William Kennedy - Chango's Beads and Two-Tone Shoes

“I’ve been hearing him all night,” Quinn said. “It’s a miracle. He resurrected memories that were gone forever, that he had no license to bring back. He got lost on State Street and was navigating among strangers, and then he bumped into you. Whatever you did, Vivian, it thrilled him. He doesn’t know my name or his mother’s name—‘I’d have to go to the book for that’s how he gets around it. But his mind cleared and there he was, walking the streets with a lovely woman, which indeed you are, Vivian, and he was again the old George Quinn out on the town.”

“That’s so nice, Daniel, but it wasn’t me who did it.”

“You had a great deal to do with it.”

“He seems to be losing it again.”

“He’s had quite a bit to drink and that may be it. Or not. But what happened was spectacular — that singing and dancing George of yesterday was back, a resurrection, and nobody can tell me that it didn’t nourish his soul, whether he remembers it or not. You can’t write him off. If he can sing he’s still up to snuff someplace in that threadbare brain of his. He’ll have a new angle of vision on life tomorrow, whether he knows it or not, thanks to what he went through with you today.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Vivian said. “He was so alive. We were both very happy.”

“We’ll get you together again, Vivian, but however much he learned today, he might not know you next time.”

“I’ll make him remember,” Vivian said.

“I’m sure he looks forward to that, even though he doesn’t know what he’s looking forward to.”

George opened the car door and stepped onto Vivian’s sidewalk. Renata opened her door. “Do you want something, George?”

“Look at that,” he said, and he pointed at the Court House and traced a line across the night sky full of stars.

“What, George? The street? The sky? What?”

“What,” George said, “what.” He looked at Quinn and Vivian on the stoop, and he sang: “What’s that, who am I? Don’tcha know that I’m the guy,

I’m the guy that put the foam on lager beer.”

He poked himself in the chest with his thumb: “I’m the guy that put the salt in the ocean,

I’m the guy that put the leaves on trees.

What’s that, who am I, don’tcha know that I’m the guy,

I’m the guy that bites the holes in Switzer cheese.

I’m the guy who put the hole in the donut,

I’m the guy who put the bones in fish.

What’s that, who am I? Don’tcha know that I’m the guy,

In the wishbone I’m the guy who put the wish.”

“Good night, Georgie, dear,” Vivian said.

“Good night, young lady. The breath of me heart to you.”

“Oh, my,” Vivian said. “Oh, my.”

Quinn pulled the car into the garage and opened the side door to the house with his key and let George and Renata enter, up the stairs to the kitchen. He locked the door after them and padlocked the garage. He went to the front door to check the mailbox, tucked the letters between the pages of a magazine, picked up the Knickerbocker News inside the vestibule door, and opened the inner door with his key. George was standing in the living room with his hat on.

“Home the same day,” George said.

“Actually it’s the next day,” Quinn said. “It’s after one o’clock — already tomorrow. Take off your hat and stay awhile.”

George took off his hat and set it atop the bridge lamp. Quinn lit the lamp and took the hat off it. He put the mail on the coffee table and hung his coat and George’s hat on the coatrack in the dining room. He saw George’s bandage and asked, “Does your head hurt?”

“Not at all. Should it?”

“Not if you don’t think so. How are you feeling, are you ready for bed?”

George nodded. “Early to bed, early to rise, your girl goes out with two other guys.”

“Wisdom on the hoof.”

Renata came from the kitchen. “You want anything?” she asked.

“I’ll have a nightcap, rum on the rocks with a splash,” Quinn said. “Have one yourself.”

“Did you enjoy your day on the town?” she asked George.

“There was a facsimile about it that was very comfortable.”

“I’m glad you liked it. It was nice having Vivian as part of it.”

“Vivian.”

“You remember Vivian?”

“I’d have to go to the book.”

“She was your dancing partner tonight.”

“That was Paggy. Pog.”

“You’re thinking of Peg,” Quinn said.

“Peg.”

“Peg Phelan. Margaret. You married her. Your wife, Peg.”

“Peg was a wonderful girl. She danced every dance. She was strong but not tough.”

“What does that mean — not tough?”

“Good and honest. She wouldn’t let anybody cut in.”

“Do you remember how you asked her to marry you?”

“Why do you ask such a question?”

“I never heard you talk about marrying her. I always wondered how it happened.”

“Don’t you love your girl, for chrissake?”

“I do.”

“I let her down, but she still comes around to love what’s left of me. I have no room in my heart for the blues.”

“That’s a fine attitude. Do you remember that Peg was my mother?”

“Was she? God bless you.” He stared at Quinn, a long silence.

“Do you remember?”

He nodded. He looked at Renata and back to Quinn. “You were the one and only one that come to us. You were my doll.”

“I’m glad I got here.”

George looked around the room. “You can’t beat this hotel. Everything here is very katish.”

“We do our best. We’re pleased you’re staying here. I think it’s bedtime.”

“Bedtime,” George said. “There’s always room for one more.” He found his hat and went up the stairs. Renata went to the kitchen.

Quinn turned on the television and found a Bobby Kennedy retrospective, but no new news about his condition on any station. He went back to the retrospective — Bobby having his clothes ripped off like a rock star in the campaign for president. The crowd loved every inch of him. “We want Kennedy,” they screamed. Quinn turned off the volume and let the images continue.

He sat on the sofa and looked at the mail: a letter from his publisher suggesting a schedule for publicizing his novel, signings at two local bookstores, a radio interview in New York, three local radio interviews, all of which add up to no push, no weight. So the book will develop momentum by itself, or it won’t. Also, a letter from the Albany County Sheriff to George Quinn, dated yesterday. In terse sentences the sheriff notified George that as of May 15, 1968, he had been taken off the payroll and his service in the Sheriff’s Office and the courts was terminated. George had not gone to work since his two cataract operations three months ago. He’d been in his slow fade for some months, who can count, but Quinn blamed the general anaesthesia the doctor gave him for its acceleration. The operation had begun with a milder sedative but it didn’t sedate, and George kicked a nurse when someone touched his eye. The operations were a success but the patient went senile.

His weekly paycheck had arrived punctually until two weeks ago, a harbinger, and not really unreasonable after three months; but this belated letter had an edge to it: after the ejection of Martin Daugherty from the Ann Lee Home we have the ejection of George Quinn, both coinciding with the decision by the Democratic politicians to punish Matt and Quinn, a pair of pains in the ass, by punishing their fathers. The district attorney had smiled at Quinn yesterday in a corridor at the Court House and said cryptically but jovially, “You forgot your father.” Quinn the reporter should have considered the fallout before publishing all that slum blather against the Mayor and the Party.