Indian Summer

   The sky was cloudless and blue, the air warm, crisply clear. The previous few days had been prematurely cool, but today was the kind of day you dream of all through a hot humid summer of stifling subways, burning pavements and faulty air conditioners. And it was Sunday. He could just sit around and read the Times and later watch the Jets game.
   Yes, a truly marvelous day. And for New York a rare one. You dont get too many days like this where the air is so clear and clean you feel as if you could rub it between your finger tips. He breathed deeply as he left the newsstand with his Times, and stopped for a moment to enjoy the sky and the relaxed quiet of the morning, thinking of the day of leisure that awaited him.
   He glanced at the newspaper and smiled as he anticipated sitting in their small backyard and going through the many bulky sections, looking forward with eagerness to reading the sports pages now that the football season had begun. And too, an occasional can of cold beer wouldnt dim his spirits any. He breathed deeply again and smiled as he looked up and down the tree-lined street. It sure will be good to relax after the hectic week . he just put in. That damn Goodwin account is enough to drive anyone batty. But he wasnt going to think about that now. Not on a day like this. Thats how you get ulcers. No, he was just going to relax and take it easy and leave that for tomorrow. Monday morning will come soon enough. It always does.
   I wonder if we should go for a drive? The countryside will be lovely with the trees changing colors and the fall flowers blooming. Bet it would be beautiful in Connecticut, and we could stop at a nice restaurant and have dinner. Im sure Ethel would like that. Give her a chance to get out of the kitchen, and Suzie likes riding in the car—bouncing the Times against his hip as he walked—but the damn road will be packed with Sunday drivers and we would probably hit one traffic jam after another. No, I guess it would be better to just forget the whole thing and spend a nice quiet day at home. Actually Sunday is really a day to spend at home with the family, and he did not want to miss the Jets game, hoping Ethel would not say anything about being a football widow.
   When he got home his wife was just finishing the breakfast dishes. He put an arm around her waist as he kissed her on the cheek. Its a beautiful day.
   Yes, I know. I was out back for a few minutes before. Makes you feel like doing something or going somewhere.
   Yeah, I suppose it does, but what it really makes me want to do is sit in the sun with the Times and a beer. After all, I have to be well rested if Im going to do a good job at the office. He smiled at his wife and kissed her again, then put the paper on the table and took a can of beer out of the refrigerator. Wheres Suzie?
   In her room.
   O. Shes so quiet I thought maybe she was in the yard.
   No. Shes playing with her coloring book. Ethel dried her hands and hung up the towel. You know Harry, it might be a good idea if you took Suzie to the park later. Maybe while Im fixing dinner you can take her to the playground.
   Gee, I dont know honey. I was planning on taking it easy today. I put in a rough week and I have another one in front of me.
   I know, darling, but it would be nice if you could.
   Well, we’ll see what happens.
   He started to go out to the yard when Suzie came out of her room. We going to the park, daddy?
   Maybe later, sweetheart—patting her on the head.
   On the swings?
   We’ll see, honey. Maybe later. Right now daddy has something to do—still patting her on the head—maybe in a little while. Suzie looked up at him for a moment then went back to her room.
   Harry went out into the yard and moved his chair so it was in the sun and started reading the paper. Whether or not he took Suzie to the playground wasnt a matter of life or death. She did look a little disappointed, but it wasnt that important. And that damn Goodwin account. And anyway, its still early. He could always take her later, after he read at least part of the paper and relaxed for a while. There’d be time before dinner. Perhaps he should spend a little more time with her alone. He really didnt spend too much time with her and lately she was almost ready for bed by the time he got home. Of course that wasnt his fault, but still… when was the last time he took her to the park? Well, after all thats not really my responsibilty. Harry continued reading, vaguely aware of the sound of voices coming from the house.
   He glanced up at the sky from time to time and breathed deeply. He browsed through the «News of the Week in Review» section noting a few headlines, looking at all the political cartoons and reading their captions. Harry slowly leafed through the Theater Section and decided to save the Magazine and Book Review Section for after dinner, before the game. Keeping the Sports Section on his lap he put the remainder of the paper on the ground then stretched his legs and leaned back in his chair.
   The sun was warm on Harry Swansons face as it slowly rose higher in the sky, moving from his left to his right. He finished the beer and thought for a moment about getting another, but the idea gradually faded as he continued reading. When he finished reading about all the games he thumbed through the rest of the section, then let the paper slide from his hand and had one last cigarette before going back into the house.
   He plopped the paper on the couch and stretched his arms out over his head a few times while rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Man O man, what a beautiful day. Its really beautiful out Ethel, you should go out and enjoy it and do whatever youre doing later.
   I think I will, in just a few minutes, as soon as I get the roast started.
   Suzie still coloring?
   I dont know. I suppose so. Shes being quiet so Im not going to look at any gift horses.
   Harry smiled, I know what you mean. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet, I was thinking maybe I’d take her to the park before dinner. Itll be a couple of hours yet, wont it?
   Thats a good idea. Figure about 2:30, or maybe youd better make it 2 to be on the safe side.
   O.K. You want to get her ready?
   Suzie had learned how to skip and she tugged Harrys arms as she periodically started skipping. Harry asked her several times to stop, yanking her arm once to emphasize his request but she could not stop using her new toy so Harry eventually let go of her hand cautioning her not to cross the street without him. When they got to the park Suzie started running toward the playground, but Harry stopped her. Wait a minute honey, daddy wants to go over there for a few minutes first.
   A crowd of a few hundred people were watching a football game and Harry, holding Suzies hand, walked to the near side of the field and rapidly worked his way to the sideline, pushing Suzie in front of him. Between plays he questioned those around him until he learned the score and the quarter and how the game was going.
   Harry immediately became involved in the game and impatiently told Suzie to wait a minute, just a few more minutes, as she pulled at his arm. Swings daddy, I want the swings—and she wriggled and squirmed between the many sets of legs surrounding her as the crowd moved with the development of each play.
   Eventually Harry became aware of Suzies petulance and picked her up and held her so her head was on a level with his.
   There we are, honey. Is that better?
   My nose itches.
   Well rub it, honey.
   Can we go on the swings now?
   Just a few minutes and they’ll stop, then we’ll go. I promise. Harry continued to watch each play unfold, ooing and aaing with the crowd and, of course, quarterbacking; and Suzie continued to ask to go to the swings and squirm with boredom, and Harry growing more and more impatient with her insistence telling her to stop and stay still and squeezing her thigh a few times to emphasize his demand.
   When the half finally ended Harry wanted to talk to the others about the game, but Suzie wiggled around so much he knew it would be useless to try so he left the crowd of spectators and put Suzie down. O.K., o.k., we’ll go to the playground. You happy now? completely exasperated and frustrated. She trotted off, her mind empty of everything but the forthcoming pleasure of the swings, the sliding pond and the see-saw, Harry walking rapidly behind her, turning his head occasionally to look back at the football field.
   Suzie was hanging from a swing when Harry caught up with her. Now be careful. Youll hurt yourself doing that. He picked her up and put her in the swing and told her to hold on tightly to the safety bar across the front. He pushed the swing and Suzie kicked her legs with glee and at first Harry told her to stop kicking and to sit still, but after a few minutes of his daughters giggling, and the silence from the football field, he relaxed and continued pushing until Suzie suddenly announced, Sliding pond.
   He held his hands out ready to catch her as she climbed the steps one by one, then waited for her at the end of the slide, but she vigorously shook her head, no, and so he allowed her to slide down alone still standing ready as she climbed the steps once again and waited for her to come running back after she slid down. There seemed no end to the amount of laughter the sliding pond could evoke from her.
   Soon the noise from the football field made it obvious that the second half had started. Harry continued to watch his daughter as she climbed the ladder, but he was getting more and more fidgety. Then a loud cheering, and the movement of the crowd, indicated that someone had scored. It must have been a touchdown, the cheering had that kind of sound to it. Suzie was skipping her way back to the ladder when Harry picked her up and spun her around a few times and she giggled happily. When he put her down he knelt beside her, Did you have fun, sweetheart?
   Suzie nodded her head vigorously, Put me on the seesaw now, daddy.
   Im afraid we havent time, honey. We have to go home soon.
   We got time. Its not time to eat yet—sounding as if she actually knew dinner would not be ready for another hour or so.
   Well no, not exactly, but daddy wanted to watch the football game for a few minutes before we have to go home.
   O I dont like it. I dont wanna watch anymore—scrunching her face into a complete pout. We only been here a few minutes. I wanna stay here—her voice on the brink of a sob.
   Ah please, sweetheart. I’ll tell you what. I’ll carry you piggy back all the way. Hows that?
   We could stay here and you could carry me piggyback. You said we’d go to the playground. You said—lowering her head, still pouting, her voice even closer to tears.
   Look, I know what. How about a nice surprise after dinner? How about that?
   What sprize?
   O, I cant tell you that. Then it wont be a surprise.
   She looked up at him for a moment, still pouting, Honest? A sprize?
   Of course—feeling a blush warming his face—I wouldnt lie to my little girl.
   One more slide?
   O.K.—standing up and following her to the ladder. When she reached the bottom he knelt and his daughter climbed on Harrys back after he cautioned her to hold on tight to his neck, but not to choke him.
   He walked toward the field quickly, holding his daughters legs, then broke into a jogging lope as Suzie prodded him with a giddyup, she enjoying the breeze on her face as she put her cheek next to her daddys and relished not having to bend her head backwards to look up at people, even being able to look down at many.
   Harry swiftly worked his way back to his previous spot and found out that the score was now tied. He immediately became completely involved in the game as one team put the ball in play on their own 20 after a touchback, and the fullback picked up 12 quick yards on a draw play. After that the quarterback moved his team upfield by continually outthinking the defense with trap plays and slants off the tackles and guards, and a couple of short hook passes at just the right time.
   His daughter remained satisfied with the novelty of her position and her daddy moved around just enough to make it interesting. For a while. Then the novelty faded, just as the defense recovered a fumble inside their own 20—and just when they were really moving the ball too.
   I wanna go on the swings again, daddy—tapping him on the head with her hand.
   I told you, Suzie, not now—what a jerk. A few more plays and they wouldve been over.
   Suzie bounced up and down repeating, Please more—tugging at Harrys neck.
   Not now, and stop that. Youre hurting daddy—lets see what this other quarterback can do. If he can get them out—I said stop—turning to look at Suzie. Do you want me to put you down?
   No—still bouncing but no longer tugging at his neck—but I wanna go on the swings, you said—slowly pouting the words—I was hardly on them.
   A time out was called and Harry knelt and his daughter slid off his back and he held her hands as he spoke softly, but firmly, to her, his irritation growing. I told you if you are a good girl I would give you a surprise after dinner. We have to go home soon—glancing at his watch—and we dont have time to go back to the playground. Now be a good girl and dont bother daddy for few minutes and I’ll piggyback you home and youll get a nice surprise after dinner. O.K.?
   What sprize daddy?
   Youll see after dinner—time was back in—now climb on daddys back and be a good girl. Harry stood up with Suzie on his shoulders and decided he had enough time to watch at least the next series of downs before he had to start home, and perhaps more if this guy didnt move the team. His daughter hung on quietly for a few minutes then started jiggling up and down and then jabbering and asking questions, wanting to know what they were doing and why they ran after the boy and when they were going back to the swings… and Harry grunted a few answers while moving along the sidelines as the teams moved down the field, occasionally telling Suzie not to choke him, her whining increasing his irritation. Then Suzie started humming to herself and rocking her head back and forth as she jiggled up and down and Harry started getting angry and squeezed her leg and yelled at her to stop as she fell forward and banged her head on his and Suzie hung completely motionless for a second, stunned from the blow and Harrys voice, then started whimpering and Harry fought his anger and knelt and rubbed her head for a moment and told her not to cry. She was still whimpering slightly, asking to go back to the swings, when the quarterback threw a perfect strike to his running back and he went in for the score. Harry decided to go home as it was a little after 2.
   When they were out of the crowd he wiped Suzies face with his handkerchief, We dont want mommy to know we were crying now do we?
   We going home now, daddy?
   Yes, honey.
   Can we go on the swings first, huh?
   No.
   Please. I hardly didnt get to go.
   No, its too late—the sadness in her voice causing Harry to respond angrily—dinners ready now. He paused and took a deep breath, thinking how his wife would react to Suzies complaint. He smiled, But dont forget I promised you a piggyback ride all the way home. O.K.?
   And a sprize you said.
   Yes, I wont forget. Youll get a surprise. Now climb on and we’ll go home.
   Harry played horsie to his daughters giddyup and between that and an occasional tickle Suzie was laughing when they romped into the house.
   Well, its about time you two vagabonds got home—taking her daughter off Harrys back, kissing her before putting her down -a few more minutes and you would have had a catastrophe instead of a roast.
   Hmmmm, smells good. I guess we had better get washed. Come on honey, lets get our hands and face washed.
   Ethel set the table while they washed and by the time they came back into the kitchen it was filled with savory smells, the table set, and the roast waiting for Harry to carve.
   As Harry carved, Ethel put Suzie in her highchair and asked her to tell her all about the park. Were there other children there?
   Uhuh. We watched a game. I was on daddys back.
   A game? Didnt you go to the playground, Harry?
