Wolf at the Table, page 17
“Children make the world a brighter place, though, ain’t it?” Jack says.
“Definitely,” Alec hears himself reply unconvincingly.
For the first time he notices a painting of a hobo clown hanging on one of the dining room’s paneled walls. The clown, whose face is made up garishly, is sitting on a milk crate and warming his hands by a small fire. It’s a nighttime setting but in the far distance the sky glows orange, apocalyptically. There is something terribly sad about this clown.
Alec can feel Jack’s gaze on him.
“I got a proposition,” he says.
“You want me to eat the Key lime,” Alec says.
“No,” Jack says, chuckling, “I want you to come work on my crew—whattaya say, huh? You could start Tuesday, use tomorrow to get your bearings. I’ll start you off hangin’ drywall. I pay my guys a real fair wage. I think you’d be a good fit.”
“Drywall,” Alec says.
“It’s an honest day’s work. It beats sittin’ around twiddlin’ your thumbs. At least tell me you’ll think about it.”
“Okay,” Alec says.
“Seriously,” Jack says. “I get a good vibe from you.”
Alec sees the past few months of his life unraveling before him like a spool of discarded thread. He’ll be going from wrapping and taping and hauling furniture on one of Kerwood Flahive’s moving trucks to hanging drywall in the middle of a Chicago winter. But a job’s a job and he definitely needs one. He can’t expect to freeload off Myra and Denny for more than a few weeks.
“You’ll need good work boots and gloves, but I can front ya the money for that,” Jack says.
“Yeah, I didn’t come into town with much,” Alec says.
Carole has now returned to the dining room, having changed into her nightgown, over which she wears a baby blue terrycloth housecoat. On her feet are a pair of fluffy pink bunny-ear slippers. She’s holding a pair of white athletic socks with blue and yellow rings.
“It looks like Alec here’s gonna join my crew!” Jack says.
“Well, congratulations!” she says to Alec, handing him the socks and starting to clear the table. When Alec thanks her—for both the socks and the dinner—she says, “Oh, it’s nothin’.” She heads into the kitchen carrying the serving tray of leftover pork chops and lima beans, then calls back, “Oh, the Key lime!”
“Let’s save it for tomorrow,” Jack says.
“But our guest!” she cries.
“You don’t want no pie, do ya?” Jack says.
Alec shakes his head.
“He don’t even want none,” Jack calls to his wife. “You filled the kid up, he’s fit to burst, ain’t it, Alec.”
“I’m fit to burst,” Alec repeats. “Everything was great.”
“Hon, I got the rest of this,” Jack says of the remaining dishes and silverware. When Carole returns he takes her hand and kisses the back of it. “This one,” he says. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“You’re the pot of gold,” she says. “I’m the lucky one.”
“You go to bed,” he tells her. “Me and my new employee are gonna go down to the basement and celebrate.”
“No music down there,” Carole says.
“No music,” he promises.
“This one and his hi-fi,” she says to Alec. “How much REO Speedwagon can one man listen to, anyway?”
“We’ll be as quiet as pillows,” Jack assures her.
Carole kisses him on the top of his lubricated head and he squeezes her arm with his small, tense hand. Then Carole tells Alec that the guest room has been made up for him. “I put an extra toothbrush out for you, too. It’s still in the plastic so it’s brand-spankin’.”
Alec thanks her again and they all say good night. Carole pivots and heads down the hall.
After the muffled sound of their bedroom door opening and closing, Jack turns the same hand that just squeezed his wife’s shoulder into a jabbering, snouted puppet. “It’s still in the plastic so it’s brand-spankin’,” he ventriloquizes in a squeaky cartoon voice. “Beep-bata-beep-beep-beep.” He rolls his eyes and juts his head toward their bedroom. “Sometimes I think I married a dang Chatty Cathy doll,” he says under his breath. “Just pull the ring, you never know what she’ll say next.”
The two of them stifle laughter at his imitation of the famous commercial. When Jack laughs his face gathers in on itself, exposing a bluish row of short, crowded teeth.
