A Lost King: A Novel Read online

  Later that night two fellow workers from the steel mill came to visit him. He was in such a drunken fury that he turned the oven on full blast to get rid of them. Those two men sat there sweating in the kitchen. They couldn’t stand it. Suddenly they leaped to their feet. They were dancing round as though the floor itself had gone hot. They were gasping and grabbing for their coats and plunging through the door. My father burst into laughter.

  After a bad day in his crane at the mill he rushed home to complain about everything in sight. He tasted the beef soup and then jumped with a cry and threw dish and all against the wall. He always threw it against the same spot over the sink. Nina burst into tears and ran into her bedroom. I sat there eating while my father cursed and pounded the table. Dishes and cups were dancing.

  “Do you call this living?” he said. “Work and sweat like an animal and then come home to this? Dishwater for supper! You should be ashamed of yourself! I say there’s no love in you! You won’t even take the time to cook a decent meal for your own flesh and blood! You couldn’t hold a dog in the house with this food! By Christ, he’d rip your apron off! Why the hell do you even wear an apron?”

  Nina was crying.

  “Look around,” he said. “Look at this house. Five rooms to clean and it’s like a tornado hit! What the hell do you do all day? I know, I know: you brush your hair and paint your lips and look in the mirrors. I wish I had a dollar for every time you saw yourself. You should have a twin sister. You could spend the day holding hands and looking at each other!—What’re you doing?”

  I was eating. I was eating everything in front of me. I finished my soup and snatched his bread. I speared some boiled beef. I was reaching for the lettuce and tomato salad when he turned on me.

  “Eating,” I said.

  “I hear it,” he said, grinding his teeth. “How was the soup?”

  “It was all right.”

  “Is that the truth?” he said, looming in a dangerous way.

  “It wasn’t so bad.”

  “I’ll give you one more chance.”

  Nina was sobbing.

  “It was remarkable,” I said, bracing myself.

  I jumped sideways as he turned the table over.

  “Get out of my sight,” he said, softly. “Quick, quick. I don’t want to see your face tonight.”

  Hour after hour he sat in the kitchen. I watched him through my bedroom door. He was drinking wine. His big brown work shoes sat on the floor beside him. They were like puppies. There were dark stains of sweat under the arms of his dungaree shirt. Now he was looking at his black cap and lunchpail on the cupboard. Beside them were his work gloves like smashed swollen hands. His glance went up to his black hat on top of the gleaming new refrigerator. It was the hat he saved for special occasions and for remembering. He got up and put it on. He sat down again. He was leaning forward in the chair. Surely he was thinking of my mother. Long into the night they would stay up to hold hands and drink wine and laugh. Her laughter was hushed and sweet. He would snort. Remembering, I got out of bed just to let him know I was there with him. He watched me. He beckoned.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  “I can’t sleep. I guess I’m thirsty.”

  He gave me half a glass of wine.

  “It’s good,” I said.

  “I know. For you everything is good. For me everything is bad. It’s a little difference of opinion we have.”

  “But it really is good.”

  His hatbrim slanted down in a kind of thin black salute.

  “You may be right and right about things,” he said. “But in the end you’re wrong. I may be wrong and wrong but in the end I’ll be the one that’s right.”

  “Is there enough wine for you?”

  “I need an ocean. This is the last barrel.”

  “We’ll make more. You’ll have it all winter.”

  “We’ll see. Go to bed. Sleep here and not in school.”

  In the morning it was the same old story with him. Before dawn he would be moving here and there as though searching in every corner of a strange house. Presently he slipped into our rooms to tear the bedcovers off us. His eyes were wild at the emptiness of the day.

  “Get up, get up,” he said. “Are you on vacation?”

  It happened every morning. He came like a thief into our rooms to whip the covers off. It was bad for me and worse for Nina. It was a shock and a shame to her. I used to wake up angry. I followed him around and glared at him.

  “Do you know what happens to boys who look like that?” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re looking at me.”

  “What happens to them?”

  “They see a star.”

  “A star?”

  He smacked me on the back of the head.

  “What about it?” he said. “Did you see it?”

  “I guess so.”

  One morning I woke before he did. I dressed and put the mop in my bed and covered it. He slipped in and ripped the covers off. His mouth fell open. I scooted past him to escape a sweeping backhand. It was like being on the offensive. It made me reckless. A while later I complained about the coffee. I knew he made it. He had no consideration for us. He boiled coffee grounds right in the water and then killed the taste of it by putting whiskey in his cup. That coffee was black as night and seemed to be dissolving my teeth. There was always a layer of grounds in cups so stained they needed scouring.

  “What is this?” I said, sipping the coffee.

  “What?” said Nina. “What’s the matter, Paul?”

  “Shame on you,” I said. “Your own flesh and blood.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This coffee. Why, it’s like a poison. Really, Nina, it’s very cruel of you to do these things to us. I mean it.”

  “Do you?” said my father.

  “I really do.”

  He hit me on the back of the head and took my cup away.

  “Now tell me how you feel?”

  I saw a star and felt resentment.

