But that wasn’t how it was going at all. He wasn’t his father, not exactly, then. John was speaking calmly into the mouthpiece. Please, yes? Yes, I’ll wait.
So he can’t help the ingrained habits, the domineering attitude, but he’s not a perfect replica.
Do you mean in a different part of the hospital? John said.
…
Who saw him last?
…
Well, can I talk to someone who does?
…
John dropped the mouthpiece below his dripping beard and said, They lost him.
He said it the way a person might declare the corkscrew or pliers to be missing, with a hint of pique, a flat atonal lack of commitment to genuine concern. After another minute, John said, Thank you, and passed the handset back to Manny. He crossed his arms and studied his feet, all too aware that he was under observation. The presence of the other two men had forced John to react in a way that made it impossible for him to discern whether the news had moved his heart to concern or urgency.
How far’s Roosevelt? he said to the floor.
Thirty blocks? Manny said.
Thirty, my father confirmed.
All right, then, John said.
And back he went into the blizzard.
18.
John was only thirty-one but already showed signs of ticking around the eyes, the sympathetic droop of the lids you see in social workers and the clergy. His skin was pale, in some places almost transparent, the blue veins beneath his collarbone glowing through, and since graduating high school he’d worn a beard to cover his acne scars. He was fussy about it. He wasn’t interested in looking like Grizzly Adams. He aspired to project urbanity. On the occasion of his winning a vocal competition in the Catskills several years earlier, a part-time critic at the Kerhonkson Reporter had described him as being in possession of a “sort of diamond in the rough face.” His hairline was in retreat, which he’d accepted as the price of adulthood.
John had made two stops that night before arriving at the Apelles. Like everything he did, they had been attempts at forgetting that his son was dead. He had stopped first at the Cosmic Diner, a place he’d never taken his little boy and that he therefore hoped would not spring any memory traps on him. Anyone else would have gone to a bar, but John did not drink. His father drank, and that was reason enough for John not to. The second stop had been a movie theater that specialized in erasing time.
For the record, the bulbs in John’s brain were fine. He had just the right number, and they turned off and on when they were supposed to. His bulbs’ efficient reliability caused problems, however, since what he needed most in the world was to forget the death of his little boy, so he might have benefited from some faulty wiring or burned-out bulbs. But what he had instead was a perfectly functioning device for playing back his recording of a tragedy.
Four years had passed since he’d been inside the Cosmic, and when he’d entered he’d recognized a few of the waiters, and one of them recognized him, too, and didn’t seem to care that he’d taken up a four-top for the better part of the afternoon. John had been avoiding his eye, but when things calmed down the waiter sauntered over.
So you finally come for the job? the waiter asked, arms crossed over his profound chest. He wore a white shirt and black vest stained with a palette of soups and pastes, and transmitted the impatience of a professional forced to deal with amateurs all day long.
Where do I sign? John said.
Nikos, the waiter said, extending his hand.
Nikos, John said. I remember.
I tell you something, Nikos said. These guys… He shot the kitchen a forlorn look and stroked his white mustache, movements that invoked a spectrum of ancient disappointments that somehow encompassed brutal winters and rotten harvests, deaths at sea, generations living in the disfavor of the gods. It’s been a while, my friend. You’ve been in prison, no?
John shook his head.
Ran off with a woman?
Something like that, John said.
You finished school?
All done.
So finally now you come to work for us? the waiter said, jabbing John in the shoulder.
When he was at Juilliard, John had talked with this waiter sometimes, late-night, the place populated by old men in overcoats nursing cups of coffee, old women reading the Times with a magnifying glass.
These guys, the waiter said again. He slid into the booth across from John and leaned across the table. I tell you, he whispered. These guys. He can’t fire them, you know? Good luck if you do want to work here.
John raised his eyebrows. The owner, who occupied a stool by the door, his girth running over the sides of the seat like warm dough, spent his day ringing up checks and intermittently yelling at the staff, rousing himself only for shuffling trips to the head, didn’t strike John as the type who’d think twice about firing his own mother, much less his kitchen staff. That wasn’t the point. This waiter wanted to vent his spleen, divulge the same complaints he laid on anyone he got into a corner, John suspected. He was about to deliver a conspiracy, and all conspiracies were the same: conceived in fear, nourished with jealousy and spite. All Nikos wanted from John was a little collusion, a sign that he, a fellow white man, had also suffered as a result of the special treatment the Negroes, the coloreds, the whatever-they’re-called-this-week got. How about a little compassion, a nod of agreement at the injustice? John set his face to regard the waiter without malice, but with no hint of understanding.
They come down from Harlem, the waiter said quietly, splaying out his fingers on the tabletop. First he hire only one. But then another, and another. And now they’re a gang. If he try to get rid of one, he has a riot on his hands. The whole restaurant, burned. You see what they did in the Bronx, right?
John tipped back his head to indicate that he’d listened with an impartial ear, a judge on the bench.
The Black Panthers are everywhere, the waiter whispered, holding up his fist. You understand?
John sipped his drink.
I tell you one thing. He fire them right now, maybe no problem. Those people can’t stand cold, so no protests. I don’t make this up. It’s evolution, it’s scientific. This climate is all wrong for them. Survival of the fittest. They’re too easy to spot in the snow.
Nikos stopped talking and looked at John. He waited.
Finally John said, So how long have they worked here?
Nikos said, Twenty, twenty-five years. So you see my point, yes?
I suppose, John said.
The waiter leaned back in his seat and wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. You got a job? he said.
Trademark office, John said.
The waiter nodded. You still sing?
Here and there. Maybe a summer tour. Festivals.
So, the trademark office?