Listen Ruben Fontanez Read online

  I mumble something about her father’s wish concerning her schoolwork, but the words are all wrong. She is pleased, I know, by my uneasiness. “I mean it,” she says. “You’re okay. Not like these high school kids or my old man’s friends.” She is gone at once. My shirt is sticking to my back and when I go to the sink and reach for the faucet, I almost knock over the drinking glass. The sound alarms me. Music begins again, down the hall. I relieve myself, fumbling like a child at the opening to my trousers, embarrassed at what I discover.

  At the dinner table, despite Danny’s urging, I leave my jacket on. Mary hardly looks my way and when she does there is nothing in her face to acknowledge what has taken place.

  “Blessed Jesus, we thank you for the food we are about to eat and for all the blessings you have bestowed upon us. We ask your blessings upon this house, upon little Gil who resides with thee, and upon Mister Meyers who does so much good for us, Amen.” Danny looks up. He has said it in a single breath. “Hey, pass the wine around, Jeannie—don’t hog it all—give some to Mister Meyers first.” He looks at me and winks. “Hope you don’t mind my putting in a little word for you with our guy up there. It can’t hurt, can it—even if—”

  “Cut it, Danny,” his wife says.

  “Cut what? Mister Meyers don’t mind—pass the meatballs—I mean, if you can’t be frank with a friend, what’s the use?”

  “Yeah, yeah—” Jean says. “My husband’s a big philosopher.”

  “At least I use my brain for more than warming seats—” He reaches over and takes the salt shaker from in front of Mary.

  “The meatballs are very good,” I say, and it is the truth.

  “Better not fill up—that’s just the start—” Mrs. Santini says. She smiles at me. “I got your favorites for the main dish—chicken cacciatore with some gnocchi on the side.”

  Danny beams. “The only time I get to eat good is when you come,” he says. “Chef Boyardee the rest of the time—”

  “Hey,” she says. “That’s not—”

  More swiftly than I can follow he is up and behind her chair, hugging her around the neck, squeezing her tightly. “Can’t you take a joke? I’ll tell you the truth, Mister Meyers, she’s one hell of a good cook. I can’t complain about the food around here—”

  “Stop it, will you?” Mary says to her parents. “Stop—!”

  “Look who’s buttin’ in—” Danny responds. “Since when ain’t I allowed to do what I want with my own wife, huh?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mary says, but she looks down at her plate, picking at a meatball with her fork. Danny releases his wife and returns to his seat.

  “I bet you’re lookin’ forward to the end of this year,” he says to me. “Be rid of them animals for good, huh?”

  “I suppose,” I say.

  “I gotta hand it to you—I said the same thing to Jeannie before you got here—you got real dedication to your work, Mister Meyers, staying in that school with all that’s happening. Didn’t I say so, Jeannie?”

  She nods. The doorbell rings, and Mary leaves. “You want any more, Danny?” Mrs. Santini asks. “Otherwise I’ll get the main dish—”

  “Real good tonight, Jeannie. You outdone yourself.” There is talking in the foyer. Mrs. Santini takes my plate. “You got any plans yet?”

  “Plans?”

  “For when you retire—I mean, do you know what you’re gonna do with yourself?”

  “No,” I say. “No plans. I will rest, I suppose. That is all. I am entitled.”

  “You bet your sweet life you are,” Danny says. “I figured maybe you were gonna travel—go to Europe or Israel or one of them places. You’ll be getting a pretty good pension from the city, I’ll bet—”

  “Tell Ma I’m sorry but I gotta go right now—” Mary says, her head in the doorway. “Nice seeing you again, Mister Meyers.” Her head is covered with a red and black kerchief. Brown curls frame her face. She does not even glance at me. A boy stands behind her, in the shadows, shifting his feet.

  “Ain’t you even gonna bring your guy in, to introduce him to Mister Meyers?” Danny asks.

  “We don’t have time. Sorry,” she says, and is gone.

  “Get back here, you—” But the door is already closed. An instant later we hear the roar of an automobile engine, the screech of tires.

