Counting coup, p.9
Counting Coup, page 9
So Charlie left by way of John’s private entrance; and sure enough, the lights were still on in Stephen’s office. Maybe he just forgot to turn them off, Charlie thought. If I don’t do everything around here, nothing gets done at all. Well, screw it, let the lights burn all night long for all I care. I’m going home.
He walked south on St. Charles Street, past the laundromat and the green and brown two-family houses that were rented to a bunch of illiterate assholes on welfare who didn’t do anything but carouse and smoke their pot and live like pigs. It was chilly out now, and Charlie was cold and uncomfortable. Any day now the weather was going to change, winter would be here for good, and he would be cold all the time. He quickly and quietly went up the back stairs to his apartment; and of course his cross-eyed neighbor heard him coming and said, “Shitfaced again, hey Charlie.” Charlie asked him if he’d like his other eye crossed, too.
“I’m home,” Charlie said as he walked into the kitchen. Sitting at his table, big as life, were Joline and Anne and his baby Kathy and Stephanie and that asshole Joey, sitting right there in the kitchen drinking coffee.
“Okay, everybody, why don’t you all go into the living room and watch TV,” Joline said.
Everyone got up and left. They all averted their eyes from Charlie. You’d think I have the goddamned plague, he thought. It’s my house. I pay for the food they eat and the coffee that little sonovabitch Joey was drinking.
“Where the hell have you been?” Joline demanded in a low, growling voice. “You took that man’s car, and he’s been calling all day because you didn’t go to the job. Now you’re going to call that man and tell him where you were.”
“I’m not going to do any such thing,” Charlie said, sitting down at the table. “This table looks like a piece of shit. I liked the old one better. But you’ve got to spend my money, don’t you? Don’t you?” he demanded.
“Keep your voice down,” Joline said. She gave him a cup of coffee. “You’re drunk. Steve told me you were working with that Indian. He said that that was a mistake. He didn’t think that Indian was any good, but he thought he’d be able to help you out. Oh, he helped you out, all right.”
“Enough, woman, shut up. I didn’t come home to listen to you.”
“Then what did you come home for? To go right to sleep, to sleep it off, is that it? That’s all you can do is sleep anymore. You can’t even get it up.”
“I told you to shut your mouth,” Charlie said. His hands were shaking again; he couldn’t drink any of his coffee. But he was going to control himself. That’s what he told himself. He should never have come back home. Why did he come back anyway? He was supposed to be looking after John.
“I want to know where you were all this time,” Joline said. “I think you owe me that. And just look at yourself. Your hair’s all messed up and”—she leaned over him and pulled a piece of sage out of his hair—“where did you get this? Working on Union Street?”
“Just leave me alone.”
“What were you and your do-nothing friend up to?” Joline asked. “Did you find an old bag and gang-bang her in the woods?”
“I told you to shut up,” Charlie shouted, feeling himself slip out of control, as the booze took over again, numbing him, refocusing him. He tried to hold on, but it was as if he were already in flight. He felt as if he were watching himself on TV and couldn’t switch off the program. “And I want that little asshole who knocked up my daughter out of my house.”
“Now you listen to me,” Joline said. “There’s nobody leaving this house—unless maybe it’s you.”
“Well, it fucking well is going to be me,” Charlie said, standing up. He felt everything sloshing and spinning and almost fell; but he had come back home to do something. What was it? He’d come home to his family, that was all. But even here he felt as if Whiteshirt was staring at him … and he just wanted to run. He didn’t deserve a family, he thought. He was a goddamn drunk, Joline was right. They didn’t need him, his family didn’t. Nobody needed him.
Well, then fuck them all! Fuck everyone. Fuck everything. And fuck that Joey, that little Italian bastard geek who’d spoiled it all, who had spoiled his daughter.
Charlie stormed into the living room and said to Joey, “Get the hell out of here, didn’t you hear what I said?”
Joey was sitting on the couch with Stephanie, and he still wouldn’t look at Charlie—as if by not looking at him, Charlie couldn’t hurt him.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yessir,” Joey said. “I heard you.”
“Well, then get the fuck out of here.”