   Of course, of course. We just stopped for a minute on the way home to watch a football game. I dont even know who was playing.
   O Harry, you and football. Dont you get enough on t.v.?
   It was just for a minute—here give me your plate. Heres a nice center piece.
   And daddys giving me a sprize. What is this about a surprise?
   I thought we’d get some I-C-E C-R-E-A-M after dinner. You know -
   Cause I was a good girl at the game, wasnt I daddy? Thats a good girl—putting her dinner in front of her—Now you eat this all up.
   Whats the sprize daddy?
   Now I told you a dozen times, after dinner.
   Take it easy, Harry.
   Well, ever since I mentioned it shes been haunting me about it.
   Well, lets forget about it and enjoy our dinner.
   Ethel and Harry started eating their Sunday dinner, but Suzie just toyed with her food, I want my sprize.
   Now you listen to me, young lady -
   Harry. Dont lose your temper.
   But Ive been hearing this all day—Suzie had lowered her head and watched and listened -
   But getting yourself upset isnt going to do any good. Youll just ruin our dinner. Relax honey. I’ll take care of Suzie. Now you be a good little girl and eat your dinner. Ethel separated the food on Suzies plate into individual piles and told her to start eating.
   Suzie pouted, I was a good girl.
   Well, you just continue to be a good girl and eat.
   I want my sprize.
   You listen to mommy—glancing at Harry, noticing his face redden—and eat. If you dont eat like a good girl youll not only get no surprise, but daddy wont take you to the park again. Now you wouldnt like that, would you?
   Suzie toyed with her food for a few minutes, then started whimpering very softly, a few tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. Ethel reached over with her napkin and wiped her face dry. Now you dont have to cry, honey, no one is yelling at you. I dont understand why you are so upset. We just want you to eat your dinner. Now stop crying for mommy. Ethel turned to Harry, What happened at the park, Harry, Ive never seen her in such a state? Harry glared at her, mouth jammed shut.
   Suzie continued to whimper softly and shook slightly with a sob. Good girl. I want my sprize.
   Harry slammed his fork down on the table and jerked himself up, Goddamn it! I’ll give you a surprise—reaching over to her plate, scooping up a handful of mashed potatoes with gravy and slapping it on her head—Heres your surprise! Ethel and Suzie just stared at Harry, their mouths open, potatoes and gravy slowly sliding down the sides of Suzies face, and then she started crying hysterically. Good! Good! Cry and get it over with! Ethel hugged Suzie as she continued to stare at the potatoes and gravy dripping from Harrys hand.

A Little Respect

   Morris pushed the papers on his desk into piles, any old pile, and rushed to the elevators. He hated those last minute phone calls. He never could figure out why people waited until five to five to call. He rushed to the elevator, looking at his watch. He could still make the 5’20 if there were no more hangups. The first two elevators went right past his floor because they were filled and he groaned inwardly. He kept looking at his watch, but it didnt seem to do any good so he lit a cigarette and put it out when an elevator stopped and the doors opened. He squeezed himself in and the elevator went directly to the ground floor.
   He rushed to the subway and stood on the platform constantly looking at his watch complaining loudly to himself about the service, and what in the hells keeping the train, wishing he could light a cigarette. The more he looked at his watch the more convinced he became that he would miss the 5’20 and end up on the damn 5’30, the cattle car. Eventually the train came in and he pushed and was pushed into the car. He was jammed so close to the guy in front of him that the guys mustache kept tickling Morrises nose, and whoever it was behind him must have had spaghetti and meat balls for lunch with extra garlic. He wondered what time it was.
   Everybody flooded out of the train when they reached the terminal and Morris rushed, almost running, toward the proper track. He glanced at his watch and the clocks on the wall and knew it was hopeless. It was already 5’21 and it would take him at least five more minutes to get there no matter how fast he walked and god knows that if they ever left on time they would today. When he got there at 5’25, never, but today… The end of the train was just barely visible when he got to the track. He looked at the dark tunnel for a moment feeling and listening to his heart pound. He bought a paper and waited.
   A cattle car, thats what the 5’30 is, a cattle car. And not only that, the 5’30 doesnt know what a schedule is… not even a nodding acquaintance. Who knows what time I’ll get home.
   When he reached his station he almost stopped for a moment to breathe the air, but decided to continue rushing to the bus stop, sneaking a few looks at his watch. The bus was there in a matter of minutes and thank god he got a seat. He read about a flood, a hatchet murder, an earthquake that killed 10,000 people, and relaxed.
   The short walk to the house was almost pleasant. He looked forward to sitting and taking it easy for a few minutes, if possible, before dinner. The street was relatively quiet, quiet enough to hear the birds. Morris liked to hear the birds. It was so bucolic, like the city was a million miles away. Nice.
   He opened the door of his home and was immediately ASSAULTED by the sound of machine guns, cannons and the screams of planes. His 10 year old son Milton was sitting on the floor in the living room surrounded by a few empty bowls and numerous candy wrappers. There were crumbs of crackers, popcorn and potato chips everywhere. Morris stuck his head in the doorway, Hi Miltie, how are you?
   Milton stared at the screen.
   Morris looked at him for a moment then raised his voice slightly, I said hello. How are you?
   Milton stared at the screen.
   Morris stared at his son, but couldnt outlast him. Turn it down Miltie.
   Milton stared at the screen.
   Miltie, I said to turn it down, its too loud. Morrises head was raging, but he just stood over his son, squeezing his newspaper, raising his voice just a little each time he spoke.
   His son continued to stare at the screen.
   Finally there was a commercial break and Morris tried again, Milton lower the volume.
   Milton finally acknowledged his fathers presence by giving him his best Fonzie posture, without getting up. Be cool, eh?
   I’ll be cool—grabbing for the control unit and Milton holding tight with both hands. Give me that you -
   Look out, look out, ya jerk, ya wanna break it?
   I’ll break your head you little -
   Morrises wife Maya yelled from the kitchen, Is that you Morris?
   He stood up, Yes. Its me.
   The movie suddenly came back on with an artillery barrage that caused Morris to drop his paper. He retreated to the kitchen.
   Milton stared at the screen.
   Maya was turning back the aluminum foil on the t.v. dinners, Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes. A special treat. Yeah?
   Your favorite, Salisbury steak. Morris nodded, With homemade water? What? Nothing. What was all that noise, were you yelling at Miltie again? Yelling? How could you tell? I heard you. How could you hear me over that racket? Maya I tell you somethings got to be done. Done? About what? About what? About Miltie. Why, what did he do now? What did he do? Thats it, he doesnt do anything. He doesnt say hello, he doesnt say goodbye. He doesnt say anything. He just sits in front of the television like a blob. He likes it, Morris. And anyway, it keeps him out of trouble. Im his father. He should say hello. Is that something terrible, to want your son, your only child, to say hello? I work all day. I work hard. Like a slave—Maya was nodding her head and continued to nod as she put the dinners back in the oven, Morris following her around the kitchen—to give my family a nice house in the suburbs so you dont have to live in the crowded city. Am I asking for a bugle call when I come home? Am I asking for trumpets and kettledrums? All Im asking for is a little consideration, thats all. Is it asking so much to have him say hello? I always say hello. You say hello, but does he? Maybe I should get a tape recorder and have him say once, only once, hello dad, and then youll play it when I come home. Maya shrugged, Excuse me, Morris, I want to set the table. Maya set the table and Morris continued to follow her around, Im going to make some changes around here. Im going to get some respect from my son. Do you hear? I hear you, Morris, and youre right. You should get some respect. Excuse me while I get the silverware. From now on, when I get home hes to turn that thing off and say hello. Maya nodded, How was your day today? My day? My day? The days I survive very well, its the nights that arent so good. The timer started ringing and Maya took the dinners from the oven. Tell Miltie its time to eat. Morris went into the living room, grim determination steeling his resolve. Come to dinner, Milton.
   Bring it here.
   What do you mean, bring it here?
   Milton slowly turned his head and looked at his father as if he were an imbecile, then turned back to the screen.
   Morris stared at his son for a moment then spun around and went back to the kitchen. He wont come to dinner. He isnt hungry? He wants to be served in there. Maya shrugged. Let him eat in there. I’ll fix a tray so… What do you mean let him? Morris, dont get so excited, its bad for your digestion. Here, sit and relax. Maya pushed Morris into his seat and then quickly fixed a tray for Milton and took it to him. She came back and served the food and sat and smiled at Morris. Come on, Morris, eat while its hot. Morris was continually shaking his head. Bring it here, bring it here. All the cannons and machine guns in the movie seemed to be exploding in his head. Through the trauma of the cannonading he heard his sons voice and Maya got up and cut a big piece of pie and put a big scoop of ice cream on it and took it to Milton. Morris was eating. He could feel the food. He chewed. He swallowed. He must be eating. Maya sat down. He could see her, but somehow she wasnt there. Was’wasnt. Thoughts stabbed his head. They broke through his skull. Pierced his nose and ears. They spewed forth from his mouth and wrapped themselves around his head and squeezed at his throat. Some respect you can say hello Im your father I work all day the 5’30s a cattle train for what a broadside of guns and planes a little respect I dont have to listen therell be changes—Morris you alright?—yes, some changes and then the respect without the bombs—Morris stood up, tall and straight, stiff—Maya looked up at him as she continued eating—right now we’ll start with the changes, and he strode forth from the kitchen, right past Mayas frown, and into the living room, past the blob of Milton sitting, staring, and yanked the t.v. cord from the plug and started wheeling the set out of the room.
   Milton yelled. Hey, whatta ya doin?
   Doing? Im making some changes.
   Hey ma, MA!!!!
   Maya rushed to the living room. Whats wrong? Milton was yanking at his fathers arm, hitting him, tugging at the set and yelling, NO, NO, GIVE ME THE SET!
   Be careful I dont give you what you deserve. Whats going on? Morris what?—out of my way. Out! He pushed his son and Maya automatically stepped aside as Morris heaved the set out the front door and dumped it on the lawn. Maya and Milton watched as he went to the garage, From now on therell be changes, hahahahahahaha, I ‘ll get a hello, hahahahahaha!!!! He came out of the garage with a can of gasoline and an axe. He continued laughing hoarsely and screaming as he attacked the set with the axe, the tube exploding, huge hunks of glass scattering everywhere, Morris getting a few cuts on his hands that started bleeding, Maya and Milton screaming, Milton yanking on his mothers arm, STOPIM, STOPIM!!!! and then ran into the house, still screeching, and called the police.A few neighbors peeked out of their windows, and then came out to watch Morris chop up the t.v. set, laughing and laughing, little splotches of blood swinging from his hands, then more neighbors came out of their homes as phone calls were made to spread the news, and they came closer and closer until almost a hundred people were lined up on the sidewalk and street watching Morris as he finally stopped chopping to pour the gasoline over the shattered set and toss a match on it and the fire started with a loud POOUUFFFF, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA BURN YOU BASTARD, BURN, BURN, BURN!!!!!!!!! and he started jumping up and down and Milton ran toward the fire and Maya held him back and a couple of the neighbors children screamed, Put it out, put it out!!! and their parents started chanting, Burn, burn, burn, burn!!! and then more of the neighbors applauded and came closer to the fire, cheering Morris as he continued chanting BURN YOU BASTARD, BURN YOU BASTARD, and a siren was heard in the distance and got louder and louder and before the cops got to Morris and Maya the fire engine came screeching around the corner and two firemen came running over with extinguishers as one cop was asking Maya what was going on and Milton jumped up and down screaming KILLIM! KILLIM!!! then suddenly ran into the house and got his video camera and the other cop was trying to drag Morris away from the fire and he kept shaking the cop off yelling, Leave me alone, you have no right, burn you bastard, now he’ll say hello, and the cop dragged harder and harder and Morris resisted stronger and stronger and finally the cop turned on him, Youd better take it easy buddy or I’ll break ya head open, and then called his partner and they grabbed Morris and twisted his arms as he flailed and jumped and screamed and the three of them rolled on the lawn, the firemen telling them to look out and get out of the way as neighbors applauded Morris and booed the cops. The cops had torn almost all the clothes off Morris and finally got him face down on the lawn, Morris bruised and bleeding, and one had his nightstick pressed, hard, against the back of Morrises neck as the other one cuffed his hands behind his back and Milton was busy filming the scene on his tape machine and Maya stood quietly watching as the cops dragged Morris, still laughing’screaming, to the patrol car and the firemen spread the ashes and made certain the fire was out before leaving.
   Milton spent the night with his grandparents. He hooked his tape machine to their set and watched the cops drag his father away, laughing hysterically and shaking his fist at the screen, Killim, Killim, Killim!!! then played the tape over and over and over…

Puberty

   The boy leaned against the fender of a car bouncing a rubber ball lightly on the palm of his hand… then bounced it on the ground hitting the crack between his feet, four, five, six, seven times, unaware of his actions, his eyes staring, his movements automatic.
   He stopped bouncing the ball and just held it, his hands hanging at his side, unconsciously squeezing the ball. He had always had a special feeling about a ball, not just that it meant he would soon be with his friends and a game would start, but something more personal. He not only loved the feel and texture, he loved the smell and the sound it made as it hit the pavement or a wall, or was being hit by a bat or a hand, each sound different and special. Sometimes, if he had a ball long enough, he would wash it, and though it never looked the same as a new one, it had its own particular look and he loved it. And though he never defined the feeling all these things about a ball evoked in him, he experienced it whenever he tapped it lightly in the air or bounced it on the ground as he walked. And now that joy was not only absent, he didnt even know that it was missing, aware only of a hollowness within him.
