Balancing Acts Read online

  After a block and a half he got on the shoppers’ jitney. It stopped at every corner and she jogged alongside, jostling ladies with shopping bags and strollers’. It felt like the sort of weird thing Alice might do. In a few minutes he got off and entered the large Rexall drugstore next to the supermarket where they had met. Keeping a safe distance, she saw him pick out Gillette razor blades (Josh used a noisy electric razor), a small package of cigars (good; less cancerous than cigarettes), and an economy-sized box of DiGel tablets. He left a prescription in the back section. As he swung through the revolving doors she grabbed a Hershey bar with almonds and slammed a quarter on the counter, then trailed him around a corner. He walked fast and turned into the flagstone path of a four-story brick building that looked like school. She paused. It was the old people’s home. She had passed it often in the car with Wanda and Josh. ‘Pleasure Knolls, my foot,’ Wanda once said, rolling her eyes. ‘What kind of pleasure, I wonder?’ It couldn’t be! Maybe he was visiting a sick friend. She sat down on the curb and ate the Hershey bar. After a while she tucked the wrapper in her knapsack and went inside.

  The woman at the desk held her head drawn back, as if she wanted to be far away from things. Her nose and chin jutted out sharply. She had on a gray dress with a pale-green scarf and a cameo pinned to its knot. ‘Can I help you, young lady?’ Her voice was reedy and nasal, like Franny’s brother’s oboe, and as she spoke she ran her fingers nervously through her hair.

  ‘I’m looking for a Mr Max Fried. Does he live here?’

  ‘Yes. Is he...expecting you?’

  ‘Oh, sure.’ She headed for a glass door on her right.

  ‘Not that way. The elevator is to your left. And it’s 319. Press three.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thanks.’ Plainly visible through the glass door was a lounge. How could she be so dumb?

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘Yes, his great-niece.’

  The third-floor corridor was all straight lines and had carpeting the color of stale grass. The walls were peach, hung with paintings of trees drooping over ponds. There were brass numbers on the doors; she found 319 at the far end and knocked before she could lose her nerve.

  ‘I’ll get it, Max,’ she heard. The door opened. This woman was large and grayish-blond, dressed in a scarlet pants suit, with loops of gold chain on the broad slope of her chest.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said kindly.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize...I mean...’

  ‘Are you looking for Max?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Max, you have a visitor,’ the woman called over her shoulder, then turned back. ‘You must be one of his pupils. Come on in, it’s all right.’

  Max appeared, a dish towel tucked in around his belt. He was holding up, like a magician’s wand, a long wooden spoon coated with a dark sauce. ‘Alison?’

  ‘Obviously.’ She tried to laugh. ‘You look shocked.’

  ‘Well, Max, let’s let the girl in, for heaven’s sake.’ Alison entered and the woman shut the door.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were married. Excuse me for...just barging in.’ His aura was swiftly evaporating. She felt weak with disillusion as he seemed to shrink before her eyes, still holding up the spoon in his stern grip.

  ‘I’m not married,’ he said. ‘My friend, Lettie Blumenthal. Lettie, this is Alison, from school. Alison what?’

  ‘Oh, plain Alison is okay.’ She breathed with relief. They might be living together. Living together in an old people’s home—yes, that was neat, just the sort of thing she would expect of him. ‘Glad to meet you,’ she said cheerfully to Lettie. She knew how Wanda spoke in delicate situations.

  ‘Same here, I’m sure. Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘Thank you. What a nice apartment.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lettie. ‘It gets a lot of sun.’

  ‘I can see from how well your plants are doing,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you cutting classes to visit me?’ asked Max.

  Wanda’s tactics felt too silly here. ‘Uh-huh.’ She nodded. ‘It’s almost one. I should be in—let’s see, Friday—math in six minutes.’ She slid the knapsack from her shoulders down to the carpet, and walked over to the window.

  ‘How about some lunch as long as you’re here?’ Lettie asked. ‘We were just about to eat. Max made chili early this morning.’