  All that day I had a big thirst for revenge. I rushed home from school. No one was there. I was kicking chairs and slamming dishes around when there came a soft rapping on the door. A bearded old man seemed to be talking to me even before I opened the door.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he said, in a low singing voice.

  “The meaning of what?”

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Well, my father’s working. My sister must be shopping.”

  “It’s your father I came to see, my boy.”

  “He’ll be home in an hour or so. He’s working.”

  “Say no more. I’ll wait for him. It’s an old promise. Ashtabula, Ashtabula. I wonder if I might trouble you for a bite to eat while I wait for him. My name is Lance. Lance Caulfield.”

  I was bewildered. I was gazing at the white hair swirling round his ears and billowing down into the luscious beard. That beard was like a handful of summer cloud. Hidden sapphire eyes watched me. His graying shirt was open at the collar where a silver crucifix gleamed within the snowy whirls of his beard and chest hair. He wore a buttonless brown overcoat that looked as if it had been chewed up by a dog.

  “And your mother?” he was saying, as he closed the door.

  “My mother passed away.”

  “I’m sorry, my boy.”

  “Eggs,” I said. “How about some eggs?”

  “Perfect, perfect. Three will do.”

  He sat down at the table. I made coffee. I fried three eggs in butter and toasted four slices of bread. I put everything in front of him at the same time so that I could sit and watch him. I wanted to hear that rich singing voice again.

  “My own dear mother came from Ireland,” he said. “One winter there she and my grandmother and grandfather ate thirty bushels of potatoes. The next winter they ate forty bushels of potatoes. And the next winter fifty bushels.”

  “And then?”

  “S
he came to try her luck in America. She met and married my father. He was an artist. A painter. He painted pictures of her. All day. My mother could never understand why he wanted pictures of her when she was there in the flesh. She began to think there was more to be said for potatoes.”

  “Really?”

  “Probably. Now look at me. But you mustn’t look too close. I have my father’s temperament, my boy, but no talent. A talent only for living. Would you believe I was once regarded as a dashing figure? And then I found myself dashing to catch buses. And dashing to the bank. And dashing to pay grocery bills.”

  He finished the eggs and cleaned the dish with his bread. He sipped coffee and wiped the beard away from his mouth with his forefinger. His eyes were roving. They fell on my father’s pipe and hat on the refrigerator. He got up.

  “A pipeful would be excellent,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  He filled the pipe and lit it. Puffing, he studied the hat. Gently he took it down and turned it in his smooth white hands. My father would have liked the way he touched it.

  “Beautiful,” he said, sitting down. “How soft it is. And the color is perfect. It’s a living black. Like the night.”

  He put it on. That black hat was perfect above swirling hair and clear startling eyes. I watched him. He gazed at me and then beckoned. I went to him. He wanted me to stroke his beard.

  “Are you thinking deep thoughts?” he said. “You should always ponder and meditate when you stroke a beard. Wait then, wait then. Give me your other hand. Put it on my heart. Do you feel it beating? Alone in the dark and so brave. Yours is the same. Yours is the same. Keep stroking the beard. Think and feel. The heart sings alone like a bird. Think and feel, my boy.”

  Sweet smoke from the pipe engulfed me.

  Lance Caulfield was putting my hands together as though for prayer. He was whispering as he turned me to send me back to my chair.

  “Promise me,” he said. “Promise me one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “Promise to tell your father that Lance will return. I kept my promise. I kept mine, I kept mine. Ashtabula, Ashtabula.”

  He went away.

  All at once my father came lunging through the door. It was such a shock to me that I burst into tears. After a while I remembered what happened. I tried to explain it to him.

  “Lance will return,” I said, finally. “Ashtabula, Ashtabula.”

  My father was looking at the top of the refrigerator where his pipe and hat had been. His dark eyes burned shut and seemed to leave his face in ashes. He put his hands in his pockets and went into the bedroom. He closed the door, softly.

  First thing in the morning he hit me twice. Little by little I could feel my head going numb. It was happening more quickly all the time. My father hit me so often in those days that the neighbors explained everything about me by saying I was stunned. I still have this feeling he slapped something out of me, or into me.

  After hitting me he ordered me to go down the cellar and fire the furnace. Before going down those creaking stairs I dropped a scrub pail to scatter the mice. That pail banging down the stairs brought a scream from Nina and a wild cry from my father. They thought I fell. My father rushed over.

  “What happened?”

  “I dropped the pail to scare the mice away.”

  “When will you learn to think before you act?” he said. “When will it be, when will it be?”

  He smacked me.

  I went downstairs crying. I put newspaper and sticks in to start the fire. I decided to cut school and go downtown. To spite him further I threw one of his winter boots on the fire before putting in the coal. I was on my way downtown when the smell of it filled the house.

  That night he gave me a terrible beating. Next morning I threw in the other boot and went downtown again. He gave me another beating. All in all it was worth it.