   On Saturday he always rushed through breakfast and ran to the schoolyard (time measured as the distance between Saturdays, each long hour of school that passed bringing Saturday nearer), and now he stood on Third Avenue staring at the ball. He had always been the first in the schoolyard yet the others had been there for hours and he still stood on the avenue, only a block away, wondering why he didnt want to join them and why he felt so strange… so sad.
   He threw his ball against a building, caught it, then put it in his pocket and slowly started walking. The avenue was crowded with the usual weekend shoppers rushing from store to store, testing fruits and vegetables, asking questions, stopping to talk with each other, young children wiggling in strollers and tugging at arms… and the trolleys, trucks and cars made the same accustomed noises. Even the little old Italian man with the pushcart of snails was there today with a group of kids standing around watching and laughing as the snails crawled on the sides of the pushcart, the little vendor picking them up and dropping them back into the baskets. The boy ignored a call from one of the kids and continued walking through the crowd, puzzled by the strange feeling that seemed to be responsible for his being on the avenue instead of the schoolyard, and not watching, as he had always joyfully done, the snails and the way the vendor plucked them off the sides of the cart and twirled his gigantic mustache after dropping them in the baskets. For the first time in all the years he had been fascinated by the man and his pushcart he didnt wonder if his mustache smelled of snails. It seemed wrong, for some inexplicable reason, for him to be here (had he always thought about his mustache?) instead of the schoolyard, yet he could find no new desires to replace the ones that had formed the boundaries, as well as the center, of his world.
   He left the avenue and walked down 69th Street, stopping in front of the firehouse and joining the onlookers watching the firemen clean the trucks and test the equipment. Hoses were stretched up and down the street, men were shining and polishing brass, a spotlight was turned on and spun in an arc, the huge ladder raised and directed against the side of the building, men climbing up…
   The boy watched, without excitement, and started to take the ball from his pocket… then shoved it back and walked away, not turning as he heard the grinding of gears and the whish of water, continuing down the street, looking at the familiar houses and stores, feeling more and more the uneasy urgency in his body and strange weighted feeling in his chest.
   He looked around and nothing was different and that puzzled him. Something within him demanded that the street, the buildings, the people be different, yet they were all the same but now he lacked identity with them. The footprints he had left on these streets all the thousands of times he had walked them were gone, they no longer felt like his streets, yet he continued to wander through them seemingly seeking something without the slightest idea what it might be, not knowing for sure if he was looking for something or really trying to get away. He felt the need for companionship yet was driven to aloneness, unable to ask why, nor sure that there was a question to ask, wandering through the suffocating point in time where the old is left behind before the new is even known to exist; that point where even memories cannot be evoked, only vaguely felt without comfort.
   He stopped and watched a cat rummaging through a garbage can, its scars and matted fur symbols of its valiant fight against all who would try to kill it, and of its devotion to its kittens (feeling that the cat did not want simply to satisfy its hunger, but was looking for food to feed its young hidden from harm in a dark cellar) and he wanted to pick it up and pet it, take it home, wash it, feed it, listen to it purr as it lapped milk… take it to bed with him and feel its soft fur as it snuggled close to him…
   he could even put a little bell around its neck and watch it chase a ball or rubber mouse and listen to the tinkle…
   and no one would hurt Lucky. He wouldnt be chased by kids throwing rocks. They wouldnt spin him by the tail and toss him high in the air. Lucky wouldnt have to claw his way free from rough hands and run panicky down the street dodging between legs and parked cars… being crushed by the wheels of a truck. He had to help her! He walked toward the cat but it instinctively jerked its head up, looked for a second, then sprang from the can and ran. He didnt try to chase it but watched it run down the street, sad that the cat had not understood.
   The cat disappeared and the boy stood staring for a moment, then slowly continued down the street, watching his shadow dim the cracks in the pavement, the bottle caps, scraps of paper, popsicle sticks and old pieces of chewing gum that had been ground into the cement. He turned the corner and walked along Colonial Road to Bliss Park. He met another kid at the entrance who walked beside him. See Rusty taday?
   The boy shook his head.
   Ya think hes here?
   Dont know, Joey.
   I got a couple a broken light bulbs in here—rattling a paper bag and grinning—I hope hes aroun.
   The boy nodded and they continued walking down the path, across the grass and stopped under a large berry tree and ate some berries, the boy feeling the warm, sweet juice trickle down his throat and enjoying the flavor which somehow made him feel even sadder. The other boy grabbed handfuls and chomped them happily, aint they great? Man, I could eat a million ofem.
   They continued walking across the grass, the boy enjoying the feel of it under his feet; looking at the sky and trees; hearing the voices of kids, their mothers; of skaters on the paths; the sudden yells of ball players; the sound of his steps on the grass; the rustle of branches and leaves; the sight and the sound of the birds…
   His loneliness didnt decrease, but he felt more content within his feeling of isolation, as if such a feeling belonged here with the grass and trees.
   Hey, look, there he is. Joey was pointing to a group of a few men and a couple of boys sitting on the side of the hill. When they reached the group they sat with the other kids who were laughing and yelling at Rusty to feed the squirrels. Rusty waved his hand at them and took a drink of wine from a bottle, still in the brown paper bag, then passed it to the guy next to him. There were three of them and they continued to pass the bottle.
   Joey shook his bag in front of the other kids then said to Rusty, I brought ya somethin ta eat. They all laughed and he shook the bag again before giving it to Rusty. Rusty opened it and looked at the pieces of broken light bulbs, took another drink, passed the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Jesus Christ, could ya spare it? He ripped open the bag and laid it on the ground. Ya know, when I was with the circus they used ta serve it on a tray. He burst out laughing and the kids laughed and the boy could feel his face starting to smile but something within him fought against it. Rusty stopped laughing and picked up a large piece of glass and put it in his mouth and started chewing. The kids stared, their eyes getting wider and wider. He swallowed and licked his lips, Musta been a GE. Can always tell a GE. They got a Michigan taste. He burst into another laugh, stopping when the bottle was passed back to him. He ate all the glass in the bag, the kids watching him, amazed no matter how many times they had seen him do the same thing. The boy watched too, transfixed, aware of what he was watching yet that little something that turned the viewing into amazement was missing and he didnt even wonder what happened to all that glass in Rustys stomach.
   When Rusty had finished the glass he folded the bag and gently wiped his lips with it and said, My compliments to the chef. The kids giggled and laughed.
   One of the kids handed him a few peanuts, Feed the squirrels, Rusty. Rusty took the peanuts and giggled, then crawled a few feet away and held out a peanut to a squirrel who had just descended a tree. The squirrel looked for a moment, then took a few steps toward Rusty who threw the nut to him. The squirrel picked it up, examined it carefully, then scooted off and buried it. Rusty crawled after him and when the squirrel left Rusty dug up the nut and held it up in the air—the kids screeching and laughing—then put it in his mouth and crawled back to the group, everyone laughing loudly, the boy smiling, the other kids yelling and slapping each other. Rusty sat up, the nut in his mouth, his arms extended, hands dangling, and cheeped, then turned and crawled away looking for another squirrel. The boy watched feeling his face fighting to giggle, to laugh, his hands wanted to clap and slap one of the other kids on the back, but the oppressive weight on his chest made it all impossible, and the unfamiliar feeling within let him know that there is no joy, no reason to laugh and so he felt even more cut off from his friends and his familiar world.
   He left the group and walked slowly up the hill, hearing the screaching of bluejays mingling with the voices and laughter, to the open summer house on top, standing for a moment in its shade watching a squirrel running spirally up a tree, then walking to the stone wall around the seaside perimeter of the hill. He sat on the wall and looked at the harbor… watching the tugs towing barges of mud, coal, railroad cars, white smoke coming from the tall stacks and small black rings pumping from the short stubby ones… the ferries entering and leaving their slips… the cars moving along the parkway… the people walking along Shore Road… the kids running, their kites slowly staggering up as they yanked the string…
   then dropped from the wall and walked down the hill to the shore.
   He walked along the shore looking across the bay at the Staten Island shoreline. He watched and listened to the waves slapping lightly against the seawall and whirling between the rocks, leaving bits of wood and debris amongst them when it ebbed, the next swell picking them up again and bobbing them on its peak before breaking on the rocks and slapping the seawall, then folding back on itself and whirling between the rocks as it returned to its source, once again leaving behind the unwanted debris.
   He stopped, leaned on the railing running along the edge of the seawall and stared at the water… hearing the clang of the ferry mooring winch, the bell buoys, the horns and whistles of the ships in the bay… thinking of the sadness, loneliness, (but none of the adventure) that has always been associated with the sea… feeling a connection between himself and that loneliness…
   He looked down at the rocks and the small crabs crawling over and between them, remembering the previous summer when he and his friends sat here for hours catching them, throwing most of them back, saving a few to scare the girls with…. But it all seemed unreal now… not as if it had never happened, but as if it had happened in some remote age or different life, there seeming to be no connection between then and now. Nor did he find any joy in the vague memory, feeling only more saddened and depressed.
   He lifted his head and looked at the Narrows… then gazed toward the sea. The horizon seemed strangely significant, but trying to define it only confused his thoughts more….
   Once (it couldnt have been too long ago) he and his friends came here on a gray day when the water was dark and whipped with whitecaps, the waves crashing against the rocks and seawall, the spray leaping above the railing and cascading down on them as they held fast to the railing, moving instinctively with the swaying of the ship, the boy yelling orders to his crew as the ship lurched dangerously close to the rocks in the violent and uncharted sea. He refused to turn his back to the biting spray but remained steadfast at his post, ignoring the water as it lashed his face, barking the crucial orders that would bring the ship safely through the storm…
   Many times he thought happily of that day and whenever the wind blew and the water in the bay kicked up and the spray lashed the wall, he would try to get his friends to go with him to the shore, but something always prevented it and so he never relived it except in his mind, remembering each wave and tasting once again the salt as he felt the spray sting his face.
   He tried reliving it now, and though each time in the past the old joy and excitement not only returned but increased, he now remembered only that it had happened and nothing more. That day was dead.
   He turned from the bay feeling deserted (for if he could find no joy here or even raise its memory, where could it be found?) and walked back to Third Avenue. The plaintiveness and tragedy of before were completely inside him now and he felt the sadness of the world within him, feeling every tear that had ever rolled down a cheek flooding his being, and though a part of him tried to fight this sadness the effort was weak. It seemed right for the worlds misery to flow through him because he was, in some unknown way, responsible for its pain.
   He stood on the corner for a moment wondering what there was he could do…
   where he could go…
   feeling completely isolated from the people walking by yet sensing a new relationship between himself and them.
   He turned and instinctively walked toward home, feeling strangely conspicuous among the people, as if he were wearing a mask that advertised his feelings. He looked at the people, expecting them to stop talking and smiling and laughing and stand there, just stand there and stare at him.
   He lowered his eyes and walked a little faster (vaguely wondering why they were laughing—could he laugh?). Surely Mom can help. He could always run to her and put his arms around her, tell her what was wrong, what was troubling him. She would comfort him, reassure him. Maybe that was all that was needed, just to cry and have Mom kiss him, hug him, and everything would be alright, nothing changed, nothing to fear????
   The boy stopped and looked across the avenue at the entrance of the apartment house, his eyes tearing…. He did not hear the noises of the cars, the trucks, the trolleys, the people, but an etherized drone…
   the newsstand next to the doorway whirled and the traffic on the avenue blurred into a meaningless mass…
   Why couldnt he run across the street and up the stairs to Mom? Why couldnt he move????
   Tears fell from his eyes, his lungs and chest felt like they were collapsing.
   Was he sitting?
   Standing? lying anesthetized, strapped to a table and slowly losing consciousness with a mask clamped tightly on his face listening to a repetitious drone of final words
   loud then soft
   loud then soft, dragging, spinning, dragging…
   The drone whirled to a highspeed whine
   poles reversing
   orbits tilting flashing suns and planets spinning away
   colliding, bursting
   showering spermlike sparks….
   A groan of overwhelming agony screamed through him and rattled in his throat. His head jerked up and he turned and staggered to the corner…
   then fled in panic down the street past the people standing and talking, past the walkers and the women with their baby carriages, past the trees and the parked cars, and past the yells of ball players in the schoolyard…

The Coat

   Harry loved his coat. He had gotten it toward the end of winter and it saved his life. The winters on the Bowery were tough under any conditions, but without a coat the winters were deadly, bodies picked up each morning, some frozen to the ground and having to be chipped loose. But Harrys coat became more than comfort, more than protection against the cold, even more than a life saver… it was his friend, his buddy… his only companion. He dearly loved his coat.
   It was long, reaching almost to his ankles,and heavy, and he could wrap it around himself almost twice and when he raised the collar he felt completely protected from the world. It was an Army surplus coat that he had gotten from the Salvation Army, one of the last ones they had. He loved it right away. But keeping a coat on skid row during the winter was not easy. He had to be alert. There was always some person, or group, ready to take it from you and they were willing to kill you for it.
