Five Legs Read online

  “Susan.”

  “Gee, I don’t know Lucan.” The paper now across her thighs and she shakes her head. She’s thinking of that time in the sun: two of them yes and their quiet talk; confederate laughter pale in the sun, their bodies white on the grass. My two sweet nymphs I used to think. And leaving for a moment my arid desk I would stand at the window and fondly gaze. Dirty old man. No I’m not. Innocence and experience: both sides of the coin in my house at once, both sides on the grass below.

  Leaving his suit on the cupboard door he bends into the dryness for his shoes. My Blake and I ate it too. Hee-hee. Good Lord but they need a cleaning! Blunt fingers spreading and massaging, squeaking as the polish is absorbed. And the familiar pleasure rising on the scalp, as when the barber. Shave, shave and massage . . . ah the massage! Jesus but that’s pleasure. The obedient hands on my head. Ah! An aristocrat born; a feline aristocrat bred. And after, yes after with my coat brushed clean and the warm air cool about my ears, I sauntered with my shadow on the glass. A cane, a cane and cloak are what I need. And a bottle-green dinner jacket for an evening’s romp. Must get a cane. Click. Clack. And a drink, just one, on this sunny summer’s day. Oh boy. A thirsty figure on shining feet past the upper half of a naked torso on her plaster back. Nippleless blunt breasts gazing through him on the glass. Gin was as. No painted tiny mouths shall suck on me. And tonic, just the thing.

  “Nothing she can do, except go on.” Dear Rose pushing herself, hands flat on the bed, from her smooth white back onto her buttocks again. Crossing her legs. “With her life I mean.” Settling in. And reaching for her cup. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

  “I know.”

  “Really a fine character. A very strong character.” Sip and swallow. Clink. Deep-sighing with her gentle sleepy breasts. “But God Lucan, what a terrible time for her! She’ll need her friends.” Shaking her head mournfully she sighs again. “You’d certainly need your friends.” And carefully smoothes the paper’s page.

  “Hmmn.” I had just two, a couple of drinks that’s all. For moderation is the watchword here. But I emerged reborn. The pavement hot against my feet, the bright street in my eyes. Self-control in all things and all things will be manageable. I always. Suavely twirling the cane-to-be he imposed himself delicately upon the street. Believe a glance at the paperbacks is in order. Tee-dum dum dum tee-dum. With a flourish in at the glass door and past the dear sweet damp-faced girls. With a flourish and whistling lightly. Ah you lovely pale gazelle. Yes nod, a quick nod to her almond eyes and then press on. To the books, the conjuring books. Delightful girl all flushed and warm, your hair a sweet disorder. Lovely. Because in my youth I used to pinch, I actually used to steal bright books like these. Graceful and knowing you brush the errant strands from off your brow and. Sly young fox. Blandly and clean-limbed in through the door (furtive in the eye’s dark corner), blandly and clean-limbed up to the books. Careful now, wait till she . . . yes, behind the counter bending yes, and now a rapid glance about the room and. Inside the coat with it. Bang! Under the old arm against my beating heart. Ah ha! Pursed lips for a moment before some useful text, a studied look for the books as a whole and then to the door with wry disappointment; a nod of my head and the cheerful goodbye. Wow! Wouldn’t have the nerve today and I’ll simply browse. Besides. The Mirror of Art and his haunting face. That sort of foolishness is for the young.

  There, by the window he’ll stand with jealous admiration: the light angular upon his face, upon his smile while I sit graciously at my desk and his hands are like trembling vacant birds.

  Contentedly he zips the zip and. Now where in hell. With braces hanging crisply at his side he rummages in the middle bureau drawer. My shirt, it must be. “Where’s my shirt?”

  “There. The drawer’s full of them.”

  “No, I mean my white one. You know. With the collar.” Jesus. Man has to have a shirt, a good shirt at a funeral. Can’t. What sort of a public image is that? After all. “My good one.”

  “Isn’t it there?”

  “No.”

  “It must be Lucan.”

  “Well it isn’t love, it isn’t here at all.”

  “Which one do you . . . oh hell. It’s in the laundry.”

  “It’s what?”

  “In the laundry.” Oh Rose . . . it’s not! “I’m sorry Lucan but I couldn’t find it when the man came. I looked everywhere and I couldn’t keep him waiting all day.”