  Max glanced at them both, gave a disapproving grunt, and withdrew to the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve had my sandwich, but I guess I can manage a little more. Does he put an awful lot of meat in it, though?’

  ‘Meat? Well, I don’t know. I never had his chili before. Max,’ she called, ‘Alison wants to know, does your chili have a lot of meat in it?’

  ‘It’s because I—’

  ‘Sure, it has plenty of meat,’ he called back. ‘I’m not that hard up yet.’

  ‘Are you allergic to meat?’ Lettie asked.

  ‘Oh, no, that’s all right. Do you live—uh—nearby?’

  ‘Right next door. It’s nice to have an unexpected visitor. Excuse me, I’ll get an extra chair. He really shouldn’t strain himself.’

  She followed Lettie to the bedroom. ‘In school he said he’ll catch us if we fall. He said that he would be the net.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Lettie whispered. ‘He really gets carried away, doesn’t he? Well, tell the others not to.’

  Alison took the chair from her and brought it to the table.

  ‘Ready, ladies,’ Max announced. His chili was delicious. She must remember to ask for the recipe before she left. She could substitute some soybean product for the meat. Wanda would be amazed.

  ‘Alison,’ Max said, ‘it is most flattering to have you as a luncheon guest. I have few guests, except for Lettie and some cronies from my poker game. But if an inquiry would not be too blatant, to what do I owe the honor of this call?’

  You didn’t have to answer questions directly. He hadn’t, this morning before class. ‘You don’t talk that way in school.’

  ‘Ah, true. There I have my ingratiating pedagogic manner. Works like a charm. I’m much less engaging in actual life.’

  ‘Max, talk to the child in plain English. It could be she doesn’t even understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘Oh, I understand perfectly,’ she said to Lettie. ‘I’m verbally precocious, at least that’s what they told my parents the problem is. He’s saying he acts friendly when he teaches so that we’ll want to learn. And he wants to know why I came.’

  ‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Max. ‘So why did you come? But as long as you’re here, have some more chili.’

  ‘Thank you. I came because you’re an interesting person.’

  He set down his glass of wine to stare at her. Okay, let him. Let him find her out, if he could. It was satisfying to sit quite still under that gaze.

  ‘You followed me home,’ he accused.

  ‘How do you make the kids do those things? Do you use hypnotism or something?’

  He burst out laughing. ‘Hypnotism? But I just told you, and you said you understood—it’s a manner. A method. You think I’m some kind of Svengali?’ Lettie laughed at that too. The name sounded exactly like what she meant, though, so she nodded. She would look it up in the encyclopedia, next shopping trip. Svengolly? Svengaly?

  ‘There’s another reason, actually,’ she said. ‘I think I might like to join a circus sometime. Fairly soon, maybe. I thought you could give me some advice.’

  ‘I’ll advise you another day,’ said Max. ‘Right after lunch you’re going back to school where you belong. It’s not my ambition to inspire truancy.’ He rose and went into the kitchen.

  ‘No, I’m not planning to go back to school today.’

  He moved fast: in a moment he was back, bringing three dishes of strawberry ice cream. ‘So be it. But you’ll have to go somewhere, because we’re going to the movies. When you’re old and superfluous you’ll have the luxury of afternoon movies also.’

  ‘What’s
playing?’

  ‘Children of Paradise,’ said Lettie. ‘It’s an ancient French movie. I saw it years ago. It’s full of romance and passion.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you fell for that,’ said Max. ‘The romance is a crock. It’s the pantomine that’s worth the price of admission. Now, there’s something beautiful to see.’

  ‘Oh, I wish I could go. I’ve never seen a French movie—they hardly ever come up here.’

  ‘Well, come along, then. You don’t mind, do you, Max? Otherwise she’ll have to wander around till school lets out. I remember how it is. I used to do that all the time. And it’s December.’

  ‘Yes, and besides, I need to take my mind off my problems.’

  ‘Your problems?’ Max asked, pushing back his chair.

  ‘My mother is pregnant.’

  ‘I should think that would be her problem.’

  ‘I don’t care much for little children. Didn’t you ever hear of sibling rivalry?’