DOWN IN THE BASEMENT, Jack uses a stainless-steel cocktail shaker to mix mai tais behind a makeshift tiki bar, which is framed by a faux grass ramada and strung with Christmas lights. A refrigerator flanks four shelves of alcohol and mixers and a rack that bears the aforementioned hi-fi system, whose rectangular speakers are set at opposite ends of the bar.
Hanging on the wall near the entrance is another painting of a clown. This one is done portrait-style, from the shoulders up. The clown looks hungover, beleaguered by the world, if not a tad angry.
“That’s Pogo,” Jack says, pouring the contents of the shaker into glass tumblers.
“You got a thing for clowns,” Alec says.
“Hey, they get sad just like everyone else,” Jack says, and carries their drinks to a small card table. “They gotta pay the fiddler, too.” Alec joins him at the table and Jack passes him his mai tai. “Tastes just like Hawaii,” he says. “Welcome to my little underground hideaway.”
They clink tumblers and drink. The cold tangy beverage makes Alec’s tongue go tight and small.
He notices an orange curtain drawn across a small entryway. “What’s back there?” he asks.
“That’s where I keep all the secrets to the universe,” Jack says. He downs his drink in about two gulps and returns to the bar to make another batch. “I’ll let you in on one such secret,” he says as he’s pouring all the ingredients into the shaker. “We are both here, right now. This is really happening. We are drinking mai tais and discussing the things that men discuss.”
“No doubt,” Alec asks.
“You got a middle name?” Jack asks.
“Joseph,” Alec lies, for no reason he can tell.
“Like the father of Jesus.”
“Don’t remind me,” Alec says, draining his mai tai.
“Catholic boy?”
“Not anymore,” Alec says. “I’m done with all that.”
“Joseph was a handyman, you know. Carpentry was his expertise. I believe he carried a hammer on his person. A hammer and a level.” Jack returns to the table with the shaker and refreshes Alec’s drink first, then refills his own tumbler. “Can I see your ring?” he asks, pointing at Alec’s high school class ring.
Alec removes it and hands it to him.
“Notre Dame High School,” Jack says, reading the engraving. “In Elmira. That’s a nice one,” he says, and hands it back.
Alec has never really understood why he keeps wearing the ring when everything else from his hometown feels like it’s faded into the past.
Jack rises and heads toward the orange curtain. “Be right back,” he says.
While he’s gone, Alec takes a gulp of his second mai tai. Why is this strange man being so nice to him? he wonders. What the hell has he done to deserve this? For all of his disdain for his religious upbringing he finds himself considering the possibility of divine creatures. Human angels who appear and guide you during difficult moments. He remembers Father Bryce and the piece of paper in his pocket with the priest’s phone number on it. Would he have arrived in Milwaukee by now? Over by the bar a rotary phone is affixed to the wall. Alec crosses to it, removes the piece of paper from the front pocket of his jeans, takes the receiver off the hook, and dials the number. Moments later, when a man’s voice answers, Alec asks if Father Bryce is there.
“I believe he’s turned in for the night. Would you like to leave him a message?”
“Maybe just tell him Alec called.”
“I’ll do that, Alec,” the man says. “Can I take down your number?”
“No,” he says. “Maybe I’ll try him again tomorrow.”
Alec hangs up and takes in the painting of the clown again. At closer proximity its head appears to have the same shape as Jack’s. And there’s something similar in the eyes, too.
Just then Jack comes through the orange curtain holding a small shoebox. “Pogo the Clown,” he says.
“Who’s the artist?” Alec asks.
“John is.”
“Who’s John?”
“John is the man who stands before you.”
“Oh,” Alec says, a little thrown. “I thought your name was Jack.”
“Jack’s sorta like my nickname. You can keep calling me Jack if that’s your preference. Do you like the painting?”
“Yeah, it’s colorful,” Alec says.
“Color’s maybe the most important thing in a work of art,” Jack says. “Let me show you somethin’.”
He nods toward the card table and they return to it. Then Jack opens the lid of the shoebox to reveal several class rings with various stones. “I collect ’em,” he says.
“Where are they from?” Alec asks.