  “Hot pants,” Danny says. “She’s probably—ah, what’s the difference—” He pops an olive into his mouth and leans toward me. “You get yourself on one of them cruises, Mister Meyers—take my advice. Do you a world of good to get out of this filthy city—I’d move myself if I didn’t have all my savings tied up in this house—and my seniority at the plant. We got some of the coons living a block away now—and the rest’ll be followin’ them here pretty soon. You can count on it.” He sniffs. “But you get on one of them cruises, nice and clean, with plenty of sun and good eats, movies all the time—that’s the life!” He leans back. “Meet yourself some rich widow—from what I hear, those cruises are crawlin’ with women lookin’ for guys like you.” He takes the pit from his mouth and places it carefully on the side of his plate. “You ain’t over the hill by a long shot, from your looks. Hell, this guy Sam I was tellin’ you about, he was getting on in years too, but it didn’t stop him. When there were women around he went to town like a Jew in a junkyard—” He shakes his head from side to side. “I’ll tell you, I wouldn’t mind going too—we could have a good time, you and me.”

  I begin to laugh, but my laughter turns quickly to coughing and Danny is beside me, a glass of water at my lips. “You okay?” he asks. The room darkens. I drink. “Hey—I didn’t mean nothing. That’s just—”

  I pat his arm, indicating that it is all right. I clear my throat. “That is a new one for me,” I say. “A Jew in a junkyard—”

  Danny sees that I am not offended and he is relieved. I am pleased that I make him happy. “You okay?” he asks again. He does care about me, you see, and that is no small thing.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes.”

  He returns to his seat and begins laughing with me. “Not a bad idea, huh—gettin’ on one of them cruises—you meet one of these rich old babes, you can sit pretty the rest of your life—”

  Mrs. Santini brings in the main course and we eat. I drink wine now and then, and despite the talk which runs continuously from Danny’s mouth, I find that I am comfortable here, at home. When I say anything, they pay attention, and that is something also. Now and then I see them glance toward the scrapbook, lying closed on the table, and I sense their eagerness. I wait. We finish the meal and I have still not begun. When I leave the table, though, I pick up the book and look at it.

  No sound comes from them. There is no reason to tease. They are entitled also. I leaf through the pages, seeing the pictures of myself, in the Daily News, the Post, the Journal-American. They are all here. Harry Meyers, a citizen who did his duty. Harry Meyers, a teacher and a hero. Harry Meyers, at home with the bereaved family. Harry Meyers revisits the scene of the crime. Harry Meyers confronts Jackson.

  I close the book and lay it on the couch, beside me. I should not be this way, but I need time also. They move and I sense their disappointment. Mrs. Santini begins clearing the dining table. I think of my room on the fourth floor of West 76th Street. I will return soon. It has been a long week. Ruben Fontanez of class 9-15 has been playing his devil’s games. Next week, though, I will catch my wild-eyed monkey. It is a promise. I lean back, tired, relaxed, strangely at peace, and briefly, before I know it, I am a boy again and I have come home from synagogue, trailing behind my brothers, hoping my father will commend me for the strength of my singing. I had put my heart into my prayers that night, I remember. My father is leaning back against the old yellow doily, crocheted by my grandmother, and pinned to the couch to catch the oils from his hair. The meal is over, the neighbors have left, my brothers surround the dinner table chanting prayers and songs, and, in another room, my father wheezes against the corner of the couch, as small, it seem
s to me, as I am. There are crumbs on his beard and though his eyes are closed, his head sways slightly from side to side, and his lips move. Lai lai—ditty ditty dum dum, ditty ditty dum dum. But he does not hum to the tunes which come from my brothers. My father seems very happy. The room is brown, like an old photograph of itself. The lights on the gas range flame blue and low. I climb next to my father and try to hum the song he is humming. He ruffles my hair with his hand. I am warm. His eyes open. At first he does not seem to recognize me. I cannot understand why he does not continue to hum. “Go—sing with your brothers. Leave me.” He is gruff. I hum his melody for him but he twists my ear, forcing me from his couch. “Go. Leave me.” My skullcap falls to the floor and I pick it up quickly and kiss it. I smell my father’s feet. I crawl a few feet away, then stand up and walk around the house, trying to remember my father’s melody, to seize it, but it is already too late. I open my eyes. I wonder how long it is since this scene has moved before me. Danny is speaking, and has been, I realize, for some time.

