They clang an old farm bell here to call you for mealtime. J.P. and I get out of our chairs and we go inside. It’s starting to get too cold on the porch, anyway. We can see our breath drifting out from us as we talk.
NEW YEAR’S EVE morning I try to call my wife. There’s no answer. It’s okay. But even if it wasn’t okay, what am I supposed to do? The last time we talked on the phone, a couple of weeks ago, we screamed at each other. I hung a few names on her. “Wet brain!” she said, and put the phone back where it belonged.
But I wanted to talk to her now. Something had to be done about my stuff. I still had things at her house, too.
One of the guys here is a guy who travels. He goes to Europe and places. That’s what he says, anyway. Business, he says. He also says he has his drinking under control and he doesn’t have any idea why he’s here at Frank Martin’s. But he doesn’t remember getting here. He laughs about it, about his not remembering. “Anyone can have a blackout,” he says. “That doesn’t prove a thing.” He’s not a drunk—he tells us this and we listen. “That’s a serious charge to make,” he says. “That kind of talk can ruin a good man’s prospects.” He says that if he’d only stick to whiskey and water, no ice, he’d never have these blackouts. It’s the ice they put into your drink that does it. “Who do you know in Egypt?” he asks me. “I can use a few names over there.”
For New Year’s Eve dinner Frank Martin serves steak and baked potato. My appetite’s coming back. I clean up everything on my plate and I could eat more. I look over at Tiny’s plate. Hell, he’s hardly touched a thing. His steak is just sitting there. Tiny is not the same old Tiny. The poor bastard had planned to be at home tonight. He’d planned to be in his robe and slippers in front of the TV, holding hands with his wife. Now he’s afraid to leave. I can understand. One seizure means you’re ready for another. Tiny hasn’t told any more nutty stories on himself since it happened. He’s stayed quiet and kept to himself. I ask him if I can have his steak, and he pushes his plate over to me.
Some of us are still up, sitting around the TV, watching Times Square, when Frank Martin comes in to show us his cake. He brings it around and shows it to each of us. I know he didn’t make it. It’s just a bakery cake. But it’s still a cake. It’s a big white cake. Across the top there’s writing in pink letters. The writing says, HAPPY NEW YEAR—ONE DAY AT A TIME.
“I don’t want any stupid cake,” says the guy who goes to Europe and places. “Where’s the champagne?” he says, and laughs.
We all go into the dining room. Frank Martin cuts the cake. I sit next to J.P. J.P. eats two pieces and drinks a Coke. I eat a piece and wrap another piece in a napkin, thinking of later.
J.P. lights a cigarette—his hands are steady now—and he tells me his wife is coming in the morning, the first day of the new year.
“That’s great,” I say. I nod. I lick the frosting off my finger. “That’s good news, J.P.”
“I’ll introduce you,” he says.
“I look forward to it,” I say.
We say goodnight. We say Happy New Year. I use a napkin on my fingers. We shake hands.
I go to the phone, put in a dime, and call my wife collect. But nobody answers this time, either. I think about calling my girlfriend, and I’m dialing her number when I realize I really don’t want to talk to her. She’s probably at home watching the same thing on TV that I’ve been watching. Anyway, I don’t want to talk to her. I hope she’s okay. But if she has something wrong with her, I don’t want to know about it.
AFTER breakfast, J.P. and I take coffee out to the porch. The sky is clear, but it’s cold enough for sweaters and jackets.
“She asked me if she should bring the kids,” J.P. says. “I told her she should keep the kids at home. Can you imagine? My God, I don’t want my kids up here.”
We use the coal bucket for an ashtray. We look across the valley to where Jack London used to live. We’re drinking more coffee when this car turns off the road and comes down the drive.
“That’s her!” J.P. says. He puts his cup next to his chair. He gets up and goes down the steps.
I see this woman stop the car and set the brake. I see J.P. open the door. I watch her get out, and I see them hug each other. I look away. Then I look back. J.P. takes her by the arm and they come up the stairs. This woman broke a man’s nose once. She has had two kids, and much trouble, but she loves this man who has her by the arm. I get up from the chair.