“Oh, here and there. Garage sales. Flea markets. Doodad shops. This one here’s my favorite.”
He hands a ring to Alec, who turns it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Glenwood High School, class of 1973,” Alec says.
“I found that one in the bathroom of the bus station. I just love the stone. The ruby redness.”
“Where’s Glenwood?”
“There’s one here in Illinois, but I believe that Glenwood is Glenwood, Iowa.”
“How do you know?” Alec says.
“Because when I hold it in my hand I get a feeling of the prairie.”
Jack retrieves the ring, puts it into the shoebox, and secures the lid. Then he takes the box with him to the bar, where he mixes another batch of mai tais, and, leaving the box on the bar, returns to the card table to refill their tumblers.
“So according to your ring you were class of ’fifty-nine,” Jack says.
“I’m lucky to have this,” Alec says, looking at his class ring. “I barely graduated.”
“You know what’s crazy, Alec?”
Alec drinks from his tumbler. “What,” he says.
“You’re older ’n me!” Jack exclaims. His portly face has taken on a sheen. “When I seen you at the bus station I figured you for seventeen, eighteen! But you’re friggin thirty!”
“Thirty-one, actually,” Alec says. “I’ll be thirty-two in March.”
“That’s just crazy!” Jack says.
“My whole family looks young,” Alec says.
“Genes,” Jack says. “Some people look just like their parents. Or they’re bowlegged like their long-lost Uncle Stubin. Or they’re born into the world with spina bifida. Birthmarks shaped like the state of Texas, what-have-you. Ain’t genes the craziest thing?”
“Most of my family’s tall like my mother,” Alec says. “My dad’s only about five-ten.”
“How tall is Mom?” Jack asks.
“She’s over six feet,” Alec says.
“Jesus Christmas!” Jack cries. “That’s Amazonian!” He downs his mai tai, refills his tumbler yet again, and holds it up, offering a toast. “To all the little mysteries.”
“To all the little mysteries,” Alec echoes.
“And to Speedwagon.”
“And to Speedwagon.”
“Best band in North America,” Jack says.
They clink glasses and drink.
“Can I show you a trick?” Jack says, setting his tumbler down.
“What kind of a trick?”
“It’s a magic trick. A really good one.” From seemingly out of nowhere, Jack produces a pair of handcuffs.
“Those are handcuffs,” Alec says.
“You’re dang right they’re handcuffs,” Jack says. “Genuine police-issued. Put ’em on and I’ll show you how to get out of ’em.”
“How?” Alec says.
“Just put the dang things on and I’ll show you.”
“Really?” Alec says.
“Really, really, really,” Jack says.
Alec hesitates but takes the handcuffs and arranges one around his left wrist. It’s as if he’s watching someone else perform the action, as if some strangely detached part of him wants to watch the other Alec go all the way to the end of the trick.
“Do the other one, too,” Jack says playfully, exposing those short blue teeth.
Alec starts to clasp the other one around his right wrist when Jack stops him.
“Behind your back,” he says. “Or it won’t count.”
Jack gulps his drink and then moves to Alec and gently grabs his wrists and arranges them behind his back and secures the handcuffs. He then returns to his seat, cradling his soft fleshy chin with his hands. They sit there, simply looking at each other.
“Look at you,” Jack says. “You’re handcuffed.”
After a brief silence, during which some subterranean heating system cycles on, Alec begins laughing hysterically. Jack laughs too—those odd, short reports again—and together they laugh so hard and loud that Jack has to bring his finger to his lips.
“Sshshshsh!” he says, still laughing. “We’ll wake Carole!”
Alec swallows his laughter and forces it through his nose. “I got handcuffs on,” he practically cries.
“Ain’t this fun?” Jack says quietly.
“Best time I’ve had in a while!” Alec says. And it’s true. He can’t even remember the last time he’s laughed this hard. His face feels gigantic.
Then from under the table Jack produces a short wooden dowel and a length of rope and sets the items before Alec. It’s like he’s conducting a game involving household objects for a group of children.
“What are those for?” Alec asks.
“These are the props for the rest of the trick,” Jack says. “The essential props.”