  “Rose, for heaven’s sake I need it, I need it for the funeral.” The world incompetent goes shuffling in the streets today: with freezing rain and fog it hunts me down. Jesus. Important. Can’t get along down there in any old shirt, can’t. Clothes make the. Rose!

  “Well it’s not my fault Lucan. I can’t keep track of where you throw everything for goodness’ sake. I gave you a laundry bag.” She’s angry, she is angry for chrissakes! Turning on me at this desperate time, turning on me as if it were my fault. Goddamn it Rose. As if I should run the sordid details of this house. “Anyway you wouldn’t have worn it, the collar’s all wrong. Wear your blue one. With the tab collar.” Smiling, she’s actually smiling. “It looks good on you.” As she wields the knife. “You look very handsome in the blue one.” That won’t mollify me you selfish bitch! You’ve never liked that shirt I know, but.

  Snarling he gropes for silent words. And stands here as she smiles. So that’s the way it is, eh? Holes in my undershirt and . . . To hell with it! To hell with it I say. There is no succour or compassion here. Obviously. Goddamn theatre and your matinee is more important than my . . . Rather transform into slipshod natives the plump-faced boys in stocks and bonds. For chrissakes. Your friend she is. And my favourite shirt. “I like that shirt Rose. I like it very much and I was intending to wear it.” Bitter, that’s what I: haughty and bitter. “However. Since it is in the laundry. I suppose I shall have to wear the blue one won’t I.”

  “Lucan, don’t be silly now.” Below the smiling face her breasts lie gently white. A fine and slender. “It’s just a shirt.” He turns with dignity toward the drawer. With dignity he lifts out the cellophane-wrapped tab-collared bluest of shirts in the bureau drawer and holds it in his hand. With dangling braces. Nakedly crisp it is, starched clean behind its paper glass it stares with one breast pocket eye. Balefully. It is simply not the same thing at all. Can’t tell me, from between warm sheets with this day out there you can’t tell me. That it is. And that’s all there is to it. From shadowless acceptance, wow, the softly sweating sunblown garden of our lives, I must return. He frees the shirt with claw-like hands, he crumples the wrappings and pushes them into the pretty little overflowing waste-paper ­basket.

  Oh you just don’t know! And the cellophane crackles with invisible fire, twists impatiently, expands into a disorganized mass and falls onto the floor. Jee-sus Christ!

  Full bellying curtains and the back stair’s chill. That’s the stuff you know. Ergot. His young voice searching for assurance round the room as he turned, surveyed and turned again. Quickly quickly for the sake of.

  Raw wounded earth and girders red in early sun; the bare and steel torn muddy hill that soon will have . . .

  The flesh beneath her arm is soft and cool, her beckoning arm as she pats her thigh. And beckons. “Come on Lucan. I said I’m sorry.” An uncertain time. Pat-pat. Never liked that, but. Moderation. Everything in perspective above all things. Waiting my kiss. She is. She knows I will relent at any moment. And so it goes. According to our rules. His wife’s small smile as he forces his arm into the shirt’s crisp sleeve. Oh Rose, dear Rose when green winds blow this arid time away . . . “Give me a kiss, give your poor dear wife a kiss.” Very grey, her eyes already wait another day. Able to afford our own. Compact and modern. Buy a house and you’re sure to have a baby. First thing. An exultant spreading of domestic wings. Or something. Everyone seems to. Hugo’s little daughter and the Wilsons had one too. Feeling the cloth starched on h
is shoulders he fastens the buttons and crosses the room to Rose. A man to reckon with, I’ll move with dignity despite the colour of my frigging shirt.

  Ah this small gesture on my part (it’s a hard waiting time besides) is worth what it brings. Forgive me mother, for. He leans to the warmth of her, and kissing tastes the make-up from her face, feels the cool arm beneath his hand. And smiles. “Sorry princess.”

  “Oh Lucan, it’s so silly to be like this.”

  “I know love.”

  “We really must try to be more reasonable.”

