The couch was a bit too narrow to hold the two of them comfortably. They turned and twisted, groaned, giggled, yawned disgracefully. Suddenly, bango! the springs gave way and on to the floor tumbled Stasia. To Mona it was excruciatingly funny. She laughed and laughed. Much too loudly to suit me. But then, how could she know that this precious couch which had held up nigh on to fifty years might have lasted another ten or twenty years with proper care? In our house one didn't laugh callously over such a mishap.
Meanwhile my mother, stiff as she was, had got down on hands and knees to see how and where the couch had given way. (The sofa, they called it.) Stasia lay where she had fallen, as if waiting for instructions. My mother moved round and about her much as a beaver might work about a fallen tree. Lorette now appeared with the blanket. She watched the performance as if stupefied. (Nothing like this should ever have happened.) The old man, on the other hand, never any good at fixing anything, had gone to the back yard in search of bricks. Where's the hammer? my mother was saying. The sight of my father with an armful of bricks roused her scorn. She was going to fix it properly—and immediately.
Later, said the old man. They want to snooze now. With that he got down on all fours and shoved the bricks under the sagging springs.
Stasia now raised herself from the floor, just sufficiently to slide back on to the couch, and turned her face to the wall. They lay spoon fashion, peaceful as exhausted chipmunks. I took my seat at the table and watched the ritual of clearing the table. I had witnessed it a thousand times, and the manner of doing it never varied. In the kitchen it was the same. First things first...
What cunning bitches! I thought to myself. It was they who should be clearing the table and washing the dishes. A headache! As simple as that. Now I would have to face the music alone. Better that way, maybe, since I knew all the moves. Now it wouldn't matter what came up for discussion—dead cats, last year's cockroaches, Mrs. Schwabenhof's ulcers, last Sunday's sermon, carpet sweepers, Weber and Fields or the lay of the last minstrel. I would keep my eyes open no matter if it lasted till midnight. (How long would they sleep, the sots?) If they felt rested on waking perhaps they wouldn't mind too much how long we stayed. I knew we would have to have a bite before going. One couldn't sneak away at five or six o'clock. Not on Christmas day. Nor could we get away without gathering around the tree and singing that ghastly song—O Tannenbaum! And that was sure to be followed by a complete catalogue of all the trees we ever had and how they compared with one another, of how eager I was, when a boy, to see what gifts were piled up for me beneath the Christmas tree. (Never any mention of Lorette as a girl.) What a wonderful boy I was! Such a reader, such a good piano player! And the bikes I had and the roller skates. And the air rifle. (No mention of my revolver.) Was it still in the drawer where the knives and forks were kept? That was a really bad moment she gave us, my mother, the night she went for the revolver. Fortunately there wasn't a cartridge in the barrel. She probably knew as much. Just the same...
No, nothing had changed. At the age of twelve the clock had stopped. No matter what any one whispered in their ears, I was always that darling little boy who would one day grow up to be a full-fledged merchant tailor. All that nonsense about writing ... I'd get over it sooner or later. And this bizarre new wife ... she'd fade away too, in time. Eventually I would come to my senses. Every one does, sooner or later. They weren't worried that, like dear old Uncle Paul, I would do myself in. I wasn't the sort. Besides, I had a head on me. Sound at bottom, so to say. Wild and wayward, nothing more. Read too much ... had too many worthless friends. They would take care not to mention the name but soon, I knew, would come the question, always furtively, always in smothered tones, eyes right, eyes left—And how is the little one? Meaning my daughter. And I who hadn't the slightest idea, who wasn't even sure that she was still alive, would reply in a calm, matter of fact way: Oh, she's fine, yes. Yes? my mother would say, a And have you heard from them? Them was by way of including my ex-wife. Indirectly, I would reply. Stanley tells me about them now and then. And how is he, Stanley? Just fine ... How I wish I might talk to them about Johnny Paul. But that they would think strange, very strange. Why, I hadn't seen Johnny Paul since I vas seven or eight. True enough. But what they never suspected, particularly you, my dear mother, was that all these years I had kept his memory alive. Yes, as the years roll on, Johnny Paul stands out brighter and brighter. Sometimes, and this is beyond all your imagining, sometimes I think of him as a little god. One of the very few I have ever known. You don't remember, I suppose, that Johnny Paul had the softest, gentlest voice a man could have? You don't know that, though I was only a tike at the time, I saw through his eyes what no one else ever revealed to me? He was just the coal man's son to you: an immigrant boy, a dirty little Italian who didn't speak English too well but who tipped his hat politely whenever you passed. How could you possibly dream that such a specimen should be as a god to your darling son? Did you ever know anything that passed through the mind of your wayward son? You approved neither of the books he read, nor the companions he chose, nor the girls he fell in love with, nor the games he played, nor the things he wanted to be. You always knew better, didn't you? But you didn't press down too hard. Your way was to pretend not to hear, not to see. I would get over all this foolishness in due time. But I didn't! I got worse each year. So you pretended that at twelve the clock had stopped. You simply couldn't recognize your son for what he was. You chose the me which suited you. The twelve year old. After that the deluge...
And next year, at this same ungodly season of the year, you will probably ask me all over again if I am still writing and I will say yes and you will ignore it or treat it like a drop of wine that was accidentally spilled on your best tablecloth. You don't want to know why I write, nor would you care if I told you why. You want to nail me to the chair, make me listen to the shit-mouthed radio. You want me to sit and listen to your inane gossip about neighbors and relatives. You would continue to do this to me even if I were rash enough, or bold enough, to inform you in the most definite terms that everything you talk about is so much horse shit to me. Here I sit and already I'm in it up to the neck, this shit. Maybe I'll try a new tack—pretend that I'm all agog, all a-twitter. What's the name of that operetta? Beautiful voice. Just beautiful! Ask them to sing it again ... and again ... and again! Or I may sneak upstairs and fish out those old Caruso records. He had such a lovely voice, didn't he now? (Yes, thank you, I will have a cigar.) But don't offer me another drink, please. My eyes are gathering sand; it's only age old rebellion that keeps me awake at all. What I wouldn't give to steal upstairs to that tiny, dingy hall bedroom without a chair, a rug or a picture, and sleep the sleep of the dead! How many, many times, when I threw myself on that bed, I prayed that I would never more open my eyes! Once, do you remember, my dear mother, you threw a pail of cold water over me because I was a lazy, good for nothing bum. It's true, I had been lying there for forty-eight hours. But was it laziness that kept me pinned to the mattress? What you didn't know, mother, was that it was heartbreak. You would have laughed that off, too, had I been fool enough to confide in you. That horrible, horrible little bedroom! I must have died a thousand deaths there. But I also had dreams and visions there. Yes, I even prayed in that bed, with huge wet tears rolling down my cheeks. (How I wanted her, and only her!) And when that failed, when at long last I was ready and able to rise and face the world again, there was only one dear companion I could turn to: my bike. Those long, seemingly endless spins, just me and myself, driving the bitter thoughts into my arms and legs, pushing, plugging away, slithering over the smooth graveled paths like the wind, but to no avail. Every time I dismounted her image was there, and with it the backwash of pain, doubt, fear. But to be in the saddle, and not at work, that was indeed a boon. The bike was part of me, it responded to my wishes. Nothing else ever did. No, my dear blind heartless parents, nothing you ever said to me, nothing you did for me, ever gave me the joy and the comfort which that racing machine did. If only I could take you apart, as I did my bike, and oil and grease you lovingly!