The Autograph Hound (18 page)

The replacements should be here by 10:00. I'm too tired to talk. Eyes burn. Pants stained with soapy water. McDougal at twenty-four bottles for the fifth time. Anything I hum sounds like his song. I think I've forgotten how to think. Zambrozzi walks over to McDougal.

“Hey, Chief, whadda they call Italian singing?”

“Tell your friend a Miss Gloria call the kitchen. She say she waiting at the same place. Tell him from now on, no more calls.”

“You didn't answer the riddle, Chief.”

“I don't know.”

“Wopera! Get it?”

Zambrozzi passes me. The silent treatment. My ears are hot.

McDougal laughs. I have to look at him. “Here's something to sing under the girl friend's balcony, hot lips—

“Take it to your mouth Mrs. Murphy

It only weighs a quarter of a pound

It's got hair on its head like a turkey

And it spits when you shake it up and down.”

There's vomit in my throat. McDougal makes me sick. I
am
loyal.

At this hour, Saint Malachy's—the actors' church—is the only place on Broadway where you can sit and talk quietly without a cover charge. Gloria has nothing to wear on her head. I give her my Mets cap.

Gloria sits back in the pew. “Say you're sorry for last night.”

“What did I do?”

“Don't make fun of me.”

“I didn't.”

I'm bushed. My hands still sting from the soap.

“Say something, Benny.”

“I did.”

“You know I don't like it when it's quiet.”

“A guy has to relax, you know.”

“I hate it when it's this quiet. My mind starts thinking.”

“It's peaceful.”

“I imagine things. They scare me.”

“Nightmares?”

“No, good things.”

“What's scary about that?”

“I stop myself. Read a magazine. Turn on the TV.”

“I worked pots and pans tonight.”

“If you don't expect anything, you're not disappointed.”

“I wasn't expecting pots and pans, but I was disappointed.”

“I want to light a candle.”

“Why?”

“I don't mind if my mind thinks about other people.”

She kneels down. Instead of taking the missal in the rack beside her, Gloria reads
Screen
magazine. She bows her head. When she looks up, she's crying.

“What's wrong?”

“Carol Burnett.” Gloria hands me the magazine. “Page four,” she says. “Where it says ‘The Operation Carol Must Have.'”

I hurry to the last paragraph. “Pray for Carol” it says. “What's wrong with her? What happened?”

“Didn't you read it?”

“That takes too long. What is it?”

“They say Carol has the Big C.”

This takes the wind out of my sails. “Are you sure?”

“I pulled her through the Emmy Award. It was between Carol and Lucille Ball. I love Lucy, but she's had the brass ring. When Carol accepted, she said somebody must be watching over her. And I was. I feel responsible. You know—‘in sickness and in health.'”

“You can't always believe what
Screen
says. They wrote Sinatra had only six months to live. That was three years ago.”

“I got her through once. I can do it again.”

“You're stupid to get mixed up with comediennes. How much work can they get? They all end up in Las Vegas.”

“You can't explain these things, Benny. It's chemistry.”

“Go ahead. Light your candle.”

“Come with me, Benny.”

“I'm not going up there. Things always happen to me.”

“You've been here before?”

“I took Communion here my first week in New York.”

“How was it?”

“Delicious.”

Gloria's heels click on the marble. Her coin drops in the box. I remember Saint Malachy's that first week and signing all the actors after Mass. Everybody signed, some of them twice. When the priest came out, I asked him, too. He smiled, put clips on his trousers, and got on his bicycle. I watched him pedal away. A box, strapped to the back of his bike, fell off. Communion wafers flew up in the air and scattered like pigeons. The priest ran after them. Communion never tasted the same after that.

“I feel better now,” Gloria says, sliding back in her seat. “Let's talk about something else.”

“You hear anything more about the astronauts?”

Gloria takes a pocket radio and plugs the earphone into her ear.

“What's happening?”

“Ssssh!” she says. “It's a church.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Ground control says the oxygen's at the danger level.”

“Are they dead?”

