Humpty Dumpty in Oakland Read online

  “How do you feel?” Carmichael said.

  He nodded.

  “You have to watch that wet dirt; it’s tricky.”

  “Yes,” Fergesson said. His head was beginning to clear and he could see. But he felt so sick that he knew he had broken something inside; he was trembling and scared and he wished Carmichael would leave. He wanted to go back to Oakland.

  Carmichael, leaning by the car door, was talking at great length, continuing his discussion as if nothing had happened. His infinite calm had not been broken; the old man had fallen and Carmichael had arranged to get him back on his feet. The old man perspired as he lay against the upholstery of his car, and he thought about driving back. He was sure he could do it; he could, if necessary, pull off the road. He wanted to leave right now and he opened his eyes and interrupted: “Thanks, Mr. Carmichael. I’ll see you.” With his right hand he put on the ignition and with his foot he pushed down on the gas. The motor started.

  “Wait,” Carmichael said. “I’ll give you my card.”

  Fergesson accepted the card and put it in his pocket. He let the car go forward a yard and Carmichael walked along beside it. Staring through the windshield Fergesson blinked as sweat got into his eyebrows and down into his eyes. The pain was more intense, less dull; he felt it locate itself in his heart and suddenly he understood that he had had a heart attack; not much of one, a small one, from the climbing and the excitement.

  “Goodbye,” he said. Nodding with the motion of the car he drove down the road.

  “I’ll see you, Jim,” Carmichael said. He was lost to Fergesson’s sight. The sound of his voice dwindled. Fergesson drove with both hands clutching the wheel. When he had gone a mile or so he slowed and lay back again, trying to make himself comfortable. The pain seemed to be fading. He was glad of that.

  By the time he had found his way back onto the highway he was able to sit up entirely. The cramp, or pain, was fading. Trembling, he shifted for the first time into high gear. The roar of the engine subsided.

  He was still frightened and as he drove he sang to himself, “Bom, bom. Bom, bom.” It meant nothing and he had never made sounds like that before; with his lips he repeated the sounds again and again, as if they were important. “Bom, bom.” He was relieved to see San Rafael on both sides of the highway, because that meant he would soon be on the bridge and going back across to the East Bay. “Bom, bom,” he said to himself, hearing his own voice. He gained strength and said it louder. The midday sun was hot and it made perspiration steam down his cheeks and into his collar. His coat stuck against him and when he moved he felt the sticky plucking of fabric. Perhaps, he thought, his chest had been laid open by the steel beams.

  7

  The garage had not been opened for the day; its wooden doors were shut. The old man parked his Pontiac in the entrance and got clumsily out to unlock the padlock that held the doors together. As he dragged them up a rush of dank, dismal air billowed past him.

  When he had brought the Pontiac inside he went into his office and unfastened his coat. He dug down to his flesh, under his shirt and undershirt, and found the cloth soggy with blood. A deep indentation crossed his ribs. It was still bleeding. Presently he went to the washroom, and, with the bar of Lava soap, sponged away the blood. The indentation was white and the flesh was not as much cut as dented away.

  So, he thought, back at his desk in the office, the pain had come from the impact, from the blow; steel had hit him across the chest and there was no reason to suppose anything more serious. The pain was gone. He felt weak and sick. Leaning, he opened the bottom desk drawer and groped for the half-pint of Christian Brothers Brandy. A paper dixie-cup, filled with paper clips, was the only glass he could find. After he had drunk some of the brandy he sat pushing the clips across the desk surface. Then at last he looked up Harman’s telephone number and dialed.

  “Look,” he said. “Harman? Mr. Harman?”

  “Just a moment,” the girl said. “I’ll connect you with Mr. Harman.” A series of clicks, a wait. Then a man’s voice.

  “Yes, this is Harman.”

  “This is Fergesson,” he said. “I’m interested in that place but I can’t get hold of Mr. Bradford.”

  “Oh yes,” Harman said, sounding puzzled for a moment.