  “… I mean, the way I figure it, a man just ain’t made to settle with one woman for more than, say, ten years at a time, don’t you think? That’s why—”

  “All right,” I say, beginning. “All right. I can remember it as if it were yesterday. Sarah had been dead for a year and a half, but I would still walk through the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens every Sunday, winter or summer, the way we had done all those years.” Danny leans forward, intent, his eyes steady. Mrs. Santini tiptoes from the kitchen and sits across from me, wiping her hands on her apron, biting her lip. This is what they have been waiting for, and who am I to deny them their due. For, you see, I have done more, far more for them than merely save their son’s life. I have not saved his life. That is more important. “My wife and I, as you know, lived on Eastern Parkway in those days, in a beautiful apartment house across from the Brooklyn Museum.” My voice is full. A man can do no more for his fellow man than this, I think. I am the man who did not do what no man could do. It is difficult, then, not to join my life to theirs. “And so I repeated our walks every Sunday, revisiting all the trails and gardens we had never, I can assure you, taken for granted. As for myself, I loved the pools of goldfish most, in front of the hothouse. Sarah loved the Japanese Gardens.” I wet my lips. “It was just before Christmas that Sunday and I had not come to the Gardens until late in the afternoon. It had snowed heavily and I wore galoshes. The gate to the Japanese Gardens was locked, but I knew a side trail—I believe I pointed it out to you when we went there one time—that let me in. It was a hazy day, bitter cold, and the snow had a hard crust of crystals, like a skin of ice, covering it. The trees and plants were more clear—separate—than usual that day. It is difficult to forget the sight.” I pause, but they do not stir. Well. I will finish. “I walked beyond the large boathouse and around the pond, past the rock gardens. The fountain in the Meditation Gardens was frozen over. I continued up the hill on the far side of the pond, heading in the direction of the cherry tree mall. I cannot recall what I was thinking about. The snow was solid and once or twice I almost slipped down the icy trails. I remember the sound my galoshes made as they crashed through the surface of the snow to where it was soft underneath.

  “And then I saw the sparrows.” I open the scrapbook to the page which contains the map. It is time for that also, I suppose. I point with my finger to the spot marked by an X. “The newspapers never did have it correctly. I suppose they had their reasons. It was here—not where the X is—but here, near the grove of elms, that I halted.” I raise my arm and they follow the direction of my index finger. “You could still see the corner of the pond from the hill, frozen, and, in the distance, the roofs of the hothouses were visible. The spot was off the regular path, behind a rolling hill. But you have been there, of course. You know.” I close the scrapbook, soundlessly, and I smile. I can hear the remainder of the story, already told, but this does not diminish the very real thrill I feel again, the quickening. I am warm. I will tell you something: it is not their needs only which I indulge. “May I have some water, please?” I ask.

  “What—?” Mrs. Santini asks.

  “My mouth is dry—”

  “Christ, move your ass, woman—” Danny says, but he does not move, or look in her direction. He remains rigid, his eyes fixed in my direction.

  “Assume that the coffee table is a low hedge of bushes,” I say, standing up. “And your breakfront over there the outside edge of the elm grove—the door to the foyer a vague path that cut through the trees.” I pause to sip some water. “The sparrows were nibbling at the snow, there beyond the hedge, pecking at it, but there were no bread crumbs, only some vague pink spots which seemed curious to me. I thought at first that some of the more hardy Japanese plants were thriving—perhaps some exotic flower, the kind Sarah loved—perhaps it was defying the winter. So I moved forward, scattering the sparrows, and I saw that the pink marks were stains. I did not, I remember, even think of blood at the time. I looked up to see if something had been dripping. Then there—behind the nearest tree—I saw something else.” I back up, to the couch, and I continue to stare at the spot on the rug behind the coffee table. Their eyes are on it also, as if, if they looked long enough, something would materialize.