“This is my friend,” J.P. says to his wife. “Hey, this is Roxy.”
Roxy takes my hand. She’s a tall, good-looking woman in a knit cap. She has on a coat, a heavy sweater, and slacks. I recall what J.P. told me about the boyfriend and the wire-cutters. I don’t see any wedding ring. That’s in pieces somewhere, I guess. Her hands are broad and the fingers have these big knuckles. This is a woman who can make fists if she has to.
“I’ve heard about you,” I say. “J.P. told me how you got acquainted. Something about a chimney, J.P. said.”
“Yes, a chimney,” she says. “There’s probably a lot else he didn’t tell you,” she says. “I bet he didn’t tell you everything,” she says, and laughs. Then—she can’t wait any longer—she slips her arm around J.P. and kisses him on the cheek. They start to move to the door. “Nice meeting you,” she says. “Hey, did he tell you he’s the best sweep in the business?”
“Come on now, Roxy,” J.P. says. He has his hand on the doorknob.
“He told me he learned everything he knew from you,” I say.
“Well, that much is sure true,” she says. She laughs again. But it’s like she’s thinking about something else. J.P. turns the doorknob. Roxy lays her hand over his. “Joe, can’t we go into town for lunch? Can’t I take you someplace?”
J.P. clears his throat. He says, “It hasn’t been a week yet.” He takes his hand off the doorknob and brings his fingers to his chin. “I think they’d like it if I didn’t leave the place for a little while yet. We can have some coffee here,” he says.
“That’s fine,” she says. Her eyes work over to me again. “I’m glad Joe’s made a friend. Nice to meet you,” she says.
They start to go inside. I know it’s a dumb thing to do, but I do it anyway. “Roxy,” I say. And they stop in the doorway and look at me. “I need some luck,” I say. “No kidding. I could do with a kiss myself.”
J.P. looks down. He’s still holding the knob, even though the door is open. He turns the knob back and forth. But I keep looking at her. Roxy grins. “I’m not a sweep anymore,” she says. “Not for years. Didn’t Joe tell you that? But, sure, I’ll kiss you, sure.”
She moves over. She takes me by the shoulders—I’m a big man—and she plants this kiss on my lips. “How’s that?” she says.
“That’s fine,” I say.
“Nothing to it,” she says. She’s still holding me by the shoulders. She’s looking me right in the eyes. “Good luck,” she says, and then she lets go of me.
“See you later, pal,” J.P. says. He opens the door all the way, and they go in.
I sit down on the front steps and light a cigarette. I watch what my hand does, then I blow out the match. I’ve got the shakes. I started out with them this morning. This morning I wanted something to drink. It’s depressing, but I didn’t say anything about it to J.P. I try to put my mind on something else.
I’m thinking about chimney sweeps—all that stuff I heard from J.P.—when for some reason I start to think about a house my wife and I once lived in. That house didn’t have a chimney, so I don’t know what makes me remember it now. But I remember the house and how we’d only been in there a few weeks when I heard a noise outside one morning. It was Sunday morning and it was still dark in the bedroom. But there was this pale light coming in from the bedroom window. I listened. I could hear something scrape against the side of the house. I jumped out of bed and went to look.
“My God!” my wife says, sitting up in bed and shaking the hair away from her face. Then she starts to laug
h. “It’s Mr. Venturini,” she says. “I forgot to tell you. He said he was coming to paint the house today. Early. Before it gets too hot. I forgot all about it,” she says, and laughs. “Come on back to bed, honey. It’s just him.”
“In a minute,” I say.
I push the curtain away from the window. Outside, this old guy in white coveralls is standing next to his ladder. The sun is just starting to break above the mountains. The old guy and I look each other over. It’s the landlord, all right—this old guy in coveralls. But his coveralls are too big for him. He needs a shave, too. And he’s wearing this baseball cap to cover his bald head. Goddamn it, I think, if he isn’t a weird old fellow. And a wave of happiness comes over me that I’m not him—that I’m me and that I’m inside this bedroom with my wife.