  A tender thing when all is said and a baby’d do the trick. “Don’t know how it starts my love. It’s a hard time for us now. The waiting and all. But you’re right we must try.” Certainly should have confirmed the appointment earlier Lucan, but attendant difficulties don’t you know, Senate acceptance et al, made it impossible. Past his shoulder through his polished window waits my new world on the hill. That’s all right, quite all right sir, I rather felt. Knew you would Lucan, heh, knew you would (for frankly you had little opposition eh?) and that’s the reason I was sure you wouldn’t mind. And then we’ll turn from the window; his bird-like hand will rest upon my arm. Certainly worth the hollowness of waiting and this unwilling trip to rout the past. The clear sun on his grey smiling face. Congratulations Lucan. Just the man. For the job. Yes now the waiting seems a proving time. Extends his hand in pale congratulations. “Once this awful uncertainty is over and we know, it will be better love.”

  “I just don’t know anymore Lucan. I’m just not sure anymore.” Her eyes moist as she holds her hand. My turning cotton-batten head. And her waiting eyes. “We should know by now.”

  “Don’t say that Rose. You know it’s too soon and anyway I’m sure we’re right.”

  “I hope so, oh I hope so. It’s never gone so long before and I do feel sick at the tummy.” What can you do? What can a man do with this unhappy woman. A kiss, a gentle reassuring kiss I guess. A loving take-heart squeeze for her hand and he kisses again her perfumed brow.

  “Sure love, just you wait. And see.” A smile of gentle certainty, a quick glance at her soft eyes and a pat for her shoulder. That’s the way. “Now I’d better pop into the bathroom and shave princess. Time is running on.” Again my quick and certain smile. Already some improvement for her eyes are bright. “You just relax there sweet, spend the morning in bed. Take care of yourself.” Tenderly spoken with another pat and now into the hall. Quickly. Boy diplomacy in human relations is really something. Without a fine ear for the sounds of chaos in this world a man is lost. Unwilling though you may be, keep the old ears waving about: listen with care, I say, and pick your way. And just a chance to exercise this gift of mine in the responsible surroundings of upper academic circles. That’s all. And watch my smoke. Wow!

  There was a boy

  A very strange enchanted boy

  They say he travelled very far, very far

  Over dum dee-dah

  Dah dee dah-dah

  Glancing with his wry smile at the wryly-smiling self above the basin, carefully rolls his crisp blue sleeves. Not a bad shirt after all. Dee dumm dah-dah. But it isn’t quite the same. Rubbing his fingers on his beard he stares more closely. Critically, I don’t look too bad. Hah. Not an unhandsome face although I couldn’t rely on it to see me through. A face of character. Yes, behind that face lies a man who is interesting to know. Ironic. Snorting briefly through his nose he wryly smiles again. A quizzical smile, objective irony. That’s it. Hmmn. He takes the razor from its shelf, blows briskly to clear the hundreds of tiny cutting edges, bangs it on his hand and plugs it in. Jeez! This noise will waken my head again. So enjoyed this summer here with you. Certainly seemed appreciative with her golden thighs and sun-bleached hair. Sweet thing. And I’m really looking forward to working on Teahouse with. Would you mind awfully Doctor Crackell? I just can’t reach right up the back. Would I mind sweet thing in this dark green summer’s fancy heat, would I mind? The razor pushes folds of skin along his cheek. Baby oil and iodine heavy in the sun and I smoothed it in small circles on her back. Aah Doctor Crackell! That’s nice. Crescents of youthful flesh, her ears revealed by tangled hair. And my hands seemed strangely rough.

  Pleasantly conscious of my stolen summer’s drink and that beautiful pale doe of a girl at the cash desk casting her eyes at me, I browsed among the conjuring books. Tapping the side of my foot with the old invisible cane. Tap-tap. Good grief but there are lots of books. Who writes them all? And in all colours. Tap. Nothing like a haircut and a shoe-shine to liberate the social man. And whistling lightly. When I look up, casually, she’ll be watching you bet; and the warm quick flush will reveal her. Hah! Can’t keep her eyes off you, you sly young fox. Just easily raise the old head and throw a wry and enigmatic smile in her direction. Ready? Now! Well hello there. It’s Susan. All crisp and pretty in her starched sun-dress. How are you this fine afternoon and why aren’t you in the warmth of the garden? Hmmn. I see. Well perhaps you’ll join me for a drink on this hot thirsty day. Dah dee dah-dah. The light was shining on her face and her dress rustled sharply as we marched out past those almond eyes. Ah-ha! A nod of my head and the cheerful goodbye.