   But now the weather was getting warmer and he could relax a little. He didnt get careless, but it would be progressively easier to protect his coat. He had seen men sell their coats when the weather warmed, for enough for a bottle of wine, but he would never be that foolish. Winter always returned. He had spent part of one winter with newspapers wrapped around his body trying desperately to keep out the cold, each day an eternity, but that was only a memory he kept alive during the heat of summer when keeping the coat seemed such a burden. Winter always returned.
   During the cold weather he often worked as a dishwasher at night. When he first got to the row a couple of old-timers tried to show him how to panhandle, how to size up a mark and know whether to lookim in the eye and tellim you need a drink, or try the painful look and old vet approach, and all the variations. And they warned him that the most important thing was to know who not to hit. They have a look in their eye and theyre liable to killya. You gotta stay clear ofem… And Harry would watch them panhandle, always staying south of Houston Street—the cops dont botherya down here, but north of Houstons bad news—but Harry just could not go up to a stranger and ask him for money. He even had a difficult time, finding it almost impossible, to ask for his money after a nights work. He had been that way all his life and had given up trying to change.
   He liked to work at night because it not only gave him a job, but a place to stay warm during the long, cold nights. It was easier to find a place that was safe during the day to drink his wine and sleep. When he worked he always hung his coat next to the sink and watched it the whole evening. No one was supposed to be back there, except him, but that was no guarantee that someone wouldnt suddenly rush in and try to grab his coat.
   Being alone was another reason he liked washing dishes. It was just him and the dishes, and his coat. Harry always had a difficult time being with people, having left school early because of the daily terror of being with so many people in one room and having to stand and talk when called on. He just spent more time by himself and less and less in school and eventually they left him alone and he drifted away, spending as much time as possible alone, longing always for companionship, never able to talk about his fear, no one, including Harry, understanding why he did what he did.
   The nights washing dishes went easy enough. He had his warmth, some food, his solitude, and he would take a drink from time to time, being sure no none saw him take the bottle from his pocket. Survival depended upon keeping certain things secret. And dishwashing jobs were always available. Its not the kind of job guys keep. Some place always needed a dishwasher.
   When he finished work he would get breakfast and his money, then buy a bottle of muscatel and find an abandoned building somewhere safe. The rest of the row was waking up and starting their day and he could nestle somewhere and not worry about people stumbling on him. He always went as far back in the deserted buildings as possible. There were gangs that roamed the Bowery who were worse then crazed dogs and you had to be careful you didnt let anyone think you had something they might want. He always put his bottle in the huge pocket of his coat and walked as aimlessly as possible. He didnt know how many men he had seen beaten, and killed, for a coat or a bottle of wine.
   You had to be careful on skid row. You had to be your own council… your own friend.
   He climbed over the rubble and garbage in an empty lot to an abandoned building and worked his way around battered walls and fallen beams to a distant corner in the shadows and sat, wrapped his coat around him, and opened his bottle. He took a long drink, almost half the bottle, then gulped air for a moment, then let out a long sigh… He looked at the bottle admiringly… affectionately, as he felt the wine warming his gut and flowing through his system… then took another quick drink… then another… then licked his lips as he put the top on the bottle and placed it carefully beside him. He took out his money and rolled it up, except for a dollar, and shoved it through a small hole in a pocket into the lining where it could not be found, then leaned back against the wall, wrapped his coat around him, cradled the bottle on his lap, holding it tightly, closed his eyes and smiled and wiggled as he felt the wine going through his body, feeling nice and warm and sending a glow through him right down to the tips of his toes.
   Fantasies used to come with the wine, but somewhere, sometime, they stopped, or maybe they just drifted away. There just did not seem to be any energy available to bring them back and no material for new ones. All hopes, fantasies, dreams, now centered on this one moment of Harry and his bottle nestling safely and warmly in the corner of an abandoned building…
   But there were memories that sometimes haunted him… or others that eased their way across his minds eye with gentle waves of pleasure…
   He was driving through the Appalachians once when he pulled off the road to watch a sunset. He watched the sun go out of sight, then the changing layers of colors turned from pink to red, from blue to purple, sitting alone, tears rolling from his eyes and down his cheeks as he was overwhelmed by the beauty of the incredible spectacle… sitting there still when there was only a faint hint of blue’gray in the distance as it got darker, and when the moons brightness started to bring light to the valley below and the sky softened into a thick dark velvet, twinkling stars slowly emerged and dotted the darkened sky, he was still there immersed and transfixed by the wonder of it, experiencing its beauty and miracle in some secret place deep within him…
   But much time had passed since he was last visited by that memory.
   He took another drink, recapped the bottle and looked around… He had everything he needed right now. A bottle… a place to park himself for a while… and his coat… his wonderful, beautiful coat. He kissed the collar, I love you coat, and chuckled. He took another drink and closed his eyes and felt the warmth, then looked at his coat. I can always depend on you. Youre my friend. My really true friend. My buddy. You’ll never let me down, right? And I’ll never let you down. I swear to you -raising his right hand in a solemn oath—I’ll never let you down. Unto the death I’ll never let you down. He lowered his hand and took another drink, then looked at something shining in the darkness. He stared hard, frowning, until he finally made out the form of a huge rat staring at him. A shock of disgust and fear sickened him and he closed his eyes and huddled deeper into his coat, then opened his eyes, but the rat was still there, his eyes looking like two beacons in the dark. He stared at the eyes, swallowing a mounting nausea, then forced himself to pick up a piece of debris and throw it at the rat, the rat quickly disappearing in the dark. He took another drink and relaxed. At least it was real. If it wasnt he couldnt have gotten rid of it so easily. He had had d.t.’s, but he never saw anything like rats. He knew some guys did and he didnt know how they survived imagining that rats were crawling all over them… he shook his head, Arghhh. He opened his bottle and threw the top away, took a long drink, then pulled his coat even tighter around him. He cant bother us, can he? He’d never be able to get me. My buddy would keep him away, wouldntya? Nothin, no one… no one, nothin. Right? Cant bother us. He snuggled deeper into the corner and his coat. He closed his eyes momentarily and listened to the wine singing through his body and smiled, then started singing, Nights are long since—he started giggling and nodding his head—I dream about you all thru—he started laughing -hehehehehehe—thru -hehehehehe—ishh… ishh… my Buddy… my Buddy—he started waving his hand in a small arc conducting himself—Watch the bounding ball—all through the -hehehehehehe… ishh… Nobody—hahaha—Nobod—ishhh -Bod—hahaha… he gulped and swallowed hard and shook his head—Nobody hehe—ishh… he took another drink, his off-key singing continuing in his head, a few mumbling words coming from his mouth, nobody but a buddy, hehehehe… continuing to stammer and giggle and nod his head, then emptied the bottle and tossed it as far away as possible, deep into the shadows of the rubble and listened to the tinkle of broken glass reverberate through his snug nest like the tinkling of sleigh bells as his head slowly lowered, his chin eventually resting on the lapel of his great coat, and drifting into sleep.
   He moved, jerked spastically and mumbled as he was slowly dragged back to consciousness. It was much darker in the building but he was long accustomed to waking up about this same time so he knew it must be late afternoon. He got to his feet and brushed off his coat then slowly, and carefully, made his way past and through the shattered walls out of the building.
   The shadows were long as he picked his way through the rubble of the lot, slipping and stumbling, rats squealing and skittering off as he staggered and inched his way to the street.
   The traffic was heavy this time of the evening and Harry huddled in his coat as he walked along the street, the people fulfilling his need for human companionship without being a threat. He had spent many, many years alone, and lonely, but they had not eliminated his need, and occasional desire, to be with people. As long as he was free to just be there on the street without having to be a part of them, he was alright.
   Soon he became aware of the need for a drink and he bought a bottle of muscatel, putting the bottle in his pocket before leaving the store. He rushed from the vicinity of the store and went to a deserted, safe area to take a drink. He rejoined the activity of the street, huddled deep in his coat against the cold, a feeling of triumph and love flowing through his body as he turned his back to the cold wind, aware of his bodys warmth.
   He decided he would work again tonight so he made the rounds of the joints and soon was standing in front of a couple of sinks. He took his coat off and hung it right by the sink where he could keep an eye on it.
   Spring passed easily enough. During the day if it got too hot in the sun he would go to the shady side of the street and though it was warm he was still able to wear his coat. A few times he was tempted to take off his coat and carry it, but he knew better. That was inviting trouble. It would be too easy for some guy to knock into him while his partner yanked the coat away from him and run down the street. No, he could not afford to take chances. No matter how hot it got, his coat was always valuable to winos. It could always be hocked for at least a jug.
   And anyway, there was always the relief of the evening, his coat being perfect for the springtime coolness. Then, as the spring rains passed, everything seemed to be a little easier. For a month or so he had a great apartment. He had found a huge packing crate and spent hours dragging and pushing it to the remains of an old building. It took a tremendous amount of will to not just leave it in the first room of the building, but to push and tug it around corners and back into the recesses of the building where it would not so easily be stumbled upon. He set it up in a corner and cleared some of the debris away from it, not too large an area, he did not want it obvious that someone was living there, he did not want to leave a trail, just enough so he could roll in and out of bed without stumbling over something. And he found an old calendar, maybe 5 or 6 years old, and hung it on a wall of the crate. He collected a few rags and the remains of a cushion and made himself the semblance of a chair.
   He spent as much time as possible in his apartment, loving the feeling of security and the smell of the wood, and if it was exceptionally warm, as it usually was in the summer, even at night, he would take off his coat and wrap it carefully in some old plastic sheets he had found and bury it under the rubble where it could not be seen, secure in the knowledge that no matter what happened his coat would be safe. Then he would lean back in his chair and drink and sing or talk softly to himself, or sometimes be silent and watch the various creatures that shared the abandoned buildings and lots with him, coming from deep under the buildings, from caverns of deserted cellars or basements, or perhaps deeper, from some unknown area beyond that created by man and his buildings, where darkness and moisture fostered and nurtured its strange inhabitants. He watched with fear and disgust trying, from time to time, to close his eyes and thus, eliminate them from his world, but he was more afraid of not knowing where they were, so he was forced, beyond will and desire, to watch them when they suddenly appeared, scuttled about, then froze still and looked, eyes reflecting light, eyes that seemed to get brighter and larger the longer he stared, so large and bright they appeared to leave the creatures head and float toward him… his body tense, becoming stiff, a panic and nausea knotting and constricting his gut and throat…
   until the creatures suddenly ran, jumped, or just disappeared into the unknown and fearsome world they had come from.
   Sometimes he watched, fascinated, as they would slink through the shadows and rubble, unaware of his presence, intent upon not being seen by their prey or predators. One day, while there was still faint light finding its way into the inner recesses, he watched a huge tomcat slowly, stealthily, stealing up on something. He was battered, with a piece missing from an ear and large clots of fur torn from his body. He was obviously a fighter and survivor… no, more than that, he was a prevailer and Harry developed an instant affection for the cat. He watched him, not knowing what it was the cat saw, but it was obviously tracking something as he crawled along the ground, his belly rubbing the stones and rubble, moving a few feet… stopping… staring… nose twitching, tail beating. Harry followed the direction the cat seemed to be looking, fascinated and curious, and thought he saw some sort of movement… then was certain there was something back in the shadows. The cat continued crawling… then stopped, its tail beating rapidly, his entire rear portion wiggling… then he leaped and Harry saw the prey as it squealed and tried to escape. It was a huge rat and it continued to squeal as the cat hit it in mid air. The rat rolled over and got to its feet quickly and found itself cornered against an old sink. The cat slowly… cunningly… forced the rat back into the corner until it could no longer move and when it leaped the cat leaped too and grabbed it with his large paws and they both landed, hard, on a piece of steel, the rat squealing so loud it almost hurt Harrys ears. The rat managed to get out of the grasp of the cat but had nowhere to go and the cat continued inching closer and closer to the now bleeding rat. Harry continued to remain immobile and stare, barely breathing, trying to shut out the sight of the blood, yet glad the rat was bleeding and had to fight himself not to shout encouragement to the cat. The rat leaped again, and the cat caught him, and this time as they landed the cat sunk his teeth into the back of the neck of the rat and shook it violently, the squealing of the rat piercing the stillness, and shook the rat until there was a loud snap and the rat was instantly silent as it hung from the jaws of the cat. He shook it a few more times, then dropped it and looked at it for a moment… then pushed it with a paw… looked for another second or two… pushed it around for a few minutes as if it were a ball of yarn… Harry becoming very uncomfortable… then picked it up and carried it into the shadows, out of sight, but not out of hearing, the silence broken, from time to time, with the crunching of bones. Harry clamped his hands over his ears and pinched his eyes shut
   Eventually he allowed his face to relax and his eyes to slowly open… everything looked as before. Then he removed his hands from his ears… and sighed with relief at the silence. He took a long, long drink and sighed again and soon realized that his mind was back into an old habit of wondering about the violence of nature but pushed it from his mind with another long drink.
   The coat was hot in the summer, even in the shade, if you could find any, but he did not mind. He knew that another winter would be here before you knew it and he was going to survive that winter. His coat would guarantee that.
