"Please. Do it."
"All right."
"I'll wash and iron it."
"MissT."
"Would you do that. Really. For me."
"Yesh, I will. Sally."
"Thanks. But please don't kid me. Smithy."
Against the window panes, a wind. Cigarette smoke turned blue. Leavetaking. Swish of silk. Last tinkle of glass. Little laughters. I'll see you. At the races. In the tops of other high towers.
George Smith, dark strange shoulders in Herbert's coat. Children open their eyes in the dark. Little souls. Teddy bears and puppets. All their own. What you do for love. Take her hands put them on my shirt, shaking it in the suds. Iron it smooth. Send me out into the world. Fresh and neat. With just a wave. To her saying goodbye over the heads. Old fashioned Sally. Another ship. Toot. On the river. Bewildered by betrayals. Frozen your blue blue eyes. Each five little pressures of your hand. Blood pink nails. Kissed you, smack. On each cheek of your ass. Easily pleased you say by beautiful things. And saidyesh to you.
That my
Bitter root
Were a big horn
For you to
Blow
The tunes
Of the wide world
Were there
Such melody
For bitter root
Or horn.
25
AFTERNOON city covered with dark western clouds. Light dry snow flakes falling. Street lamps light up. Smith stepping out from the dreadnaught under the green canopy of Merry Mansions. Which in a wind a week ago, floated right away up into the sky and landed, a big green grasshopper in a roof garden. Now anchored safely from jumping once more.
Herbert waving out the window as the dreadnaught glided away. Two days ago, the warning from Mr. Browning. Completion day delayed by the hurricane. Revised invitations sent out for the last Thursday of November. Her Majesty declined to attend. Said the night of Miss Tomson's party, my nerve knew no bounds.
Look down at this blue carpet up these steps. Times numbered that I will walk into Flat Fourteen. I hear a hymn. Matilda. Right through the steel door. Singing. Strange how we've stuck together. In her heart cooks all the grief and sporty hysterical games, in one big pot.
A key in this door. Whirring little gyroscope, steady as it opens. Matilda's bare foot prints across the film of dust on the hardwood floor. Table with my wax dog wood flower. Stack of letters under a free sample can of baked beans.
Flick on the light. Evening coming, afternoon going. Out the window, the snow thickens. Sent two shirts to Miss T. One pink, one light blue. Goldminers upstairs left three weeks ago on a long cruise. I asked if I could visit their altar for a little prayer I wanted to say. They looked at me. As if I had made an exposure. Said it was blessed and sacred. I put up my nose as high as I could. Two wretched hypocrites. And on the way to the pier I watched as Hugo helped them into their car. They were crying like babies.
"Mr. Smith. What are you doing here."
"I live here, Matilda."
"O sure. But I thought you was at the world championship rodeo."
"No."
"O Mr. Smith, what are they doing to you. Let me get you a whiskey. Never you mind, those guys will come to a smelly standstill."
"Have a whiskey with me, Matilda."
"Thanks, I was going to do that."
Matilda in her green silk. Slit up the side. Her big bosoms. Two vast dark waterfalls. Stand under an umbrella. And still get soaking wet. Glasses look clean. Two soda bottles.
"Thanks Matilda."
"Mr. Smith I've been looking all over and don't blame me. I swear I didn't burn them."
"What."
"Two shirts. I swear they were right on the top of the hamper. I know because it's the tabernacle colors. Pink and blue."
"They may be at Dynamo."
"But they were dirty."
"Only a couple of shirts Matilda, forget it."
"Say that when the next pair of socks are missing."
"Matilda, sit down. I want to talk about something."
"Who dat white sinner dere, want to talk."
"This isn't a joke, Matilda. I'm deadly serious."
"Mr. Smith, you want to tell me I'm fired."
"No."
"What else is deadly serious."
"I may be going away."
"Beating it."
"No. Just going away."
"So you have no need for my further services."
"I'd like you to stay in my employ."
"That what you call this."
"Shit. Matilda."
"What you said, Mr, Smith."
"I just want you to come, at the same salary, dust and clean. Put the mail in the safe. Just stop the place from rotting away."
"Think I need a little sting more in this glass, Mr. Smith."
"I'll have a sting more in my glass too if I may."
Snow drifting on the window sill. Light across the street. Where has the grey headed father gone, holding head in hands. Over his eight curly headed mistakes. Another Christmas coming. Last week strolling by the river I stepped in and stood in the waiting room of the hospital. Gazing down the long halls. Guards toting guns. Wooden benches. Beds and carts. The dirty sheets piled on the dead.
"I'll do that, Mr. Smith, dust and clean."
"Thanks Matilda."
"Mr. Smith, something bothering you. Staring out that window like you got no friends."
"I'm all right."
"A cultured gentleman, a Mr. Clementine, phoned yesterday. He said you were expected as guest of honor at the Funeral Director's Exhibition. Said you weren't at Dynamo. I told him to try The Game Club."
"I was there."
"He phoned back said you wasn't."
"I was. In the library."
"Reading the papers."
"Yes."
"Society columns."
"Yes, as a matter of fact."
"It's that Miss Tomson. Getting married."
Smith turning to the window. Kitchen lights on across the street. Watched that little girl sitting at the table get bigger and bigger. Her boyfriend waits for her on the stoop, smoking a cigarette nervously looking up and down the street. Perhaps she dreams of growing up. A Dizzy Darling. Gay, wild, willing. Up on her high terrace just around the corner, could spit or pee right down on the roof of Merry.
"And Mr. Smith, it's bad. That you should be carrying that gun again."
"Matilda, find my sandals. My foot's hurting in my shoe. Herbert will be back here, in half an hour to pick me up."
"When does my service here abruptly discontinue, Mr. Smith, sir."
"Cut it out Matilda."
"Scared I'll have parties, drink the wine, smoke the cigars,"
"No."
"Why don't you admit it."
"All right."
"You admit it."
"Four cases of whiskey. Have vanished."
"Two."
"You admit it."
"Who dat pagan sittin dere."
"Me dat pagan sittin here."
"When the flock is thirsty the dark complexioned redeemer leads them to drink. Mr. Smith."
"I'd prefer the redeemer to lead them to his own whiskey."
"No hard feelings. What's whiskey, Mr. Smith."
"Expensive."
Matilda's glistening eyes. If the days would unravel. When my guests stand over the polished plates, tureens in Renown. Matilda in her black china silk. Bonniface in hunting pink. Her Majesty could have handed him out The Order Of The Underwear, instead of being insufferable. Send her some smoked eel. Could cross the carpet and kiss Matilda. Hold her close. The terrifying strength. Of her arms. Massive legs. Could put up some fight.
"Mr. Smith, what are you thinking."
"I was thinking of kissing you."
"Come on."
"Herbert's coming."
"We got twenty minutes."
"Not much time."
"Let's break a record."
"We better not."
"Come on. Pull the curtains."
"You were singing a hymn when I came in. Sing to me now."
Matilda in her high and in her low haunted voice. Tip toeing from octave to octave.