Fall and Rise Read online

  “And what’s that and who are they?”

  “Plenty.” Presses the same palm against his left eye and closes the right. “Always many different things to many different people on many different times of the nights and days of the years in the ways only we have in our heads of telling, so only we can say. But they go back thousands before the Roman and Etruscan gods, and no two messages in all time to any two people or to the same person the same.” Takes his hand away, right eye stays closed. “You pay for what it will say to you, only one more dollar, and I am allowed to tell.”

  “You’re not saying what language it is then?”

  “I haven’t said? Our own. But what people me and my language is from I can only say for that one more dollar, so two.”

  “Your people have a poetry?”

  “One we talk to only to ourselves and the wise wings of the night and the wolves.”

  “You mean real wolves in whatever country you and your language come from, and those wise night-wings are owls?”

  “I mean no poetry but what is written into our hands and heads, like everything else in our language. Newspapers. Whole-day tales. You think that funny?” He opens his eye.

  “I’m not laughing, I’m listening. This smile’s my regular look.”

  “So, also my aunt’s books for cooking too. In the hand and head. Everything. Some on and on on their arms when these words go on too long. Histories. Travels. Lives. But you pay this hand,” which is out again with the letters and numbers on it, “two dollars, one for your message for which and other the language of what and who they are from.”

  “Just for the message.” I give him a dollar. “I think I’ve memorized enough of the language on your hand to find out which one it is.”

  “Never unless I tell you. But fifty cents more for the flower or language and people then. I’ll do that now. I want to get home soon.”

  “Really, I’m just about broke.” I give the flower to him and he drops it into a shopping bag with other flowers. “It’s ruined now, you should pay, but okay. Now for your dollar.” He looks at that palm. “Tonight’s November Twenty-something in your language. I know what day of. Friday. By us, a special alone dog day, one where the tail is down and can’t wag. But you’ve how much age?”

  “Forty-two. No, I had a birthday, July. -three.”

  “And you lived many years here you said since your shoeshine box a half a boy my age ago, even if I guess now and then you moved. Say it’s not true.”

  “Is true.”

  “That’s all I must know. Not your father’s name, not your mother’s.” Closes his eyes, presses that palm to his ear, mumbles, opens his eyes on the palm. “It says for you this night in the city you were once very young in that you will stay young in for a while and will stay here for years and make it to be a big long life for a long time, but for now these next five weeks you will make or one time soon—let me count. One, two, three,” with his eyes closed and opens them on his palm. “Make the one, love, two, lot but not that lot of money, and three, keep the head and body strength you have if you still want it to do what work you like to and do best and succeed. But, it says, you must look and good and hard for all three in these next five weeks and not stop till you find, for they will not come out to look and find you. You know what all that means? I don’t so much. I only repeat what I read and now unless you remember it, is gone.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Not enough?”

  “No, more than I ever hoped for.”

  “For you don’t like it, I give your dollar back, because I don’t know what else you could wish for. Life forever? That goes for nobody, but if someone like me reads it in his palm for you or says ‘Never sickness,’ tell him he lies.”

  “Really, it’s okay,” when he puts his hand in the pocket he put the dollar in. “I thought you were great.”

  “Neh, maybe there’s more. I don’t want you to be unhappy with me or think I’m lazy and maybe left some for you behind.” Holds his palm up to his nose and shakes it. Puts it to his forehead and closes his eyes and his lashes start fluttering. Makes a fist, opens it, closes it, opens, closes, opens and opens his eyes, lashes stop fluttering, and looks at it. “If anything is hiding in there it needs sometimes to shake it apart or unlock.” Holds his fist to his ear, says “Wait, I hear, it’s getting closer—here it is I think,” and looks at his palm. “Yes. And it still says it won’t be easy what that message from my hand and head called out to you, but it gives words of advice how to go out and get them and again in numbers of three. One, be not as strong as young teeth, not as weak as old bones, not as quick as quick lips with swift tongues, but someplace inside each of these: easy and hard, fast and slow, throw and catch, the in-between.” He looks up. “That’s all I can say. Even for many more dollars from you, because all there was of the message I read. Now I must go. Time is late. I’m not afraid, but sisters and mother who wait up for me are. And you don’t want beautiful red flower, others along the way might. Goodnight,” and he picks up the shopping bag and goes. “Night,” and get home safe if home’s where you’re going, though bet he can handle himself on the street better than I, and take out my notebook to write down the letters and numbers that were on his palm, but have forgotten everything but a reverse S and the upside-down nine.

