Song of the Silent Snow Page 16

  Whatever names on there I guess.

  She showed him the admission sheet, He was a John Doe when he was admitted. See, theres also an I.D. number. Mr. Wright, what sort of clothing did you have?

  A big army coat. I can find it in a minute…

  Miss Wilson called the clothing room and told them what to look for, and what name and number.

  It seemed like forever to Harry as he remained suspended between life and death, the only thing proving to him that he was alive was the curious pain twisting and clawing within him, but in just a few minutes Walter was back with Harrys clothes. They had been sterilized, but they still looked and smelled funky and Walter carried them at arms length from him and wrinkled his nose. Harry grabbed his clothes and hugged them to him, almost crying, and rushed to the mens room to get dressed. He sat on a commode half laughing, half crying, hugging and cradling his coat, telling it how much he loved it and had been waiting for it and he would not have let them keep him away that he didnt have to worry that no matter what happened he would have found him… rocking back and forth, tears rolling down his cheeks, sobbing and laughing with relief…

  Harry started down the hospital steps when a gust of wind blew snow in his face and momentarily blinded him. He grabbed the hand rail, feeling the cold metal on his hand and the wind biting his face. He pulled his watch cap down around his ears and yanked the large collar of his great coat up around his head and nestled deep into his coat like a butterfly in a cocoon and smiled from deep inside himself. He could feel the cold on his nose and the warmth of his body. His coat was even warmer than he remembered. His lovely and wonderful coat.

  The wind stopped and he went down the stairs, holding the railing, the ground slippery and treacherous. When he reached the bottom he shoved his cold hands in his pockets and looked around. There were large snow banks on the sides of the street, its gray filth showing through the whiteness of the newly fallen snow. He started walking cautiously, over the patches of ice everywhere, feeling his body moving inside his coat, hearing the wind and feeling the snow and laughing at them.

  He walked carefully down the street to the first liquor store and bought a pint of muscatel. As soon as he got outside he took a drink, standing still long enough to experience it going down and through his body, knowing soon the drabness and ugliness would be tolerable. He put the bottle in his pocket and started walking toward the bus stop. Soon he would be back on the Bowery and he would find a nice deserted building to nest in and leisurely drink his wine, then softly talk and sing to himself and his coat.

  He stood with the wind at his back, cuddled in the warmth of his coat, his entire being happy and glowing. He rubbed his cheek against the collar, its roughness reassuring him. They were together. They could take anything together… do anything together… survive anything together… He loved his coat… and his coat loved him… and they were together. That was the important thing. No one… nothing could separate them. And as long as they were together theyd make it. Yeah… theyd make it…

  The bus came and he hopped aboard and Harry Wright headed home. He was warm… He was safe…

  The Musician

  Harold got out of bed at 7am, a few minutes before the alarm was set to sound, put on his slippers, his robe and went to the bathroom. He thought briefly of telling Virginia that he would not have soft boiled eggs for breakfast, but dismissed the thought almost before it formed. He brushed his teeth, then hung his robe on the hanger behind the door, put his pajamas in the hamper, then, after carefully adjusting the water temperature with minute turns of the valves, stepped into the shower stall. When he finished he rubbed himself briskly, put on his robe and shaved. He then combed and brushed his hair neatly into place, then dressed, except for his tie and jacket.

  When he got to the kitchen his sisters and his eggs were waiting, Virginia pouring his coffee, Helen, of course, feeding puss, her floor-length robe wrapped tightly around her thinness. Good morning Harold, have a good sleep?

  Yes Virginia, I did. How about you?

  She nodded, O fine, thank you.

  The radio was tuned to a news station and they all listened dutifully to the complete weather report and forecast. When it was over Helen sat down. Well, it sounds like its going to be a nice day.

  Harold was in the process of returning his cup to its saucer, Thats good to hear. How did you sleep, Helen?

  O, fair to middlin. You know, my back…

  Virginia and Harold nodded and Virginia looked at Harold. Yes I know. Maybe you should see Dr. Winslow? Virginia nodded and looked at Helen.

