Sam’s head hung, and I could see no face, only the twisty, springy dark hair.
“So I tell you, on my dear boy’s behalf, and for myself as well, in that spirit of forgiveness that transcends dying, ‘God bless you, Mr. Mordecai.’ We’ll be friends.”
He put out his broad hand and Sam reached for it with both of his as if he were drowning and he knew he’d be pulled up.
“Billy,” M said. “I will speak with you further. I salute your gallant cause.”
On the edge of the Loin of New York, then, and in the darkness pierced by the lanterns of cabriolets, and by the flicker of street lamps, M walked toward East Twenty-sixth Street while Adam lingered like a man at the scene of a railroad accident who has seen the bodies carted off but who is locked into place by emotions, not practical need, staring dully at the twisted metal and the bits of bloody cloth.
I put money in his hand and he let it fall. I retrieved it, and I placed it in his hand again.
“You have done me a service,” I said.
“What did I sell you?”
“Energy. Expertise. Safety, perhaps. You were my courier — my guide.”
“I showed you a look at bad behavior and sorrow. Like it was minstrels kicking and strumming just for you.”
Sam slowly pulled his notebook out and opened it, then turned his back toward us and started to write.
Adam didn’t notice. He said, “I beg your pardon.” He held my hand and opened it out and deposited the money therein, then closed my fingers on it. “Excuse me,” he said. It was like being touched with chilly wood. Then he said, “Mist Bartelmy, good night. If you are in trouble, you can ax for me. But I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“I will. And you won’t. I thank you, Adam, and I wish you Godspeed.”
Sam had turned to watch us, and he was drawn so tall in observation, I thought he might throw a military salute, but he inclined his head and waved. Adam did not respond. He walked east, back into the Loin, and he disappeared into one of its alleys, and was gone.
“I would gargle with a bottle of something flame-y,” Sam said.
“Flame-y? Indeed! You are inventive, Sam.”
“I’ll show you some of my notes. It’s been a remarkable night.”
“No need for the notes, though I thank you. After all, I was there. What can you have written down that I didn’t witness with my own eyes?”
He smiled in his fondness, and then he shook his head. He put his notebook in his inside breast pocket. He said, “Then let’s go someplace where all the whores are career officers and all the customers enlisted men. And where children are neither dead by suicide nor butt-shagged with scrimshaw.”
“Was it really scrimshaw, Sam?”
He made a face of impish wisdom, and he tapped at his coat, over the place where the notebook lay. Then, as if he were the man of New York, and I the New England cousin, he led us out of the Loin, and east and south, and he bought us glasses of port in the saloon bar of the Astor, where, in the rosiness of its lamps and on the buttoned plush of our banquette, beneath a murky painting of a fox in flight from what I suppose were meant to be hounds but which looked to me like Shetland ponies gone carnivorous, Sam finished off a note and pushed the notebook over to me. Its cover was a heavy black leather binding, and the shiny pages sewn into it, five inches or so high, were ruled in black, with gold-tipped edges.
His handwriting ran across the page, leaning forward like a boy in flight, sprawling almost flat at times, as if the boy had fallen. I could sense the racing of his hand, as if it sought to keep pace with his scoutings-out and insights. How athletic, it seemed to me, of a sudden, must be the mind of such a willing and nimble observer.
I turned back a few sheets, as though searching for a single entry in particular, because I thought it would please him to see such concern. I already knew, from M, with what tender feelings an author might proffer his work. Sam had offered me his account of our night in the dark nation so alien, yet so much our own, but my fingers and my eyes, as if they were directed there, lighted upon the terrible dates when Malcolm, so late and so adrift, had returned to East Twenty-sixth Street as if in search of True North.
TUESDAY, SEPT 10: Boy returned at 3 of the morning — This could therefore count for Wednesday, the 11th — So soon do the actualities dwindle and the uncertainties predominate — A child as sweet as any I knew, who gave us joy and little worry, save for his welfare — Ghastly his welfare now, and ghastly to outlive your son! — So he returned at 3 of the morning, I asleep and Lizzie to the door, and she admitted him and of course did — must needs — reproach him for his inconsideration, for his breaking of his curfew and his vow — No scent nor display of the effects of liquor, swears his mother my wife who nearly departed the house in spite of her vow, but that’s for another time or never — It cannot matter now — And so she did not scold, but chided him, and so he went to bed, having kissed her, she claims — Why should he not have? For he was the kindest of boys — And there’s Fanny, in the morning, sent upstairs to waken him while I, at the table, smoked a pipe before work — Nothing but his voice, a single word, the child reports: He said, “Yes”—And in a life of everlasting No, I shall live, now, with his Yes — I can hear it in the inner ear — And so the father assembles the crew and gives the working orders for the day: the boy to sleep, then late into work at the Great Western Marine, and surely to be scolded (if not fired!) by Lathers, and where shall we find any other source of the $200 per annum? — Discipline’s first, I tell them, and they make as if to obey — From the girls, of course, this intelligence, that Lizzie is up the stairs and down every 30 minutes and less, knocking at his door — No answer — No answer — Is this not the cry of man since Christ cried out to his father and received No Answer, and the weight of his body at the nails on which his cartilage and veins were hung? — No answer — and the breaking down of the door at night — soreness in the shoulder and hip from the collision with immovable wood and soreness in the soul from the sight with which it collided too — The manchild like a baby, curled about his hand and the pistol it held, curled about his wound as now I must curl in my inmost self about the sight I forever carry — And the boy did not drink liquor nor visit prostitutes nor engage in the vices of other boys his age — He did twirl the pistol, we are told — In the office and the street and at the luncheon place they frequented, he did twirl the pistol as if he were a desperado crossing into Mexico — And she had decided, she said, that she would do her duty as a wife and stay with me — She had done her duty before, and she would do it now — It did him no good, she insists, that I was gruff with him, or belittled his engagement in the Guard — Men on ships are cruel with one another — That is the world of men — That is the military world, and he had better be accustomed, I said, after another seizure of snuffling and sulking and her taking his side — Fanny weeping and Lizzie and Stanny with his great, staring eyes — I on the river, slowly spitting my spit into the foam of the green, filthy water at the wharf, foam like slaver of mad dog — Kneeling upon the lowest step of the wharf and dipping into the water and tasting it and carrying all day the bitterness of it — Bitter is it to be poor and bitter to be reviled, and Oh bitter are these waters of commerce and death, for the bodies of the drowned children do sprawl and swirl at the bottom — Dead animals cast up by the water, and sometimes a desperate woman in her suicide, but never are the children returned by the river and as for the ocean it is only in books that the tiny pip of humanity returns—
WEDNESDAY, SEPT 11: For a man to be accused in his own home of madness is madness redoubled and cruelty heaped upon cruelty — Is it not enough? Is it not enough, I said — I shrieked it, bellowed it, declaimed it in thunder — Is it not enough that a man be exiled from his profession, must he be exiled from his family too? — Lizzie, sitting upon her bed, weeping for an hour into the most absurdly small handkerchief — Live with your father, by all means, for it is with his money that we have lived and with yours we have purchased this house and with his smile of unmeant affection he may send you abroad as he has sent me — I have seen the Village of Lepers built upon a dung heap and I will be the leper, squatting on ordure, while you hasten to your father’s house — You did not berate him, you say, and so he enters and you embrace in a sticky celebration of his abstemiousness and your benefaction, and up he goes, and off, and then to kill himself with a noisy gun while all the day long you hover near his door and yet do not hear the pistol’s report.