Joe's Liver Page 6

  “I’m afraid it already has, ha, ha.”

  “Oh, Ardy, don’t joke. This could be serious.”

  “I won’t scratch anymore if it bothers you, Roseanna.”

  “Oh, Ardy!”

  Icons indicating gas-food-lodging show on a sign up ahead. Roseanna spots the turn — happily, a right — through the falling crap and accelerates into it, fighting the cars tendency to skid. Once out in the huge parking lot she steers straight for a restaurant whose towering illuminated sign announces it to be a Pancake House.

  Drawing nearer to the building, Ardy idly scans the ranked cars, marveling at their variety and profusion. His roving eye is arrested by a beat-up old Ford Pickup outside the Pancake House door, its red paint falling to the tarmac around it.

  “Uh, Roseanna, I have a sudden urge for a hamburger. Could we not stop at McDonalds instead?”

  “Of course, Ardy.”

  Roseanna parks illegally close to the McDonald s building, and the two of them duck inside.

  “You find a booth, Ardy, and I’ll get our meal. Any preferences?”

  “Anything the late lamented Mister Kroc’s establishment produces is good enough for me, Roseanna.”

  Ardy slips into an empty booth and waits. Roseanna returns, high heels clicking, bearing a brown plastic tray piled high with Styrofoam containers and waxy paper cups with clear lids. She makes an assignment of containers, and they begin to eat.

  “Ardy, do you taste anything funny in your hamburger?”

  “Why, no, Roseanna.”

  “I could swear mine had nutmeg in it.”

  During the meal Roseanna tells Ardy a few facts about her life in Boston. Curiously, she omits all mention of her husband. At last Ardy can contain his curiosity no longer.

  “Roseanna, may I ask what your husband does for a living?”

  Roseanna sighs deeply. “Ardy, right now he’s in jail.”

  Everything falls into place then for Ardy. “Say no more, Roseanna, your secret is safe with me. Il capo di tutti capos is not someone I would ever spread rumors about, nor his loyal wife. I do not wish to have my patellas smashed.…”

  “Oh, Ardy, don’t be ridiculous. Do I look like some Italian bimbo to you? I don’t live in the North End, either, but on Beacon Hill. No, Roger’s Strictly a white-collar criminal. You must have heard of the trouble at Boston Bank. Well, that was Roger’s scheme. Unfortunately, while he was clever enough to think up a new method of embezzlement, he was rather less adept at covering his tracks. So now he’s in Danbury, doing a ten year stretch. Luckily, he salted away enough of his ill-gotten gains in a place where no one could find it — several very smart investments, actually, but that always was Roger’s forte — and now I’m living off it. It’s not as much as I’d like, of course, but it’s enough to get by on.”

  “The ethics of the situation appear tangled.…”

  “Oh, screw ethics, Ardy! This is my life! Look, if you’re finished, we’d better see about getting your clothes dried.”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself any further, Roseanna. The simple process of evaporation has almost finished removing all but a trace of dampness.…”

  “Ardy, excuse my bluntness, but you look like hell. Wrinkles, spots — and I’ve been wondering, is that a tie around your waist?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s got to go.”

  “Roseanna, this tie was a gift from Mister Armitage. I could not part with it. He might want it back, should we ever chance to meet again.”

  “It hardly looks like something Duncan would wear. He probably picked it up in San Juan as a joke. But even if you must hold on to it, you still don’t have to wear it as a belt.”

  “I have no other.”

  “Ardy, let me take care of that, okay?”

  “Roseanna, I couldn’t …”

  “Oh, Ardy, keep quiet.”

  Outside they get back into Roseanna’s car and motor across the puddled prairie of tar. Ardy is relieved to notice that Doctor Spencer’s truck is gone. Someone in the pancake house must have tumbled to his identity, and now the Gentle Vet has taken it on the lam. Ardy finds himself unable to wish the Doctor ill, despite all the tribulations he put Ardy through.

  Roseanna wheels up into a slot near the door of the motor lodge. She herds Ardy into the lobby, and bids him wait in a chair. At the desk she conducts a brief muted colloquy with the clerk — during which money discreetly changes hands — then returns to Ardy.