   He gave up his dishwashing in the summer and did a lot of junking. He got a push cart as early in the morning as possible and stayed away from the row and the gangs who might rip him off when he collected a load of paper, or after he got his money. And, when he was safely distant, he took off his coat and put it in the cart and covered it with paper.
   He concentrated on paper and cardbord. He had seen some other junkmen bring in sinks and pieces of furniture and haggle with the guy and eventually get a few dollars, but when he tried it the guy told him what he had wasnt worth anything and he just nodded and went out again for a load of paper. He knew the guy was going to keep it and sell it, but he just didnt know how to bargain with him the way the other guys did. So he stayed with cardboard and paper.
   He took it nice and easy, knowing he would get enough for what he needed. He always had a bottle of muscatel with him and would take a drink from time to time and go leisurely about his work. Usually he would stop in some greasy spoon and fill himself with beans and bread before going back to his apartment with a bottle of muscatel.
   Eventually he had to give up his apartment. One night he came back with a bottle and before he turned the last corner he could hear voices. He stopped. Listened… Sounded like a couple of guys, maybe more… could be three… but who knows? Their voices were muffled and indistinct and he could just barely make out what was happening. They were fighting over who was to get the next drink, or who got more than the other. He listened… not moving… the voices got louder and angrier and suddenly there was a thud and a gurgling scream, then another thud… and another… and he recognized the sound as someone being hit on the head with a rock or a pipe, or something similar. Then the thudding stopped and there was the sound of a falling body, and then silence… then the sound of someone drinking… Fear and disgust almost panicked him, but he forced himself to quietly leave. He stood in the evening air for a few moments, swallowing his nausea, wanting to get away from there as rapidly as possible, but feeling weak and sick. He took many deep breaths and closed his eyes from time to time, trying to push away the sound and the image. Soon he was able to take a drink, then work his way through the rubble to another building and find a corner to nest in and dissolve the incident in wine.
   Even with the heat summer was easy time. He slowly pushed his junk cart through the streets looking around, taking an occasional drink, watching kids run and play a thousand and one games, looking at the trees, bushes, shrubs, and flowers, feeling free and unencumbered with the sun and air on his face. In the evening he would go to whatever abandoned building he was using, and drink, sing and talk softly to himself until he lost consciousness.
   Then autumn turned the leaves and the breeze and he would pick up an occasional red leaf streaked with yellow. Now, with the cooler evenings his coat was always around him, keeping out the chill and keeping in the warmth, the tip of his nose cold, making him more aware of the friendliness and comfort of his companion… his soft singing and talking not so much to himself, but more to his buddy… his great coat.
   Then the leaves stopped turning colors and fell, the trees becoming bare and naked and exposed. He sought out the sunny side of the street, constantly awake to the chill in the air that meant another winter would soon be blowing its way through the Bowery. It brought him even closer to his coat, knowing that it would protect him from that wind and the cold that would soon make the entire row shiver and nightly leave in its wake the bodies of winos who had passed out in doorways and abandoned buildings, their bodies blue and rigid.
   But winter was yet to come and Harry picked his way through the rubble of a lot, happily aware of the sudden change in temperature as he walked from a sunny spot into a long shadow and then once more into the late sun. He heard voices and laughter and looked at a couple of older kids dancing around a wino staggering through the lot a short distance ahead of Harry. He saw one of the kids pouring something on the wino. Harry assumed it was water and shivered momentarily as he realized what it must feel like to the guy who was wet, but then one of the kids lit a match and tossed it at the bum and he suddenly exploded and was engulfed in flames and the kids ran away, laughing, as the wino screamed and tried to run but kept falling down. Harry reacted instantly and ran toward the bum, slipped out of his coat, quickly knocked the wino to the ground and wrapped the coat around him smothering the flames, the wino screaming in agony, Harry having to fight to keep his coat wrapped around him, but mercifully the guy soon passed out and Harry was able to suffocate the flames. He kept his coat wrapped around him to be certain the flames stayed out and to cushion his body against the sharp edges of the rubble.
   Others had seen what happened and soon the police and an ambulance were there. The attendants carefully rolled the wino out of Harrys coat. He was charred, but alive. They placed him in the ambulance and then asked Harry if he was alright. Any burns? Harry shook his head. Why dont you take a ride with us and we’ll check you out at the hospital. Harry shook his head, holding his coat close to him and staring at the ambulance. The attendant shrugged, You saved his life… for now anyway. Dont know if it’ll do much good though.
   The ambulance left and the police questioned Harry briefly. Harry clutched his coat to him, still in a state of shock. A couple of people told the police that they could describe the kids who did it, Probably the same kids whove been doin it to all the others.
   Yeah, they think its some kind of game.
   They call it burn a bum.
   Harry managed to work himself into the coat and stumble away from the small knot of people to the liquor store. It was when he shoved the bottle in his pocket that he noticed how much his hands had been burned. The sudden pain snapped him out of his shock and he became more alert as he went to his corner nest in the abandoned building. He looked at his coat and though it had a few black spots there was no real damage done. He hugged it to his breast as his body unfolded in the corner and almost cried with relief as he leaned against the wall. He continued to hug and kiss his coat, overwhelmed by the fact that it was alright, realizing that the flames could have destroyed his coat when he wrapped it around the wino. His relief was so great that he spent many, many minutes hugging and kissing his coat, telling it he was sorry if it got hurt but he had to do it, he couldnt just let the guy burn, and his coat reassured him that it was alright, it understood and agreed that Harry had done the right thing…
   Eventually the shock was completely drained from him and Harry put his coat on and wrapped it snuggly around him, but even the fact that his coat was safe could not stop the feeling of sadness that flowed through him. Harry took a drink and once more looked at his burned hands. They werent too bad. A little red with a couple of blisters. They were starting to hurt now. He took another long drink. Soon the wine would take away the pain. In the meantime he would hold a few cold stones in his hands to keep them cool…
   but the cold stones, and even the wine, couldnt seem to stop that terrible sadness that was taking control of his body and mind. He took another long drink trying to drown out the screams of the winos agony, but when they finally faded he could still hear the peoples voices, its some kindda game… its some kindda game, its some kindda game….
   He suddenly groaned and tears burst forth from his eyes and he folded his arms around his head as he sobbed from the depth of his being, O God… O God… he squeezed his arms tighter around his head hoping the pressure might in some miraculous way ease the sickness flowing through his body and the pain of his mind and soul… O God… why is life so fragile???? Why???? Why???? There was still a faint glow in the sky as he walked along the street, his hands deep in his pockets, talking softly to his coat, telling it how much he loved it and appreciated how warm it was keeping him and how he never had to be afraid of the winters because of it; and sometimes he would whistle for a few minutes, or even hum, and then continue talking to his coat and tell it how theyd get a bottle of muscatel and go back to that nice warm place they had fixed up last night and just drink and sleep, no worries no cares, ju—A couple of bums suddenly shoved him in a doorway and he knew they were after his coat. He swung out and screamed HELP!!!! HELP!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH-H H H H H H H H!!!!—Shut up ya son of a bitch—Harry continued flailing his arms, screaming, AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH-HHHHHHHH!!!!—Fa krists sake grabim—What the fuck ya think Im tryin to do—Hitim fa krists sake—and Harry continued to swing his arms and fight to get out the door, still screaming, hoping someone would come to help him, AAAAAAAAAAA-HHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!—and the three of them continued to fall over each other and bounce off the walls in the cramped hallway, Harry flailing and screaming as he lunged for the door, the bums trying to grab him and hit him with a piece of pipe one of them was holding, and Harry finally crashed through the thin door—AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH -just as the guy hit him on the head with the pipe and Harry staggered forward onto the street and the guy hit him again and Harry fell to his knees, his arms wrapped around himself so they couldnt get the coat off, and he was hit again and knocked flat on his face and was kicked, but still he kept his arms wrapped around himself in his semi-conscious state, muttering, no, no, no, as they tried to yank the coat off, and people passing by glanced at first and then looked and soon a few asked what the hell was going on and the guys looked around at the people, still tugging on the coat, and then a prowl car turned the corner and they let go of the coat and ran…
   The cops got out of the car and walked over to where Harry was lying on the sidewalk, blood seeping from his head, his arms wrapped around his body protecting his coat in a death grip. The cops looked down at him for a moment… Seems to be alive.
   Yeah… Guess we’d better put in a call.
   The other cop nodded and strolled back to the car and called an ambulance.
   A dozen or so people milled around Harry, asking what had happened, shaking their heads or relating what they had seen or surmised; some passersby stopped to join them or to look for a moment then move on, others slowing slightly and seeing it was just a bum hurried on their way.
   The doctors did what they could for him but Harry was not expected to live through the night, and at 4 a.m. his heart actually stopped beating, but an alert nurse pounded his chest, his heart responding with a feeble but constant beat. Every function of his body was monitored and checked with amazement, there being no known medical explanation for his still being alive.
   The fourth day they started having hope that he would live. Not because there had been any improvement in his condition, everything was still the same, but simply because it somehow seemed inevitable. Then, about 4’30 a.m., his body started to convulse from alcoholic withdrawal. His condition got worse and worse rapidly, yet still he lived, something inside him refusing to give up.
   Treating the convulsions was in itself a simple matter but the treatment tended to aggravate his other condition, and so the hospital personnel had to maintain a delicate balance so they would not bring about his death from one condition while treating the other.
   Miraculously he survived the convulsions and the treatment, and after being in a coma for a week he regained consciousness for a brief period, his eyes barely focusing, but able to nod his head when asked if he could hear, then mumbled something about his coat before drifting once again into unconsciousness. From that moment on his recovery was slow, sometimes barely discernible, but steady.
   A week later he was able to talk and was visited by a clerk from the records office. She smiled and sat down next to the bed and explained that as he was unconscious, and had no identification when he was brought in, she had to ask him a few questions Alright? Do you feel up to it?
   He nodded. They didnt get my coat, did they?
   What? What coat?
   The one I was wearing. They tried to get my coat.
   Oh…. Im sure its down in the clothing room just like all the others.
   The information seemed to take a while to register, but eventually it did and he sighed inwardly… then nodded his head.
   Now then, I need a little information. It wont take long. Name?
   Harry. Harry Wright.
   Address?
   Harry spoke softly and slowly with obvious effort, The Bowery.
   The Bowery? Dont you have a permanent mailing address?
   He moved his hand in a negative motion. The Bowerys permanent. It aint movin.
   Nothing more specific?
   He moved his hand slightly.
   She smiled and shrugged. Age?
   40.
   In case of emergency who do you want notified?
   I dont really care… He smiled slightly, Gallo Brothers.
   Gallo Brothers?
   He smiled a little broader, Ernest and Julio.
   O???? Then she understood and smiled. The winemakers.
   Harry blinked his eyes.
   She was still smiling, Well, I guess we had better leave that blank. Occupation?
   He moved his jaw in a shrugging gesture… Dishwasher.
   Have you ever been a patient here before?
   I dont know.
   Dont know?
   He shook his head slightly… I dont know where I am.
   Oh… Bellevue.
   Nope. He winced as a pain pierced his head, then exhaled sharply, exhausted and tired.
   The clerk looked at her form, then at him, I think thats enough for now. You get some rest. She got up to leave.
   Do me a favor? See if my coats alright?
   She started to say something, then just smiled and nodded, Sure.
   Thanks. Harry closed his eyes and slept.
   When he awoke he asked the nurse if the clerk had called about his coat.
   Coat?
   She was going to check to see if its alright.
   She probably hasnt had time to yet. Im sure she’ll take care of it.
   Harry nodded within himself, unable to really think about it, not sure when he saw the clerk… not sure about anything actually. Every now and then there would be a slight glimmer of light, but it would be quickly absorbed by mist and he could not find the energy to really grasp a thought for any length of time and would just drift off into sleep.
   Through the following days whenever he was conscious Harry would wonder about his coat and if it was alright, if he was still wearing it when he got here and, if he was, what had happened to it after he got here. Everytime someone came near him he wanted to ask them about his coat, but couldnt seem to summon up the energy. Eventually he felt a couple of days must have passed since he spoke with the clerk, not absolutely certain because he spent so much time sleeping and was still confused about time, but whether it was or not the pressure was building to the point where he had no choice but to ask the nurse again if the clerk had called about his coat.
   She frowned agitatedly, What coat?
   My coat—Harry could feel himself starting to tremble -remember I asked -
   O that. No. Nobody has called about anything. But she said… can you call her?
   I dont have time to make calls about coats. I have all I can do right now.
   But I have to know. I dont know if—he started to get up, but a sudden pain took his breath away and he fell back on the bed.
   Pain in your head?
   He could hardly mutter.
   The nurse rushed from the room and quickly returned with a hypo and soon the pain subsided and Harry once more drifted off to sleep.
   Harry continued to ask about his coat, never being certain if he was asking many times in one day or once in many days, but when the pressure built to the point where he no longer had a choice, he asked, and when he was given an evasive answer he got so upset he usually had to be sedated and another note was made on his chart. Eventually the doctor asked about the notes on his chart and the nurses told him about Harrys preoccupation with his coat and the doctor wrote a request that Harry be interviewed by a psychiatrist, And for krists sake, in the meantime tell him the coats alright.
   When a nurse told Harry that his coat was alright he seemed to change instantly, tension draining from his body almost visibly, a hint of color returning to his cheeks. He could feel an endless sigh flow through his body as he drifted back to sleep.