“No, you get the hell out of here,” Joline shouted, coming up behind him from the kitchen. She grabbed him, and he almost lost his balance. But he didn’t cough, the booze saw to that. “You’re a goddamn drunk and I hate you. Let your kids see you. This is what he is,” she said, looking at the children. “This is your father. Probably spent the day banging some old whore on Clinton Street with his Indian buddy who lives in the cellar.”
“I told you to get out of here,” Charlie said, walking toward Joey, ignoring Joline. Then, surprised at himself, he pulled Joey to his feet and took a swing at him. But the booze had a mind of its own. He only grazed the boy’s chin. Joey seemed more dumbfounded then hurt and backed warily away from Charlie. Stephanie was screaming hysterically.
And then Joline slapped Charlie squarely in the face.
Reflexively, he slapped her back hard, hurting her. He stumbled out of the apartment. Crying and swearing, he took the front stairs. I swore I’d never hit her, he told himself. That’s it, I’ve spoiled it. But she don’t need me. None of them do. I only stayed with her all these years for the kids, anyway. He knew that was a lie; but he paused on the bottom of the landing and shouted up the stairs, “I only stayed with you this long for the kids. You hear that? I should’ve left long ago. But I’m leaving you now, goddammit. Do you hear that?”
He was his own man, after all. If he couldn’t have who he wanted in his own house, then he’d leave it. He’d finally be free after all these years. Joline would probably do better without him. She’d still get his checks. That’s what she wanted all along, he thought.
But Charlie waited a moment longer. He expected her to come screaming out of the apartment. She should be crying her eyes out by now, he told himself. She should have been out here by now, calling him names and then asking him to come back inside for dinner.
Goddammit, I’m drunk, he thought.
Joline, get your ass out here. But he wasn’t going to yell that, no matter how bad he was. He was in control, not her.
Quietly, reluctantly, he left.
The motorcycle people were across the street, fussing with their bikes and talking and drinking beer. They probably smoked their pot or took their heroin inside their apartments. Charlie’s fat neighbor was out, too, wearing his black gangster jacket. There were women standing around with the guys. Some of them even had their babies out. Those infants shouldn’t be out in this chill, Charlie thought. It’s a crime is what it is. He couldn’t imagine any of them having babies. What the hell did they do for a dollar? None of them worked. They probably robbed or dealt drugs. The women were probably all on welfare, supporting their babies and boyfriends. They were probably all stoned right now.
Charlie had tried pot once, but it didn’t do anything for him except give him a sore throat.
The people across the street waved at Charlie.
Charlie waved back, thinking that at least they have some family. That’s more than I have now, he told himself. He knew that he could just turn around and walk back upstairs. Joline would fight with him, call him every frigging name in the book, but she would fix him dinner and probably even screw him if she had a mind to. He wouldn’t even have to apologize—not to Joline or his daughters, and especially not to that little asshole Joey. Of course, he would apologize to his daughters for the crude words that had passed between Joline and himself; but he’d do that tomorrow, after things quieted down.
That’s all he had to do. Yet he couldn’t. He just couldn’t go back. Not after he had slapped her. That had done it … broken the sacred bond. It was as if he had severed one bond and formed another, as if he couldn’t have a family anymore, except for John. John was all he deserved. He never should have taken on a family. He was always a loner and a drifter, even when he was a family man, because it was in his heart.
But he suddenly, wrenchingly felt his loss, felt it as he had in the sweat-lodge when he cried for all of them: for Joline and Anne and Stephanie and the baby, and for his son, too. God, maybe that’s who I need to talk to, Charlie thought. Maybe Louis could set him back on the right path, tell him what to do, make everything all right.
Of course, he knew what to do. Go back home. But he just couldn’t do that yet. Although he couldn’t admit it to himself, right now he was terrified. He was afraid of what had happened in the sweat-lodge, which he tried to dismiss. He was afraid of his future, which looked hopeless. He was afraid of his fading health. He used to be a bull, and now he had trouble climbing stairs. He didn’t have teeth, his arms were skinny, his belly was fat, he’d lost too much hair, and he was a failure. He had lost it all, and the Third Law had seen to it that he didn’t get it back—none of it.
