living to know
how far from the truth that kind of fantasy can lead you and how
irresponsible and finally dehumanizing playing the role of rescuer
can be.
Now, I am and have always been a sentimentalist. I'm
a sucker for romance, maybe because I have so much trouble conjuring
it up in my own life or maybe because it's more romantic to live it
out through other people's lives. But, in my work, there comes a time
when I have to abandon the abiding and pleasant notion that Harry can
make it all come out right in the end. Harry can't do that. And Harry
shouldn't promise desperate old men that he can. And Harry shouldn't
take jobs with that in mind. And Harry was feeling sick at what he'd
committed himself to. And thinking that the trouble with charity work
is not the pay but the working conditions. That they're too damn
unreal. And Harry wanted a shoulder of his own to cry on. But the
only shoulder available belonged to the slender and beautiful young
woman lying next to him, who might or might not be willing to serve
as a hankie, but whom Harry was not certain he had the right to
infringe on. If, indeed, it was infringement and not just plain old
human need, which was also something Harry was unsure of. And he fell
asleep feeling unsure about it, while, at the same time, regretting
not having told Hugo Cratz what Hugo Cratz already knew--that there
was a good chance that, even if she could be pried from the Jellicoes
in one piece, Cindy Ann would probably never want to see that sour,
old man's apartment again.
11
THE SECOND time I awoke that morning the bells of St.
Anne's were sounding sext. I rolled over in the bed and brushed a
lock of black hair from Jo's face,
"Sunday," I said and kissed her lightly on
the lips.
She opened her eyes and smiled at me. There was
sunlight in the western windows, and the bedroom was hot and bright.
Her face looked almost wan in the sunlight and sleepy-pretty.
"Sunday," she said dreamily and rolled out
of bed.
I showered and shaved while Jo made coffee in the
little cubicle off the living room--the "kitchenette" as
Robert Realty calls it. What it is is a shelfless pantry with a
two-burner stove on one wall, a midget refrigerator on another, and
an aluminum sink crammed in between. There's just enough space for a
normal-sized human being to stand amid them, though it's rather like
standing in the U of a U-shaped control console. Moreover, since I'm
slightly larger than normal size, I have to stoop a bit and sidle in
an out of the U if I want to, say, turn from the refrigerator to the
stove. It makes cooking and washing dishes a challenge, which is why
I generally eat out.
There was something pleasantly domestic about having
Jo in there doing the sidling and turning. Although I couldn't help
thinking as I towelled off and stared critically at my lumpy,
unshaven face--the face of a busted Roman statue, as a romantic
lady-friend once put it--that there was something fairly fragile
about the little sounds of satisfaction and frustration she was
making in the kitchenette. And from the way my own hand was shaking,
I understood why. You can't kid the heart, cajole it the way you
would a temperamental child. It'll have its say, regardless. But you
can't hurry it, either. And, as the morning progressed, as those
nighttime resolutions melted away in the sun and the seasonableness
of everyday living, it was getting harder and harder for the heart to
say what it wanted to say, without stuttering and blushing and
holding a finger to its lips. Too much longer and it might not speak
at all. And that was why I was shaking and Jo was sounding fragile
and sad.
I was almost relieved when the phone rang.
"I'll get it," I shouted.
I walked into the bedroom, picked up the extension
and said, "Stoner."
"Harry, this is Red Bannion. I've got some news
that'll interest you."
I sat down on the mattress and dabbed with the sheet
at my wet face. "Like what, Red?"
"That girl," he said. "I jus' knew I'd
seen
how far from the truth that kind of fantasy can lead you and how
irresponsible and finally dehumanizing playing the role of rescuer
can be.
Now, I am and have always been a sentimentalist. I'm
a sucker for romance, maybe because I have so much trouble conjuring
it up in my own life or maybe because it's more romantic to live it
out through other people's lives. But, in my work, there comes a time
when I have to abandon the abiding and pleasant notion that Harry can
make it all come out right in the end. Harry can't do that. And Harry
shouldn't promise desperate old men that he can. And Harry shouldn't
take jobs with that in mind. And Harry was feeling sick at what he'd
committed himself to. And thinking that the trouble with charity work
is not the pay but the working conditions. That they're too damn
unreal. And Harry wanted a shoulder of his own to cry on. But the
only shoulder available belonged to the slender and beautiful young
woman lying next to him, who might or might not be willing to serve
as a hankie, but whom Harry was not certain he had the right to
infringe on. If, indeed, it was infringement and not just plain old
human need, which was also something Harry was unsure of. And he fell
asleep feeling unsure about it, while, at the same time, regretting
not having told Hugo Cratz what Hugo Cratz already knew--that there
was a good chance that, even if she could be pried from the Jellicoes
in one piece, Cindy Ann would probably never want to see that sour,
old man's apartment again.
11
THE SECOND time I awoke that morning the bells of St.
Anne's were sounding sext. I rolled over in the bed and brushed a
lock of black hair from Jo's face,
"Sunday," I said and kissed her lightly on
the lips.
She opened her eyes and smiled at me. There was
sunlight in the western windows, and the bedroom was hot and bright.
Her face looked almost wan in the sunlight and sleepy-pretty.
"Sunday," she said dreamily and rolled out
of bed.
I showered and shaved while Jo made coffee in the
little cubicle off the living room--the "kitchenette" as
Robert Realty calls it. What it is is a shelfless pantry with a
two-burner stove on one wall, a midget refrigerator on another, and
an aluminum sink crammed in between. There's just enough space for a
normal-sized human being to stand amid them, though it's rather like
standing in the U of a U-shaped control console. Moreover, since I'm
slightly larger than normal size, I have to stoop a bit and sidle in
an out of the U if I want to, say, turn from the refrigerator to the
stove. It makes cooking and washing dishes a challenge, which is why
I generally eat out.
There was something pleasantly domestic about having
Jo in there doing the sidling and turning. Although I couldn't help
thinking as I towelled off and stared critically at my lumpy,
unshaven face--the face of a busted Roman statue, as a romantic
lady-friend once put it--that there was something fairly fragile
about the little sounds of satisfaction and frustration she was
making in the kitchenette. And from the way my own hand was shaking,
I understood why. You can't kid the heart, cajole it the way you
would a temperamental child. It'll have its say, regardless. But you
can't hurry it, either. And, as the morning progressed, as those
nighttime resolutions melted away in the sun and the seasonableness
of everyday living, it was getting harder and harder for the heart to
say what it wanted to say, without stuttering and blushing and
holding a finger to its lips. Too much longer and it might not speak
at all. And that was why I was shaking and Jo was sounding fragile
and sad.
I was almost relieved when the phone rang.
"I'll get it," I shouted.
I walked into the bedroom, picked up the extension
and said, "Stoner."
"Harry, this is Red Bannion. I've got some news
that'll interest you."
I sat down on the mattress and dabbed with the sheet
at my wet face. "Like what, Red?"
"That girl," he said. "I jus' knew I'd
seen
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