He jerks his thumb toward the sun. He pretends to wipe his forehead. He’s letting me know he doesn’t have all that much time. The old fart breaks into a grin. It’s then I realize I’m naked. I look down at myself. I look at him again and shrug. What did he expect?
My wife laughs. “Come on,” she says. “Get back in this bed. Right now. This minute. Come on back to bed.”
I let go of the curtain. But I keep standing there at the window. I can see the old fellow nod to himself like he’s saying, “Go on, sonny, go back to bed. I understand.” He tugs on the bill of his cap. Then he sets about his business. He picks up his bucket. He starts climbing the ladder.
I LEAN back into the step behind me now and cross one leg over the other. Maybe later this afternoon I’ll try calling my wife again. And then I’ll call to see what’s happening with my girlfriend. But I don’t want to get her mouthy kid on the line. If I do call, I hope he’ll be out somewhere doing whatever he does when he’s not around the house. I try to remember if I ever read any Jack London books. I can’t remember. But there was a story of his I read in high school. “To Build a Fire,” it was called. This guy in the Yukon is freezing. Imagine it—he’s actually going to freeze to death if he can’t get a fire going. With a fire, he can dry his socks and things and warm himself.
He gets his fire going, but then something happens to it. A branchful of snow drops on it. It goes out. Meanwhile, it’s getting colder. Night is coming on.
I bring some change out of my pocket. I’ll try my wife first. If she answers, I’ll wish her a Happy New Year. But that’s it. I won’t bring up business. I won’t raise my voice. Not even if she starts something. She’ll ask me where I’m calling from, and I’ll have to tell her. I won’t say anything about New Year’s resolutions. There’s no way to make a joke out of this. After I talk to her, I’ll call my girlfriend. Maybe I’ll call her first. I’ll just have to hope I don’t get her kid on the line. “Hello, sugar,” I’ll say when she answers. “It’s me.”
THE TRAIN
FOR JOHN CHEEVER
THE woman was called Miss Dent, and earlier that evening she’d held a gun on a man. She’d made him get down in the dirt and plead for his life. While the man’s eyes welled with tears and his fingers picked at leaves, she pointed the revolver at him and told him things about himself. She tried to make him see that he couldn’t keep trampling on people’s feelings. “Be still!” she’d said, although the man was only digging his fingers into the dirt and moving his legs a little out of fear. When she had finished talking, when she had said all she could think of to say to him, she put her foot on the back of his head and pushed his face into the dirt. Then she put the revolver into her handbag and walked back to the railway station.
She sat on a bench in the deserted waiting room with the handbag on her lap. The ticket office was closed; no one was around. Even the parking lot outside the station was empty. She let her eyes rest on the big wall clock. She wanted to stop thinking about the man and how he’d acted toward her after taking what he wanted. But she knew she would remember for a long time the sound he made through his nose as he got down on his knees. She took a breath, closed her eyes, and listened for the sound of a train.
The waiting-room door opened. Miss Dent looked in that direction as two people came inside. One person was an old man with white hair and a white silk cravat; the other was a middle-aged woman wearing eye-shadow, lipstick, and a rose-colored knit dress. The evening had turned cool, but neither of the people wore a coat, and the old man was without shoes. They stopped in the doorway, seemingly astounded at finding someone in the waiting room. They tried to act as if her presence there was not a disappointment. The woman said something to the old man, but Miss Dent didn’t catch what it was the woman had said. The couple moved on into the room. It seemed to Miss Dent that they gave off an air of agitation, of having just left somewhere in a great hurry and not yet being able to find a way to talk about it. It might be, Miss Dent thought, that they’d had too much to drink as well. The woman and the white-haired old man looked at the clock, as if it might tell them something about their situation and what they were supposed to do next.
Miss Dent also turned her eyes to the clock. There was nothing in the waiting room that announced when trains arrived and departed. But she was prepared to wait for any length of time. She knew if she waited long enough, a train would come along, and she could board it, and it would take her away from this place.