   Harry was relaxed, but still a little groggy, when a young psychiatrist visited him one morning. Harry had not been shaved for 3 or 4 days, his head was swathed in bandages that were stained with blood and antiseptics, and he was still wired so his bodily functions could be monitored. The psychiatrist looked at him for a moment, You look depressed.
   Harry just blinked.
   How do you feel?
   Harry shrugged slightly, Okay.
   The psychiatrist made a few notes. You seem to be concerned about your clothing.
   My coat. I wanted to be sure it was alright.
   Were you wearing it when you were admitted?
   Harry looked at him for a moment, I dont know.
   The psychiatrist made more notes, then looked at Harry. I see. Do you often have lapses of memory?
   Harry looked at him, blinking, feeling more and more intimidated. He started sweating. I was unconscious.
   The psychiatrist peered at him for a moment, then made another note. Are you often so obsessive about your possessions?
   Harry stared, his head shaking slightly, trying earnestly to understand what it was the doctor wanted. He listened hard, and heard the words but he just could not seem to make any sense out of them. They did not seem to have anything to do with him… or anything he could think of. Harry did not know what he had done wrong. All Harry could do was look and twist his face into a frown…
   The psychiatrist stared at Harry then made more notes. Are you always so insecure about your clothing?
   Harry could feel himself wilting as the psychiatrist stared at him… Eventually he shook his head.
   Harrys sweating and trembling increased and he was no longer capable of even trying to understand what the psychiatrist was saying or what it was he wanted. He just stared, on the verge of tears, and shook his head.
   The psychiatrist made a final note about the patients hostile and uncooperative behavior and infantile regression, then snapped the metal binder on the chart shut, That will be all. He left.
   Harry was still trembling an hour later when a nurse came into the room.
   Are you alright?
   Harry shook his head slightly.
   Youre so pale and sweaty—she touched his forehead—and clammy. Do you have any pain?
   He nodded.
   Harry continued to tremble many minutes after having been given a hypo, feeling cold and lost, wanting so much to run and hide and just cry… cry… He looked at the wires going from the various parts of his body to the machinery around the bed knowing that he could disconnect himself easy enough, but he would still be unable to move. He was trapped. He knew his legs would not support him if he tried to stand. And even if he could, he could never find his way to his coat and he could not go anywhere without his coat… not now… it would be suicide… and he did not want to die. Not that way. Not anyway, but especially not that way… just a hunk of frozen flesh…
   He shut his eyes and squeezed them together as hard as possible to shut out the image, then suddenly opened them so his senses could be enveloped by his surroundings and blot out the cold and the stares of the psychiatrist… He tried to change his position on the bed, but didnt have much freedom of movement. His eyes got heavy… sleepy… his body started to feel light… the tension slowly started dissolving as the opiate flowed through his body… he knew that soon he would fall asleep… his body got lighter and lighter…
   his eyes heavier and heavier…
   he could no longer think… was only vaguely aware of his body… still he felt like he was drowning in tears…
   Harry Wrights condition continued to improve and soon he was able to walk to the bathroom, at first with assistance, then alone. Another month and he was able to walk around whenever he wanted and spent some time in the t.v. room, when it wasnt too crowded, staying in the back of the room, but spending most of his time playing solitaire or looking at magazines. He was still too weak to do much of anything else and was content to rest and eat, feeling relaxed and secure now that he knew his coat was alright.
   He was unable to eat the Thanksgiving dinner, but he did participate energetically in the Christmas festivities, enjoying the food and the entertainments that various organizations presented and the little packages of candy they passed out. He also laughed at their jokes and smiled in recognition of their greetings and MEEEEEEEERY CHRISTMAS.
   Now that he was well enough to move around without any ill effects, the first thing he did in the morning was to look out the window and check the weather. The area around the hospital always had a gray, cold look, but he watched the people walking, knowing by the way they moved just how cold it was. He also checked the morning shift and listened to them. Everybody talked about the weather and on the really cold days they were still rubbing their hands together when they got to the ward and hunched their shoulders when they talked about the wind and snow. He watched and listened to the radiators letting out their hiss and smiled…
   Even when he got out he’d be warm. He had his coat. He had nothing to worry about, and he would wrap his bathrobe around him and pretend it was his coat and stand by the window and put his nose against the cold glass and feel the heat coming from the radiator…
   And, from time to time, he would sit, his hands in his bathrobe pockets, thinking about his buddy… and how it felt and looked… closing his eyes and seeing every inch of his coat, even the black spots from the fire, feeling its weight on his shoulders and the texture of the material against his cheeks and the almost bottomless pockets… and he experienced another warmth, the warmth of friendship… the warmth of affection.
   One morning he was looking at the paper when he recognized the area in a photo, an empty lot on the Bowery. There was a bulldozer in the lot and in front of it were 4 or 5 bodies, «… inhabitants of the Bowery who had frozen to death sometime in the past month and were just discovered. They had to be broken loose from the ground with a bulldozer.» Harry felt a wave of sickness and panic twist his insides, but then he slowly relaxed as he wrapped his bathrobe around him once again, closed his eyes and affectionately talked with his friend. His friend loved him and would never let that happen to him. He didnt have to worry about that.
   Harry had been in the hospital three months and with the return of health and strength came an increased feeling of nervousness. There was a vague tension within him, a gnawing anxiety that grew with each day. He gradually retreated further and further within himself, becoming less communicative and spending more time just sitting with his robe wrapped around him, occasionally going over to the window and staring out at the grayness. It had always been like this, ever since he could remember. The only thing that changed it was drinking. When he had enough to drink things around him seemed to change… they became friendlier, more comfortable and pleasant and he didnt feel threatened or sickened by what he saw. But the longer he went without drinking the darker things became, the more painful life became… everything around him became unbearable. It seemed like there was nothing but killing and hurt… always hurt… the kind of hurt that stays inside and just keeps growing and gnawing until it takes over everything in you… always hurt…
   That was why the Bowery was so ideal. In other places when everything got gray and ugly there was always a small part of him that would remember and remind him that it wasnt always like that, that he had actually looked around and liked what he saw… at times loved it… loved it with a depth of feeling and involvement, and all he could do was drink to try and re-kindle that feeling of love… of beauty… the conflict consuming him.
   But the more he drank the more impossible it became to stay, so he had to move on, always feeling the pain of a crying child or a straggly cat, occasionally being brought to tears by the beauty of a flower or a budding tree.
   But on the Bowery when he felt that all the beauty had been squeezed from the world and there was nothing but grayness and hurt, he could look around and know he was right because the world he saw was precisely that, and so there was no conflict. The ugliness was real and the wine painted over that and he could go his way, alone, washing dishes, junking, finding some place to nest alone and talk and sing softly to himself and his coat, and drink himself to a state of unconsciousness.
   Harrys feeling of anxiety and grief increased with the passing of each day, and so, though it was snowing and cold when they told him all his test results were fine and he would be discharged soon, he was relieved.
   Before he was discharged he was visited by the psychiatrist again. He asked Harry what he was going to do when released. More alert than before, he was still confused by the psychiatrist. It seemed that he just could not mean what he said and Harry was trying to understand what it was the psychiatrist wanted. Go home.
   The psychiatrist looked at the chart, Wheres that? They dont seem to have it on here.
   Harry frowned, The Bowery.
   The Bowery? Why would you go there?
   I live there.
   The psychiatrist made a note. But wouldnt you like to do something better with your life? Like get a good job and be a productive member of society?
   Harry shook his head, I work.
   The psychiatrist made another note. Washing dishes isnt much of a job.
   Harry just looked, trembling slightly inside.
   Now that you are free from alcohol you should be able to find a place to live with nicer surroundings.
   Harry shook his head, his confusion showing in his expression.
   The psychiatrist made a note. Would you like to go some place to rest and get some help in evaluating your—Harry was shaking his head—life and not go back to that old environment?
   Harry was still shaking his head, No… no, no nut house.
   Well now, thats not really—Harry continued shaking his head—the proper way to… the psychiatrist looked at Harry intently, disbelief in his expression and voice, Dont you want to better yourself?
   Harry stopped shaking his head and stared at the psychiatrist, almost wanting to explain to him that he had found the most comfortable life he had ever had and was going to stay there, but could summon up neither the necessary energy nor the desire. Now at least the psychiatrist was no longer a problem to Harry, the enigma was solved: he was jut another dogooder trying to get involved in someone elses life. Harry stopped frowning and even started to relax slightly…. Im fine.
   The psychiatrist looked at Harry, exasperated, then slammed the metal binder on the record shut and left.
   On the day of his discharge a ward attendant was sent to get Harrys clothing, and Harry started to pace. The tension in his body became more and more acute as he looked at the drab ugliness around him, then out the window at the snow and the trees bending in the wind. He felt the heat from the radiator, then touched his nose to the cold window….
   then turned and started pacing again.
   After half an hour he went to the nurses station and asked where his clothes were. He was told to relax, that the attendant would be back shortly. He started pacing again, his anxiety and tension becoming so intense he felt brittle, walking from one end of the floor to the other, from time to time looking out the window.
   Eventually the charge nurse decided to call and see where the attendant was, assuming he was goldbricking. When she spoke to the clerk in the clothing room she was told that the attendant was still there, that Mr. Wrights clothing could not be found but they were still looking. Well, you tell Walter to come back to the ward and when you find his clothing give us a call. Ward B3W.
   Harry caught bits of the tail end of the conversation, Whats that? Cant they find my coat?
   They seem to be having some difficulty Mr. Wright, but -
   The color instantly drained from Harrys face and his legs weakened, Ive got to have my coat. He leaned against the counter in the nurses station. I got to have my coat!
   Just relax Mr. Wright. Dont upset yourself.
   Harry was trembling and staring at them, Wheres the clothing room? I’ll find it. Where do they keep the -
   Mr. Wright—spoken authoratitively—you must relax or youll have a relapse and -
   Just tell me where the room is. I’ll find my coat. I’ll find it… Harry was clinging desperately to the counter, feeling weaker by the second, the room starting to spin, his vision blurring… he could no longer feel his feet or legs. He started to sag, semiconscious and sobbing almost incoherently as he relived his long fight to save his coat, feeling the death-like emptiness of separation from the most valuable thing in his life, a friend that was at least as valuable as his life itself…
   He pulled himself to his feet and pleaded with them to tell him where the clothes room was, I can find my coat… I know I can… I can find it anywhere… I -
   Mr. Wright please, you must con -
   Walter returned from the clothes room, dropping the clothes receipt on the counter, They cant find his clothes anywhere, Miss Wilson.
   Let me look, I can find it… and Harry continued to plead and tremble and cling desperately to the counter as a nurse tried to quiet him.
   Miss Wilson glanced at the papers quickly then asked Walter what name the clerk had looked under?
   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 ready 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.
   After dinner they continued chatting as they drank coffee. Eventually Helen asked Harold if he was ready. Yes, I think so.
   Good.
   O good. The table was cleared and the dishes set to soak while they went to the parlor. Harold sat at the piano and rubbed his hands for a few minutes, played a few scales, then turned to his sisters, shall I play the Appassionata?
   O yes, do.
   That would be wonderful, Harold.
   He turned to the piano, straightened his back and looked at the keyboard for a moment, then started playing. With the first contact of his fingers with the keys he felt transformed and transported. It was not just that he was no longer Harold Livingston age 53, bachelor, lawyer, living with his two unmarried sisters; or that he transcended his daily life and was now a concert pianist. He transcended even that. He simply became a part of the music. But not a part of the music he played, but the music Beethoven wrote. Many times, through the many years, Harold tried to believe he was hearing something other than what he was playing, but his ear was too keen. There certainly was passion in his playing. And power. And the arpeggios were clear and distinct. He knew his playing was inspired and he had great respect for the music, but he also knew that there was a slight stiffness and imperfection of technique. But what he did not hear was of even greater importance than what he did, for he did not hear the brilliance of imagination, that rush of genius that made for greatness which was the only flaw that practice could not erase… not now. But Harold had long since stopped hearing the notes coming from the piano and listened instead to the music that came from his heart, the music that was in the soul of the notes. This is what Harold heard as he watched his fingers moving across the keyboard, and what flowed through his being…
   When he finished he sat still for a moment, still experiencing the music, then smiled and turned and looked at his applauding sisters who were thrilled beyond words, having heard the greatest rendition of the Appassionata ever performed. He stood and bowed and walked over to his sisters. Thank you. Thank you.
   O it was marvellous, Harold, simply marvellous.
   O yes, it was the finest I have ever heard.
   I'll go make some hot chocolate for us to have with our cake. O, how I love Monday nights.
   Before retiring Harold played the Sviatoslav Richter recording of the Appassionata, his eyes closed, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, hands in front of his face, fingertips touching slightly. He heard the music… From time to time he smiled and nodded his head in approval, feeling a sensation of wholeness as the music within him matched the music without. When the music stopped he continued sitting for many minutes with his eyes closed until the flashing lights vanished. He got up and put the record carefully in its jacket. Virginia is quite right about Monday, though it is not just the night that is wonderful.
   He undressed and hung everything in its proper place, put on his pajamas and robe and went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then rinsed his mouth. He looked in the mirror, then turned off the light and went back to his bedroom. He lay on his back for a few moments feeling the silence, then thought that perhaps he would not have boiled eggs for breakfast… but he did not have to make that decision now. He turned on his side, closed his eyes, and slept.

