Ishmael Reed - The Terrible Threes

And then he saw her. He just stood there for a minute, his eyes not blinking. Beechiko tried to say something, but somebody else’s voice came out.

“Wadsworth.”

“Grace. My God. Grace. What—” and then Longsfellow thought. For Wadsworth Longsfellow, there was always a rational explanation for everything. He had read that grieving spouses sometimes, after losing a loved one, had a supernatural experience in which they actually saw their dead husband or wife.

“Wadsworth, aren’t you glad to see me?”

He thought for a moment. “Frankly, no. Things around here couldn’t be better. For the first time in my life, I’m happy. I’ve met someone who not only knows how to treat a man, but shares my interests.”

“Wadsworth. What are you saying? All of the years we spent together, I thought you were happy,” Beechiko found herself saying.

“You never bothered to ask. You were always complaining. Always whining, and I won’t forget that last vacation we had together. As soon as we got off the plane in San Juan, you started to complain about the weather, about the hotel, about the room service, and you called the bellhop a dirty Mexican.”

“Wadsworth, you little schlemiel, don’t you talk that way—”

“I’ll talk any way I want, and … and here’s something that you can roll over in the grave about. I’m going to ask Beechiko for her hand. She’s Japanese. She also likes characters who come alive and breathe. She despises postmodernism. One-dimensional trash.” Beechiko wanted to run into his arms, but she couldn’t, she was paralyzed.

“But, but, she’s not blonde,” his dead wife said.

“I don’t care about that.”

“Ha. You who used to burn candles for Marilyn Monroe. You had to go into therapy over that.”

“That was the fifties. These are the nineties.”

“But what about her … her … eyes?”—and when she said that pulled back the corners of her eyes. “Stop it. Stop,” Mr. Longsfellow said, and she found the body in which she was imprisoned laughing. She wanted to shake the body. She wanted to — and then she awoke. It was quiet downstairs. She dressed and went down. Mr. Longsfellow was seated at his desk. The downstairs was in a mess from where the Crawfords had left it. He rose and walked over to her.

“Where are Crawford and Samantha?” she asked.

“I got rid of them.”

“You what?”

“I came back early and they were playing some terrible music. Some bum who had passed out said it was called ‘Nighttrain.’ It just had this insufferable saxophone solo. It sounded like a tomcat in heat. It assaulted my sensibilities. I fired them, of course; I gave them severance pay.” He showed her the photo of her with his wife’s wig on. She was embarrassed.

“You don’t have to be a blonde, Beechiko. I love you the way you are. I like your hair. I like the texture of your skin. Your eyes … so inscrutable.” Beechiko smiled shyly. Mr. Longsfellow embraced her for a long time. She looked out of the window, and there winking at her was Black Peter. They winked at each other. He had given her the best Xmas she ever had.

Black Peter, the impostor, awoke. He must have blacked out. His last memory was that of him and his cronies trying to top each other in a liquor-imbibing contest. His friends must have left because he couldn’t find his wallet. His eighteen-year-old Minnesota Viking was sleeping next to him. Her blonde hair covered a teddy bear. Her hand clutched a half-eaten Mars bar. The ashtray was full of roaches. He’d have to somehow get out of bed, throw cold water on his face, and prepare for another appearance. He had to do everything that Jack Frost told him. He was about to ring for breakfast when Jack Frost burst into the room. His hands were full of newspapers.

“Pete, why didn’t you tell us you were doing this stuff? It’s terrific. Look at all the great publicity we’re getting.”

“Huh,” Black Peter said. Jack laid the newspapers out on the table. Black Peter rubbed his eyes and examined the press. His chest got tight. He took a second look, and a third.

“Boy is Elder Marse going to be happy when he sees this. Why you and I are liable to get a bonus.” On the society pages of the New York Exegesis was the announcement of the wedding of Beechiko Mizuni to Wadsworth Longsfellow, former editor of Organic Society . They told the press that they were grateful to Black Peter. On another page there was a photo of peacocks with their arms around a turkey. The caption read: Black Peter brings understanding between Peacocks and Turkeys.

“Good picture of you, Pete,” Jack said. On the entertainment page there was an announcement that Fryer Moog was opening at some of the Village nightclubs. He’d gotten back his chops and reassembled his quartet from the old days after spending what he called many wasted years in Hollywood. He had gained back some of his weight and jogged every day. You couldn’t keep the guy away from juice bars and vegetarian food. He too thanked Black Peter, and there were others. A woman who needed a liver transplant for her child said that Black Peter showed up and contributed the check. A farmer whose family farm was about to be foreclosed said that Black Peter had arrived in the nick of time to rescue him. “Even though I’m a white man, if he were running for President I’d vote for him,” the farmer said. And so the stories went.

“And to think, we all thought you were pissing your life away at Xmas parties all over town, and here you were, flying all over the country, rescuing people. The department stores are mobbed. How did you manage to do it, O, tell me sometime about it, Black Peter—” Before Black Peter could say anything, Jack Frost exited the room.

Black Peter poured himself a glass of strong whiskey. He looked outside the window, and he saw people on crutches, as well as with other disabilities, and Third World women desiring blonde hair, blonde women desiring Afros, black men requesting that Peter bless their superman capes, white men begging Peter to teach them how to say hey dude, hey bro, hey home and to do the moon walk, but Black Peter was faced with some heavy “existentialist” questions as a New York Intellectual would say. If he were he, who was he? Or, who was doing him while he was doing him? His life was becoming like a riddle popularized by Abbott and Costello.

Meanwhile, in his apartment in the Netherlands, a cold metaphysical place, somewhere in the Arctic, where the favorite musician is Rudy Vallee, Nick was preparing for his annual visit for the Xmas season; he was pacing up and down, his hands held tightly behind his back. It was December fifth. He was furious, and earlier that morning had fired two elves who’d been assisting him for so many seasons, the other elves had forgotten when they joined the team. His favorite assistant, Destar D’Nooza, was shining his black boots. Mr. D’Nooza had the sad, drooping eyes of a basset hound, and an outstanding nose. In a former life he had served Lord Mountbatten when Mountbatten was the Viceroy of India, an experience for which he had always been grateful and told stories about it to the other elves, who hated him.

“Boss, you zeem so … so nervous. What bother you, boss?”

“‘What bothers me,’ he asks,” Nick said. “You see these headlines that Black Peter is getting?” “Black Peter Cured My Gallstones” read the headline of the International Herald Tribune , a newspaper that Nick read every morning.

“O, boss, why should you worry about dat? It’s just a Turd World trick to embarrass you. You still on top, boss. The happiest part of my life is bringing a brilliant gloss to your boots.”