  The terrible noise this razor makes outside my head re-emphasizes the necessity of water. Lots of water before I sleep. Oh boy. Dilute the poisons of a night like that. Jeez! There was nothing for it but go down and meet her when the play had ended. Closing his eyes he massages them with a careful hand. And the razor snarls. Stinking parties with her friends are like an entry to another world, across a frigging ocean to an unreal world. Watching themselves in the mirrored walls they moved in vague and frantic forms: they twittered about me like bats in a desperate dream. Shrill with laughter above it all, the actors removed their make-up while we watched until tired and greasy their faces appeared; they sat in undershirts or robes with flaccid skin pale in fluorescent glare. Pushing the razor into the top of his throat, he tries to catch the last remaining whiskers. My name was called but the voice was carried away in the crowd and my face too, was there on the wall. Dark and nervously drawn. And because I once danced with useless joy and absurdly flowed out and overlapped my world. It is only drink that saves me.

  Once again the summer street’s hot afternoon with air contained by stores on every side. Carefully on the hot pavement we went to the light click-clack of her heels. With dignity. A trim pony beside me on the window’s bright and jumbled face. Then in through the side door with sudden darkness on the eyes. Click-clack. And coolness, blessed coolness as blinking you wait for Bert with buttons tarnished by the air-conditioned air. The tray of frosted glasses on his hand. Back again Mister Crackell, you weren’t gone long. Then with languorous and familiar ease the drinks were ordered, cigarettes were lit and easily we settled in to talk. Really nice and cool Doctor Crackell. I don’t come in here very often.

  You don’t? Well goodness gracious me my dear you really should. Yes indeed. You really should. A womb away from home as it were. Ha-ha.

  Well Martin doesn’t like it very much. He says he prefers the taverns to a bar. I don’t know why. I think this is very nice, don’t you? It’s not so dark when you get used to it. I couldn’t come in alone though. And anyway men are always waiting for girls in bars. I remember once in Detroit . . . You heard the lady. Coldly staring from my dangerous eyes; my pale hands resting on the table’s top. You heard the lady, so bust off. Right away fella and play your games with someone else. Hah! Then lunging at me with strangled rage and I’d drop to my knee like a shot and out with the right arm, pow with straightened fingers driving under his breastbone! Arrgh! And the poor bastard’s writhing on the floor. Make the others pause as well. Jesus mack, his voice astonished, you’ve killed him! He can’t breathe. Then I’d loosen his belt and set him right. Oh Doctor Crackell. Thank you, thank you Doctor Crackell. Surprising speed for a man my age and size but it’s the thought-out move that triumphs everytime. Smooth pads
of his fingers on the now-shaved face and his cool and ­calculating smile. Now I think you should stop this Doctor business, and call me Lucan. Think quickly, clearly and then the execution with finesse. Pow! Wonder if I could. Self-discipline and the rigorous control of movement should do the trick. Jeez! A worker’s bony fist against my nose and mouth. Squash! The pain of it wow and I’m blinded by my tears and blood. At his mercy. Oh boy, it’s best to run like hell. If possible. But a man has responsibilities, inescapable commitments. Certainly wouldn’t want to get hurt though. Winding the cord securely about the razor he returns it to the shelf, brings down Old Spice and liberally smoothes it stinging to his face. Nevertheless, self-control and. Could do the trick.

  He’s so unpredictable now Doctor Crackell that I wonder sometimes what will happen when we get married. But men change don’t they? I mean, surely he’ll see the necessity of settling down. Once we’re married. He couldn’t go on thinking the way he does. Oh I know young men are supposed to be dreamers and always want to travel and it’s probably a good thing too, but they get over it don’t they? No, not another, not for me. I couldn’t really. I’ve had enough already; I can tell, because I’m talking too much. Don’t you think? And I feel all flushed. Lucan felt the ice against his lips, begged her to relent and waved again for Bert. A sad sardonic smile. Settling, poor bugger, down and he can’t foresee it now.

  Wouldn’t fuss about him Susan, he’ll find the compromise is inevitable and.

  I get so worried sometimes. Like he wants to go to England or somewhere and he’s going to teach there and write a book. Well. You know. It’s a nice idea but it’s so impractical isn’t it? We could go for a visit, I wouldn’t mind going for a visit and staying in one of those old pubs and everything, but he doesn’t see we can’t live there. My Mother’d have a fit and anyway I have a girl-friend who went to England last summer and she knows all sorts of people over there and she says you wouldn’t believe how expensive everything is.