A Lost King: A Novel Read online

  The first thing at those times was to turn him over and work the stiffness out of his arms and back. He was sharp and bony wherever I touched him. Often and on purpose I touched him before rubbing my hands together to warm them.

  “Get away from me,” he said. “You’re like ice.”

  “I must have poor circulation of the blood,” I said. “Maybe that’s why it’s so hard for me to work with my hands. And my feet are always cold, too. Walking tires me.”

  “Your head must be coldest of all.”

  “That’s why I talk so much. Thinking hurts.”

  “It’s your talk that hurts most.”

  It took so much time to help him into his dungarees that I made a suggestion. Seldom could I resist teasing him.

  “Listen then,” I said. “Why don’t I fold up the bedsheet and pin it on you like a big diaper? You’ll be all set for the day.”

  He drove his elbow into my side and knocked the breath out of me. Gasping and laughing, I sat down beside him on the bed. He got up and shuffled into the kitchen. He sat at the table.

  He was working his arms when I came in to pour the coffee. I put four slices of white bread under the fire in the oven and when they were brown I turned them over. My father had taken two careful sips of coffee. Suddenly he was holding his breath as though he heard bugles in the morning. He went into the bathroom. After a while he came out with a challenging look to make clear that the function was pure delight for him and had nothing to do with need. He sat down and started to grind away on a slice of dry toast. For a moment we were gazing at each other in the pale early light.

  “Your face is familiar,” I said. “Very familiar. And there’s something in your expression. The last time I saw an expression like that it was on the face of a man who bit deep into a rotten apple.”

  He stopped chewing.

  “Haven’t we met before?” I said, pinching him in the ribs.

  “Goddam it,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

  “And I know that voice, too,” I said. “I’m sure we’ve met somewhere. Let me think a minute. Wasn’t it a bullfight in the south of Spain? Wasn’t it you dancing there in the sunlight when that bull came down in a rush? What control you had! And then that bull caught you by the seat of your golden pants. Up you went. Up, up, up. You were spinning against the blue sky. And then you sailed past me and our eyes met. Both your hands went up, and I knew it was meant as a special kind of salute for me. And then you landed. You didn’t move a muscle. What control you had!”

  My father shook his head in bewilderment.

  “Wasn’t that you?” I said. “Wait then. Didn’t I meet you on that coffee plantation in the jungles of Brazil? Now I remember you. You had a shining pistol and a white hat like a balloon. You had a whip forty feet long, and you were whipping forty natives at the same time. How could I forget a man who made a whip sing like that? Tell me something. It’s between the two of us. How did you get out alive?”

  “Where the hell did you come from?” he said.

  “Let me introduce myself. Paul Christopher is the name. Here by special invitation. Look out the window, Pa. What a day it is! Look past the smoke. Look at that sun and sky. Something good is happening. I feel it in the air. Do you realize a baby’s being born every five seconds or so? Right now in fact. While I’m saying this. But he’s here! I hope he takes hold and never lets go!”

  “He’ll let go.”

  “Think of it, Pa. He’s bringing something into the world that was never here before. Maybe it’s a new hope or a new idea about things. Isn’t it exciting? Wait, wait. His name is coming to me. It’s Daniel. It’s Daniel Carter! Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to inform you that Daniel Carter has arrived with a grand idea. Hello, Daniel, hello! Now what’s the idea?”

  My father turned away.

  After breakfast I made the beds and swept the bedrooms. I drew the torn window shades against the afternoon sun and then I went back to wash the breakfast cups and rinse out the gray enamel coffeepot that was shaped like a bell. My mother used to keep that pot warm and full for the friends who came to visit her all through the day. I broke up some bread and stepped out the back door to scatter it downhill for the brownish-gray little sparrows. In the spring the robins came, and once for a week there was a cardinal whistling sweetly to us.

  We lived along the crest of a hill overlooking the industrial valley of Cleveland. Below was a sprawl of steel mills and oil refineries and chemical plants. Mill buildings were covered with reddish ore dust. The old brown Cuyahoga River twisted past them under the birdlike cranes that unloaded ore boats coming down from ports on Lake Superior. Railroad bridges were like opened black accordions over the river. Brown and yellow and orange boxcars curved away past fields of rusting scrap iron. Smoke was everywhere. I used to sit and watch it billow out of high strutting stacks. White flowers of it bloomed in the midst of orange veils. There were yellow plumes and then it blew dark and wild as storm clouds.

  I went back into the house. My father was watching me. Those strong hands roped with veins were folded in his lap. He wanted me to shave him and yet he would say nothing about it.

  I pinned the red and white dishcloth around his neck. I pinned it so tight that the muscles bulged below his ears.

  “You out of your mind?” he said, ripping it off.

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  I pinned the cloth again and gave him the brown razor strap to hold. I stropped his fine straight razor and then I lathered him. I filled his ears with soap. He started swallowing and swallowing and cursing under his breath. His ears were slanted and so big it seemed he would hear if someone were drawing his wine in the cellar—which was the truth, if it came to that. I can vouch for it. His skin was red and leathery down to his bulging collarbone. Below it he was white and helpless somehow like a baby.