The rope, which has a loop at each end, looks like a dead two-headed snake.
“How does it work?” Alec asks. He knows that he is somehow doomed, and still he doesn’t want to change the course of whatever is going to happen.
“It’s simple, really,” Jack says. “I put the rope around your neck and slip this dowel through them two loops and start crankin’ away until you disappear.”
Alec laughs again, as does Jack.
“I’m gonna disappear?” Alec says, imagining a vast black void. Will he become part of it? Will he dissolve into a million tiny particles, like the finest black pollen, and float away in the void?
“Yes, sir,” Jack replies. “Like I said, it’s a magic trick. I start cranking on the dowel and then you disappear and those handcuffs you got on fall right to the floor.”
“And then do I reappear?” Alec asks, his grin still making his face feel huge, rubbery.
“I’ve never seen that happen before,” Jack says. “But when it comes to magic, you just never know! Let’s give it a shot, huh?” Jack comes up behind Alec, loops the length of rope around his neck, and inserts the wooden dowel through the rope’s two loops. “Can you see how it works?” he says, his breath—thickened by the mai tais—on Alec’s neck.
“Sure, I see,” Alec says, closing his eyes.
There is a brief pause during which Jack seems to withdraw into himself. Alec can no longer feel his presence behind him.
And then the rope and the dowel are removed from around Alec’s neck, the handcuffs unlocked.
“I really thought you were eighteen,” Jack says, confused. He returns to the little table and sets the dowel before him, staring at the implement as if seeking its counsel.
“Sometimes I wish I was,” Alec says. “I’d get a do-over.”
“They only give you do-overs on second-rate golf courses. I believe they call it a mulligan.”
“I definitely could use one of those,” Alec says.
“You’re a nice kid,” Jack tells him gently.
LATER, IN THE CAR, they’re quiet while Jack drives east through the freshly plowed streets of Chicago’s North Side. After they came up from the basement he’d retrieved Alec’s gym bag and then abruptly told him it was best to drive him back to his sister’s tonight, citing something about the guest room having a mold problem.
During the silence Alec cycles through fragments of his life: his boyhood bed with its thin cotton blanket, blue as Easter; an old abandoned house back in Elmira, just beyond the banks of the Chemung River, half charred by a fire, where he and his friend Roland Merlo would throw stones at its broken windows; an empty parking lot in Topeka where he found thirty-five dollars in a brown leather wallet; the walnut pews of St. John the Baptist that he polished as an acolyte, their cool smooth grains; a red fox with a dead gray squirrel in its mouth trotting through the backyard of a rooming house he lived in for a time in Sioux Center, Iowa, the fox’s piercing amber eyes; the hummingbirds warring over the nectar contained in the trio of feeders that his mother hung from the eaves of the front porch, the setting sun backlighting the blur of their short, spastic wings…
Jack drops him off on Hoyne Avenue, and once Alec steps out of the car, despite the cold the two talk through the passenger’s-side window about Alec’s start time the following morning.
“Eleven a.m.,” Jack says. “Pack a lunch.” On the back of a business card he writes the address of the house where his team is renovating a bathroom and hands it to Alec, telling him there’s a westbound bus up on Montrose that will get him there in under an hour. “Try and be there fifteen minutes early so I can introduce you to the team.”
“I will,” Alec says. “Thanks for everything.”
“Sure thing,” Jack says, then produces his wallet and takes out a hundred dollars in twenties, folds the bills in half, and extends the knot of money toward Alec. “So you can get situated.”
“I can’t accept that,” Alec says.
“Sure you can,” Jack says. “Think of it as an advance. Welcome to the Windy City.” Jack forces it into his hand. “See you tomorrow,” he says, rolls the window up, and drives off.
Feeling oddly renewed, in the certainty that he has escaped some terrible ending, Alec stuffs the wad of money into the front pocket of his jeans and stares up at his sister’s apartment building. And yet despite this extra chance, his self-loathing seems only to thicken. You’re a nobody, he thinks. You’re a no-good, freeloading nobody. About to be thirty-two years old. Look at you.