  Uptown. Shoes and socks seem nearly dry. Shoeshine box. Bit of a lie. Went out a number of times with one my father bought originally for the home, though he wasn’t against me trying to make some money on the street and I was probably around twelve. Said I had to be home before dark and if I broke any part of the box I had to pay for it and also for the shoeshining supplies. But almost everyone I shined for said I gave a lousy shine and most didn’t tip and a few wouldn’t pay the dime. Smeared and maybe stained too many socks and skin and cuffs above them with shoe polish and a few men said something like “You know what the cost of a new pair of socks is compared to this stinking shine?” Soon gave up shining with that box except at home for my uncles and parents’ friends, though free for my father, and later for myself and my father when he was in bed convalescing or in his wheelchair eating or watching TV and I’d take a few pairs of his shoes out of his closet shoe rack and say “Just doing it because the leather’s cracking and for when you’ll be up and around wearing them again,” and in front of him also to have something to do in front of him gave them a good shine.

  I go over to two attached pay-phones. Receiver of one hangs by its cord below the shelf. Other’s on its stirrup and I lift it. Operational tone so so far the phone’s fine. I put my dime in and wait for the dial tone. None comes. Dial? Don’t. I start to, stop. But what I got at first was probably the dial tone, even if the sign on the phone says to wait for the operational tone before putting a dime in. I punch out the remaining numbers. Man’s recorded voice says “Your phone requires a tencent deposit before dialing. Please hang up and—” I hang up. Coin’s not returned. I press the coin-return lever and coin comes. Other phone? Something tells me the odds are better with this one, and my coin was returned. I try again. Same thing. Same man’s voice imparting self-confidence, forbearance, anyone can make a mistake, next time please try to read the instruction plate first, I am a man who makes his living through his diction and believable tone, lever repeatedly, coin comes. I leave the receiver hanging below the shelf, lift the receiver of the other phone and press its stirrup. Dial or operational tone, dime in, dialing dial tone, punch out the numbers to my mother’s home. Phone’s ringing. Most people I wait a minimum of four rings. My mother, because she might be resting or sleeping or on her breathing machine any time of the day, I usually hang up after the third ring, when she answers with a hello.

  “Mom, it’s me, how are you? I have to drag you to the phone?”

  “Oh, Dan. I was wondering who’d be calling me so late.”

  “I shouldn’t have, right? But I felt I really owed you a call and I tend to forget—Actually I almost never tend to forget, got a memory like
a you-know-what, but thought you might be up because you’ve said your hours are so erratic. But did I get you out of bed or from any place inconvenient? Because if you hadn’t answered after the third ring—”

  “It’s all right, and good hearing your voice. How are you too? You sound fine. We have no heat you know.”

  “Because it’s past eleven?”

  “Because we never had heat. For two days. On Thanksgiving, imagine?”

  “Thanksgiving? Yesterday? Christ—never called to see what you were doing.”

  “I went to your cousin Bernard’s and Dotty’s as I usually do. They again asked if they should invite you but I told them you’d never come. They picked me up and sent me home by hired car.”

  “That was very nice of them. How are they?”

  “Fine and their kids are wonderful. You eat out last night?”

  “Nope. Bought a thick veal steak and a good bottle of bock for the occasion. But your heat.”

