The Feast of Love - Charles Baxter [119]
Howdy do, he said, shaking it.
And you are . . . ?
Friend of the family, he offered. That chair yours?
Yes, I said.
Lookit, he said. I think it got stole from me. I got my truck over there for it. You’ll wanna take it for me?
Sorry, no, I told him.
Perhaps I have not mentioned: I grew up on the streets of Chicago, and despite my abstracted and somewhat airy ways, am not a physical coward, quite the contrary, in fact. In my youth I fought the boys and men who wished to fight me, some of Chicago’s best, mostly Irish bullies affronted by Jews. Many of these Americans went home Ginsberg-bruised and bloodied. It had been years since I had found myself in a brawl, but the prospect of one with this man of doubtful probity filled me with cheer beyond measure. I had not practiced my pugilism for years, but I was ready. I felt happy and truculent.
I had taken hold of two of the chair’s legs, for carrying. The little greasy-haired man now grasped the other two legs. We began a grotesque dance on the front sidewalk, a shoving match. He muttered, while I kept silent. My blood, somewhat dormant at the Amalgamated, began to boil.
Greedy fucking kike, said the smelly diminutive shegetz. I put the chair down and popped him one. He stood for a moment, as if surveying the sky for blimps. Then his knees gave way under him and he appeared to sit down, dazed, on the sidewalk. How easy it had been! And how pleasurable! I had expected to expend more effort in subduing him. He stood up. Again I slugged him, an easy uppercut this time. Fistfighting is like riding a bicycle: you don’t forget how. Down he went again. But there he sat, fingering what would soon be his shiner. I carried the chair to my car, returned to the building, messaging my knuckles, locked up Chloé’s mostly empty — except for the hideabed — apartment, and returned to the front sidewalk.
He was standing up by now, but not steadily.
You’ll hear from me, he said.
By phone or telegram? I asked. I reached the car, lowered myself inside, and drove away.
ONE DAY, I THINK, Metzger will find us. Chloé’s enemy is now mine, however, and my feeling is: Let the lamebrain Metzger do as he pleases. I am ready for him. I am pleased to have an enemy who is not symbolic.
We must collect our thoughts, for the unexpected is always upon us. Who said that? Beckett? Kierkegaard? I am no longer sure of my quotations.
Every night I take up my watch by the front window. I have my lamp and my book. I listen to Schubert on the phonograph. Next to my family, Schubert is the love of my life; if he were to return to Earth, he could come to my house and take any of the objects here he wanted. Nearby, Esther reads or knits. Certain nights of the week, we play honeymoon bridge or canasta or Scrabble. On other nights, when Esther is Lamazing with Chloe, I am alone here, guarding the house. Aaron continues not to call. Our son has vanished into the maw of this vast continent. But I continue to think that one night, for it will surely be an evening (all reunions occur in the evening), probably one in the spring or summer when the cool breezes are blowing through the maple and linden trees in our front yard and the birds are uttering their consolations, a car door will close softly, and within moments the tread of a man will become audible as he makes his way toward the front door. The air will be clear and crisp. He will step tentatively up to the front entryway. He will make his hand into a fist, to knock. Or perhaps he will extend his index finger to ring the doorbell. Dad? he will say. Daddy? It’s me. It’s Aaron.
But perhaps the person at the door will be Metzger, the butcher, having found us out, having discovered our place in the world, our location and locale, our modest lives. From the street he will hear Schubert. The music will enter his ear and have no effect. It will fall like a seed upon stone. He knows as much about music as a pig about oranges. Perhaps he will bring along his thuggish and nitwit friends. Perhaps they will bring firearms. Fine. Let them come. I will be here.