A Singular Man Part 38

"But they were dirty."

"Only a couple of s.h.i.+rts Matilda, forget it."

"Say that when the next pair of socks are missing."

"Matilda, sit down. I want to talk about something."

"Who dat white sinner dere, want to talk."

"This isn't a joke, Matilda. I'm deadly serious."

"Mr. Smith, you want to tell me I'm fired."

"No."

"What else is deadly serious."

"I may be going away."

"Beating it."

"No. Just going away."

"So you have no need for my further services."

"I'd like you to stay in my employ."

"That what you call this."

"s.h.i.+t. Matilda."

"What you said, Mr, Smith."

"I just want you to come, at the same salary, dust and clean. Put the mail in the safe. Just stop the place from rotting away."

"Think I need a little sting more in this gla.s.s, Mr. Smith."

"I'll have a sting more in my gla.s.s too if I may."

Snow drifting on the window sill. Light across the street. Where has the grey headed father gone, holding head in hands. Over his eight curly headed mistakes. Another Christmas coming. Last week strolling by the river I stepped in and stood in the waiting room of the hospital. Gazing down the long halls. Guards toting guns. Wooden benches. Beds and carts. The dirty sheets piled on the dead.

"I'll do that, Mr. Smith, dust and clean."

"Thanks Matilda."

"Mr. Smith, something bothering you. Staring out that window like you got no friends."

"I'm all right."

"A cultured gentleman, a Mr. Clementine, phoned yesterday. He said you were expected as guest of honor at the Funeral Director's Exhibition. Said you weren't at Dynamo. I told him to try The Game Club."

"I was there."

"He phoned back said you wasn't."

"I was. In the library."

"Reading the papers."

"Yes."

"Society columns."

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"It's that Miss Tomson. Getting married."

Smith turning to the window. Kitchen lights on across the street. Watched that little girl sitting at the table get bigger and bigger. Her boyfriend waits for her on the stoop, smoking a cigarette nervously looking up and down the street. Perhaps she dreams of growing up. A Dizzy Darling. Gay, wild, willing. Up on her high terrace just around the corner, could spit or pee right down on the roof of Merry.

"And Mr. Smith, it's bad. That you should be carrying that gun again."

"Matilda, find my sandals. My foot's hurting in my shoe. Herbert will be back here, in half an hour to pick me up."

"When does my service here abruptly discontinue, Mr. Smith, sir."

"Cut it out Matilda."

"Scared I'll have parties, drink the wine, smoke the cigars,."

"No."

"Why don't you admit it."

"All right."

"You admit it."

"Four cases of whiskey. Have vanished."

"Two."

"You admit it."

"Who dat pagan sittin dere."

"Me dat pagan sittin here."

"When the flock is thirsty the dark complexioned redeemer leads them to drink. Mr. Smith."

"I'd prefer the redeemer to lead them to his own whiskey."

"No hard feelings. What's whiskey, Mr. Smith."

"Expensive."

Matilda's glistening eyes. If the days would unravel. When my guests stand over the polished plates, tureens in Renown. Matilda in her black china silk. Bonniface in hunting pink. Her Majesty could have handed him out The Order Of The Underwear, instead of being insufferable. Send her some smoked eel. Could cross the carpet and kiss Matilda. Hold her close. The terrifying strength. Of her arms. Ma.s.sive legs. Could put up some fight.

"Mr. Smith, what are you thinking."

"I was thinking of kissing you."

"Come on."

"Herbert's coming."

"We got twenty minutes."

"Not much time."

"Let's break a record."

"We better not."

"Come on. Pull the curtains."

"You were singing a hymn when I came in. Sing to me now."

Matilda in her high and in her low haunted voice. Tip toeing from octave to octave.

How Much of her Was muscle How much of her Was sad.

Which of her Was fat Which of her Was glad.

Solemn darkness. Autumn leaves gone. Lie on her dark b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Fallen on her black steely hair. The tired evening. The city on the way home. Cold chill lurks in all the bones.

"Matilda."

"Mr. Smith. I'm hungry."

"You smell good, Matilda."

Fluttering eyelids on the neck. Crushed b.u.t.terfly wings lifted from a summer flower. Mr. Smith I'm not hungry, I'm h.o.r.n.y. Miss Martin's round white ripeness. Matilda's bulge of tan. Close up Merry Mansions to desertion and dust. Move to The Game Club. Live high up. Each afternoon after a swim and steam bath. Sit staring in my lap amid the silence, the gla.s.s book cases, the tinkling kindly chimes of the library's old clock. Chess players murmuring down the vaulted hall. Steam whispering in the radiators. And down below in the streets. The sirens and gongs. To fires and murder everywhere.

"Mr. Smith, why don't you sleep here at Merry anymore."

"Woof woof."

"Down Fido."

"Woof woof."

Smith lightheartedly lowering to all fours, crawling on the rug. Between Matilda's legs. And snapping at a few imaginary flies. Sandals flapping. Bonniface is right. So nice to bow wow. Be someone's little dog. Faithful and true to the last. With a master all of ones own. Little gable roof. Bed of straw. Little roughness on Matilda's a.s.s. Where she sits so much. Silken smooth all the elsewhere. Me Fido. Man's best friend. Woof woof. The buzzer.

"Matilda, that's Herbert."

"Don't go."

"Got to."

"You don't got to go."

"I must, a ticklish task ahead."

"Ticklish task here. Fool around some more. You old Fido. Yummy."

"Bow wow."

"Nice Fido. Good dog."

"Call down, Matilda. Tell Herbert I'll be five minutes. I'll be back later."

"I got a tabernacle meeting, at nine."

"Where."

"Here. Where else. You wasn't expected. It's the Second Communion of the Brown Angels."

"I see. That'll be another two cases of whiskey."

"Don't be mean. Feel me. Right across here."

"Fantastic stomach muscles, Matilda. How do you keep them like that."

"By laughing. And laying."

"Tell Herbert to come back in an hour."

"You sweetie pie, Fido."

"I yam das yingle humperd.i.n.k woof woof."

Matilda wagging to the foyer. Big dark feet flapping on the floor. Voice mellow and low.

"Herbie, Mr. Smith is deliberately delayed by the unavoidable, you know the circ.u.mstances unforseeable and all that commotion. An hour. And fifteen minutes. Good-bye."

"Come here you, you brown angel."

"Herbie says he don't know how far he can go in this snow if you wait. Baby baby."