There were voices in the hallway. I heard Erica, and then the polite but vaguely querulous tones of — a woman? — and then Erica’s voice, projecting: “Jack. Jack, will you come out here, please?”
Mrs. Shapiro, our next-door neighbor, was standing in the doorway. “Sorry to bother you,” the old woman said, “but your garbitch is all over the driveway — I can’t even get the car through. ”
Garbage? Her driveway was at least fifty feet from ours. What was she talking about?
The night was warm, redolent of flowers and grass clippings. There was a moon, and the crickets seemed to be serenading it, chirring in the trees like a steel band locked in a groove. I walked beside Mrs. Shapiro to where her car sat rumbling and sputtering, lights flooding the gumbo of vegetable peels, papers, milk cartons, and diapers strewn across her driveway. The cans had been deliberately hauled down the street, upended and dumped — no dog or raccoon could have been so determined or efficient. This was deliberate. As I bent to the mess, I thought of Casper.
“Kids.” Mrs. Shapiro, arms folded, stood silhouetted against the headlights. She spat the words out as if she were cursing. “Things just seem to get worse and worse, don’t they?”
I worked in silence, embarrassed, digging into the slop with my bare hands, trying not to think about baby stool, maggots, the yielding wet paste of coffee grounds and canteloupe shells, scooping it up by the armload. When I was finished I told Mrs. Shapiro that I’d have Erica hose down the driveway for her in the morning. The elderly woman merely raised her hand as if to say “Forget about it,” tumbled into the car seat, and set the car in motion with a shriek of the steering mechanism and a rumble of rotten exhaust. I watched the taillights trace the arc of her driveway, then hauled the garbage cans back to my own yard, all the while expecting Casper to pop out at me with a laugh. Or maybe he was crouching in the bushes, giggling to himself like a half-witted adolescent. That was about his speed, I thought.
Inside, I washed up, fumed at Erica—“It was deliberate,” I kept saying, “I know it was”—and then shut myself up in the study with the brief I’d prepared on the battery manufacturer. I couldn’t read a word of it. After a while — it must have been twenty minutes or so — I heard Erica getting ready for bed — running water, brushing her teeth — and then the house went silent. I knew I should go over the brief a couple of times, have a mug of hot Ovaltine, and get a good night’s rest. But I was rooted to the chair, thinking about Casper — a grown man, thirty-one years old — sneaking around in the dark dumping people’s garbage. What could he be thinking of?
A muffled sound was pulsing through the house. At first it didn’t register, and then, with a flash of anger, I realized what it was: someone was knocking at the door. This was too much. If there was garbage in the neighbors’ driveway they could damn well clean it up themselves, I thought, storming down the hallway. I wrenched the door back, expecting Mrs. Shapiro.
It was Casper.
He stood there, his head bowed, the moon blanching the stiff bristle of his crown. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, shorts, sandals. The veins stood out in his arms. When he looked up at me his eyes were soft and withdrawn. “Jack,” was all he said.
I was at a loss. The worst possible scenario was playing itself out on my doorstep, and I was caught up in it, against my will, suddenly forced to take a part. I felt like an unrehearsed actor shoved out onstage; I felt exhausted and defeated. My initial impulse had been to slam the door shut, but now, with Casper standing there before me, I could only clear my throat, wipe my features clean, and ask him in.
He hesitated. “No,” he said, “no, I couldn’t do that. I mean, I just came to… to say hello, that’s all.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, insistent, already ushering him in. “Here, the living room. Have a seat. Can I get you something: beer? brandy? 7-Up?”
We were standing beside each other in the center of the living room. He took in the potted plants, the umbrella tree, the little Paul Klee my mother had given me. The nearest piece of furniture was the loveseat; he perched on the edge of it, apologetic. “No thanks,” he said, eyes on the floor.
I was halfway to the kitchen, needing a brandy. “You sure? It’s no trouble at all. I’ve got liqueur-how about a Drambuie?” It had suddenly become crucially important that I give him something, an offering of some sort, a peace pipe, the communal leg of lamb. “Are you hungry? I’ve got Brie and crackers — I could make a sandwich—?”
He was still staring at the floor. “Milk,” he said, so softly I wasn’t sure I’d heard him.
“You want a glass of milk?”
“Yes, thanks — if it’s not too much trouble.”
I made some deprecatory noises, poured out a brandy and a milk, arranged some Danish flatbread on a platter around the cheese. Two minutes later we were sitting across the room from each other. I was looking into my brandy snifter; he was studying the glass of milk as if he’d never seen anything like it before. “So,” I said, “you’re back.”
He didn’t answer. Just sat there, looking at his milk. There was something monkish about him — perhaps it was the crewcut. I thought of acolytes, nuns, the crop-headed Hare Krishnas in airport lounges. “It’s been a long time,” I offered. No response. It occurred to me to ask about the garbage cans — perhaps we could share the intimacy of the joke — but then I thought better of it: no sense in embarrassing him or stirring up any rancor.
“About the garbage cans,” he said, as if reading my thoughts, “I did it.”
I waited for an explanation. He stared at me so fixedly I finally looked away, and more as a means of breaking the silence than satisfying my curiosity, I asked him why.
He seemed to consider this. “I don’t know,” he said finally, took a tentative sip of milk, then downed the glass in a single gulp. He belched softly and settled back in the chair.
I was losing my patience. I had work in the morning. The last thing I wanted to do was sit here with this wacko, on edge in my own living room, mouthing the little platitudes of social formality when I knew both of us were seething. I made another stab at conversation, just because the silence was so inadmissible. “So,” I said, “we’ve wondered about you from time to time, Erica and I…. We have a daughter, did you know that? Her name’s Tricia. ”
His arms were rigid, tense with muscle. He was staring down at his interlocked fingers, straining with the tension, as if he were doing an isometric exercise. “I was in the hospital,” he said.
The hospital. The syllables bit into me, made something race round the edge of my stomach. I did not want to hear it.
I got up to pour another brandy. “More milk?” I asked, the rigorous host, but he ignored me. He was going to tell me about the hospital. He raised his voice so I could hear him.
“They said it was a condition of giving me a clean slate. You know, they’d rehabilitate me. Eleven months. Locked up with the shit-flingers and droolers, the guys they’d shot up in the war. That was the hospital. ”
I stood in the kitchen doorway, the brandy in my hand. He was accusing me. I’d started the war, oppressed the masses, wielded the dollar like an ax; I’d deserted him, told the FBI the truth, created the American Nazi Party, and erected the slums, stick by stick. What did he want from me — to say I was sorry? Sorry he was crazy, sorry he couldn’t go to law school, sorry Marx’s venom had eaten away the inside of his brain?
He was on his feet now. The empty glass flashed in his hand as he crossed the room. He handed it to me. We were inches apart. “Jack,” he said. I looked away.