  For a while I moved around humming and turning that straight razor in the palm of my hand. His face beneath a climbing tangle of sugary white hair was all bone and hollows and dissatisfaction. Those burning brown eyes watched me across the pirate nose.

  “Are you finished dancing?” he said.

  “I’m nervous this morning. Isn’t it a little damp in here? My fingers are tightening. Really, Pa, I can’t do my best work under these conditions. Do you want me to go ahead with this?”

  “One more word and it’s over. I’m warning you.”

  I started to shave him. It was good to touch him. It seemed I touched him only during a shave or massage.

  “I’ll be very careful,” I said. “This must be perfect. I want you to look just right today.”

  “For what? For what?”

  “A visitor is coming. What a thrill. My heart’s pounding already. She was asking about you again. And again. And then again.”

  It was necessary to coax him into conversation. Talk made him feel better and so he set himself against it.

  “Who was asking?” he said.

  I leaned over to whisper in his ear.

  “Sophie,” I said, breathing hotly.

  “Who?”

  “Sophie Nowak. I can’t get over the way she puts things. She goes right to the heart of it. ‘How’s your father?’ she said. ‘Is he still sleeping on the bed of nails?’”

  “Tell her not to worry about my bed.”

  “Ten years ago yesterday she lost her husband.”

  “Lost him? My guess is she finished him off. She’s got a face like a cauliflower.”

  “She wants to do things for us. She was telling me how she’d fix up this house. She’d plaster the cracks in the walls and then scrub everything down with a wire brush and pine soap. Including you and me. And then she’d put up lacy white curtains against the ugliness of the South Side. And then she’d toss garlands of Polish sausage here and there. She’ll make pierogi for you. In the mornings you’ll dance the polka together and in the evenings she’ll knit winter woolies while you talk of world affairs. It’ll be very gay and very satisfying for both of you. She ga
ve me her word.”

  “Very pretty. We’ll put on a show for the neighbors. It may be the last romance in the smoke here.”

  “Sophie said you’re both in the same boat.”

  “And she wants to hold hands while we sink. Is that it?”

  “She wants to know your favorite dish.”

  “Tell her it’s privacy.”

  “I told her you like hot peppers and highly seasoned food. She winked when she heard it. And she pinched me when she said your name. She always does. Everything’s all right until she says your name. And then she pinches me. I don’t know what it means, Pa, but I walk a block out of my way for it. And there’s something else. She offered to wash our clothes.”

  “She wants something in return.”

  “Well, she does want something.”

  “Who didn’t know it?”

  “She wants to brush and comb your hair in the evenings.”

  “If I lay my hands on her!” he cried.

  “She said the same thing about you.”

  Right then I worked soap into his eyes with my forefinger.

  “Get away!” he said. “That’s enough of this!”

  After shaving myself I went up to the corner delicatessen for him and bought the Cleveland Plain Dealer and a package of Model pipe tobacco. He was sitting in the Boston rocker on the porch when I came back.

  “I’m not going out on the watermelon wagon,” I said. “I’ll go downtown and look for another job.”

  He was waiting to read the newspaper and smoke his pipe.

  “Let’s see if I have everything,” I said. “A clean handkerchief and a comb. The key to the house. A map to find my way home if I get lost. Hope in my heart and iron in my bones.”

  “Didn’t you forget something?”

  “Name it.”

  “The harmonica.”

  “It’s right here in my back pocket,” I said. “I like music after lunch. And before it. And during it. It’s good for the disposition. Try it some time. Listen then. Do you think I should wear a hat? It’ll be hot and they say the afternoon sun is a danger to the brain.”

  “Have no fear,” he said, with his dry laugh.

  It was good to hear him laugh though it was usually at my expense.

  “I’ll bring you a surprise for supper,” I said. “And something special for dessert. How about some walnuts or figs? How about a chocolate cake with custard in the middle?”

  He said nothing.

  “How would you like a new pipe?” I said. “How about one of those curved pipes? They curve out of sight down under your chin. Smoke curls up your nose and you forget where it’s coming from. You can put yourself under a spell, Pa. You’ll forget where you are.”

  “Buy the pipe.”

  “Really? Would you like it?”

  “Do what you please,” he said, turning away.

  I was leaving early so that I could ride downtown in the bus with Peggy Haley. Halfway up the alley I turned back. I wanted to look at my father again. He was watching me.

  “Good-by, Pa,” I said, waving to him.

  He turned away.

  2

  I remember the hushed voice and loving touch of my mother. Her name was Jenny. She would come softly in the dark of morning to sit on my bed and hold my hand. She would kiss my eyes and whisper some surprising thing in my ear. It was easy for me to pretend that I was still dreaming.

  For a time I had this midnight cough. My mother would bring me hot wine with sugar in it and then she would rub my throat and chest with a clean burning salve. Dark beloved eyes came close to mine. Her breath was warm and sweet.

  “I’ll have to watch out for you,” she said.

  She whispered and kissed me as though hiding me in a safe secret place until morning. I used to cough and cough just to bring her to me. It was in the night that I realized she would never come to me again. All was lost but the dreaming.

