“Yes,” Sam said, “that’s it. That’s right.”
“I have,” Ben said. “I do.”
“Sign that pardner up,” Sam said, the man from Fort Worth. “Get an order blank back there, someone.”
“Because,” Ben said, “we live in a century of mood and until this afternoon only headphones gave the illusion of ‘separation.’ There is no separation. There are no concert halls in life. Nor do we see in 3-D. The chairs do not stand out. Only in stereopticons are the apples closer than the pears. We will Ptolemaicize men and have them move in their rooms as in a headset. I have. I do.”
“Hey now,” Sam said.
“And pour percussion in the porches of their ears. Their left ear and right. Tumble treble and crack the sax into the helix. A trumpet in every tragus, and violins in the semicircular canals. The flute in the fossa, the bass in the stapes. Quinquagintaphonics in the adolescent’s bedroom, the whore’s house, and doctor’s office. I have. I do. Mattel their minutes, Lionel their lives. Accessory them.”
“Hey,” Sam said, “you doin’ too much.”
“Cole Porter,” Ben said. “Hammerstein.”
“Buddy?” Sam said. “Buddy, you hear me?”
“In both ears.”
“Settle down, friend. We’re talking the new line.”
“That’s what I’m talking,” Ben said. His hand hurt him, his legs.
Everything tingled. Only his ears. I am up to my ears, he thought.
“Come on, now,” Sam said, “give us a break.”
“Put another record on. I’m having a Rodgers and Hart attack. Hah!”
Macintyre and Frommer were beside him. Lloyd has come up. He spies Ned Tubman through his nystagmic eyes. Ned and all whirl like pinwheels.
He put a call through to Riverdale.
“Yes?” It was Cole, the one who suffered from plant diseases.
“Hello, Cole. How are you? It’s Ben.”
(Not “Hi, who’s this?” but “Hello, Cole. How are you?” Even though they’d reached an age — Cole would be almost thirty-seven — when distinctions, were they to appear, would have begun to reveal themselves. But time itself thwarted, something in their Contac, time-released lived lives that stalled the oldest and ever so slightly aged the youngest prematurely, the seven-year point spread of their existence narrowed to an arithmetic mean so that they all seemed to be about thirty-three years old — in their prime his guarantors of the prime rate. But withal, the solidarity broken for him like a code, known like a secret, his best gift — poor Ben, poor sick, sad Ben — his connoisseurship for their voices and faces, his wine buff’s palate for their Finsberg body and Finsberg being. A gift. God-given. Poor Ben. Poor sad, sick Ben. Then why, for God’s sake, did he prefer Lorenz to Irving, Irving to Oscar, Cole to Lorenz? Did he see nuances in twin and triplet character as well? Character? He? Him? Poor Ben? Poor Ben.)
“Ben. How are you? Gee, we’ve been trying to get in touch with you for about two weeks. We called Phoenix Ford, we tried your H. Salt Fish, your Arthur Treacher in Stockton, the Jacuzzi Whirlpool in Columbus. Everywhere. We thought you might be at the Mister Softee in Rapid City, but the lines are down and we couldn’t get through.”
“I’m in Colorado Springs.”
“Colorado Springs? Are you looking over a new franchise, Ben?”
“Why were you trying to reach me?”
“It’s Mom, Ben.”
“What happened? Cole, is something wrong with Estelle?”
“She’s dead, Ben. She died ten days ago.”
“Estelle?”
“I guess that makes you head of the family.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean ‘head of the family’?”
“Well, you’re the oldest, Ben. We figure that makes you our godfather.”
“I’m your godcousin, your godbabybrother. How can I be your godfather?”
“Relationships change, Godfather.”
“Stop that. What happened to Estelle?”
“It was tragic, Ben. It was the comeback.”
“What comeback? What are you talking about?”
“The comeback. After the sensational reception of No, No, Nanette, Mother — well everyone, really — saw the terrific potential in revivals. You know, nostalgia. Ruby Keeler’s reviews ate her heart out, Ben. She was Patsy Kelly’s pal but Kelly’s raves really got to her, I think. Well, we still have our contacts on Broadway and Mother learned that they’re planning to do a revival of Irene. She thought it could be her big chance. She hasn’t been the same since Father died. You know that, Ben. The musical theater is in our blood.”
Yes, Ben thought.
“Well, she found out where the auditions were to be held and she went down. She used her maiden name. She wasn’t looking for favors and figured that after all these years the Finsberg name packed more clout than the name she used to dance under, so she deliberately used her old stage name. These producers are young. They aren’t the old-timers.”
“Yes?” Ben said.
“So what can I tell you, Ben? They asked her to tap dance to ‘They Go Wild, Simply Wild over Me.’ She dropped dead. What can I tell you?”
“She dropped dead?”
“She was out of condition, Ben. She’d prepared ‘Alice Blue Gown.’ She never expected the other.”
“I’m sorry, Cole. I don’t know what to say.”
“So that’s the story. What can I tell you?”
“Gosh,” Ben said, “a heart attack.”
“Yeah,” Cole said dreamily, “that and stage fright. Comeback fever. It’s getting them all, the old-timers. It’s a terrible thing, Ben. These revivals are killing them all off. The ex-hoofers are dropping like flies. So how have you been?”
“Is the family together?”
“Until a few days ago. Most everyone’s gone off by now. Gertrude and Gus-Ira went back today. There’s just a few of us in Riverdale.”
“Who’s there now, Cole?”
“Oscar,” Cole said, “Noël, and myself.”
“What about the girls?”
“Patty, La Verne, and Maxene,” Cole said coolly.
“I’d like to speak to Patty, please, Cole.”
“Sure,” Cole said. “Sure you would.” He could hear Cole call out. They must all have been in the drawing room. “It’s himself. He wants to speak to you, Patty.” There was a pause. “She’ll take it upstairs—Godfather.”
He understood Cole’s feelings. He had slept with almost all the boys’ sisters by this time. “How are you, Cole?” he asked gently.
“Oh,” Cole said, “you know. The Japanese beetles have been pesky this summer, but aside from that I’m managing.”
“That’s good, Cole, I’m glad.”
“Hi, Ben, it’s Patty.”
“Hello, Maxene. I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Darn it, Ben, we never could fool you.”
“No.”
“Hello, Ben.”
“Hello, Patty.”
“I’ll get off now, Ben.”
“Goodbye, Cole.”
“Goodbye, Ben.”
“Goodbye, Maxene.”