Balancing Acts Read online

  He had never faced his fellow residents en masse. The tableau, in the harsh fluorescence, made his heart hurt. Voices from all sides called out greetings to Lettie—it seemed he had latched on to the most popular girl in the dorm. With so many friends, why did she need him? Pity? Aloof from her, he let himself be propelled among the tables and introduced. ‘My good friend, Max Fried.’ He shook a dozen aged hands. ‘Happy birthday. Congratulations.’ He clapped George Rakofsky carefully on the shoulder. Surely he could not say ‘Many more’?

  The soup was brought in. At the next table a man’s head, wobbling, bent to meet the bowl a woman raised to his lips. Parkinson’s. Max averted his glance. The last time he ever saw his father, a touch of it. A man opposite said, ‘I’ll be sixty-seven next April, and I’ve never felt better in my life.’

  ‘It’s since you retired, Joe. For thirty-five years, I told him, take it easy, slow down, but who listens to a wife? Up every day at six and in the store by seven—that’s no way to live!’

  Later they all gathered around to watch George cut the cakes, one huge and tiered like a wedding cake, frosted with pink roses, and one small and less ornate, baked by Lettie with ingredients, she explained to Max, safe for George and the other diabetics.

  They were his own people, but he wished he could disown them. All right, so morally he was some kind of monster, warped by a lifetime defying the laws of nature. Still, his own undeniably: they had shared the century, together undergone the Depression, two world wars and lesser skirmishes (which of them had lost their children or husbands?). Together watched hemlines go up and down, prices go up, and Presidents go from bad to worse; watched foreign enemies become friends and friends become enemies, immigrants assimilate and new immigrants arrive; watched their own bodies go from weak to strong to the final weakness. The ones with walkers and in wheelchairs had known freedom of movement, like himself. Their bodies concealed a history of moments of elation, passed. They could speak of all these passages in a language shared by those who shared a lifespan.

  Still, if he had the chance he would defect without a qualm from the common history. Were a stranger miraculously to appear at the door, scan the group, and point to him—‘You! You over there! There’s been a mistake. Come away.’—he would go without a backward glance. Rejuvenated, he would return to the hardy. To her. Yet gazing around, he could see he was no different; no one would single him out. And Susie, of course, nevermore.

  Vicky Cameron came in during dessert to announce a Social Hour, after which Max would provide entertainment.

  ‘A Social Hour!’ he moaned under his breath.

  ‘Shut up and socialize,’ Lettie whispered back.

  He had a second cup of coffee and wandered. In a corner, alone and motionless, sat two women. The larger one, solid and smooth-skinned, held the hand of the other, who was spare as a bone and shrinking into her chair. The yellow-green hollows of her eye sockets shone as if oiled. Her hair was sparse white tufts; her eyes, set deep in a pallid face, stared darkly, neither curious nor critical, but profoundly indifferent, as if from beyond the grave. He was about to walk over, to give them—yes, with condescension, he admitted it—the facile gift of his charm as he gave it to the children. When he recognized the look in those eyes, both charm and condescension failed him. He found Lettie in a cluster of men and pulled her aside.

  ‘That woman over there in the corner—don’t turn so much—in the dark-blue dress. What’s with her?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Jordan.’ Lettie lowered her eyelids. ‘She has leukemia.’

  ‘I knew it. I knew it.’

  ‘What are you, a doctor all of a sudden?’

  ‘I just knew.’

  She watched him for a moment, then touched his arm. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said softly.

  ‘Okay, you can go back to your admirers.’ He walked off.

  Except for the momentary distraction of a police siren, the act went flawlessly. He made coins and balls multiply and disappear. He turned a big paper flower into a parasol and turned the parasol into a top hat, which he presented to George with a deep bow. Behind a handkerchief he transformed a crumbled piece of birthday cake into a perfect slice. As a finale, he played ‘Happy Birthday’ with a spoon on an octave of glasses variously filled with water, then made the glasses vanish behind a scarf. His audience clapped and cheered.

  ‘You’re the hit of the evening, Mr Fried. What a marvelous talent.’ A woman in velvet décolletage and an ash-blond wig bore down on him.

  Max took a step back.

  She advanced. ‘But you can’t really trust a magician, can you? Who knows what kind of tricks he might play?’

  ‘With someone like you, my dear lady, a lot of tricks.’ He leered just a bit too overtly down the bosom of her dress and she retreated.