  “Boiler oil shouldn’t run out. Not at the average old age of the tenants in this building. It’s the landlord who should run and keep running till we never see him again. I wish it weren’t so, but sometimes everything people I don’t normally listen to say about landlords turns out to be true.”

  “You used to speak very highly about the ones who owned the building before the current guy. Mrs. Innerstein for instance.”

  “She lived in the building so went through what we all did, and think she would jeopardize her cats’ health? Cats like a hot place. Maybe the expense of oil today would make even Mrs. In greedy. They say it’s regulated by computer, the amount of oil the building needs. But either he’s draining our tank to heat his buildings till twelve where the apartments go for more, or he’s finagled with the oil company to once a month let the oil run out on the two most freezing days it takes to bring in a delivery. But do I sound too caustic and paranoid? I try not to be, it’s unhealthy, but occasionally in this building it’s impossible not to. Who knows? Maybe this time the landlord has a pardonable excuse.”

  “You sound plenty reasonable, so don’t worry. It must be very uncomfortable without heat.”

  “Where you calling from? It sounds like noises on the street.”

  “A pay phone. I went to a party and was walking home.”

  “It’s safe? You don’t want to take a subway at night, but why not a bus or cab?”

  “I’m walking to get air.”

  “You drank too much at the party?”

  “Mom, will you stop it? I drank a little. Maybe even more than a little, but I’m all right.”

  “Thieves see a drunk on the street, they see a target. You have to be careful everyplace today. No matter how big you are, they come at you two and three at a time and can knock and keep any man down. I worry about you alone at night. You’re too quick to leap in if you see any trouble. Maybe yesterday that was okay or you’d end up with only a bop on the nose, but today you can get killed. If they start chasing you and they’re young, they’ll win.”

  “Believe me, with all the exercising I do I’m even stronger than I was, but I no longer jump in. I’m as wary as the next guy.”

  “Too much exercise at your age and you could be setting yourself up for a heart condition. You ought to do only light things like yoga.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I’ll check into it.”

  “You’re not just saying?”

  “No. I’ll get a check-up, have a stress test—whatever.”

  “Good. How long you think we’ve been on the phone?”

  “Three minutes. More?”

  “I’m surprised the operator hasn’t cut in. Maybe I should call you back before she does.”

  “Leave it. So we get a break from the phone company for once. But if I know them they’ll ring me as soon as I hang up, and if you know me you know I’ll pay. But where were we? That you must be very uncomfortable without heat for two days. See how I got a memory?”

  “I never doubted. And this time I don’t care how good his excuse is, I’m going to a good hotel and charge them for meals and tips too if this lasts another day.”

  “Don’t go to a hotel. My apartment’s small. But if it ever came to your being warm or not and you wanted to avoid the hotel cost, you could always stay at my place alone for as long as you want and I’d find someplace else to stay or you could stay there with me.”

  “On the floor?”

  “I’d sleep on the floor or in a chair. It’s not bad. I have a sleeping bag, or I’d buy a cot, and I’d come get you.”

  “Your apartment must be very small. Anyway, thanks but if I didn’t go to a hotel I’d go to Bernard’s. He also asked me and it’s nearer and roomier. Because I can’t take the cold, Daniel. Nobody here can. I wore three sweaters and would have worn a fourth if I had one. Get me a good wool cardigan for Christmas if you’re thinking of buying me anything. I never asked you for a gift before, but that’s what I need and I don’t know when I’ll have the time to look for a good one. What do you need?”

  “For Christmas? Nothing.”

  “For anytime what do you need? Don’t say socks.”

  “It’s true, socks I can always use. Socks and size thirty-two jockey briefs, next style up from what they call bikini, but not white.”

  “They show the stain, I know.”

  “I told you? Or you’re getting very bold.”

  “You did tell me after I gave you several pairs of white. Black or red, right?”

  “Any dark solid color. Size thirty-two or thirty-four. I can get into both. For some reason thirty-two stretches to a thirty-four and thirty-four doesn’t to a thirty-six. Maybe I’m a thirty-four and don’t want to admit it.”