  He got up slowly, staring at her once again, with a slight groan. That was all right. He would change, after a while. She would work on him.

  ‘I’ll clean up later,’ he said. ‘We’re late, and I don’t want to miss the coming attractions. Alison: the knapsack, the Hershey wrapper on the floor, and the tomato sauce on your shirt. Come on, hurry up, both of you.’

  CHAPTER 5

  THERE WAS SNOW ON the ground. The air was bitter and stung his cheeks like ice, and the wind, tearing through his black parka, knocked against his heart. Rounding blowy corners, he thought about how cold all of them must be in their graves how. But he had endured; he had to go out he had promises to keep. His rumored talents were in great demand. The parents of young schoolchildren invited him to entertain at birthday parties. He gave spectacular, if highpriced, magic shows, and the rich bastards forked it over without a whimper. Some curious teachers from the early-morning gymnastics class invited him to dinner: as a guest he was an excellent commodity he could sing for his supper. And at school, since they had discovered he could tell a good story they had been trying to persuade him to do it weekly for the kindergarten across the street. At this rate he would become an institution. There had not even been time for Yoga. He was saving Yoga for the spring, if he lived that long. Meanwhile it was nearing February, worst of months. He dreaded like a recurring bad dream the month she died. He used to feel, when he closed the door of their apartment in the Village, that nothing could intrude. They even took the phone off the hook. Death, as it turned out, was the only intruder to be reckoned with. Slipped in with Susie, her shadow.

  Now he answered every call. His phone rang more in a week than it had in months, those last years in the city. Alison, for one, had taken to calling late at night. First there were reasonable pretexts, questions about the tumbling he was teaching in the gym. Then as she gained confidence she began closing in, like a fly buzzing around its chosen crumb, in narrower and narrower loops.

  ‘Max, say a kid joins a circus and works around the place, you know, doing odd jobs—how long would it take before she could get into an act?’

  ‘That depends, on how fast she can learn, what kind of physical shape she’s in, what their situation is. A lot of things.’

  ‘Well, suppose she’s very agile and a fast learner and all that.’

  Max frowned into the phone. It was midnight. It had been a long, cold day, and he was in bed, yearning to curl into oblivion with Hercule Poirot. ‘If you’re thinking of trying it, Alison, let me warn you, you’ll be sweeping up an awful lot of elephant dung before you become a star.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not for me.’

  ‘Who is it for, then?’

  ‘I can’t tell you...Oh, all right. I’m writing a book.’

  ‘You’re writing a book. I see.’

  ‘It’s an adventure story, about a girl. But please don’t tell anyone at school.’

  ‘I won’t tell. Look, it’s rather late. Why don’t we talk about the book another time?’

  ‘Okay. But listen, there’s just one more thing, Max. It’s about the juggling. I saw these three jugglers once, two boys and a girl, at Rockefeller Plaza a couple of years ago. It was New Year’s Day—my parents took me in to see the tree. They were so fantastic—they had these tramp costumes and their faces were painted all white with green eye shadow, and a big crowd gathered around. It had just snowed. It was all cold and sunny, and they tossed these big black pins back and forth and kept cracking jokes and laughing while they did it. It was so weird, Max, I mean, right in the middle of the city and all the big buildings, to see this. So anyway, what I wanted to know was, how can a person join an act like that? Because I am getting pretty good at it, and maybe if I could get in touch with people like them, who do it for a living...Max, are you still there?’

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘So how do you think I should go about it?’

  ‘Alison, I haven’t the vaguest idea. But why don’t you finish junior high school first, then maybe try high school?’

  ‘You’re being sarcastic again. All right, I’ll let you go to sleep. But you want to know something? Guess what happened to those jugglers that day.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A cop came along and chased them away. Isn’t that just typical?’

  ‘Typical, yes.’ His eyelids were drooping. ‘Good night.’