  “Come with me, Ardy. We’ve got a room where you can freshen up while we wait for someone to bring you a new suit of clothes. The clerk feels you’re about his size, and he’s going to shop for you. Apparently, there’s an open mall nearby after all. Judging by his own dress, he seems to have a modicum of taste. But don’t expect Paul Stuart.”

  “Roseanna, this, this is just —”

  The baffling woman — sometimes endearingly childish, sometimes coolly aloof — has gone all imperious.

  “Ardy.”

  “I’m coming.”

  As they walk down a corridor, Ardy feels he is in a dream. The carpet, the lights, the doors with numbers, all conduce toward a hypnogogic state.

  They are in a room. Roseanna sits on the edge of a luridly prominent bed, bracing herself with arms extended backwards behind her, palms flat on the mattress, and crosses her legs, causing her knitted dress to slither up one flat haunch.

  “The bathroom’s through there, Ardy. Why don’t you take a nice long hot shower before your clothes come? Leave the door open, so we can talk.”

  “Will you please turn your back if I agree to do so, Mrs Mountjoy?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Ardy. What kind of lecherous old lady do you take me for?”

  “I assure you, Roseanna, I thought no such thing. And you’re not old.”

  “Thank you. Now please go take your shower.”

  Ardy walks tentatively into the tiled bathroom.

  He looks back over his shoulder and is grateful to see that Roseanna’s back is toward him. Willingly then he shucks his sweat-redolent wet clothes, Steps into the shower, draws the plastic curtain — which bears a tropical scene that engenders a minute’s homesickness — and, after some fumbling, gets the water flowing.

  Through the noise of falling water: “Ardy, what are your plans now?”

  “Why, the same as ever, Roseanna. To reach Pleasantville and communicate my lifelong gratitude to the assembled staff of the Digest. I haven’t thought any further than that.”

  “How are you going to go on without any money?”

  Ardy soaps thoughtfully, but finds no answer to this salient question.

  “Well, I’d like to help. Your sincerity impresses me. But I can’t give you an outright grant, Ardy — the purse strings are too tight — and you probably wouldn’t take it anyway. But if I could find you a job and a place to live, that would be better than nothing, wouldn’t it?”

  “Roseanna, words fail me. Your generosity would help me fulfill the dream of a lifetime.”

  Silence. Ardy assumes she is too humble to reply.

  Virtue was ever thus.… He himself is rather choked-up. The steamy water invigorates him and fills his head with grand dreams. Hopefully dozens of fleas are perishing this very minute.

  At last Ardy reluctantly shuts the water off. He steps out and quickly drapes himself in three of the luxurious blue towels he finds hanging.

  “Roseanna, I have fashioned a concealing toga which I believe will allow me to join you in all modesty, so that we may continue our conversation face to face.”

  No answer.

  Ardy steps out of the steamy tiled room.

  Roseanna’s dress is neatly draped over the back of a chair, her shoes beside it. She is sprawled on the bed, wearing black bra, panties, and garter-upheld stockings. Her pearls nearly blend with her alabaster skin.

  “Mrs. Mountjoy, you lied to me.”

  “I never did.”

  “You said you had no designs upon my
body.”

  “I didn’t. I said, ‘Don’t be silly, what kind of lecherous old lady do you take me for?’ You just assumed I was denying my fallen stature.”

  “Mrs. Mountjoy, I cannot go through with this. You are a married woman. My upbringing is inconsonant with this kind of immorality and unchastity.”

  “Ardy, look in my right shoe.”

  This request seems harmless enough, so Ardy complies.

  “Mrs Mountjoy, this appears to be your wedding ring.”

  “Are you satisfied now?”

  “Barely. We seem to be relying overmuch on a mere technicality.”

  “Ardy, let me clue you in on something. I don’t know how things work in your home, but in this country, there’s nothing to rely on except technicalities. Now, shut up and come here.”

  “If you so stipulate, Mrs. Mountjoy.”

  “Roseanna, damn it!”

  “Roseanna, I never intended …”

  “I did. That’s right, right beside me, oh, Ardy, you’re so, so — ardent!”