Maybe it’s just the Laws working themselves out, Charlie told himself. Maybe that’s it. He was paying dues, and there was nothing in the world he could do about that. Maybe this was what he deserved for not being a better father and husband and breadwinner. Maybe this was his payment for drinking and not being there when his daughter really needed him. If so, he was really going to pay for tonight, for slugging that little asshole Joey.
He tried to call his son from a phone booth on the corner of St. Charles and Main Street. Behind him was the Blue Moon Diner, a greasy spoon famous for its blinking blue neon signs; across the street was Stephen’s office. The office lights were on, and, as Charlie watched, a grubby-looking young man and woman came out of the office. So that’s why he’s there, Charlie thought. He’s renting apartments. He’s doing it himself so he won’t have to pay me to do it. No … he’ll let me clean up the shit for him while he pockets the rental fees from his father. Very neat. Like father like son.
Charlie called Louis collect, but there was no one home. That’s typical, Charlie thought as he stood in the phone booth and watched the office. Suddenly, everything seemed to come clear, even though he still felt a bit nauseated and dizzy. He had drunk more than he was accustomed to, but he could handle it, he told himself. He was handling it.
As he watched the office, it occurred to him that if he had no family, then he had no reason at all to suck up to Stephen or Nathan or anygoddamnbody. The firm owed him, owed him for all his time, all his ideas … and for all their broken promises. The Indians aren’t the only ones who got broken promises, Charlie said to himself.
It was time to collect, and Charlie knew exactly how to collect what was due him.
He crossed the street. He wasn’t steady on his feet—he weaved back and forth, but only a little. He picked up two fist-sized rocks from the curb—the city was always working on the gas lines or telephone lines or water lines right here at the corner, and the street seemed to be always broken up. Then he threw the rocks, one after the other, through the glass panes of the office door. “So much for LAW OFFICES, NATHAN ISAACS, ESQ., whateverthehell ESQ means, and so much for BEST REALTY, LTD, STEPHEN ISAACS PRESIDENT,” Charlie said softly, calmly.
Stephen rushed to the door, looking out through the space where the window had been, looking directly at Charlie, who stood on the street with his hands on his hips, as he surveyed his work. Charlie tried to stand as steady as he could. He nodded to Stephen. I’ve made an asshole out of you, Charlie thought, gloating, feeling the piss and vinegar burning inside him as if he were eighteen again.
“What the hell happened?” Stephen demanded. “What the fuck is going on?” he screamed, opening the door. He was a tall man of about thirty-five with graying hair and a strong, rough face. He looked like his father—the same squarish face, widow’s peak, and blue eyes. He always looked like he was squinting. He also resembled Charlie, as people had often remarked. In fact, Stephen’s wife had actually thought that Charlie was his father when they first met. She often asked Charlie, chiding, if maybe he didn’t know Mrs Isaacs in the biblical sense. Charlie would laugh and say he was the milkman.
But Charlie wasn’t laughing now.
“Hey Charlie, you ever hear that you don’t bite the hand that feeds you?” Stephen shouted. “You goddamn drunk!”
I’m still a bull, Charlie reminded himself, afraid that Stephen might try something. He regretted breaking the window. But fuck it. It was already done. “Neither you or your father ever gave me nothing,” Charlie said. “Everything I got I got myself. I even had to give you a security deposit when I moved … after ten years of service. That’s how you thank people who love you. Well, I can tell you—I admit it—I was an asshole. And your whole family can stick it right up your asses.”
“I’m not going to stand on the street and argue with you,” Stephen said. He acted contemptuous, but he also seemed nervous, wary. He knew better than to push Charlie too far: it wouldn’t be worth a fight. “I’m going to call the police, and you’re going to pay for this window. I’m sure Joline is just going to love this, as if you haven’t embarrassed her enough.”
“You just shut your mouth about my family,” Charlie said, “and if you want to call the police, you just take your ass back to the phone and make your call.”
“First I’d like to know what the fuck you’ve done with my car.”