  Maybe I will if it doesnt let up soon.

  Harold listened to his toast crunching, transposing it into the beat of a metronome. When he finally swallowed he took another drink of coffee. Virginia smiled, What will you be playing tonight Harold?

  He looked at his sister for a moment, I thought maybe a Beethoven sonata.

  O, that would be splendid. Dont you agree, Helen?

  Helen thought for a moment, as was expected of her position of being the oldest. Yes I think so. Be sure to dust the piano, Virginia.

  O, of course, she smiled at both of them, Its the first thing I do each morning.

  Well, I must get to my African violets, and Helen stood and left the kitchen.

  And I must be getting to the office. Harold dabbed his lips with his napkin then went back to his rooms to finish dressing. The old house suited their needs admirably, each having a suite of rooms, Harolds upstairs, the ladies downstairs. And too, each had been born in the house and lived their lives there, Helen 71 years, Virginia 67 years, and Harold 53 years. A lifetime.

  Harold inspected his jacket for traces of lint, then finished dressing before going down stairs, stairs that at one time, many, many years past, he would run and jump down, or even slide down the banister once or twice maybe, until mother stopped him and from then properly decended the stairs. By the time he got back downstairs Helen had finished with the African violets and had picked up puss’s bowls. Cats are nice, but a house must be kept tidy. Harold put on his hat and though it was a clear and sunny day, with a forecast of temperatures in the seventies, Harold put on his raincoat just in case.

  Dont forget your briefcase, Harold, and Virginia handed it to him.

  I wouldnt, Virginia. He took the briefcase and pecked her on the cheek, then Helen, and left the house.

  He noted, without realizing, the cracks in the sidewalk, noting the difference between now and 5 years ago, 10 years ago, and now and many years ago. At one time they were counted with childish fascination, but that too passed as did the running up and down the stairs. Just as did the desire to be a concert pianist. Mother would not hear of that either…

  Dad had been dead for many years by then… or at least it seemed like many years, having been very young when dad passed away. Some things were precisely etched in the rock of his memory and others were vague… just vague…

  No, mother would not approve of that either. Playing the piano was not for a man, just as running up and down stairs or counting the cracks in the pavement was not for a boy. The law was for a man. Lawyers were men of substance. And after passing the bar mother allowed him a piano and he took lessons. She even listened to him later on. A little bit…

  He walked up the street noticing the bursting green of the trees and felt a smile floating through him. It took 7 minutes to walk to the subway station, a few seconds to buy a paper, and then down to the platform.

  When he got on the train he put his briefcase between his feet and read his paper. He was always nervous about the briefcase and worried that someone might trip over it. From time to time he could feel himself blush when he accidentally tapped someone with it. He had never wanted to carry a briefcase. He did not carry work home. He never had that much responsiblity. But he had to admit that mother was right, it did seem to create an air of prestige. But still, it was an annoyance at times.

  He nodded and smiled at his fellow employees and walked through
the rooms to his office. He hung up his hat and coat and sat at his desk and looked at his calendar. It was Monday and he could call today. Not now. Later. And perhaps he would say a little more to her today, after all, there really was not a valid reason for only saying hello, how are you? and then, goodbye, have a nice day. Well, we’ll see what happens. For now, work. He took a file from the neat pile on the left corner of his desk and studiously went through each page, making notes, then evaluated the problem, made a few more notes, then reviewed everything again, briefly noting what he thought should be done, and then thought again for a few minutes, tapping the tips of his fingers together, reviewed his notes carefully and thoroughly, then dictated a detailed memo and letter, and when he finished he attached the dictation belt to the file and carefully placed it on top of the neat pile of folders on the right hand side of his desk, which was closest to the door so his secretary could get them more readily. He sat back for a moment, brushed a few bits of paper dust from his desk, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. He listened to it ringing, wetting his lips slightly, and after the second ring he adjusted himself in his chair, waiting expectantly for her voice. He listened for a second then said, Hello. He continued listening, smiling, nodding his head, moving his body ever so slightly as if listening to a piece of music. When he replaced the phone on the cradle he continued to smile and leaned back in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms, hands in front of his face, tapping his finger tips together. Her voice was so lovely. He could still hear it floating to join all those final notes of arias…