  “I went up there but he wasn’t there.”

  After a pause Harman’s voice said, “My friend, I’ve been thinking about you and this business. I think what you better do—have you got an attorney or not?”

  “No,” Fergesson said.

  “Well, who drew up the papers on your garage?”

  “Matt Pestevrides. Real-estate broker.”

  Harman said, “It seems to me if you’re going to deal with Bradford you should deal through somebody. There’s no offense intended in my saying this. I think, though, Jim, you’d really be a lot better off if you could deal through a representative who’s used to operators like Bradford. Who can—do you know what I mean?—talk their language.”

  “I want that place,” Fergesson said.

  “The auto repair?”

  “I want to buy it!” he said loudly in Harman’s ear. The racket of his voice jangled back.

  “Well, look,” Harman said. “Get a lawyer. Have him approach Bradford. Have him tell them he’s got an interested party who wants to know more. He’ll know how to approach them. Probably Bradford and his associates already have a prospectus drawn up; you know what that is, its a financial statement giving all the particulars. Have your lawyer go over it and see what he thinks. Or get hold of an investment broker. Somebody who’s used to this sort of thing. Or bring it to me, if you want.”

  “I’ll take it to Tsarnas.” That was the Bulgarian property attorney who had handled the papers on his garage when he had first bought it. “Thanks.”

  “If you want I’ll give you the name of my own attorney,” Harman said. “He’s very good.”

  “No.” His chest was beginning to hurt again. “Thanks.” He hung up the phone.

  Why, he thought, couldn’t he see Bradford? Why did he have to work through somebody else? Bradford was like God, up in the sky, unseen; known only by his works. The big men, the financiers, would hear of Jim Fergesson indirectly and by degrees; the awareness of Fergesson would creep up gradually if it crept up at all. And how important would that be to them? How much would it count? But he had made up his mind to go ahead.

  Dialing, he called Tsarnas’s office. Tsarnas’s daughter answered.

  “Let me talk to Boris,” he said. “This is Fergesson.”

  He told Tsarnas to find out about Marin Country Gardens and then, when he had hung up, he opened the desk drawer and found a Dutch Masters cigar still wrapped in cellophane. The cigar tasted good and he was able to relax. Down in his chest the pain was an ache, dull and uniform, going on like a pulse.

  Outside the office were cars to be worked on, cars with metallic dust on their hoods from the valve-grinding of the past days. One Plymouth was up on its end, suspended by the hydraulic hoist; he had not remembered to let it down. The Plymouth had been upright for three days. It was a wonder the air had not leaked out of the hoist. After he had smoked the cigar he left the office and took tools from the workbench. He kicked the wooden flat-can out and lowered himself onto it.

  Once again he was beneath a car, down in the cold darkness, among the indistinct shapes. He found the protected electric bulb on its cord and dragged it beside him; the yellow area spread out over the transmission and flywheel of the car.

  When he rolled to pick up a socket wrench his chest cracked. At it his mouth flew open and he let the wrench go. The pain, as it had been, hopped back and was there again, as before. The pain settled on him and he could not breathe. Through his mouth he swallowed air, wheezing as if his throat were clogged.

  “Fuck,” he said, when he could speak, and rolled back onto his shoulders. He lay face up, his arms at his sides, seeing the blaze of the electric bulb. Something was wrong inside him. A permanent t
hing had broken. He had not recovered.

  For a time he lay under the car and then he slid the cart out. He threw his tools on the bench and walked to the office. For an hour he sat doing nothing. The time was three-thirty and he had not eaten since six. In the white sunlit entrance of the garage the outlines of people passed. He wondered if anybody would come in. If so, maybe they could get him a sandwich at the café down the street.

  Late in the afternoon, after the heat had left the sun’s rays, Al Miller got out the gallon jug of polish and began polishing a 1954 Oldsmobile which he had picked up from a wholesaler. While he waited for the polish to dry he turned on the hose and began washing off his other cars; he slung the hose here and there. The glare this time of day was intense, and he had put on his dark glasses. Because of the glare he kept his back to the street and sidewalk.