  The guest of honor came over to thank him personally. ‘Drop in to visit me sometime. I’m right below you.’ George had had a toy store, he told Max. He was familiar with games and tricks.

  ‘What happened to the business?’ Max asked.

  ‘It’s still there, in Suffern. My sons are running it. Hey, maybe you could give them some ideas.’

  He could be a business consultant. The nation was in a frenzy over unemployment, but for him opportunities were rampant. Soon he would need an appointments secretary, like the President.

  He remained till the party broke up. At their adjacent doors, Lettie said, ‘How about coming in, Max, for a cup of coffee?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘I don’t think so, Lettie. I’ve had about all the coffee I can take. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘the show was fun.’

  ‘Good.’

  She came over to his door. ‘Max, it’s no use being depressed. You have to make the best of it.’

  ‘Who’s depressed?’ He forced a show of spirit. ‘There was a good-looking woman down there running after me. Are you jealous?’

  ‘Ha!’ She threw her head back haughtily. ‘Me, jealous! What on earth for? Anyway, that one gives every new man the eye. It’s no special honor.’

  ‘Do you ever think about getting married? You seem younger than a lot of these people.’

  Lettie hesitated. ‘Do you mean in a general sense or a particular?’

  ‘General, general!’

  ‘Of course not! Lower my Social Security and cook three meals a day for some old bastard? Never.’

  ‘You’re faking.’

  She went back to her own door. ‘Good night,’ she said coldly.

  He was limp with remorse. ‘I’m sorry, Lettie. That’s how I get.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  He started towards her. ‘I want to kiss you good night, for once.’

  ‘I don’t need any favors, Max. And keep your voice down when you make that kind of proposition. The walls have ears.’

  ‘You’re refusing me?’

  ‘Go take one of your hot baths instead.’

  ‘You have to admit I’m the cleanest dirty old man around.’

  She shut the door firmly in his face.

  When the phone rang as he was setting down his bag of tricks, he was hardly surprised.

  ‘Max, I’ve been meaning to ask you—what made you set out on a life of adventure?’

  ‘Alison, do you know what time it is? I’m an old man. I’ve been out partying all night. I need my sleep.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice sank, deflated. ‘What party?’

  ‘A birthday party for an octogenarian. Oh, it’s all right, I was up. But why always so late? What about all the other hours in the day?’

  ‘I can’t fall asleep. I’m sitting here in the kitchen, and there’s no one else I feel like talking to.’

  ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘They’re impossible. All they care about is being normal, like everyone else. You can imagine what a disappointment I am. Anyway, they’re in bed. My mother is supposed to get a lot of rest. I told you she’s pregnant.’

  ‘Yes. I remember. When is she
expecting it?’

  ‘Oh, who the hell cares. June. Max, I am really in a fucked-up mood. Can I come over and talk to you? You don’t have such a provincial attitude towards life.’

  ‘At this hour? Don’t be silly. There’s not a soul out on the street. Why don’t you talk to the guidance counselor at school?’

  ‘Are you kidding? You’ve seen her.’

  She was right. A formidable, heavily powdered woman, Miss Wharton had once stopped him at the door to the men’s room, loudly demanding his credentials.

  ‘Find someone better, then, Alison. I have my own problems.’

  ‘Really? Tell me about them. I can be very sympathetic.’

  ‘I’ll see you in school Monday.’

  ‘Do you want to have lunch together? I’ll bring you a sandwich. We can take a walk if it’s not too cold. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘What kind of sandwich would you like? I’ll make you anything except meat.’

  ‘Anything at all. Please, let’s hang up now.’

  She took to dropping in, late afternoons.

  ‘Hi, Max,’ she announced. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be in—you’re so busy lately.’ Striding into his living room, she yanked the knapsack and jacket off her shoulders and dug out her oranges. ‘Watch this.’ She juggled all three in pure low arcs and an easy, steady rhythm. Then she caught them expertly, with a flourish. ‘Isn’t that good? I’ve been practicing a lot.’

  ‘That’s remarkable! You’re a hard worker, I can see. Next thing is to get them up a little bit higher, and then you can start going behind your back. Is that what you came to show me?’

  ‘Well, partly. It’s also a social visit. Can I take a glass of milk?’ She was already in the kitchen.

  ‘Help yourself. There are some brownies that Lettie baked, on the counter.’

  ‘I found them, thanks,’ she called. ‘How is Lettie?’

  ‘Fine, as of yesterday.’

  Alison returned, carrying the milk and brownies. ‘She’s a very close friend, isn’t she?’

