“You all right in there, Francis?” Helen called. “Who are you talking to?”
Francis waved to Rowdy Dick, understanding that some debts of violence had been settled, but he remained full of the awareness of rampant martyrdom surrounding him: martyrs to wrath, to booze, to failure, to loss, to hostile weather. Aldo Campione gestured at Francis, suggesting that while there may be some inconsistency about it, prayers were occasionally answerable, a revelation that did very little to improve Francis’s state of mind, for there had never been a time since childhood when he knew what to pray for.
“Hey bum,” he said to Jack when he stepped out of the bathroom, “how about a bum gettin’ a drink?”
“He ain’t no bum,” Clara said.
“Goddamn it, I know he ain’t,” Francis said. “He’s a hell of a man. A workin’ man.”
“How come you shaved?” Helen asked.
“Gettin’ itchy. Four days and them whiskers grow back inside again.”
“It sure improves how you look,” Clara said.
“That’s the truth,” said Jack.
“I knew Francis was handsome,” Clara said, “but this is the first time I ever saw you clean shaved.”
“I was thinkin’ about how many old bums I know died in the weeds. Wake up covered with snow and some of ‘em layin’ there dead as hell, froze stiff. Some get up and walk away from it. I did myself. But them others are gone for good. You ever know a guy named Rowdy Dick Doolan in your travels?”
“Never did,” Jack said.
“There was another guy, Pocono Pete, he died in Denver, froze like a brick. And Poocher Felton, he bought it in Detroit, pissed his pants and froze tight to the sidewalk. And a crazy bird they called Ward Six, no other name. They found him with a red icicle growin’ out of his nose. All them old guys, never had nothin’, never knew nothin’, stupid, thievin’, crazy. Foxy Phil Tooker, a skinny little runt, he froze all scrunched up, knees under his chin. ‘Stead of straightenin’ him out, they buried him in half a coffin. Lorda mercy, them geezers. I bet they all of ‘em, dyin’ like that, I bet they all wind up in heaven, if they ever got such a place.”
“I believe when you’re dead you go in the ground and that’s the end of it,” Jack said. “Heaven never made no sensicality to me whatsoever.”
“You wouldn’t get in anyhow,” Helen said. “They’ve got your reservations someplace else.”
“Then I’m with him,” Clara said. “Who’d want to be in heaven with all them nuns? God what a bore.”
Francis knew Clara less than three weeks, but he could see the curve of her life: sexy kid likes the rewards, goes pro, gets restless, marries and makes kids, chucks that, pro again, sickens, but really sick, gettin’ old, gettin’ ugly, locks onto Jack, turns monster. But she’s got most of her teeth, not bad; and that hair: you get her to a beauty shop and give her a marcel, it’d be all right; put her in new duds, high heels and silk stockin’s; and hey, look at them titties, and that leg: the skin’s clear on it.
Clara saw Francis studying her and gave him a wink. “I knew a fella once, looked a lot like you. I had the hots for him.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Helen said.
“He loved what I gave him.”
“Clara never lacked for boyfriends,” Jack said. “I’m a lucky man. But she’s pretty sick. That’s why you can’t stay. She eats a lot of toast.”
“Oh I could make some toast,” Helen said, standing up from her chair. “Would you like that?”
“If I feel like eatin’ I’ll make my own toast,” Clara said. “And I’m gettin’ ready to go to bed. Make sure you lock the door when you go out.”
Jack grabbed Francis by the arm and pulled him toward the kitchen, but not before Francis readjusted his vision of Clara sitting in the middle of her shit machine, sending up a silent reek from her ruined guts and their sewerage.
o o o
When Jack and Francis came back into the living room Francis was smoking one of Jack’s cigarettes. He dropped it as he reached for the wine, and Helen groaned.
“Everything fallin’ on the floor,” Francis said. “I don’t blame you for throwin’ these bums out if they can’t behave respectable.”
“It’s gettin’ late for me,” Jack said. “I used to get by on two, three hours’ sleep, but no more.”
“I ain’t stayed here in how long now?” Francis asked. “Two weeks, ain’t it?”
“Oh come on, Francis,” Clara said. “You were here not four days ago. And Helen last night. And last Sunday you were here.”
“Sunday we left,” Helen said.
“I flopped here two nights, wasn’t it?” Francis said.
“Six,” Jack said. “Like a week.”
“I beg to differ with you,” Helen said.
“It was over a week,” Jack said.
“I know different,” said Helen.
“From Monday to Sunday.”
“Oh no.”
“It’s a little mixed up,” Francis said.
“He’s got a lot of things mixed up,” Helen said. “I hope you don’t get your food mixed up like that down at the diner.”
“No,” Jack said.
“You know, you’re very insultin’,” Francis said to Helen.
“It was a week,” Jack said.
“You’re a liar,” Helen said.
“Don’t call me a liar because I know so.”
“Haven’t you got any brains at all?” Francis said. “You supposed to be a college woman, you supposed to be this and that.”
“I am a college woman.”
“You know what I thought,” Jack said, “was for you to stay here, Franny, till you get work, till you pick up a little bankroll. You don’t have to give me nothin’.”
“Shake hands on it,” Helen said.
“I don’t know about the proposition now,” Jack said.
“Because I’m a bum,” Francis said.
“No, I wouldn’t put it that way.” Jack poured more wine for Francis.
“I knew he didn’t mean it,” Helen said.
“I’m gonna tell you,” Francis said. “I always thought a lot of Clara.”
“You’re drunk, Francis,” Helen screamed, standing up again. “Stay drunk for the rest of your life. I’m leaving you, Francis. You’re crazy. All you want is to guzzle wine. You’re insane!”
“What’d I say?” Francis asked. “I said I liked Clara.”
“Nothin’ wrong about that,” Jack said.
“I don’t mind about that,” Helen said, sitting down.
“I don’t know what to do with that woman,” Francis said.
“Do you even know if you’re staying here tonight?” Helen asked.
“No, he’s not,” Jack said. “Take him with you when you go.”
“We’re going,” Helen said.
“Clara’s too sick, Francis,” said Jack.
Francis sipped his wine, put it on the table, and struck a tap dancer’s pose.
“How you like these new duds of mine, Clara? You didn’t tell me how swell I look, all dressed up.”
“You look sharp,” Clara said.
“You can’t keep up with Francis.”
“Don’t waste your time, Francis,” Helen said.
“You’re getting very hostile, you know that? Listen, you want to sleep with me in the weeds tonight?”
“I never slept in the weeds,” Helen said.