  As he moved behind a car he turned and caught sight of someone coming toward him, a figure that had already gotten onto the lot without him noticing. Walking very fast, the woman approached him in a straight line. She bore down on him as he stood with the drizzling hose in his hands; shading his eyes he tried to make out who it was, if it was someone he knew. Often women who wanted parking-meter change came that way, so rapidly and purposeful.

  The woman, broad, middle-aged, suddenly began to yell at him in a high voice, “Oh, you terrible person, you standing here. You doing nothing like always.” She repeated her words several times, jumbling them together; he stared at her open-mouthed, taken completely aback.

  The woman, he saw now, was Lydia Fergesson.

  “Just stand there!” she yelled at him, her face elongated, drawn out, made over from inside. “Never do anything in the wide world except for yourself, you selfish dreadful man.”

  “What?” he said, moving to shut off the hose.

  Lydia pointed at the garage.

  “He isn’t there,” Al said. “He’s been gone all day. I looked in around two.”

  Her mouth opened and she said, “He lay in there sick.”

  Oh my God, Al thought. The thing did happen. “What kind of sick?” he said. “Will you tell me?” His own voice rose, almost as shrill now as hers. “You hysterical foreign nut!” he yelled at her, standing so close to her that he could see every pore of her skin, every wrinkle and line and hair. She backed away a step, showing fear. “Get out of here,” he yelled. “Get off my lot.” As she retreated he ran after her. “What happened to him?” he yelled, dropping the hose and grabbing hold of the sleeve of her coat. “Tell me!”

  She said, “He had an attack.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At home.” Her voice was lower, without the accusation. “A good customer who has fondness and care for him happened to come and find him sitting in the office; he could not even call. And he was driven to the doctor who took X-rays and taped him.”

  Some of Al’s fear vanished. “You made it sound like he was dead. Like he croaked.” He was shaking and his voice wavered.

  “Good-bye,” Lydia said. “I came down here by cab in order to tell you what your attitude might have done.”

  “What attitude?” He followed her to the edge of the lot. There, in a parking slot, was the cab, new, yellow and shiny; the driver sat reading the newspaper. “I’ll drive you back to the house,” he said. “Is it okay to see him? Can I see him and see how he is?”

  Lydia said, “Will you drive with care?”

  “Sure,” he said, already going to his best car, the Chevrolet, opening the door and starting up the motor, racing the motor by pushing down on the foot pedal. Then he strode over to the parked cab and paid the driver. Returning, he found that Lydia had already gotten into the Chevrolet, in the back seat. She sat staring ahead, her face expressionless . . . on purpose, he decided as he got in front, behind the wheel. Came down here to make me feel bad because I didn’t find him.

  He drove through traffic. Neither of them spoke.

  When he got to the house on Grove Street he went on ahead of Lydia, up the steps and onto the porch. The front door, however, was locked, and so he had to wait for her. As soon as she had unlocked the door he went inside.

  There in the living room he found the old man, looking about the same as always except that he had on a blue wool bathrobe and slippers, instead of his cotton work suit and shoes. He sat in the center of the couch, his feet up on a hassock, watching the television set. The room was filled with the din of the set. Al stopped and stood looking at the old man, who did not seem aware of him.

  At last Al went over to the set and turned the sound down. Now the old man turned his head and noticed him.

  “What’s the matter?” Al said.

  The old man said, “I got a cut on my chest.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Maybe a cracked rib. The doctor took X-rays. It’s taped up.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  “I fell,” the old man said.

  “Slipped on grease?”

  “No.”

  Al waited. “How, then?” he said finally.

  “On some wet grass,” the old man said.

  “Where the hell’d you find any wet grass?”

  From behind him Lydia said, “He was in Marin County.”

