Humpty Dumpty in Oakland Page 3

  The Dolittles were the first middle-class Negroes that he had ever known or even heard of. They owned more property than anyone else that he had met since coming to the Bay Area from St. Helena, and Mrs. Dolittle—who personally ran the string of rental properties—was as mean and stingy as other landladies that he had run up against. Being a Negro had not made her any more humanitarian. She did not discriminate among the races; she ill-used all her tenants, white and dark alike. Mr. McKeckney, the Negro on the floor below, told him that she had originally been a schoolteacher. Certainly she looked like it; she was a tiny, sharp-eyed, gray-haired old woman, wearing a long coat, hat, gloves, dark stockings and high heels. It always looked to him as if she were dressed for church. From time to time she had terrible fights with other tenants in the building, and her shrill loud voice issued up from the floorboards or down from the ceiling, whichever place she was. Julie was afraid of her, and always let him deal with her. Mrs. Dolittle did not scare him, but she gave him something to ponder: the effect of property on the human soul.

  Contrarily, the McKeckneys downstairs owned nothing. They rented a piano, and Mrs. McKeckney, who seemed to be in her late fifties, was learning to play on her own, from a book: John Thompson s First Grade Piano Book. Late at night, he heard Boccherini’s Minuet, again and again, played deliberately, all notes getting equal emphasis.

  During the day Mr. McKeckney sat outdoors in front of the building, on an apple crate which he had painted green. Later, someone provided him with a chair, probably the big German used-furniture merchant down the street. Mr. McKeckney sat for hours on end, nodding and saying hello to everyone who passed. At first Al was mystified by the McKeckneys’ ability to survive economically; he could not make out any source of income. Mr. McKeckney never left the house and although Mrs. McKeckney was gone a good deal of the time, it was always for shopping or visiting friends or doing good works at the church. Later on, however, he learned that their children, who had grown up and left home, supported them. They lived, Mr. McKeckney told him proudly, on eighty-five dollars a month.

  The little McKeckney grandson, when he came to visit, played by himself on the sidewalk or in the vacant lot at the corner. He never joined in with the gangs of kids who lived in the neighborhood year around. His name was Earl. He made almost no noise, scarcely talking even to the adults. At eight in the morning he would appear wearing wool trousers and a sweater, with a grave expression on his face. He had very light skin, and Al guessed that he was heir to a good deal of white blood. The McKeckneys left him to his own devices, and he seemed responsible enough; he kept out of the street and never set fire to anything, as did most of the neighborhood kids, white and colored and Mexican. In fact he seemed a cut above them, even aristocratic, and Al occasionally pondered as to his probable background.

  Only once did he hear Earl raise his voice in anger. Across the street two bullet-headed white boys lived, both bullies, with time on their hands. They were the same age as Earl. When the mood came onto them they gathered green fruit, bottles, stones, and clods of dirt, and hurled them across the street at Earl, who stood silently on his sidewalk before his house. One day Al heard them yelling in their chilling voices: “Hey, you got an ugly mama.”

  They repeated that again and again, while Earl stood glowering silently back at them, his hands stuck in his pockets, his face becoming more and more stern. At last the taunts drove him to answer.

  In a loud, deep voice he shouted, “Take care, little boys. Take care, little fellows, there.”

  It seemed to do it. The white boys went off.

  Recollections, thoughts, filled Al’s mind. The people who came to look at cars on his lot, kids without money, workmen who needed transportation, young couples; as he stood there in front of the garage with his wife he thought about them, not about what she was saying. She was speaking to him, now, about her own job as secretary at Western Carbon and Carbide; she was recalling to him her desire to quit entirely, someday. He would have to be making a lot more money for her to do that.

  “ . . . You’re hiding from life,” Julie wound up. “You’re looking at life through a tiny hole.”

  “Maybe so,” he said, feeling glum.

  “Off here in this run-down district.” She gestured at the street of small stores, the barber shop, the bakery, the loan company, the bar across the street. The colon-irrigation outfit whose sign always upset her. “And I don’t think I can stand living in that ratty apartment much longer, Al.” Her voice had softened. “But I don’t want to put pressure on you.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Maybe what I need is to get my colon irrigated,” he said. “Whatever that is.”

  3

  That evening, as Jim Fergesson walked up the cement steps to the front door of his house, the Venetian shade behind the glass of the door shivered, moved aside; an eye, bright, wary, peeped out. And then the door swung open. There stood his wife, Lydia, chuckling aloud with pleasure, blushing to see him as she always did when he got home; it was her habit, due perhaps to her Greek origins. She ushered him inside, into the hall, talking quickly.

  “Oh I’m so happy that you are finally home. What sort of a day did you have this time? Listen, do you know what I’ve done? In my desire to please, and I know it will please, guess what I’ve put on the stove for you, and it’s cooking now!”

  He sniffed.

  Lydia said, “It’s chicken; stewed chicken and spinach.” She laughed as she led the way through the house ahead of him.

  “I’m not hungry so much tonight,” he said.

  Turning, she said, “I can see you’re in a bad mood.”

