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December 21, 1973
He had given her the presents in Jean Galloway’s ticking, ormolu living room, and the conversation that followed had been stilted and awkward. He had never been in this room alone with her, and he kept feeling that they should neck. It was a rusty knee-jerk reaction that made him feel like a bad double exposure of his college self.
“Did you lighten you hair?” he asked.
“Just a shade. ” She shrugged a little.
“It’s nice. Makes you look younger. ”
“You’re getting a little gray around the temples, Bart. Makes you look distinguished. ”
“Bullshit, it makes me look ratty. ”
She laughed-a little too high-pitched-and looked at the presents on the little side table.
He had wrapped the owl pin, had left the toys and the chess set for her to do. The dolls looked blankly at the ceiling, waiting for some little girl’s hands to bring them to life.
He looked at Mary. Their eyes caught seriously for a moment and he thought irrevocable words were going to spill out of her and he was frightened. Then the cuckoo jumped out of the clock, announced one-thirty, and they both jumped and then laughed.
The moment had passed. He got up so it wouldn’t come around again. Saved by a cuckoo bird, he thought. That fits.
“Got to go,” he said.
“An appointment?”
“Job interview.”
“Really?” She looked glad, “Where? Who? How much?”
He laughed and shook his head. “There’s a dozen other applicants with as good a chance as me. I’ll tell you when I get it.”
“Conceited.”
“Sure.”
“Bart, what are you doing Christmas?” She looked concerned and solemn, and it suddenly came to him that an invitation to Christmas dinner and not to some new year’s divorce court had been the thing on her lips inside. God! He almost sprayed laughter.
“I’m going to eat at home.”
“You can come here,” she said. “It would be just the two of us.”
“No,” he said, thoughtfully and then more firmly: “No. Emotions have a way of getting out of hand during the holidays. Another time.”
She was nodding, also thoughtfully.
“Will you be eating alone?” he asked.
“I can go to Bob and Janet’s. Really, are you sure?”
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“Yes.”
“Well . . . ” But she looked relieved.
They walked to the door and shared a bloodless kiss.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“You better. ”
“And give my best to Bobby.”
“I will. ”
He was halfway down the walk to the car when she called: “Bart! Bart, wait a minute!”
He turned almost fearfully.
“I almost forgot,” she said. “Wally Hammer called and invited us to his New Year’s party. I accepted for both of us. But if you don’t want to-”
“Wally?” He frowned. Walter Hammer was about their only crosstown friend. He worked for a local ad agency. “Doesn’t he know we’re, you know, separated?”
“He knows, but you know Walt. Things like that don’t faze him much.”
Indeed they didn’t. Just thinking about Walter made him smile. Walter, always threatening to quit advertising in favor of advanced truss design. Composer of obscene limericks and even more obscene parodies of popular tunes. Divorced twice and tagged hard both times. Now impotent, if you believed gossip, and in this case he thought the gossip was probably true. How long had it been since he had seen Walt? Four months?
Six? Too long.
“That might be fun,” he said, and then a thought stuck him.
She scanned it from his face in her old way and said, “There won’t be any laundry people there.”
“He and Steve Ordner know each other.”
“Well, yes, him-” She shrugged to show how unlikely she thought it was that him would be there, and the shrug turned into an elbow-holding little shiver. It was only about twenty-five degrees.
“Hey, go on in,” he said. “You’ll freeze, dummy.”
“Do you want to go?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. ” He kissed her again, this time a little more firmly, and she kissed back. At a moment like this, he could regret everything-but the regret was far away, clinical.
“Merry Christmas, Bart,” she said, and he saw she was crying a little.
“Next year will be better,” he said, the phrase comforting but without any root meaning. “Go inside before you catch pneumonia. ”
She went in and he drove away, still thinking about Wally Hammer’s New Year’s Eve 241
party. He thought he would go.
December 24, 1973
He found a small garage in Norton that would replace the broken back window for ninety dollars. When he asked the garage man if he would be working the day before Christmas, the garage man said: “Hell yes, I’ll take it any way I can get it.
He stopped on the way at a Norton U-Wash-It and put his clothes in two machines.
He automatically rotated the agitators to see what kind of shape the spring drives were in, and then loaded them carefully so each machine would extract (only in the laundromats they called it “spin-dry”) without kicking off on the overload. He paused, smiling a little.
You can take the boy out of the laundry, Fred, but you can’t take the laundry out of the boy. Right, Fred? Fred? Oh fuck yourself.
“That’s a hell of a hole,” the garage man said, peering at the spiderwebbed glass.
“Kid with a snowball,” he said. “Rock in the middle of it.”
“It was,” he said. “It really was.”
When the window was replaced he drove back to the U-Wash-It, put his clothes in the dryer, set it to medium-hot, and put thirty cents in the slot. He sat down and picked up someone’s discarded newspaper. The U-Wash-It’s only other customer was a tired-looking young woman with wire-rimmed glasses and blond streaks in her long, reddish-brown hair. She had a small girl with her, and the small girl was throwing a tantrum.
“I want my bottle!”
“Goddam it, Rachel-”
“BOTTLE!”
“Daddys going to spank you when we get home,” the young woman promised grimly.
“And no treats before bed.”
“BAWWWWTLE”
Now why does a young girl like that want to streak her hair? he wondered, and looked at the paper. The headlines said:
SMALL CROWDS IN BETHLEHEM PILGRIMS FEAR
HOLY TERROR
On the bottom of page one, a short news story caught his eye and he readit carefully: WINTERBURGER SAYS ACTS OF VANDALISM
WILL NOT BE TOLERATED
(Local) Victor Winterburger, Democratic candidate for the seat of the late Donald P. Naish, who was killed in a car crash late last month, said yesterday that acts of vandalism 242
such as the one that caused almost a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of damage at the Route 784 construction site early last Wednesday, cannot be tolerated “in a civilized American city.” Winterburger made his remarks at an American Legion dinner, and received a standing ovation.
“We have seen what has happened in other cities,”
Winterburger said. “The defaced buses and subway cars and buildings in New York, the broken windows and
senselessly marred schools of Detroit and San Francisco, the abuse of public facilities, public museums, public galleries. We must not allow the greatest country in the world to be overrun with huns and barbarians.”
Police were called to the Grand Street area of the
construction when a number of fires and explosions were seen by
(Continued page 5 col. 2)
He folded the paper and put it on top of a tattered pile of magazines. The washer hummed and hummed, a low, soporific sound. Huns. Barbarians. They were the huns.
They were the rippers and chewers and choppers, turning people out of their homes, kicking apart lives as a small boy might kick apart an anthill-The young woman dragged her daughter, still crying for a bottle, out of the UWash-It.
He closed his eyes and dozed off, waiting for his dryer to finish. A few minutes later he snapped awake, thinking he heard fire bells, but it was only a Salvation Army Santa who had taken up his position on the corner out front. When he left the laundry with his basket of clothes, he threw all his pocket change into Santa’s pot.
“God bless you,” Santa said.
December 25, 1973
The telephone woke him around ten in the morning. He fumbled the extension off the night table, put it to his ear, and an operator said crisply into his sleep, “Will you accept a collect call from Olivia Brenner?”
He was lost and could only fumble, “What? Who? I’m asleep.”
A distant, slightly familiar voice said, “Oh for Chrissake,” and he knew.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll take it.” Had she hung up on him? He got up on one elbow to see.
“Olivia? You there?”
“Go ahead, please,” the operator overrode him, not willing to vary her psalm.
“Olivia, are you there?”
“I’m here.” The voice was crackling and distant.
“I’m glad you called.”