  I didn’t stop that coughing right away. I went on with it and my sister Nina rubbed my chest for a few weeks. It was a different thing. Soon enough she tired of it.

  “Make him stop that coughing,” she said. “He’s fooling around.”

  “Did you hear?” said my father.

  He was drinking heavily in those days.

  “I can’t help it,” I said. “I really can’t.”

  To spite them I coughed and coughed. I was experimenting with harsh new coughs that tore at my throat. Sometimes they made me dizzy.

  “Stop it!” said Nina. “I can’t stand it!”

  “You’re breaking the rule,” said my father. “My last warning.”

  “Rule? What rule?”

  “I just made a rule against coughing in the house at night. I’m sick of it and so I made a rule against it.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “Cough again and find out. Go ahead. Break the rule.”

  “I never heard of such a thing. It’s impossible.”

  “Now I made another rule.”

  “What is it?”

  “You just broke it,” he said.

  “But what was it?”

  “The last rule is not another word out of you tonight! Not one!”

  I went to bed and cried myself to sleep. My father was worse than medicine and I decided he had never been a boy at all. Surely he had been born old and tough like a tree to block my way and spoil everything.

  Every day we were choosing up sides in the house. Nina and my father would be against me or I would be with Nina against my father. At times I was with my father against Nina. It was confusing. I would wake in the morning and try to remember whose side I was on. A bit of talk would change things around.

  “Where’s your sister?” my father would say.

  “You mean Nina?” I said, stalling for time as usual.

  “What a memory for names,” he said. “A prodigy.”

  I was against him.

  “Nina’s washing her hair,” I said.

  “She left dishes and garbage in the sink.”

  “She needs a little time for herself, too.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I really do.”

  “Then you do the dishes,” he said. “And be quick about it.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “It’s fair to your sister. She needs time for herself. And it’s fair to me. I want the dishes done.”

  “Maybe you should do them, Pa. That sounds fair to everybody.”

  “Maybe it is. But I’m stronger and smarter than you are. Now I’ll give you fifteen minutes. And let that be a lesson to you.”

  “It’s not fair at all!”

  “What the hell are they teaching you in that school? Are you in the fairy-tale class or what? Don’t expect things to be fair. Get rid of that idea. It’s another one of those bubbles. Don’t be blowing them around here!”

  It was so hard for Nina in the house that in the end she turned against both of us. She had to cook and clean and wash. She was only nineteen and like any girl she had other things on her mind. The truth is, she had the insurance man on her mind.

  I have to admit she was a poor housekeeper. My father would come home from the steel mill and sit in the kitchen to smoke his pipe and drink glass after glass of his homemade red wine. At once Nina started sweeping the floor to impress him. She raised a cloud of dust.

  “Stop, stop,” he said. “I just had eight hours of this on the job. Don’t you know enough to open a window or sprinkle the floor before you sweep? And why don’t you cover the food? And what were you doing all day that you waited till now to sweep? I know, I know: you were waiting to sweep!”

  Nina sewed up our clothes in such a way that the stitching looked worse than the hole. It seemed there were mice in our socks after she finished with them. She mixed things together in the Easy washing machine. All the colors shifted around. One day she forgot to take the pipe tobacco out of my father’s dungarees before dropping them into that plunging machine.

  “You forgo
t the pipe,” he said.

  Another time she was washing his favorite white broadcloth shirt. She washed it tenderly by hand and then rinsed it. Carefully she folded the buttons inside before sending it through the wringer. She hung it on the line in the back yard. She failed to put the clothespins in tight enough. A wind came up and blew that shirt down the hill where it got caught high in a sycamore tree. That evening I called my father outside to show it to him. I was excited. He stood and watched it flapping down there like a broken white bird. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  Something was wrong at every meal. Nina took no interest in cooking. Once for supper she served round steak and beans and potatoes and cabbage. Next two nights we had tomato soup. One day she was making a lamb stew and it burned at the bottom of the pot. She skimmed off the best of it and put it in another pot. She forgot it and half an hour later it burned again. She changed it to another pot. The stew left for supper had this dead black look and taste.

  “What the hell’s going on?” said my father. “Is this what’s left of a pound and a half of spring lamb? It’s like magic. Black magic, too, from the way it looks. And it wasn’t enough for you to ruin the lamb. I see you put in carrots and green peppers and potatoes. Why did you stop there? Why didn’t you put in the salad and bread and coffee? It would’ve been a complete triumph in one pot!”

  Nina was ready to cry.

  “But I ate a big dish of that stew,” I said.

  “Is that so?” he said, wheeling on me.

  “I was hungry when I came from school. I ate my share of it. I’ll just have some salad for supper.”

  “Did you like the stew?”

  “It was all right, Pa.”

  “You can have this, too,” he said. “You can have my share. And I’ll sit here while you eat it. All of it.”

  “It’s not his fault,” said Nina.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” he said. “He climbed on the horse and we’ll let him ride…. How’s the stew?”

  “It’s good,” I said.

  “Be careful,” he said, ominously.

  I took a deep breath.

  “This stew is a treat,” I said.

  He swept the dish off the table.

  “Clean it up and go to bed!” he said. “Right now!”