life. They liked Barbara and Jerry and me. They didn't know how to hide it. They didn't yet know that there was any reason to hide it. Of course, they particularly liked Jerry because they could speak Italian with him, and they gave each other tremendous joy because Jerry could put them down for being Sicilian and they could put Jerry down because his family came from Naples. I didn't speak a word of Italian in those days, but I used to love to watch them and to listen. For Jerry's relationship with these Sicilians was very unlike my relationship with the Negroes in the town. I envied Jerry. Perhaps I hated him a little bit, too.