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Charlie said. “Your car’s safe and sound in the Endicott-Johnson factory lot.”
“I’d like the keys back right now,” Stephen demanded, stepping out of the office and into the street.
“Well, here they are, your honor,” Charlie said, tossing the keys to him.
Stephen caught them and said, “I’m not a judge, but you’re too drunk to know the difference between me and my father.” His voice became more condescending now that he had the keys.
“Jam it up your ass,” Charlie said. He was going to say, “Jam it up your Jewish ass,” but even drunk Charlie didn’t want to step over that line. Stephen might come after him for that.
“Get the hell out of here,” Stephen said, “and I want all your keys—the keys to the office, the keys to all the properties—and I’m giving you notice right now. Find yourself another apartment. Find another landlord whose windows you can break. But you’re never getting the chance to do it again here, I can guarantee you that.”
“It’s a shithole, anyway,” Charlie shouted, pulling his office key from his key ring. He threw the key at Stephen, who didn’t even try to catch it. “I was going to move,” Charlie said. “I’ve been looking in the paper for the last two months. You can rent your slum to some other dumb asshole, you and your father sunning his ass in Florida.” Charlie was breathing heavily now, and every breath seemed to make him more dizzy and pull him farther away from Stephen. Why doesn’t that bastard just go inside? Charlie asked himself. Fucking pansy. I could beat the piss out of him right now, even at my age, if he was man enough to say the word …
“And you can tell your Indian crony that he has until tomorrow to get his ass out of my building,” Stephen said. Then he went back into his office, locking the door behind him.
Even if he had the will, Charlie was too drunk to get through that broken window in the door. “Get one of your other maintenance men to fix your door,” Charlie shouted after Stephen. “I’m sure you’ll find a ‘professional’ to do the job.”
But Stephen had disappeared into the inner office, effectively cutting Charlie off.
Sonovabitch, Charlie thought. He probably is calling the police.
Suddenly Charlie felt something in his throat. He began retching right there in the street. Then he began to cough, gagging, kneeling on the cement, spitting; and even as he coughed his lungs out, a part of his mind was clear and steady and objective. It gave Charlie the true picture, as he called it. Charlie had humiliated himself—that’s what he felt kneeling there. Joline had humiliated him. Joey had humiliated him. Stephanie had humiliated him. Stephen had humiliated him. But it was the humiliation of being who he was that was the worst of all. He had done it to himself … and to everyone he loved. He’d always known that. He knew the Laws, yet he was a loser. He was better off right here in the gutter. Fucking A.
Someone helped him to his feet—it was John. Charlie had drawn a small crowd.
“What the hell are you all looking at?” Charlie shouted. “Haven’t you people ever seen a broken window before?”
6.
TURNING HEYOKA
Charlie felt drunker than ever after vomiting. He remembered John bringing him downstairs to his room. He remembered sitting in the chair; and it was as if the air was made out of water and he was just floating along … floating and belching and feeling sick and then feeling perfectly calm. Then there was the coolness of the metal desktop against the side of his face as Charlie leaned over to sleep. He remembered being a child in school, falling asleep at his desk on the hot, muggy afternoons … remembered the inkwell that always dug into his right arm.
He snapped awake, disoriented. It was still dark, and John’s room was filled with shadows that jumped and danced with every passing car.
There was a pounding upstairs. For an instant, he thought it was rifle-shot or cold water being poured onto the hot rocks inside the sweat-lodge. After a few seconds, he mumbled, “So Mr Isaacs got himself a professional to fix his window.” He sat up, still feeling the cotton-work of sleep and booze in his mouth, the itchy numbness in his hands, and the familiar tickle in his throat that meant an explosion was soon to follow. He looked around for a place to spit before he started coughing, and saw John as if for the first time. But he was busy looking for a waste-paper basket or a paper bag; he couldn’t find either. He tried to ask John for help, but he started wheezing and coughing and his stomach was churning. He tried to get to the bathroom, which was at the other end of the cellar hallway, but he threw up as he stumbled past John’s door into the cellar. He did it right on the floor—like a goddamn animal, he thought, mortified.