  He remembered the first time he had heard Renata Tebaldi. He had not expected it. He had just turned on the radio and heard a voice that forced him to sit down, immediately, and listen and thrill to the exquisite tones, the incredible artistry… O, it was so exciting, just he alone in his rooms, making such a divine discovery. And then, shortly after that evening, he saw her sing Mimi. She was so gorgeous, her voice so sublime. Tremors of excitement still tingled within him when he remembered that evening. And though it was a bitter cold night he waited at the stage door for her and when she finally came out and greeted her group of admirers—no! worshippers—he almost swooned she was so devestatingly beautiful, everything about her shimmered… her black hair, her incredible mink coat, her skin, her jewelry and her eyes… O those eyes… he stared and stared and was so transfixed that he almost forgot to ask for her autograph… and the smile when she took the pen and program… O, what a rapturous smile….

  He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, hands clasped, sighed almost inaudibly, then slowly opened his eyes and looked at the phone, leaning foreward slightly. Perhaps he would call again later and say a little more to her, just a few words perhaps. He brushed a few more pieces of paper dust from his desk and took the next file from the pile on the left.

  At noontime he finished making notes on the file he was reviewing and left for lunch. He looked out the window, first at the people in the street, then up at the cloudless sky, and decided to leave his coat in the office and just wear his suit jacket and hat.

  The restaurant was elegant and quiet and he smiled diffidently when he handed the check girl his hat. The Maitre'd bowed, Good afternoon Mr. Livingston. Im afraid your usual table is occupied, but I can give you another close by. Harold smiled, That will be fine. Harold sat and the waiter came over immediately, Good afternoon sir. Harold smiled and nodded properly. Will you have the special sir? Yes, I think I will have the duckling, thank you. And a tomato juice cocktail sir? Yes, please.

  Harold sipped his tomato juice and looked around surreptitiously, vaguely wondering what the drinks tasted like that were being served. He did not care for cocktails, but he thought he might, just might, have a martini sometime, but the thought was fleeting and tenuous.

  He enjoyed his lunch and briefly wondered how many different waiters had served him since he had been coming here???? My goodness, there really wouldnt be any way of knowing. Or Maitre'ds or hat check girls or washroom attendants or boot blacks or… he smiled and chuckled inwardly, or even how many ducklings. Maybe tomorrow he would try to… Hmmm, tomorrow… stuffed veal chops… Just might be able to, you know. Only been on the menu a few years. He brushed his lips lightly with the napkin one last time, then got up and left the restaurant.

  He stood just outside the door for a moment, then slowly edged into the lunch-hour crowd and walked to a nearby department store. He browsed quickly in the racks of ties then went to the lingerie department and walked slowly around the display cases looking at the many items on the countertops, in the cases, and especially on the manikins. A few times he brushed his hand against the sheer softness of the garments and allowed his body to give voice to a slight tingle of excitement. He continued strolling through the department for a few more minutes, then left and returned to his office.

  He worked on a few more files until about four oclock when he called again. There was that delicious feeling of anticipation as the second ring faded and he heard the click that meant that he would be hearing her voice: Hello, this is the recorded information line for the Stuyvesant Museum. If you are calling for other than General Information, please call—He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk—the new sculpture garden is now open during regular museum hours. In it are works by 19th and 20th century American and European artists. In the Willnymer Gallery there is a special showing of 14th and 15th century Japanese prints, now through the end of the month. The exhibition consists—he was smiling as he listened and gently brushed his cheek with the fingertips of his right hand, allowing her voice to flow through him in gentle, soothing currents that made his body feel unaccustomedly alive with an unknown energy—program of lectures, music and dance recitals are scheduled for the evenings. Tonight is a performance of traditional Indian dances related to Shiva. Tomorrow the Bartholemew Quartet will play the music of Handel, Beethoven, and Bartok, while on—His smile broadened, Yes, I think thats wonderful, and he felt a slight flush at hearing himself, and was silent again as he did not want to miss too much of her voice—for ticket information call the museum ticket office. Admission to the Dunbar Gallery is always free where fine paintings, sculptures, graphics—he nodded his head and closed his eyes as little dots of light flashed by and images flowed through his body. He was still brushing his cheek and smiling when he told her her voice was beautiful, then quickly silenced so he could listen—If you have missed any part of this recording—Her voice blended in with the music it created within him and he felt it as well as heard it and his body once again moved in time to it—Thank you for calling the Stuyvesant Museum and have a nice day. He did not hear the click, he was still experiencing the music…

