Too bad we didn’t think of inviting Mooney, said O’Mara.
Who’s Mooney? asked Ned.
We explained. Ned listened with mouth open.
Jesus, Henry, he said, I can’t get over it. And me sitting upstairs in the front office all the while. Selling your stuff under my name—and you guys peddling papers! I’ll have to tell Ulric about it … By the way, have you seen the stuff you wrote? They think it’s pretty good, did I tell you?
I had forgotten all about the articles. Perhaps I read them, during those comas at the Y, and never realized that it was I who wrote them.
Henry, said Fletcher, you ought to get back to New York. It’s all right for these lads to waste their time, but not you. I have a hunch you’re cut out for something big.
I blushed and tried to pass it off.
Come, said Fletcher, don’t be so modest. You’ve got qualities, anyone can see that. I don’t know what you’re going to become—saint, poet, or philosopher. But you’re an artist, that’s definite. And what’s more, you’re unspoiled. You have a way of forgetting yourself that tells me a lot about you.
Ned, who was still feeling guilty, applauded Fletcher warmly. As soon as I get my check, Henry, he said, I’ll give you the train fare back home. That’s the least I can do. O’Mara and I will stick it out. Eh, Ted? You’re a veteran: you’ve been on the bum since you were ten years old.
O’Mara grinned. Now that he had found a way to get food his spirits rose.
Besides, there was Mooney, to whom he had taken quite a fancy. He was certain that between them they could cook up something.
But who’ll write the articles for the paper?
I’ve already taken care of that, said Ned. They’re making me lay-out man next week. That’s right up my alley. The chances are I’ll be making real dough soon.
Maybe you’ll be able to throw something my way, said Fletcher.
I’ve thought of that too, said Ned. If Ted here will take care of the food problem I’ll answer for the rest. It’s only a few days now till pay day.
Again we slept at Fletcher’s place. I passed a sleepless night, not because the floor was hard but because of Mona. Now that there was a chance to return I couldn’t get back quickly enough. The whole night long I racked my brain to find a quick way out. Towards dawn it occurred to me that possibly the old man would send me part of the fare at least. If only I got as far as Richmond it would help.
Bright and early I went to the telegraph office to wire the old man. By nightfall the money had arrived—for a full trip. I borrowed an extra five bucks from Mooney, so as to eat, and that same evening I was off.
The moment I boarded the train I felt like a new man. Before half an hour had passed I had completely forgotten Jacksonville. What luxury to doze off in an upholstered seat! The strange thing was that I found myself writing again—in my head. Yes, I was positively itching to get to the machine. It seemed like a century ago that I had written., the last line … I wondered vaguely, dreamily, where I would find Mona, what we would do next, where we would live, and so on. Nothing was of too great consequence. It was so damned good to be sitting in that comfortable coach—with a five dollar bill in my pocket … Maybe a guardian angel was looking after me! I thought of Fletcher’s parting words. Was I really an artist? Of course I was. But I had yet to prove it … Finally I congratulated myself on having had such a bitter experience. Experience is golden, I kept repeating to myself. It sounded a bit silly, but it lulled me into a peaceful slumber.
13
Back to the old homestead, or to put it another way—back to the street of early sorrows. Mona lives with her family, I with mine. The only way—pro tem—to solve the economic problem. As soon as I’ve sold a few stories we’ll find a place of our own again.
From the time the old man leaves for the tailor shop until he returns for dinner I’m hard at it—every day. Every day we talk to each other, Mona and I, over the phone; sometimes we meet at noon to have a bite together in some cheap restaurant. Not often enough, however, to please Mona. She’s going mad with fear, doubts, jealousy. Simply can’t believe that I’m writing day in and day out from morn to dusk.
Now and then, of course, I knock off to do research work. I have a hundred different ideas to exploit, all of them demanding investigation and documentation. I’m running on all eight cylinders now: when I sit down to the machine it just flows off my fingers.
At the moment I’m putting the finishing touches to a self-portrait which I’m calling The Failure. (I haven’t the remotest suspicion that a man named Papini, a man living in Italy, will soon produce a book by this very title.)
I wouldn’t say it was an ideal place to work—my parents’ home. I sit at the front window, hidden by the lace curtains, one eye open for callers. The rule of the house is—if you see a visitor coming, duck! And that’s exactly what I do each time—duck into the clothes closet, with typewriter, books, papers and everything. Fantastic! (I call myself the family skeleton.) Sometimes I get brilliant ideas hidden away in the dark folds of the clothes closet—induced no doubt by the acrid smell of camphor balls. My thoughts come so fast that it is almost unbearable to wait until the visitor leaves. In utter darkness I make illegible notes on odd bits of paper. (Just key words and phrases.) As for breathing, no trouble at all. I can hold my breath for three hours, if necessary.
Coming out of the hole my mother is sure to exclaim: You shouldn’t smoke so much! The smoke has to be explained, you see. Her line is: Henry was just here. Hearing her give this feeble explanation to a caller I sometimes stuff my mouth with a coat sleeve for fear of breaking loose with a chortle.
Now and then she hands me this: Can’t you make your stories shorter? Her thought—poor soul!—is that the sooner I finish them the quicker I will be paid. She doesn’t want to hear about rejection slips. Acts almost as though she didn’t believe in them.
What are you writing about now? she asks one morning.
Numismatics, I tell her.
What’s that?
I explain in a few words.
Do you think people really want to read such things?
I wonder to myself what she would say if I were to tell her the truth, tell her about The Failure.
The old man is more amenable. I sense that he doesn’t expect anything to come of all this nonsense, but he’s curious and at least pretends to be interested in what I’m doing. He doesn’t quite know what to make of the fact that he has a son twice married, and the father of a child, who sits in the dining room day after day tapping away on a typewriter. At bottom he has confidence in me. He knows I’ll get somewhere some day somehow. He’s not uneasy in his soul.
Around the corner, where I trot each morning to get the paper and a pack of cigarettes, is a little store run by a newcomer—a Mr. Cohen. He’s the only person, this Mister Cohen, who seems at all interested in my doings. He thinks it remarkable that he has a writer, even if only an embryonic one, for a customer. All the other tradespeople, be it said, know me of old; not one of them suspects that I’ve grown a new soul. To them I am still the little boy with the corn-colored hair and the innocent smile.
Mister Cohen, however, is of another world, another epoch. He doesn’t belong any more than I. In fact, being a Yid, he’s still suspect. Especially to the old-timers. One bright and lovely morning the dear Mister Cohen confesses to me that he too once had ambitions to be a writer. With genuine feeling he informs me how much our little conversations mean to him. It is a privilege, he says, to know someone who is on the bias. (Of the same stripe, I suppose he meant.) Lowering his voice, he confides with huge disgust his low opinion of the neighboring shop-keepers. Ah, dear Mister Cohen, darling Mister Cohen, come forth, come forth, wherever you are, and let me kiss your waxen brow! What was it, now, we had in common? A few dead authors, fear and hatred of the police, scorn for the Gentiles and a passion for the aroma of a good cigar. You were no virtuoso, and neither was I. But your words came to me as if they were played on the celesta. Step forth, pale sprite, step forth from the divine telesma and let me embrace you once again!
My mother, of course, is not only surprised but shocked to discover that I have become friends with that little Jew. What on earth do we talk about? Books? Does he read? Yes, mother dear, he reads in five languages. Her head swings back and: unbelievingly, and