  He halted at the closet to hang up his coat. His fingers felt stiff and tired; Lydia watched with an alert, bird-quick expression.

  “But now you’re home, and so no reason to be in a grumbling mood,” Lydia said. “Is that not right? Did something happen today?” At once her face became anxious. “Nothing happened, I trust. I know fervently that nothing in the world could happen.”

  He said, “I just had a little run-in with Al.” Going past her he entered the kitchen. “This morning.”

  “Oh,” she said, nodding in a somber manner, showing that she understood. Over the years she had learned to catch his moods and to reflect them, to line herself up—at least in appearance— with them, so that a communication could be brought about.

  His wife was very much for that, for a full discussion of his problems; sometimes she made out things in his problems that he had missed. Lydia had gone to college. In fact she still took courses, some by mail. Being able to speak Greek, she could translate philosophers. And she knew Latin, too. Her ability to learn foreign languages impressed him, but on the other hand she had never been able to learn how to drive, even though she had gone to a driving school.

  Still, she listened to what he had to say about cars, even though many of the notions made no sense to her. He had never found her unwilling to listen, no matter what the topic.

  The table in the dinette had been set, and now Lydia moved about the kitchen, getting pans from the stove and transferring them to the table. He seated himself on the built-in bench and began unlacing his shoes. “Time for me to take a bath?” he said. “Before dinner?”

  “Naturally,” Lydia said, at once returning the pans to the stove. “You would no doubt feel much more at peace with the world if you took a bath.”

  So he went to the bathroom to take his bath.

  Hot water roared down on him as he lay soaking; he kept the water going, more for the noise than anything else. Here, with the door shut and the steam rising and the noise, he felt relaxed. He shut his eyes and permitted himself to float a little in the almost totally filled tub. The tiles sparkled with drops of condensation. The walls, the ceiling, became damp; the bathroom fogged over, making the fixtures dim shapes, dripping and tenuous. Like a real steam bath, he thought. A Swedish steam bath, with attendants waiting, and white robes and towels. He rested his arms on the sides of the tub, and, wi
th his toes, shut the stream of water down to a trickle; he arranged it so that the incoming water was exactly balanced by that drawn off by the spillover drain.

  Here, now, away from the garage, shut in by himself in the warmth and dampness of this familiar bathroom—he had lived in this house for sixteen years—he felt no trouble. What a solid old house this was, with its hardwood floors, its glass-doored cupboards. The timbers had become like iron over the years, soaking up the anti-termite compounds that he lavished on them in the early fall. Over the outer boards coats of paint had become themselves a second house protecting the first, the inner wooden one. Even this, the enamel house which he had built up layer by layer over the years, would have been enough; after all, wasps made houses out of paper, and no one bothered them.

  This was no paper house that he lived in. They can take those pigs, he thought. Those three; I got them beat all the way around. I could tell them a thing or two, even that last one, the pig that got the credit. Let me ask how long that house of his stood up. This’ll be here long after. In those days, in the ’thirties, they really built. That was prewar; they didn’t use any green lumber.

  And, as he lay in the tub working the controls with his feet, he began to think. He thought—he let his thoughts go there—on that old topic. It came to him that there was such a thing as gain.

  Yes, he thought, look what I got. I got thirty-five thousand dollars. What a lot of money.

  And there’s nothing I have to do, he thought. It’s already in; it’s in writing, a fact. Just lying here in this tub I’m waiting, and it’s getting closer. I can count on it, without any work now.

  So now he did not have to think of work. It had been work that had forced itself into his mind, over the years. They can take their damn cars, he thought, and stick them up their ass.

  I think I’ll never go back there, he decided. To the garage. I think I’ll stay home.

  You couldn’t get me to go back there, he thought. And he looked with real anger on those who wanted to get him back; he felt real hate.

  What’ll I do with this money? he asked himself. This enormous sum, a sort of fortune. I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll leave it to my wife. This big sum paid to me for everything that I’ve done— I’ll be dead, and she’ll be spending it. And she doesn’t even need it.

  Has she stood by me? he asked himself. Worked at my side? I don’t see it, if she has. It’s the Oakland Public Library that she’s supported, not me. It’s the University of California and those professors, and especially those students in sweaters. They dress nice and keep their nails cut. They have plenty of time and training to know to do that.

  At the door of the bathroom a faint noise attracted his attention. The knob turned, but the door did not open; it was locked.

  “What is it?” he yelled.

  “I wanted—” His wife’s voice, cut off by the noise of water.

  He shut off the water. “It’s locked,” he yelled.

  “Do you have a towel?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  After a pause she said, “Dinner is ready. I want it to be exactly right for you.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be out.”

  Later, he sat across from Lydia at the dining table, drinking his soup. As always, she had fixed up the table; she had put on candles, a white tablecloth, and linen napkins. She wore a little jewelry, too, a necklace. And she had on rouge. Her black eyes shone and she smiled at him, an immediate smile as soon as she saw he was looking at her.

  “Why so gloomy?” she said. “Is it not a lot more happier for yourself and all mankind to adopt a more pleasant exterior?” When he did not answer, she went on, “And eventually that affects the inner person, at least according to the magnificent psychology of William James and Lang.”