“They may have enough to make it back to earth. It's touch and go.”

Gloria unplugs herself. “How much overtime did you earn?”

“Fifty-four.”

“That's half a week's pay in one day.”

“Zambrozzi said, ‘In revolutionary times, the stakes are higher.'”

“It's so much money, Benny.”

“I could make a down payment on a color TV.”

“A washer-drier.”

“A Ford Mustang.”

“A dinette set with Portuguese tile inlays.”

“A Japanese tape-cassette console.”

“Isn't that too expensive, Benny?”

“The Japs work cheap.”

“Oh, Benny, it feels like Christmas. You'll have one hundred and eight dollars in two days. This Mr. Vic you were talking about, how much does he get?”

“Three hundred and fifty plus a case of Scotch by Friday.”

“Today's Wednesday.”

“I get a three-star restaurant.”

“Why'd you promise something you can't deliver? Why didn't you think, Benny? Where can you raise the rest of the money?”

“Overtime.”

“That's not enough money.”

“It isn't?”

“Don't you know how to plan for the future?”

“I had to make up my mind there and then. Mary Martin was inside. I thought it'd be enough. It's more than I've ever made. Maybe The Homestead'll give me a bonus.”

My ears are warm again.

“Let's try and think,” says Gloria. “You need three hundred and fifty dollars plus the Scotch. How are you getting the Scotch?”

“The Homestead's giving it to me as a goingaway present.”

“At least that's settled. Now, Benny, I know a place where they buy autographs.”

“I'm not listening.”

“I'm trying to help, Benny. Beggars can't be choosers.”

“I got my collection by myself. I'll get the money by myself.”

“They give thirty dollars a book.”

“Highway robbery.”

“Don't be stubborn.”

“She knows about ambulances. But autographs—forget it.”

“You get me mad.”

“I didn't do anything to you. You're a beginner. I've been around a long time. I've a reputation.”

“It always happens like this. Somebody makes you happy, then they make you sad.”

My chest aches. Gloria's face is all twisted with worry. If she'd only been with me when I got the big ones, she'd understand. If she could shut her eyes and see what I see. Buster Keaton as close to me as Gloria. He's carrying his ukulele. I yank the rope, the bus door opens. I run after Buster. I twist my ankle, but it doesn't hurt. I catch him at a newspaper stand. He signs my pad. He tips his pie-pan hat like in the movies. I tip mine. We laugh together. The pew's as hard as the upper mezzanine at the Polo Grounds. Willie's at bat. He fouls one up above the Chesterfield sign on the third-base side. I have my first baseman's mitt. I'm leaning far over the railing. I'm being pushed by the crowd. “Get it! Get it!” Hands. Shoving. The ball sails above us. I spear it. In the clubhouse beside his locker, Willie signs the ball and gives me an autographed picture. His sweat smells sweet. His stomach's as stiff as frozen meat. He's wearing a Saint Christopher medal, so am I. “Say hey, baby. We're twins.” Willie smiles his home run smile at me.

“Are you listening? You've got to sell something. And the autographs are the most valuable things you own.”

“You don't understand, Gloria. They're not just pieces of paper.”

“Sell your doubles.”

“I need my doubles.”

“For what?”

“I need them. For special occasions. For trading. For security in case something happens to my number-one autograph.”

“You gave me Joan Crawford.”

“That was a special occasion.”

“The autograph's worth at least thirty dollars.”

“It's worth more than that.”

“I could get thirty tomorrow.”

“You'd sell my Crawford?”

“You gave it to me.”

“You said you loved Joan Crawford.”

“There's more where that came from.”

“Don't be so sure.”

“You're pigheaded sometimes, Benny.”

“The first person I've ever given any part of my collection to. And she'd sell it at a drop of a hat.”

“Benny, I'm doing it for you.”

“That Joan Crawford's probably worth five hundred, for your information. I got it right in front of the Pepsi headquarters. I gave it to you because you were nice, because you made me feel nice, too.”

“Oh, Benny, I love that autograph.”

