Stanley Elkin - Boswell

I remembered he had been with others the night he had tried to see me at the hotel. “The clerk said there were a woman and a little boy with you.”

“Yes.”

I laughed. “Uncle Myles, you haven’t gotten married, have you?”

“No.”

“Are you keeping company?”

“The woman is the mother of that poor girl who had your child. The little boy is your son.”

“What?”

“The woman’s husband has died. They were never well off, James — you must certainly be aware of that. They took the child because you were only fifteen at the time. Now that her husband is dead she can’t afford to keep the child without help. They have been staying with me until more satisfactory arrangements could be made.”

“No,” I said.

“They are outside, James. Please don’t raise your voice. When we have concluded these other arrangements—”

“No,” I said. “No arrangements.”

“The boy is six years old now.”

“No,” I said. “No.”

“You are hardly in a position to say no, James.”

“Are you talking as a lawyer now?” I said.

“As a judge, I think, James.”

“Are you talking as a lawyer now?” I asked him again.

“If you mean are you guilty of child abandonment in the eyes of the law, no. The child was taken away from you and legally adopted by the grandparents, but you have a certain responsibility.”

“No,” I said. “No.” I had begun to weep. My uncle had brought me down. I wanted to explain it to him, that I mustn’t be caught just because every son of a bitch who ever lived got caught, but I was inarticulate with sorrow and rage. All I could do was shake my head and wail denials.

My Uncle Myles stood up. “I can no longer keep them with me, James. It isn’t my responsibility.”

“No,” I shouted. “No.”

“You’re responsible. You feel trapped now,” my uncle said. “I understand that, but when you see the lad, James — he’s a nice lad — all that will change. He’s outside now. I’ll just get him.”

“No,” I yelled. “No, no, no, no.”

A nurse ran into the room. “What is it?” she said.

“No,” I wailed. “No, no, no.”

“We can’t have this,” she said to my uncle. “You can’t come in here and upset a patient like that.”

“He stinks, your patient. He should die now.”

“No! No! No! No! No!”

“You’ll have to leave,” she said.

“Get him out,” I screamed. “Get him out. Get him out!”

The nurse pulled my uncle toward the door. Almost comically, smoothly, as if from some keen presence of mind, he managed to reach out and pluck the umbrella away from the bed. Even as he tugged at her he was adjusting his derby. He had begun to shake, and the nurse, mistaking his tremors for resistance, pulled him from the room fiercely. She didn’t close the door and as soon as they were outside I saw a woman rush up to them and grab at my uncle. She was a woman of about fifty- five, and at first I thought it was Mrs. Slabe, but then I recognized that her face and body were aged parodies of the face I had kissed so awkwardly all those years ago, the body I had shot my death into. The nurse struggled with the woman, trying to push her away and at the same time pull my uncle toward the elevator. In a moment other nurses had come up and surrounded them. I saw my uncle’s hat fall from his head and one of the nurses trample it with a white, clubbed heel as she shoved against him. Slowly the nurses moved my uncle and the woman away from the door.

I couldn’t move. I stared appalled at the hat, his derby that had cost him so much money, black and empty and ridiculous on the floor.

And then I saw two thin, bare legs move into position over the hat, straddling it, and a child’s hand reach slowly down to pick it up. As he straightened, his eye caught mine and we looked at each other helplessly.

Then my son began to cry.

I am on a bus. I am going West. Calypso must first be Ulysses.

William Lome is a rich man. A rrrrrich man. As rrrittchh azz Creesusss. He has dollars and pounds and lire and pesos and rubles and drachmas and francs and kronen and Deutsche marks and rials and piastres and fils and dinars. He has sucres and quetzals and gourdes and lempiras and forints and rupees and pahlavis and sen and yen and guilders and córdobas and guaranis and sols and zlotys and leu and behts and kurus. He has monies. He has moneez. He has stocks and he has bonds, and he has securities and certificates. He has gold and he has silver. He gets di-vid-ends. He earns interest. He earns in-ter-est- ing in-ter-est.

He was once asked how much he was worth. “Practically everything there is,” he said.

This campaign has lasted almost three months now. I must make my fortune. As in the fairy tales. And why not? Am I not the youngest son, the orphan, the kid with the squint, the limp, the blue baby? A frog isn’t always what he seems, but kiss me today and I give you warts. An ugly duckling in the swimming pool of the world’s fat swans — who will feed me? Everywhere there are signs, warnings, admonitions: Do not feed the ducklings.

I would share my bread with gnomes under mushrooms. I would give to testing elves, salvage the lives of bosses’ daughters — I haunt the forests, the beaches— tease a belly laugh from the king’s dour daughter and the joke would be on the king.

I must have money!

My way of life demands it. The savings from the wrestling days are almost gone, but there are still bus tickets to buy, meals to eat. My expenses are not great (I am easily shabby), but they exist. Need, the fleet-heeled one, will not stand still.

And what a campaign, this one! Who would have thought? Three months. The complications! Lome travels in his private plane and I follow in a bus. I must anticipate his schedule. Futile, futile. But I think I may have caught up with him. He comes in four days. I wait now.

Croesus, my would-be father-in-law, where are your daughters?

Eleven dollars to the man who rents the costumes. Seven dollars to the tailor to get it to fit.

“You’re sure now he ain’t in yet?” I said to the room clerk.

“I’ve told you repeatedly — Mr. Lome arrives later this morning.”

“You said that yesterday morning.”

“He canceled out,” the room clerk said. “I told you last night.”

“It’s just that I’m his cousin,” I said.

“I understand that,” the clerk said.

“I come down from Muskogee, Oklahoma.”

“I know,” the clerk said.

“Big-shot-millionaire-skinflint bastard,” I said.

“I told you before,” the clerk said, “we can’t have that kind of language about our guests.”

“You ever meet this fella?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, if you do you’ll get an idea what I mean.”

“Please,” he said, “I’m very busy.”

“Who do you think give him that stake those years ago? My uncle.”

“Yes,” the clerk said.

“My uncle give it to him.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, he paid it back, all right.”

“Hmm,” the clerk said

“To the dollar.”

“That’s not—”

“The nickel.”

“—any of—”

“The penny.”

“—my—”

“But not a cent of interest. Well, that’s all right. We’re kin. Kin don’t go around charging each other no interest. My uncle don’t expect that.”

“Please,” the clerk said, “there are things I must attend—”