  But when he hung up he could neither sleep nor concentrate on the whodunit. It had begun hailing outside, and the brisk tapping sound on the windows was exactly the same as on that night he could never forget, when she brought home with her death the intruder. In his head it was like yesterday, keener than yesterday. She had been feeling weak and had an appointment the next morning for some blood tests. He was home from the shop first; she had stopped to buy new boots. Her old ones were letting in the snow. When he heard her key he went to take her coat and packages. He kissed her. He brought a towel to dry her hair, gleaming with bits of hail. She stood leaning against the door. Without a word, with a slow, numbing authority, she unbuttoned his corduroy vest, slipped it off his shoulders, and let it slide to the floor. She did the same with his shirt, then started to unbuckle his belt.

  Confused, Max submitted with a silly grin. ‘What are you carrying on? You’re a totally abandoned woman.’

  ‘Assault,’ she whispered, and continued.

  He delighted in every touch of Susie’s, but this touch made him uneasy. She wasn’t playful. Dead serious.

  ‘Do you still...’

  ‘What, Susie?’ She was tugging awkwardly at the zipper of her new boot. He bent down. ‘Let me do that.’

  ‘Do you still want me like when I was young?’

  ‘There you go—it was caught. You know you’re my unbridled passion,’ he teased. It was all wrong that she should ask.

  She made love to him wildly, on top of him on the couch, to the sound of the hail pelting the windows. He felt seized and taken and devoured, but he yielded completely, for Susie was possessed by something that had to be placated. She cried out with pleasure but her face above him was sorrowful. When it was over she collapsed on his chest and sobbed.

  ‘What is it, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Don’t you know I’m dying?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you! You’re tired, that’s all, run down. It’s the weather. Please, Susie. Please.’

  ‘Oh, I am so scared,’ she wept.

  She was right. She had found out long before him what dying felt like. He knew a little bit now, but far from all she had known when she lay flat with the tubes in her arms. Sometimes he felt a shiver of knowledge, not understanding but more like a tainted breeze passing over him. And at those moments, he wanted to follow right into that barren wind and away.

  He wanted out, but they wouldn’t let him go. They called with their offers. He might feel like a wall around dark space, but it appeared a beam was still visible from outside, as when one leaves a room but forgets to turn out the light. He accepted the offers, and though his he
art wasn’t in it, he did his best. It was no use living in the past, Dr Small and Miss Tilley had advised. But with all due respect, where else should he live? That he had no future his fluttery chest informed him every time he walked up a flight of stairs.

  Even Vicky Cameron had strategies to whip her charges out of depression. On one of her late nights she phoned him at eleven-thirty.

  ‘Mr Fried, I know you keep late hours so I’m not going to apologize. And you don’t like it when I’m polite so I’m not being polite: I want you to give a little performance Friday night for Mr Rakofsky’s birthday party. He’ll be eighty-four—you can’t refuse.’

  He had no one but himself to blame that she was so well acquainted with his skills. How many times had he juggled her paperweights, conjured her stapler and Scotch tape off the desk, slid her ballpoint pens into his pocket and out his sleeve? The bill for those indulgences had fallen due.

  ‘All right, all right, I’ll do it. But I must say, you puzzle me. Is this the Victoria Cameron I knew?’

  ‘You do bring out a new side of me, that’s quite true.’

  ‘There’s hope for you yet, Victoria.’

  ‘Never mind the prognosis, Mr Fried. Just see that you’re in the lounge Friday in time for the dinner. Seven o’clock. It wouldn’t look right to come in afterwards. I trust you’ll put together a really fine act. Nothing too risqué, please. Thank you and good night. I say that as a formality, not as a wish.’

  ‘Well done.’

  He entered the lounge Friday evening with an arm linked through Lettie’s. The high-ceilinged room was laced with red and blue twined crepe-paper streamers. People in small groups stood about chattering. On the far wall, between the picture windows with beige curtains drawn across them for evening, hung ‘Happy Birthday George,’ in big red letters. Ten white-clothed tables set for six were arranged in a circle, each with a bottle of wine in the center. Across the room he spied, wearing a green and white striped party hat, the birthday man in a wheelchair. The place was brightly lit by overhead fluorescent beams; light bounced off spectacles on the faces that turned to examine Max.