  “A good example of ‘Toward More Picturesque Speech,’ Roseanna.”

  “Don’t be trivial now, Ardy.”

  “Is this?”

  “Oh, no!”

  4

  Humor in Uniform

  O, city by the frosty, somnolent Charles, bereft of your gay sailboats in this harsh December! O, city of twisting cow-path streets, with never enough parking, and horrendous fines! O, city of extremes and of separate species, whose habitats are named thusly: Roxbury, Dorchester, Southie, Beacon Hill, and North End! O, city of swan-boats and imitation London double-decker buses; of matrons and disaffected youths with odd hairstyles; of Filene’s Basement and open-air vegetable markets; of old buildings renewed and new buildings antiqued; of the Freedom Trail and the polluted Bay; of the Old North Church and Strange First World cults, whose members press pamphlets upon one! O, city where neophyte theatrical productions try their gauzy wings before essaying the heady heights of Broadway; where the Pops plays for the millionth time the same old standard; where the vibrant newspaper of honorary citizen Mister Rupert Murdoch blares forth the day’s quota of startling bulletins! O, Athens of America!

  O, city now mine!

  Ardy has life by the tail. He never imagined he would fit so quickly and neatly into a First World existence. Lying on his rude cot back in the orphanage, Studying the pages of the Digest for instruction on the conduct of his life, while elsewhere in the convent the Sisters of Eternal Recurrence murmured their devotions like drowsy bees, he never managed to picture himself totally at ease in the Magic Kingdom of America. In his mind’s eye he was always the interloper, the stranger, the one ill-at-ease.

  How different it all has turned out!

  Three weeks ago, Ardy and Roseanna arrived at her home. As they entered Boston from the north, Ardy, clothed in the desk-clerks selection of brown corduroy pants, Lacoste knit shirt and L.L. Bean wool coat, found himself still somewhat benumbed by the capricious turn of events culminating in his seduction by Mrs Mountjoy. As for that generous but enigmatic lady herself, after oscillating on the remainder of the trip between flushed looks and flighty speech, and solemn gravity and abstracted silence, she now wore a semblance of utter decorum as she drove. Which look was so impressive that it seemed to Ardy that she had actually donned some invisible cape.

  Roseanna guided the car through an intricate series of right turns and along the crowded streets of the city, while Ardy gaped in wonder. Eventually they reached a street Ardy saw was denominated charles. Taking a final right, they ascended a gentle incline lined with imposing brick residences whose façades seemed softened and mellowed by time, yet maintained exceedingly livable by the liberal application of money and the labor of hirelings. At one such residence, Roseanna wheeled the car into a tiny cobbled mews. She got out with decisive movements and set off across the paving stones, heels striking a noisy staccato on the flags, without waiting to see if Ardy was following.

  Ardy made after her with haste. When he caught up she had keyed off the security system, unlocked the door, and was about to enter.

  “Roseanna,” said Ardy tentatively, “Am I to assume I am invited inside? Or perhaps you possess a coach-house …?”

  “Oh, come in and be quiet about it.”

  Ardy followed Roseanna into the house. He barely had time to note the sober expensive furnishings, crystal chandelier and subdued wallpaper, before Roseanna shut the door and turned to confront him with a determined expression halfway between frown and indifference.

  “There are several things we absolutely must get straight before you spend another minute here.”

  “Roseanna, I am always receptive to your instruction.…”

  “Please don’t interrupt. First, what just happened back at the motel was very exciting and wonderful, and I fully intend that we shall continue.”

  “Roseanna, I too —”

  “No interruptions! Now, where was I? All right, I remember. However, if you are to go on enjoying my aged tail back here in the city, we are going to have to follow some rules of conduct, especially out in public. There has to be some reason for our connection that people won’t question. And I think I have the perfect solution, which, at the same time, solves the problem of getting you a job. I’m going to make you my chauffeur.”

  “Roseanna, I —”

  “Pipe down! There’s no ifs, ands or buts about it. You’ll have a room of your own — although I don’t expect you’ll spend many nights there — and I’ll pay you as much as I can afford, say, seventy-five dollars weekly. In return, you’ll drive me wherever I have to go. And out in front of people, you must remember to call me Mrs Mountjoy. Now, how does that sound?”