  He replaced the phone and continued to keep his eyes closed until the music started to ebb, then he opened them and leaned back in his chair and sighed almost inaudibly as his minds eye watched the music drift away…

  then he looked at the phone, Have a nice day. He breathed deeply and took another file from the pile on the left side of his desk.

  At five oclock he closed the file he was working on, brushed the paper dust off his desk, put his pencils and pens in their proper place, and did the same with everything else, centering his calendar just so, and put the morning paper in his briefcase before leaving.

  He read the evening paper on the way home, and when he arrived he hung up his coat, put away his hat, and gave Virginia the morning paper. She loved to read the bridge game and work the crossword puzzle. Thank you, Harold.

  Youre quite welcome, Virginia, and he pecked her on the cheek. Then he pecked Helen. How did everything go today?

  Fine, Harold. How was your duckling?

  O, it was good.

  Not too salty?

  No, no, as a matter of fact it was just right.

  O, I am happy to hear that. You have to be careful with duckling, you know. Very greasy.

  Yes, I know. But it was rendered properly. He started upstairs to his rooms.

  Dinner will be r
eady in half an hour, Harold.

  Fine, Helen.

  We’re having a little change tonight.

  O?

  Yes. We're having peas and carrots with the lamb rather than cauliflower.

  O, good. Good, and he continued up the stairs. He hung up his jacket and turned on his phonograph and put on a recording of arias sung by Renata Tebaldi. As he listened he looked through his carefully filed collection of autographed pictures of opera stars and took out his favorite of her and glanced at it from time to time, hearing his Monday voice blending in an extraordinary way with Tebaldi… O, how he loved Monday nights. The music of her voice was still with him, and the exquisite magic of Tebaldi, both carressing him as he sat in his chair, all those glorious dreams of music flowing from his soul through his hands as the poets voice read lyrics that invited him to find the melody to clothe them, and he breathed deeply as the experience of those memories was once more reawakened, not to be re-imagined, as the images had long since been distilled and annihilated, but their memory was still there… the imagined joys were still there… the ecstasies were still there… hidden away in the warm folds of his brain where they could never be destroyed by any hand, and though the once brilliant images of concert halls and applause were now only flashes of light passing by his closed eyes, the experience, O, God, the tingle of the experience breathed itself eternally in his soul and he held Tebaldis picture in his hand, his attitude and all his being a prayer of thanks to her and the music and his Monday voice as he listened with his heart…

  At dinner each reviewed their day and they smiled and chatted pleasantly, each trying to make the others happy. Virginia was almost shaking with excitement as she related to Harold what had happened at the supermarket. It was just about the most frightening thing that has ever happened to me.

  Really? What was it?

  She smiled at Helen, I have already told Helen, but I was checking the eggs—to make certain they werent cracked you know—Harold nodded—when all of a sudden there was the most terrible explosion—Helen started to giggle—it really was you know, Helen. I know dear, Im sorry. Harold smiled and looked at them, but said nothing. Well, there was this terribly dreadful explosion and I dropped the carton of eggs—in the case so no damage was done, thank goodness—but I was trembling so badly I could not move. Finally, after what seemed ages, a clerk came by and I asked him what had happened—I thought there were gangsters trying to rob the store—and he told me someone had dropped a seltzer bottle—Helen started giggling again and Harold smiled then chuckled and Virginia grinned, I know it seems silly now, but I was absolutely terrified. And then, to top it off, I forgot the eggs, and she started giggling too.