Of Whales and Dreams

   Many, many years ago a man told me that to deny my dream was to sell my soul. I was young and did not know that the words were finding their own particular place within me so they would be mine forever, but I do remember blinking my eyes and nodding my head as if the very motion was forcing the truth in what he said deeper within me.
   And I was full of dreams. Dreams, dreams, dreams. And I dream still.
   And the whale is a dream.
   When I was a child and landlocked, playing ships was my game. A stick in water was fine. I did not need sails or steam, only imagination, and my ships sailed through mirror-like waters or weathered the most treacherous of storms. And the suns reflection looked up at me from the south sea lagoons, or, as a breeze rippled the water, the reflection became a broken moon in the Atlantic. And sea-walls and jetties were my playgrounds and I would spend endless days on the shore or pier watching the various vessels of every description and flag sail in and out of the harbor, or drop their anchor and rest while small launches brought men ashore. I was aware the pilots knew just where each ship should be, and how much room to leave, yet still I constantly marvelled at how a harbor filled with anchored ships could be so free of problems. And I would sit for hours watching the tide slowly change the positions of the ships as they tugged at their anchor chains. I watched and dreamed.
   And then, as the years went so slowly by, I would stand at the head of a pier and wait for a tug to tie up, hoping the captain would see me and yell down for me to come aboard, that they needed a messboy, and I would leap on her deck and the mooring lines would be let go immediately and we would be off on our adventure.
   And at night I would lie in my bed and allow my imagination to take me any-which-where and I would sail to the places I had seen in pictures, and see our tug battling the seas of Cape Hatteras, or sailing thru the Keys, the very words sounding distant and romantic.
   And one day I did leap on a tug and crossed the harbor and back. I was living in a dream. An old deckhand chuckled at me and told me about his days at sea and all the countries he had seen and all the oceans he had crossed, and told me of the time he shipped on a whaler and how the whales looked as they flowed through the sea, and of the sudden bursting forth when they breached and the banging roar of the huge flukes cracking the surface of the water. And he even imitated the voice of a whale. The captain let me in the wheel house, and allowed me to take the wheel for a minute, but I spent almost all of those few hours with the old deckhand listening to more and more stories about whales. For days and nights I relived that day, dreaming always of teaching the whales to dance.
   While still in my mid-teens I finally went to sea. A lifetime spent dreaming of the sea died and now a new life of living the dream had begun. And still I pursued my dream even though it was now my life. I never did ship on a whaler, but manys the time Ive seen them break the surface of the sea, barely causing a ripple, looking so gentle and strong and indomitable, and, as I stood at the gunnel watching them, in my head I would be playing a song on a concertina and pipe, teaching them to dance, and they honked their glee as they whirled and twirled through the water waving their flukes in time and merriment to the music
   And when it came time to stop they sang a final note and waved and continued on their inevitable way, and me on mine, leaning against the gunnel, staring at the disappearing ripples, feeling a part of them was still with me and a part of me with them. They somehow became a part of my dream, in some strange way as important a part of the dream as me. It took the two of us to make the dream. And it does still.
   And still I dream though Ive been on the beach now for some years, in Snug Harbor. We’re all ex-sailors here and talk of the many ports we’ve been to, of the endless countries and people we’ve seen, so many of which have changed names a dozen times over. But I spend as much time alone as possible, looking down at the harbor, a harbor that was once filled with vessels of every type, a harbor that is now spotted with an occasional ship. As with all things its changed.
   But my dreams the same. And I pursue it still.
   Ive sailed so long and sewn so much canvas that the tips of my fingers are blunted and hard, and hauled so many ropes my hands are as rough as manilla hemp; Ive scampered up ratlins in heavy seas and sat on the hatch of a brand new freighter feeling the thump of her engine. Memories… all memories. Images to help pass a day. But only for a short time. I chase them with my dream… my vision. I close my eyes and hear the music and they come, all about me, dancing and singing and O how lovely it is to see the sea rolling from their backs that shine and glisten and though theyre monstrous in size they barely send out a ripple as they go through endless seas. And I call to them, through cupped hands, with a loud and happy, HELLO MY FRIENDS… and they wave their flukes at me and we dance and laugh and this thing called death no longer exists, being dissolved in our oneness, and I know that so long as my heart, and that timeless, ageless leviathan part of me, is filled with my dream… my vision of dancing with my friends… that here is only life, life as large and strong and beautiful and full of gentleness and joy as my friends, and where they go I go also, and we are inseparable, and my life is theirs and theirs mine, and we are all part of the same dream.

Song of the Silent Snow

   He tried to judge the weather by the light easing through his eyelids, a gray bordering on black. Perhaps he was wrong, maybe it wasnt almost time for the alarm to go off. Maybe the pills affected his sense of time too—no, that wasnt it, he could definitely sense that it was close to 7. Must be cloudy and overcast, or maybe it even snowed like predicted. Could be. Might even be snowing now. He felt his face wrinkle into a squint as he strained to hear the snow… or rain if it had gotten suddenly warmer… but heard nothing. Not even a hint of wind. He concentrated on the tip of his nose, but it didnt feel so cold. That didnt necessarily mean anything. There were many mornings when he awoke and his nose wasnt cold. Actually, now that he thought about it, it very seldom was in the morning. It was in the middle of the night that it got cold and sometimes kept him awake. I guess thats one good thing about those pills, dont have to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Thats what used to start it off, getting up and by the time he was back under the covers his nose was cold and he just could not seem to get back to sleep and would lie there, half awake and half asleep, never knowing if he was dreaming or thinking, knowing the alarm would be ringing sooner or later and dreading it, wishing he could get back to sleep but his nose was so cold it hurt, and he would fight hard against the coldness, and his sleeplessness, and lay there anticipating the alarms sudden clanging, but never totally prepared for its attack, and when it finally did thrust itself upon him, his body shaking in reaction, he felt he could sleep forever if he just shut his eyes… and so he would lie there fighting to relax and sleep, think of the hour he went to bed and the approximate time he fell asleep, calculating how much sleep he had, and how much he might get, total, and how much he should get in order to do a good days work. Above all he wanted… no, it was imperative that he be more than sufficient for the demands of his work… especially now that they had moved to the suburbs and assumed the responsibility of owning a house. It brought with it advantages, but also many changes. It used to be a 15 minute ride to work, and then a short walk. But now it was almost that long to get to the station, and then it was another hour to Grand Central, providing there werent any delays, and thank God there usually werent. Thats one of the reasons they decided on Connecticut rather than Long Island. All in all he had to get up almost 2 hours earlier than when they lived in New York City. But that had been anticipated. What was unexpected was his lying awake counting those hours, trying desperately to get more rest, but the harder he tried the more firmly he remained entrapped in that strange area between sleep and wakefulness, from time to time falling fitfully into one then the other, literally feeling himself bouncing off their unseen walls until he dragged himself out of the bed and forced himself into another day.
   But time was only one element of the night that twisted itself into his consciousness. When he tried to clear his mind and just relax he thought of the sudden, and huge, drop in their bank balance when they made the down-payment on the house. He had carefully reviewed the entire matter with his accountant, before buying the house, and the purchase price was not only well within their means, but because of the tax writeoffs his net cost would not be more than when he was paying rent, and with no equity. Yes, that was the phrase he latched on to during those mornings, he was building an equity and in these days of uncertainty that was vitally important. He had gone over it many times and there was never the slightest doubt about the money, except when he lay awake in the middle of the night trying desperately to get back to sleep and get the proper rest before the alarm went off.
   And so he would think of the house, the house that gave them so much more room and allowed the kids to run and jump without worrying about disturbing anyone under them. And Alice had the kitchen she wanted, with ample room for hanging pots and pans and whatever else she wanted to hang from a rack or nail. And, of course, there was the joy of decorating your own home, feeling completely free to make any changes you want, and ten thousand other advantages, and so he thought of all those things and the financial concerns would dissipate, and eventually he would feel himself sliding into sleep, but for some reason a part of him seemed to cling, ever so lightly, to a thin thread of wakefulness and so when the alarm suddenly startled him he was not dragged from a deep state of rest, but more or less jolted from its nearest edge with a sharp twist of exhaustive nausea and a foul thickness in his mouth.
   But since coming home from the hospital the tranquillizers and the sleeping pill prevented his being awakened and so all those thoughts, worries and concerns no longer assaulted him during the night. He still awoke shortly before the alarm went off, but it went off much later now that he wasnt going to the office, and though his body was sluggish from the drugs, and his mouth thick and foul tasting, he did not have to battle that nervous exhaustion that the doctors said was resposible for his breakdown. But there was still this time of anticipation and dread.
   He lay as still as possible, breathing quietly, listening intently to see if there had been any noticeable change, but there wasnt. He still heard nothing and it wasnt any brighter. He sensed Alice was awake too, but said nothing, though he wanted to turn over and just touch her gently and thank her for being there, for loving him, but the inertia from the drugs was impossible to overcome and so he lay still, breathing quietly, and trying not to think about the fact that there was another day to face…
   But it was not just the drugs that made it impossible for him to turn and touch his wife and reassure her and tell her that he loved her and appreciated everything; it was the responsibility that accompanies such a gesture. If it were possible to just touch her in that way that she understood so well, if he were to place his hand gently on her cheek and let his feeling of love flow to her as he had so often in the past, she would turn and smile and hold his hand and kiss it and he knew he was now unable to contend with that, that he would be forced to hunt for words or expressions and none were available to him. He was suddenly so overwhelmed by the responsiblity of love… the responsibility of living. And so he lay on his side facing away from his wife, breathing quietly, eyes closed against the day, waiting for the alarm to ring and when it did he knew Alice would stop it immediately, not wanting it to awaken him, and get out of bed as gently as possible so she would not disturb him. If only he could let her know that she did not have to leap at the clock and then slide from the bed and tiptoe into the bathroom, quietly closing the door, turning the water on to a bare trickle, splashing the sleep from her eyes, not bathing until he was awake and up… he listening to her almost inaudible movements, wishing he could say its alright, that she could take her shower now, and that she did not have to keep the kids so quiet while they ate and got ready for school… but he shuddered at the thought.
   Maybe soon he could stop taking those pills. Maybe soon he could just get up and go downstairs and have breakfast with his family. Maybe soon he would be going to his office like he used to. Maybe soon he could just put his arms around his wife and simply say, I love you, without fear or guilt or worrying about what he would say after. The major problem was simply that he could not find anything positive or healthy to focus his mind on. If he thought about his work he only experienced worry and concern: was he still capable of performing effectively? will he have a job when he got well? or should he say, if he got well? No, no, he had to get well. But what was wrong with him? He did not really know. He had talked with the people in the hospital and spent time with Dr. Richter, but he still did not know what was wrong with him. What the hell did nervous exhaustion mean?
   What did rest mean? Was this rest? Was this going to get him well? Well from what???? O God! He had to get away from that. But if he thought about his wife and children such a sadness flowed through him that he wanted to cry and yet he did not know why. What was there to cry about? He loved them. They loved him. No one was dying, so why cry? Or was he dying? Were there certain types of death he knew nothing about? Was it possible to stay like this forever? Locked into these thoughts in a futile attempt to avoid his feelings? But even if the lock is opened where could he go? When he battled his way free he always ended up in the same place, engulfed by those feelings that literally froze his body and made him shudder with unknown fears and dread, that made the misery of the previous thoughts almost seem like a pleasure. And so he went from a painful level to one that was unbearable, unable to free himself from the process, listening to the sound of another morning as the children scuttled around, continually being hushed by Alice, dressing, eating, gathering books, suddenly remembering something important and eventually rushing from the house.
   He continued to lay immobile, eyes shut, until the need to urinate forced him from the bed and he went to the bathroom. He ignored the mirror and washed quickly and dressed in old clothes. He pulled the window shade aside a few inches and looked out… He relaxed a trifle and his face started slipping into a smile as he watched the snow falling straight down, an inch or so on the ground, the trees and bushes covered. The entire front yard white and glistening, the whiteness of the yard sectioned by the footprints of Beth and Michael. A semblance of joy started awakening within him as he looked at the quiet scene—a Cardinal and his lady suddenly splitting the whiteness -remembering sleighriding… and then a pain stabbed him as he realized that the children should have been hooting and hollering at seeing the snow but were undoubtedly told to be quiet, that daddy is sleeping and needs his rest. He stared out the window, aware of the hazards of snow on the roads, and the fact that the driveway would have to be shoveled and…
   he escaped down the stairs slowly.
   Alice was sitting at the table, drinking coffee. She started smiling as soon as she heard Harry coming down the stairs. Have a good sleep, sweetheart?
   Harry shrugged and nodded, Yeah.
   Its snowing. Isnt it beautiful?
   He nodded again and went to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee. Alice got up. Here, let me do that, honey. You sit down.
   No, no, thats alright. I can get it. Alice stopped halfway to the stove, You sure? Its no trouble. Harry was trying to smile but kept frowning. Please, please, its alright.
   Alice stood still for a moment, watching, sensing his irritation, then attempting again. Can I get you something to eat? Toast? Biscuits?