  “His foot,” Danny whispers. “His little foot—”

  I nod, and bit by bit, question by question, he joins me in the recreation of that day. It would be too cruel to make him listen only. I do not deny him his right to relive what happened. We rediscover, then, the day, and we do so, not as you might think, by dwelling on things gory, but with tenderness and love. There are few men who have loved their sons as Danny has. We find his child together, the child the entire city had been searching for in its headlines for six days. We open the scrapbook and read again:

  FIND MISSING BROOKLYN BOY SLAIN IN PARK

  VICTIM, 5, IS MURDERED, BEYOND RECOGNITION

  Teacher Captures Murderer

  Other accounts are more vivid. They detail the pieces of the crime. They inform us that Gil was sandy-haired, blue-eyed, and nude, his underclothes frozen nearby. Laboratory tests do not disclose whether he had been attacked sexually. According to the conductor of the preliminary autopsy, Kings County Physician, I. V. Freilicher, the death itself was caused by a five-inch blade, probably an ice pick or a marlin spike.

  When we have finished, and have laid little Gil to rest among flowers and editorials, tears and inquiries, it is my turn again. “I heard a crunching over there,” I say, pointing toward the foyer. “I do not think I quite believed what I saw, you know. And as even the pictures in the paper show, there was something peaceful, something quite beautiful about the snow-white scene.” I pause. Their heads nod in agreement. My senses are dull, but I stand up again. “The crunching seemed to wake me, and I rose and looked in the direction of the sound. Something moved. Something dark. I was frightened, I will tell you that. The snow was shadowless and the darkening day obscured shapes and forms. But I saw the points of light come from his eyes.” I sigh. It is over. I can see the end. “After that it is all a blur. The results we know, but how I did it—?” I shrug.

  “No,” Danny says, as he always does. “No. You—”

  I put up my hand. “You would like to think I knew what I was doing then, but I cannot really say that I did. In my fear I must have picked up a rock. He—Jackson—he must have been as frightened as I was, for I do not remember that he tried to run away. He simply stood there as I approached, black and frozen, the idiot pair of blue earmuffs squeezing his face. That is all I remember. Then there were more red spots. Some incredible fury in me as I must have struck him down, and a strange, helpless look on his face as he succumbed—as if he were as puzzled at finding himself there as I was.” I have moved to the entrance of the foyer and I find myself with a fist raised above my head. I move back into the living room and sit down. I drink water quickly.

  “Then you ran to get the police, right?” Danny asks. He stands. He knows that I am exhauste
d. He helps me.

  “I suppose,” I say. “I really do not remember.”

  “And when you got back with the cop from Eastern Parkway, that dumb jig was lying there near little Gil.”

  “I still held the rock in my hand,” I say. “And Jackson was awake, huddled in his flimsy raincoat.”

  “It took guts, Mister Meyers,” he says. “They had to put fifteen stitches in that coon’s skull. You really put it to him.” He nods his head vigorously. “If not for you that guy’d probably still be on the loose, doing his sick stuff. You saved a lot of parents a lot of grief, Mister Meyers.” He picks up the scrapbook and he and his wife read through it. They hold hands and he pats her gently on the shoulder and kisses her on the cheek. Mrs. Santini cries and Danny tells her not to be ashamed. She is a woman. It is natural. Even he cries sometimes when he remembers.

  Then Danny stands again and curses the judge and the N.A.A.C.P. and the government. For they were too merciful with Jackson. If he had not been black, Danny claims, he would have died in the electric chair. But clever lawyers worked on the jury’s guilt—all those details about Jackson’s boyhood, all those psychiatrists and social workers making excuses for him, all the tales about Jackson having kept Gil in his room for three days trying to revive him. Danny has been to that room, and he is obsessed with its filth, its location. The way to take care of Bedford-Stuyvesant, he says, is with bombs. Who knows, he asks, what Jackson was doing with Gil for those three days. Who knows, dear Christ, who knows, he asks. Jackson had been following Gil for weeks, Danny claims. He is positive. There was premeditation. It was not an act done out of some temporary rage, some insane fear. He shows me pictures in the scrapbook—those from the National Enquirer. Could such results come from the act of an enraged man? There is evident calculation in the deed. He is certain of it. And he will not rest on this earth until Jackson pays in full. I will tell you something: I believe him.

  I take the note from my pocket and glance at it. I am to pay in full also, it seems. It is late, though, and I am too tired to begin anything new. I put the note back.