  3

  After a time it was so good to be with Nina that my father became suspicious. No longer did she complain about work in the house. Each day she managed to get the cleaning and shopping done. She sang songs while ruining our food and she was blushing and trembling in every corner. The house came alive with stirring sounds. All around us were delicious little sighs and soft moans of delight and sudden bells of innocent laughter. Once I heard her whispering hotly in the clothes closet. I flung open the door. She flung her arms around me.

  “I forgive you for everything!” she cried. “Now and forever!”

  Life was so sweet for her that one night she danced around the kitchen with the broom and then the mop. My father sat there watching with wild steady eyes and head cocked as though listening for the footfall of the enemy. The very next night Nina danced out of our lives with the insurance man Andy Bobbio. My father was left watching me. He broke mop and broom over his knee and then locked the door against Nina.

  “Didn’t I tell you to watch them in the day?” he said. “What the hell were you doing here?”

  “I was watching,” I said.

  “You watched them go out the door! Everything was happening and you saw nothing! Next time I’ll tell you to watch the sky! Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “You were at work.”

  “And so everything happened tonight? Is that it? They met and ran away to get married.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m talking to you,” he said. “What were you doing?”

  “I was thinking.”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “You were thinking if you had a camera you’d take their picture.”

  “And then I said a prayer.”

  “A what?”

  “A prayer for Nina to be happy.”

  “Good for you! Millions of people are in misery all over the world and God is going to make Nina happy! Do you want to pray? Pray for your wits. Pray for strength. Pray for luck. You’ll find out what it is without a sister. Go back to bed!”

  He stayed up all night. He was raving. Nina had baked a farewell sponge cake as a gift and he threw it out the window. Some of it stuck to his hands.

  “It’s like cement,” he said. “It’s made with the left hand like everything else for us. Let her cook for him now. Now it’s his turn. By Christ, I think they deserve each other. They look for love and find justice! It’s the same old kick in the ass!”

  All along I had been watching Nina and Andy. Warmth of feeling spilled over between them and yet I had no idea they were planning to elope. Day after day he kept turning up for coffee and talk. I was on the alert. Nina made weak coffee and her talk was even weaker.

  “Look who’s here,” Andy would say.

  He swept off his porkpie hat and his curly hair jumped up.

  “Stop, look, and listen,” he said.

  His hair was like black broccoli.

  “Never fear, Andy’s here,” he said.

  There was no doubt about it. He was a feast for the eyes in that smoke on the South Side. He had a dimpled baby face with eyes dark as his hair. He was wearing a gray flannel suit and a black and gold bowtie like a rare butterfly. Round his waist was a black shoestring belt with a silver buckle. He wore black moccasins with pretty leather bows. Nina and I were goggling at him.

  “Don’t be greedy,” he said. “Save part of me for later.”

  He reached into his pocket for a cigarette case. He held it to catch the light and blind us. A moment later he was lighting a cigarette and watching Nina through the smoke. He was watching her in a way that forced me to look at her. Just about then he crossed his legs to show us gray socks with pink rabbits dancing on them. There was no place to go from the socks and so Nina and I went back to start with his hair again. So dazzling was he that a boy named Danny Poulos used to throw stones at him in the alley.

  “You think this is something?” said Andy. “You should see my underwear. My underwear, that’s right. You’d applaud.”

  “Really?” I said.

  �
�You’ve had enough excitement for one day,” he said. “And another thing. I forgot the plums.”

  “Plums?”

  “I always carry plums in my pocket. When I see someone with his mouth open like that I always put a plum in. A plum, that’s right. You heard me. Your ears don’t flap over.”

  He sat there sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Nina whirled around him with mop and broom and pail. Never had she worked so hard. The house was in fair order while Andy made those visits.

  “Don’t lift that couch,” he’d say, jumping up to help. “Listen, Nina, you should be more careful. You’ll strain yourself doing things like that. What’s the matter with Paul? You work like a slave here. A slave, that’s right.”

  My teacher Miss Riordan used to say that when a man called you a slave he had a change of masters in mind.

  “When do you rest around here?” said Andy. “Why are you on your feet all the time? Sit down a while. Who’s driving you? I don’t like this. For one thing you’ll ruin your legs. Your legs, that’s right.”

  Nina blushed. She looked beautiful to me with her black hair and those brown eyes flecked with gold. It seemed I was seeing her for the first time.

  “What do you do?” said Andy, turning to me.

  “I just started high school. Lincoln High.”

  “He was set back twice in school,” said Nina.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Andy.

  “That’s why they set me back,” I said.

  “How about the important things?”

  “What important things?”

  “Can you make change for a dollar?” he said. “Do you feel in your heart there’s happiness right around the corner? Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for the good of the team?”

  “What team?”

  “Are you a good athlete? Can you fly a kite? What if I bring a kite? Will you go out and fly it?”

  “Save your money.”

  “Hold still then. I’ll carve your statue in this butter.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I wish I had a plum.”

  He turned to Nina.

  “Just look at your hands,” he said. “Look how red and raw they are. They’ll look like liver in another month. Liver, that’s right. You should wear rubber gloves if you put them in water so much. All the girls do. Don’t you know that?”