   No, no. Just sit down, Alice. Please. He carefully carried his cup to the table and sat.
   Alice followed him and sat down slowly not wanting to shake the table and spill his coffee. They both looked out the window at the falling snow. Alice snapped into another smile. Michael was barely dressed when he went out to test the snow. He made a snowball and threw it and came back in all beaming and saying its great packing and the sleighriding will be terrific. Im certainly happy this is Friday. And so are they. This could well be the last snow of the season.
   Harry looked at her, his face relaxed, almost smiling, Thats right, isnt it? Its the middle of March.
   Thats right, and we survived our first winter in Connecticut without frostbite.
   Its not exactly the wilderness.
   No. But it is a lot different than the city. Its so incredibly beautiful. Her face beamed and radiated. O Harry, Im so happy we moved here. Thank you for the house and the trees, and… and everything.
   Harry looked at her for a moment as she looked at him lovingly, then nodded and finished his coffee and got up. Guess I’d better get going.
   Going for a walk?
   Yes.
   Do you think its a good idea to go walking now? I mean, it looks awfully slippery and treacherous.
   Its the only thing Im doing to get well, I -
   That isnt true darling—her voice filled with warmth and affection—youre doing everything you can.
   Harry was nodding his head, Yes, I suppose so, but it doesnt seem like much to me.
   She touched his arm tentatively, then took a hand in both of hers. Try not to be so hard on yourself. Youre looking better every day.
   Harry looked at her and pulled his hand from hers, a feeling of annoyance creeping through him, then conflict and tension, wanting to tell Alice not to be so damned patronizing, but the necessary anger wasnt there to force the words from his mouth. His voice was flat, but it did reflect his irritation. Doctors orders. I walk every day. Strengthen the heart.
   Alice stood still as Harry finished dressing, not trusting herself to say anything, afraid she would start yelling or calling him a self-pitying bastard, and just watched, in silence, as he prepared himself for the weather… then decided she would try again. Kiss goodbye? leaning forward to kiss him, and be kissed, Harry immediately rigid, turning his cheek to her as he backed away. He looked at her for a brief moment, his expression one of confusion. See you later.
   Alice watched him walk across the yard, the only moving object in the snow. He picked his way slowly, and carefully, to the street…
   She spun around and went to the kitchen and started scrubbing a pan, tightening her jaw, feeling an ache in her hands and arms, scrubbing so hard it was as if she was trying to rub a hole in the pan. She suddenly dropped it in the sink. Goddamn it. Im not going to put up with this nonsense. That Richter had better do something Im going to call him today and—she suddenly sagged over the sink and threw the soap pad at the pan. It was the same old thing. Every time she got angry with Harry she remembered what the doctor said: that it was expected that Harry would be withdrawn for a while, but his condition would improve with time and rest. She looked out the window over the sink at the almost unnatural quietness outside, which increased the turmoil within her. Time. Time, time!!!! It seems like its what everything needs but we never have enough of. Goddam time! You hear me time? Goddamn you! Whose side you on anyway?!
   Harry crossed the street to the side that was free of houses. Just trees all the way up the slight incline to the next street. On the other side he could see houses but they were well back and only visible because the trees were bare. He looked up at the large nests in a couple of trees, nests that he had been told were squirrels. He had been surprised to learn that squirrels had nests like those, having always thought they only lived in the hollows of trees as in cartoons. He passed them each day these past weeks, since being released from the hospital, stopping and checking, yet never once did he see a squirrel anywhere near either nest, or any other creature for that matter. Always nothing.
   When he first started walking he only walked for ten minutes, slowly, but now he was walking a couple of miles each morning. At first he had to push himself a little to get up the slight hill, but he knew after he reached the top that sooner or later the walking would get easier, his head clearing more and more, and by the time he got back he would be feeling much better than when he left, but still feeling isolated from his family… and everything else. He had talked with Dr. Richter about it the last time he saw him, telling him he thought he would feel better if he did not have to take those pills, but the doctor warned him about trying to do too much too soon, so he reluctantly continued to take them, constantly promising himself that he would stop them soon, or at least cut down on the dosage no matter what Richter said. But that was in the future. Right now he just had to put one foot in front of the other and walk along the now familiar streets.
   When he got to the top of the hill he stopped for a moment to catch his breath and look around. There was no living creature to be seen. Everything was still. And the falling snow had a sense of stillness about it. It fluttered through the air and fell to the ground or trees or bushes never seeming to be alien to the surroundings, as if it had always been there and was just another part of the air, and everything else that surrounded him. He felt it brush his face as he looked up at the sky, seeing no difference between the air and sky, all a soft gray with a light of its own, the snow floating through the illuminated grayness.
   Harry looked at the bare trees as he walked, their limbs auraed with snow, the evergreen trees and bushes flocked and bending slightly from the moist weight of the snow. The stillness was new to him, a quietness never heard of or read about, but one he was now experiencing. And though there was an almost tangible quality about the air it was lighter than ever before and Harry felt a floating sensation soothe him as he walked, there seeming to be less and less resistance to his movement.
   He looked down at the street, and the unbroken whiteness, and watched his foot touch the snow and listened to the slight crunching sound as he stepped forward. He looked back at his footprints. They were fascinating. He had been the only one to walk along this street today. There wasnt even the mark of a dog or squirrel, or the scratch of a bird. He continued through the soft, silent snow, a feeling of peace starting to flow through him, helping make his step lighter and easier.
   He looked at the houses he had been passing these weeks and though he had never studied them carefully they had become familiar through the process of seeing them so often, and he was now impressed with the change in their appearance as he looked at them through the gray of the air and whiteness of the snow, each house, shrub, tree, bush and mailbox trimmed with snow and blending into the air as if they were just a picture projected upon the still, pearly grayness, just an impression created by the silent snow, a picture on the edge and verge of disappearing and leaving only the air and snow through which he now lightly walked.
   He turned another corner noticing the split rail fence, his minds eye filling in a manger scene with animals watching the quiet child while the Wise Men profferred presents and lay them at the feet of Mary and Joseph…
   Jesus, was Christmas only a few months ago? It seems so distant, so distant that he wondered where the memory came from. But its only a week or so until Spring… spring… yes, it is the last snow of the winter. This will be it. No more. The kids will have to do all their sleighriding this weekend and then put the sleighs away until next winter…
   Yes, winter will come again. But soon it will be spring. But whatever the season will there ever be another day like today, like it is right now? No… no… No, there can never be another to compare… to be absorbed by… to become a part of…
   He continued walking but his pace slowed. He did not want this walk to end. He did not want to think of it ending. He wanted to abandon himself to this experience… abandon himself to the soft, illuminated air, and the silent snow that surrounded him, touched him, clung to him, little clumps hanging from his eyebrows, vaguely visible as translucent objects seen from the edge of vision…
   Vision…
   It was all a vision. A vision without… a vision seen all around him yet experienced within. His lungs functioned easier, his breathing calm and comfortable; his heartbeat relaxed and regular; his legs feeling light and his feet and hands warm… yes warm, and even his nose seemed to be warm, wonderfully warm
   yes, all warm and he knew he was smiling and that his smile was warm.
   He stopped as he reached the turning point. He had walked a mile. Time to start back. He looked at the nearby homes, the ones in the distance seeming to be almost amorphous as they blended with the illuminated air; then up at the trees, their snow-rimmed grayness disappearing in the light. He saw a crow sitting still near the tip of a limb, its blackness startling. He stared and waited for the call, blinking automatically as the snow brushed his eyes, but not changing the direction of his sight. He stood absolutely still. And quiet. Then he heard the call. Three times. The crow above answered and rose slowly and seemed to hover over the limb, the snow ignoring the beating wings, continuing to fall straight and seeming to flow through the crow as it flew to its mate. He watched until it was out of sight, wondering if that could really have been the first sound he heard since leaving the house, or was it just the first he noticed?
   He turned and took the first, slow step back.
   He retraced his footsteps, the only footsteps in the snow. They seemed small, and though they were alone they did not seem to be lonely. He smiled at the thought of lonely footprints, as if footprints could have a life of their own, or even that they could reflect the life of their maker. Perhaps… who knows? But thats neither here nor there. He was walking amongst his own footprints, simply walking and leaving another set of prints facing in the opposite direction.
   And so he walked, keeping himself company. He noticed movement from the corner of his eye and saw two dogs emerging from the trees, snow hanging from their long hair, walking quietly through the snow. They glanced at him briefly and continued on their journey, their noses in turn sniffing at the snow, the trees, the air, but always moving slowly and silently. Harry did not stop, or slacken his pace, as he briefly watched them once again disappear into and behind the trees and shrubs.
   He turned another corner and there was a long stretch of flat, crisp whiteness, broken only by his footprints, stretching out in front of him and seeming to disappear in the white’gray distance. It did not seem possible, but the air was even softer and quieter. He continued walking alongside his prints feeling he could walk forever, that as long as the silent snow continued falling he could continue walking, and as he did he would leave behind all worries and cares, all horrors of the past and future. There would be nothing to bother him or torture his mind and fill his body with tremors of fear, the dark night of the soul over. There would only be himself and the soft, silent snow; and each flake, in its own life, its own separate and distinct entity, would bring with it its own joy, and he would easily partake of that joy as he continued walking, the gentle, silent snow falling ever so quietly, ever so joyously…
   yes, and ever so love-ing-ly…
   loveing-ly….
   Of course! thats why the air is so brightly gray and alive instead of the dismal drabness you would expect. Its the lovingness of the snow. God, how soothing it is.
   Yes, he could walk forever. He could so easily continue to walk and all thoughts of death would fall away, absorbed by the silent snow.
   Harrys breathing became more and more easy as he walked until he was no longer aware of breathing or even if he was breathing, as if the air was simply passing through him, rejuvenating his body without him having to go through the process of breathing. Soon he no longer heard the crunch of his foot on the snow no matter how he strained to hear it, and it did not surprise him as his body felt so light it seemed impossible for him to even leave a print, all he knew was that he could walk forever.
   He approached his street but, instead of turning on to it, he continued walking straight, something drawing him down a street he had never been on before, a street totally strange to him, completely unlike any of the others around him. And as he walked his body continued to feel lighter and lighter as if the sparkle in the silent snow, and the sparkle that illuminated the air, was flowing through him and slowly filled every cell and fiber of his being. He knew that he was glowing. He knew that his eyes were afire with that light. He knew that light shimmered from him even through his clothing. He felt his legs getting lighter and when he looked down there were no footprints. The soft cloth of snow spread over the street was still unstepped upon and as far back as he could see there were no footprints. He turned and looked ahead, feeling his movement through the light of the gray, white air, feeling the light become more and more a part of him as he became more and more a part of the light, and all of his being was filled with incredible joy as the light grew brighter and brighter…
   and
   then he heard it, very faintly at first, but distinct just the same. He heard the snow falling gently through the air, each flake sounded distinctly different, yet just as each fell unhindered by another, so their sound did not clash or interfere with each other, but blended into a snow song that he knew very few had ever heard. And that song became louder, though always gentle, as he continued to be absorbed by the light, to become one with the light… and now there werent any feet to leave prints, or a body or eyes to glow, but just light and sound and pure joy, pure eternal joy. No past, no future, no, not even a present, just ever new joy where there wasnt even a memory of pain or struggle or sorrow… just ever new joy…
   and he knew he could stay here forever.
   But then the song of the silent snow was slowly replaced with another sound, vague at first but then more and more familiar as he heard it within him. It was a sound he knew, but could not yet identify. It became more distinct and he listened more intently while still trying to cling to the snow song. The new sound gradually absorbed all his attention until it too started to sing within him… then he finally recognized it, smiling suddenly, and then it was the only song he heard… the song of Alice and the children, and he re-experienced all the joys of their life together…
   yet still he clung to the thought of the light and the joy of the song of the silent snow, yearning once again to be filled with that joy that forever eliminated doubt and fear, struggling to nurture that fading joy… but then a new sound stabbed him and he suddenly had to fight for breath as he heard his family crying because of his absense and experienced their pain and sorrow, and was then overwhelmed with the realization that he had to go back home. No matter how sweet the song of the silent snow, how beautiful the light, how exquisite the joy, he had to go home.
   As he surrendered to this realization he became vaguely aware of his body. He felt that his eyes were still glowing, but now he could feel his feet on the ground, and as he became increasingly aware of his movements, he also became aware that the crying had ceased and he once again felt the love song of his family within him. He felt his face smile as he listened to their voices and felt the warmth of happiness spread through him. It was not the joy of moments ago, but a happiness he had not known for what seemed many, many years, though his mind told him it had only been months; a happiness that he had felt for many years, a happiness he thought had gone forever.
   He heard the crunch of the snow under his feet, but once more felt lighter… unrestricted… able to move freely through the pearly gray air and silent snow.
   He stopped and stood quietly watching and feeling the snow. He turned and looked behind him at the place where his footprints stopped. A part of him yearned to retrace his steps, to once again become a part of the joy he had briefly experienced, but he knew he could not… did not… want to ignore the other voices within him. He turned and firmly started walking toward home. He did not know what had happened, but whatever it was he knew he now had hope and what once was could be again. He could re-awaken a part of that joy and take home the song of the silent snow. He could share it. He walked a little faster. He knew his eyes were glowing and that Alice would see it. He also knew he could hold her hand