“Good evening,” the old man said to Miss Dent. He said this, she thought, as if it had been a normal summer’s night and he were an important old man wearing shoes and an evening jacket.
“Good evening,” Miss Dent said.
The woman in the knit dress looked at her in a way that was calculated to let Miss Dent know the woman was not happy at finding her in the waiting room.
The old man and the woman seated themselves on a bench directly across the lobby from Miss Dent. She watched as the old man gave the knees of his trousers a little tug and then crossed one leg over the other and began to wag his stockinged foot. He took a pack of cigarettes and a cigarette holder from his shirt pocket. He inserted the cigarette into the holder and brought his hand up to his shirt pocket. Then he reached into his trouser pockets.
“I don’t have a light,” he said to the woman.
“I don’t smoke,” the woman said. “I should think if you knew anything about me, you’d know that much. If you really must smoke, she may have a match.” The woman raised her chin and looked sharply at Miss Dent.
But Miss Dent shook her head. She pulled the handbag closer. She held her knees together, her fingers gripping the bag.
“So on top of everything else, no matches,” the white-haired old man said. He checked his pockets once more. Then he sighed and removed the cigarette from the holder. He pushed the cigarette back into the pack. He put the cigarettes and the cigarette holder into his shirt pocket.
The woman began to speak in a language that Miss Dent did not understand. She thought it might be Italian because the rapid-fire words sounded like words she’d heard Sophia Loren use in a film.
The old man shook his head. “I can’t follow you, you know. You’re going too fast for me. You’ll have to slow down. You’ll have to speak English. I can’t follow you,” he said.
Miss Dent released her grasp on the handbag and moved it from her lap to a place next to her on the bench. She stared at the catch on the handbag. She wasn’t sure what she should do. It was a small waiting room, and she hated to get up suddenly and move somewhere else to sit. Her eyes traveled to the clock.
“I can’t get over that bunch of nuts back there,” the woman said. “It’s colossal! It’s simply too much for words. My God!” The woman said this and shook her head. She slumped against the bench as if exhausted. She raised her eyes and stared briefly at the ceiling.
The old man took the silk cravat between his fingers and began idly to rub the material back and forth. He opened a button on his shirt and tucked the cravat inside. He seemed to be thinking about something else as the woman went on.
“It’s that girl I feel sorry for,” the woman said. “That poor soul alone in a house filled with simps
and vipers. She’s the one I feel sorry for. And she’ll be the one to pay! None of the rest of them. Certainly not that imbecile they call Captain Nick! He isn’t responsible for anything. Not him,” the woman said.
The old man raised his eyes and looked around the waiting room. He gazed for a time at Miss Dent.
Miss Dent looked past his shoulder and through the window. There she could see the tall lamp post, its light shining on the empty parking lot. She held her hands together in her lap and tried to keep her attention on her own affairs. But she couldn’t help hearing what these people said.
“I can tell you this much,” the woman said. “The girl is the extent of my concern. Who cares about the rest of that tribe? Their entire existence is taken up with café au lait and cigarettes, their precious Swiss chocolate and those goddamned macaws. Nothing else means anything to them,” the woman said. “What do they care? If I never see that outfit again, it’ll be too soon. Do you understand me?”
“Sure, I understand,” the old man said. “Of course.” He put his feet on the floor and then brought his other leg up over his knee. “But don’t fret about it now,” he said.
“ ‘Don’t fret about it,’ he says. Why don’t you take a look at yourself in the mirror?” the woman said.
“Don’t worry about me,” the old man said. “Worse things have happened to me, and I’m still here.” He laughed quietly and shook his head. “Don’t worry about me.”
“How can I help not worrying about you?” the woman said. “Who else is going to worry about you? Is this woman with the handbag going to worry about you?” she said, stopping long enough to glare at Miss Dent. “I’m serious, amico mio. Just look at yourself! My God, if I didn’t already have so many things on my mind, I could have a nervous breakdown right here. Tell me who else there is to worry about you if I don’t worry? I’m asking a serious question. You know so much,” the woman said, “so answer me that.”