  He said, “You got that from your course?”

  Briskly, with no intention of abandoning her mood, she replied, “Yes, I got that from my course, Mr. Terrible Gloom.” She would fight a good fight for happiness, he saw. Her smile was enriched by determination; it defied him. Under all conditions, behind any reaction, she kept this, the faith; he would get nowhere.

  In this house, he thought, in my house, I can’t even be depressed. At least, not out loud. It’s not permitted. Like dirt.

  Swept out the door.

  She moved a little faster. Her hands flew from butter plate to coffee cup to napkin. Lots of spunk, he thought. Where does it go, when I’m pushing up daisies? I’ll push up—not daisies—but skunk cabbage, he decided. Imagine her at my grave with an armload of flowers from her garden in the back, roses and stuff; and there the skunk cabbage is, growing like hell. He laughed.

  “Ah,” she said in a full-throated voice.

  It came to his attention, watching her, that she was a lot younger than he. Of course he knew that, always had the fact available. But he did not usually dwell on it. Her hands. Still smooth. Well, she didn’t have to scrub them with Dutch Cleanser four times a day. Who did the floors in the house? She had a colored girl come in twice a week; that girl did the heavy work, the dirty stuff. Lydia did only the dusting, the dishes, the shopping, fixing the meals; the rest of the time she was out learning.

  “What did you learn?” he said. “Today.”

  “Are you interested?” she said in a merry voice.

  “Sure,” he said. “Since I pay for it.”

  “Money,” she said, “is the arbiter of worth in a society of barbarians, who identify themselves by when they see a sacred tablet in the: temple made of gold.” Her eyes fixed themselves on him. No timidity, there.

  He said, “You’re going to be a pretty big-time barbarian, one of these days.”

  The eyes continued. Watching.

  “Thirty-five thousand,” he said, with such fury that she did, at last, cease smiling. “Why don’t you start a fund? The Fergesson Fund for Bums. Pay bums to sleep all day.” His voice rose. “In the parlor,” he shouted. “On the couch.” His voice, squeaky, shook. “Here in my house!”

  She said nothing. Watched.

  “Maybe I go see Louis Malzone,” he said. “My attorney. Maybe I take the trouble to invest the money in bonds.” But why? he asked himself. Because she got it in the end anyhow, for nothing, for doing nothing. And he, for all he had done; what did he get?

  But he felt tired. He ate his roll, spread butter—real butter— on it. And all the time she watched.

  “Describe to me this run-in you had with Al,” she said.

  He said nothing. He ate.

  “That is responsible for this overpowering incorrect view of things as they are,” she said.

  At that, he laughed.

  “That man,” she said. “Such a deliberate waste of his life, as he reveals. And his attitude toward others for what actually lies inside his own inner reality. When he and his wife—the latter whom I care a great deal for, as you know—appeared in this house for dinner on that particular Sunday afternoon, I had an even stronger impression than ever before.”

  “What impression?”

  Lydia said, “Are you not acquainted with my impression? Why that is I could not say. I know in the past I took pains to discuss it with you. How long is it that he has rented the lot next to you for his cars? At this point a number of years. During that period I can see in you a change. There is no coincidence. What is it that I remarked when you arrived home tonight? That you were in a bad mood. I am familiar with that mood. Formerly you did not return home so much in that mood. What is he in your life? He indicates to you the absolute stupidity, without hope. Man making himself stupid. But it is you that take onto yourself for nothing at all responsibility.”

  Looking up, he saw that she was pointing her finger at him and frowning.

  “Because,” she said, “he has marred his own life with doing nothing, he manages to make you feel that you owe him something, but in fact you owe him to leave. To have him leave.”

  Fergesson said, “Just because he dresses bad.”

  “W
hat, my good dear?”

  “Christ,” he said. “He tripped over the God damn ashtray. What about that? All this theory stuff, and you know what it is? It’s nothing but he tripped over the ashtray that first time he came here. And the way he dresses.”

  “Pardon me,” Lydia said. “Because I know better, my good dear. That man has contempt. Tell me. What is his preference?”

  He did not understand; his wife had gone into her rapid Greek kind of speech, and when she did so, when she was this way, most of what she said was lost to him.

  Lydia explained, “What is the church of his faith?”

  “How do I know,” he said.

  “None,” she said.

  “Maybe so,” he said.

  “Do you know,” she said, “that what a man believes about God is actually as Freud showed his attitude toward his father? And a man who has no ability to find in himself any proper reverence in the Heavenly Father, which is a good word, has no father here on earth that he relies on? I want to know what you think about this. What makes the character in this old world of ours? The family. It is in the family that the laughing little baby grows. Who peers down at him over the edge of the blessed cradle?”

  “His mother,” Fergesson said.

  “His mother,” Lydia said, “is known to him through the tit, the source of eternal plenty.”

  “Okay,” he said, “but he also sees her.”

  “He experiences her as nectar,” Lydia said; “as the food of the gods. But the father he gets nothing from. There is between him and the father a separation. Whereas with the mother there is unity. Do you see?”