“Enough to peddle it? To somebody who buys other people's hard work?”

“Believe me, Benny. It's the nicest present a man ever gave me.”

“You've had others?”

“That's not the point. I want to help.”

“If that's help, I don't want it.”

I give her the silent treatment. After a few minutes she stands up and throws my hat on the floor. I hear her walk up the aisle. “I wasn't making fun,” I yell as she genuflects. “You bent my peak!”

In church, all the prayers are by the book. I always prayed best by myself. “God bless America, Ma, Uncle Jack, Uncle Bill, Ralph, and Mrs. Ryan (in case Ma needs help and can't reach the doctor).” I said it fast because it's wrong to ask God for too much. Prayers should be special. When the players prayed for a Trade win, we'd put our hands in the middle, kneel down, ask God for victory, and end with a cheer. Trade was undefeated.

It's hard to pray in New York. There's too much to do, too much action. Last year, I went to Confession. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It's been eight years since my last Confession.” The priest asked me to repeat the number. I walked out. I felt so old, and full of sin.

My head feels like a soufflé pushing out of its pan. I've got to get organized. Three hundred and fifty dollars. It's not for me, God, remember that. It's for the collection.

The face on the crucifix is familiar. He's dressed in black except for his chest and hands, which are white as meringue. His arms are raised high. His head's tilted. His feet point down and are gracefully crossed. Long face, straight hair …

It's Fred Astaire.

The Apostles curve around the altar to watch him. They're dressed in gold. Blonds, with hair to their shoulders, blue eyes, pink cheeks, and ruby lips—they look like Ginger Rogers without breasts.

Fred hears me. He's doing a number for my benefit. His head rolls, his arms float above him. The chorus picks up his beat. An Apostle holds out his right hand. His finger's the baton. He's conducting my favorite film—
Shall We Dance
. The altar's their revolving stage.

Fred's doing his famous soft-shoe. He slides his patent leather feet in a circle on the marble altar. He gets both sounds at once—a tap and a swoosh, just right for “They Can't Take That Away from Me.” I'm laughing because Fred's laughing and belting out “They All Laughed.” Fred forgives everybody. He was the first to sing about “reaching for the moon,” and now the astronauts are on their way. The altar's whirling. The noveria candles bend with it. But Fred keeps his balance. The Apostles spin above him. They're singing to me

“They all said we'd never get together

Benny, let's take a bow
.

'Cause ho-ho-ho,

Who's got the last laugh now.”

I feel great. Everybody's having a ball. The Apostles are dancing. Gloria's up there. So am I. Fred leads us through the confusion. Nobody stumbles.

“We're closing, mister.” The voice sounds far away, but the face comes close to mine. An old man. Slow. Black fuzz in his ears. He doesn't have the beat. He's not smiling. He's trespassing.

“Ssssh! We're not finished.”

The music gets faster, so do the people. I can only see Fred's feet. His taps spark as they hit the stone floor. Everyone else is lost in the light.

“Mister, if you want to sing, there's a High Mass tomorrow at eight.”

“I'm not singing. I'm dancing. Leave me alone.”

“Mister, it's a house of God, not Roseland.”

“God's dancing.”

“Sure.”

“He is.”

“Mister, do I have to call Father Donahue or do you leave peaceful-like?”

Fred reaches out and catches Gloria. Nothing ugly or sexy. He sweeps her off the ground. The white spots have shrunk from balloons to snowflakes. Fred has Gloria in his arms. She's wearing a long gold dress. I can hear it crinkle as she does the Grapevine. I've never seen Gloria so happy. Her laugh's sudden and sharp like tinkling glass. She's waving. “C'mon, Benny, Fred wants you, too,” she says.

“Mister?…”

“He's going to hold me.”

“We're closing.”

“Wait. Just a second, please.”

I can feel a hand on my coat.

“Can you wait a few minutes?”

“Okay. A minute.”

When I turn back, Fred's danced away. Everything's silent. I feel cold. I hear a tap, but it's only the old man's fingers on his watchman's clock.