  “Get measured.”

  “Let’s just say thirty-four.”

  “I already have it. Regular dark solid-colored jockey briefs but not the old-man kind, preferably thirty-three if they carry odd sizes, and no artificial materials in them except in the elastic band. Same with the socks? Not the knee-high kind and I know no whites, but what about argyles? They used to be your favorite.”

  “In college. But anything. Cotton or wool or a wool blend, they’re all fine. White too, don’t bother yourself about what kind, but not all-nylon if you can avoid it of any design.”

  “Like dad used to wear.”

  “I find them itchy and ugly.”

  “You still have his after all these years?”

  “The last pair’s just wearing out.”

  “Dad also didn’t spend much on clothes, but look how those socks lasted and some of them didn’t come to you new. Six years.”

  “I thought eight.”

  “Six. I waited two years before I gave away any of his clothes. You thought that peculiar.”

  “Not peculiar.”

  “Peculiar, peculiar. You wanted me to throw them on the street or give them to Goodwill, but I couldn’t till after two years. And you finally took his socks and also his bathrobes, and those robes were Viyella, expensive but durable and warm. I bet you still have them.”

  “You can’t wear them out.”

  “I bought them for him. But let’s not talk about it anymore if you don’t mind. You’re not too cold where you’re calling from?”

  “I’ve a coat. One thing before I forget. What color cardigan?”

  “Something bright. Blue heather or heather blue. Or a pretty shade in the red family. Red makes me feel warm when it’s cold. And size thirty-eight. Cardigans have to be loose.”

  “Good. But you feel fine otherwise and there’ll be heat by tomorrow?”

  “This going to be a much longer call? I’m enjoying it, but the operator not coming in worries me. And you didn’t just call to say you’d be stopping by tomorrow or the next day for dinner and then got carried away with all this clothes talk?”

  “You want me for dinner tomorrow?”

  “It’s been a long time, not that I want to coerce you.”

  “No, I want to. Tomorrow.”

  �
�We could make it the following day.”

  “No, tomorrow.”

  “Good—around five. What should I prepare?”

  “If you’re giving me a choice, fish would be fine. Simple—broiled. I could pick it up on the way.”

  “You can’t get fresh fish where you are like we get here. But I was thinking of a roast chicken if not a meatloaf. I have both in the freezer and one of these days soon I have to defrost it.”

  “I don’t like roast chicken—maybe the only thing of yours I don’t. The idea of it, looking like something I don’t want to be reminded of. I know it’s my problem, but I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll cut it up. The carcass will be gone before you get here.”

  “Fine then, for what am I going on about?—chicken. I liked it best when you boiled it I think and then I don’t know what you did with the parts—baked or broiled them plain with a little paprika and a single onion slice on top. Just don’t make a big deal. Don’t bake pies. Don’t start cooking early tomorrow morning.”

  “Why not? If there’s no heat to very little, it’ll keep the place warm.”

  “I’ll bring the wine and bread.”

  “Only for you to drink—my system can’t take it. I only have my vodka or two and that’s sufficient. Are we going to speak another minute or more?”

  “If you want to. It must be freezing sitting there.”

  “I have a bathrobe and blanket around me, so I’m almost warm. Another of dad’s robes you said was ugly, but this one, and am I grateful, you didn’t take. The heater’s on too, so it’s not that bad. I complain way too much. But what was I saying? Nothing. And I hate the operator interrupting, so if we are going to speak a while longer, give me your number and I’ll call back.”

  “You have to be sure you want to.”

  “I do. I’m feeling very peppy tonight and I love it.”

  “You have a pen?”

  “I have a memory.”

  “Two-four-three, ninety-one twelve.”

  “Don’t let anyone take the phone from you. It might get too cold for me waiting if they do. But if you don’t hear from me in a minute it means I forgot your number, so phone back. Bye, dear.” Hangs up. Phone rings a few seconds later.