  “Taking a vacation?” Al said.

  “On business,” the old man said. He sat silently for a time, with a look on his face of grimness. He said nothing more. Al could not think of anything to say; he stood around, getting his breath, calming down. It did not seem so bad after all. Obviously the woman had gone off the deep end.

  “Do you need or require anything?” Lydia said, approaching the old man.

  “Maybe some coffee,” the old man said, “Cup of coffee?” he asked Al.

  “Okay,” Al said.

  Lydia disappeared into the kitchen. The two men remained together, both of them silent.

  “She sure had me worried,” Al said.

  The old man said nothing, nor did he show any expression.

  “You’re feeling pretty good, aren’t you?” Al said. “How soon can you go back to work? What’d the doctor say?”

  “He’ll call me. When he gets the X-rays.”

  Al nodded. “Anything I can do?” he said presently.

  “No,” the old man said. “Thanks.”

  “Call some of your customers for you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay,” Al said. “You let me know.”

  The old man nodded.

  From the kitchen, Lydia called in a clear voice, “Mr. Miller, please come in here a moment.”

  He went down the hall and into the kitchen.

  At the sideboard, fixing the coffee, Lydia Fergesson said with her back to him, “Please get out of the house now that you have seen him long enough.”

  Al said, “Listen, I’ve worked with this guy for years.” His anger, his dislike for her, filled him.

  “Long enough,” she said in a brisk, bright, commanding voice, almost a merry voice, as she went about getting coffee cups.

  “What did I ever do?” he said.

  Turning in his direction, Lydia said, “Despite what he says he is ill. He is an ill man.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Allow him to remain at home where he belongs and recuperate. Make no demands.”

  “What like?” he demanded. “What demands? What do you mean? What do you think I do to him or get out of him? You think I’m always having him fix up my cars for me? Maybe that’s it.” He felt both hate toward her and gloom, his old usual gloom. Certainly it was so; he did make use of the old man. And she had never liked him. She used the old man, too, and so she could easily see what went on. “Consider that I give him a hand,” he said. “With the heavy stuff. Did you consider that? You better consider that, too.”

  She said nothing. She went on bustling about in her kitchen, paying no attention to him, smiling in her fixed fashion. Waiting for him to leave, now that she had said her piece.

  For a time he stood there. He tried
to think of something to say, but no idea came. Only his feeling. At last he turned and walked back to the living room. He found the old man again watching the TV set, with the sound still turned down; the old man faced the set and kept his attention on it, on the watery gray shapes.

  “So long,” Al said. “I have to be going.”

  Presently the old man nodded. Al waited, but the old man did not speak. So he stuck his hands in his pockets and walked through the house to the front door.

  A moment later he was outside on the sidewalk, getting back into his Chevrolet.

  Driving away, he thought, I shouldn’t have left. I should have stuck around and saved him from that witch. That old harpy.

  But he could not think of any excuse for going back, any way to put it that would make his return seem justified.

  I really don’t amount to a good God damn, he said to himself. I’m a bum, nothing but a bum. No wonder I don’t get anywhere. I have no drive, no ambition. I’m doomed and I know it. There’s no place for me. I don’t have the guts to carve any place out.

  He did not go back to the lot; instead, seeing that the time was nearly five, he drove on home to his own apartment in the old gray three-story wooden building.

  When he opened the door he heard sounds and smelled smells; Julie was home ahead of him, in the kitchen cooking chops on the stove for dinner. He came in and greeted her.

  “Hi,” she said. She had on jeans and sandals, and that recalled to him that this was one of her non-working days. “Dinner won’t be ready for another half-hour. You’re early.”

  He went to the cooler and got out a bottle of sherry.

  “Somebody called for you,” Julie said. “A woman.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Mrs. Lane. She left her number. She had something worthwhile to tell you, she said. You’re supposed to be sure and call.”

  “A realtor,” he said. He seated himself at the table. “The old man had an accident today. A fall. They took him home.”