  Roseanna eyed Ardy with female penetrative power. He felt his skin heat up.

  “I have only one objection, Roseanna.”

  Tapping her pretty foot. “Yes?”

  “Seventy-five dollars is far too much.”

  “You’ll just have to be worth it, then, won’t you? Why don’t you start now by helping me off with my dress?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Mountjoy”

  “Goddamn it! Roseanna inside, Mrs. Mountjoy outside!”

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. — Roseanna.”

  Thus began Ardy’s new career. It was certainly neither arduous nor boring. To the contrary, each day in the following three weeks brought new sensations, new lessons, new appreciation of the miraculous land whose surface he has barely scratched. At times, he found himself recalling with a start that his ultimate goal remained a visit to Pleasantville, New York, 10570. When such reminders struck, he would dig out the map of New York State he had purchased with his own money and study the various approaches to Pleasantville, planning his trip in great detail. Then he would tally his savings, which he kept beneath his seldom-slept-in bed, in a Tupperware container borrowed from the kitchen. After three weeks, he found he had saved twice as much as in a similar period of peddling nutmeg gum to the flyboys and Marines and sailors.

  Truly the land of opportunity has streets paved with gold!

  Ardy enjoyed everything about his job. Whether he was ferrying Roseanna from store to store during the day, or from party to party at night, or, later, driving her to ecstasy, he felt happy and proud. Waxing the car while he waited for Mrs. Mountjoy outside Saks, wearing his elaborate uniform of double-breasted coat and billed cap and form-fitting pants, he felt himself the cynosure of all eyes. In his spare time, he had even adapted a bit of old doggerel to his own situation:

  Here’s to glorious Boston,

  Land of the cod and the bean,

  Where Ardy rogers Roseanna,

  And drives her Jaguar machine!

  Ardy wished he could devise an equally decorous substitute euphemism for the archaic “roger,” since that word, as the proper name of Roseannas absent, incarcerated spouse, aroused unpleasant feelings in his bosom. But even mentally he could not stoop to the scatological.

  Ardy even made n
ew friends of a sort. At many events he found himself tossed willy-nilly into the company of his fellow chauffeurs, who idled among the dozing cars of their patrons beneath the stars, smoking cigarettes, stealing surreptitious drinks from flasks, warming themselves inside the vehicles in between bouts of desultory car-polishing and tossing the bull.

  One fellow particularly impressed Ardy with his winning ways and perspicuity. His name was Phil Balboni, and he drove for one Albert and Priscilla Bayswater. Mister Balboni was a rugged chap of grand proportions, and he filled his uniform majestically, straining his buttons to their limits. His chopped-short black hair was always slicked with some sort of brilliantine, and at the corner of his thick lips was invariably pasted a smoldering unfiltered cigarette of magically unchanging length. Whenever Mister Balboni spoke in his pithy manner, the other chauffeurs listened attentively, and his words never failed to decide any argument, no matter if the subject were sports, horses, women, alcohol, race-dogs or cars.

  So one night Ardy is sitting unwontedly alone in the Mountjoy mansion. Roseanna and the rest of her crowd have embarked on a ski trip to Aspen, and do not require the services of their chauffeurs, having quite naturally flown. Thus a dozen or more men are left this night in the city to their own devices, for the first time in many a month.

  The phone rings. Ardy, dreading some loosening of prison restrictions that would permit the absent Roger Mountjoy to call home, answers with great trepidation. “Mountjoy residence.”

  “Hey, Artie! Howzit hangin’?”

  “Is that you, Mister Balboni? What an unexpected surprise.”

  “Lissen, kid, me and a bunch of the boys are gettin’ together tonight for some fun. Ya int’rested?”

  “An evening out sounds like a welcome respite from my duties, Mister Balboni.”

  “Hey, awright! Okay, kid, pay attention. Get on the Red Line at the Charles Stop. Ya know where that is?”

  “Right down the street from me, sir.”

  “Okay. Change at Washington for the Orange, then get off at Essex. Ya got that so far?”

  “I’m writing it down even as you speak.”