  ‘Right now, the closest I’ve got.’

  Her eyes were downcast. ‘So you’re not lonely?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I understand about feeling lonely. I find people my own age very limited.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘Yes. There are things a person really can’t talk about to a thirteen-year-old. I mean, they don’t have the experience.’ She settled in his armchair. Max poured himself some Scotch and took the couch.

  ‘Like the future, for instance. They don’t have any concept of it; they just drift along from day to day. I have to get my plans organized. I don’t like to feel...aimless. Remember you said, about leaping in the air, that you have to feel in control—you can’t let surprises control you, like when the board pops up? I want to control where I’m going.’

  ‘But you’re confusing things. I was talking about a feat of skill, a—a performance. A performance is a planned thing. No one can control the future, or what happens to them. The best you can hope to do is control your own balance. And sometimes even then, a surprise will knock you over.’

  ‘Not if you’re prepared for it. What I mean is—a couple of years ago I used to stop at Bamberger’s every day after school to ride the escalators—I mean in the wrong direction, up the down and down the up. The guards get to you pretty fast, but still, you can have a few good rides. I figured out how to do it. You have to race against the pull of it. First it seems like you’ll never get there—you keep going and going. But you have to go a lot faster than the stairs go, or else you just stay in the same place. And then suddenly the floor is coming up to meet you, and the only way to reach it is a sort of flying leap. It was scary at first, because as you get ready to leap you’re being pulled back the opposite way. But then you get used to it, and it’s fantastic. Do you see what I mean? If you figure out a technique, no matter what...’

  Max smiled. ‘It might be fun for an escalator, but it’s a hard way to live. Do you really want to race against the pull all the time?’

  ‘I don’t know. I want to be able to do things. Someone like you—you know exactly what you’re doing all the time. You can even make people do things they could never do before. Like Nick. You picked him at the beginning because he was the most frightened.’

  ‘I’ve told you before that I don’t make people do anything. It’s a common teaching method. Socratic, since you’re so smart. I used to train the new kids when I was on the road. They had the ability but they didn’t always know where to look for it. How to bring it forth. It’s simply helping people find things in themselves that they didn’t know were there. Drawing it out is very different from putting it in.’

  She pondered for a moment. ‘Not really so different, if you think about it. Because if you can’t reel something it might as well not be there. So then it’s like the person who found it almost made it. Right?’

  ‘Wrong.’ He laughed and finished his drink. ‘But interesting.’

  ‘Well, anyway, Max, can’t you tell me how you got to have—I don’t know, it’s like an aura. It’s just there—nobody has to draw it out. You know things.’

  ‘An aura? There’s no such thing. An aura is in the eye of the beholder. As far as knowing things, I’m as much in the dark as everyone else, believe me.’ He got up and paced the room. ‘Only older. Older.’

  ‘But at least you had the kind of life you wanted. Did you run away from home?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Did they send the police out looking for you?’

  ‘No, I left a note explaining. And I was past seventeen. People went out on their own much earlier then—they had to earn a living.’

  ‘How did you know where to go?’

  He sat down opposite her. The recollection made him smile. ‘I didn’t. But I used to read a lot. And in my books all the adventure was west, so I took a train west.’

  ‘That’s funny—in my book, too, she goes west. She hitchhikes, mostly.’

  ‘I had a little money. I went up to Penn Station about six or seven in the evening and sat in the waiting room trying to look casual, as though I did this every day and knew exactly where I was going. Chicago, Des Moines, Denver—the names sounded so exotic over the loudspeaker. It seems comical now. I sat there a long time. I remember I bought a candy bar and ate it very slowly while I read a newspaper. With a newspaper, I thought, I wouldn’t seem shiftless. It wasn’t long after the war—everyone still read the papers religiously.’

  ‘Was that the First World War?’

  ‘Of course. What did you think, the Civil?’

  ‘I wonder if I would have that kind of nerve.’

  ‘You don’t need it. Your parents will send you to college and you can choose whatever field you like. Things are altogether different now. Here.’

  ‘But I don’t want that,’ she cried. ‘I loathe school! I want to be out in the world. I want to get on a train like you or like Alice, and ride and ride for a long time, and then get off in some strange place, and know that I’ll manage to get along somehow, no matter what.’

  ‘Who’s Alice?’

  ‘The girl in my book. She’s—she’s a person who does what she feels like. Do you have any children, Max?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you were married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you might have had children. What was your wife like?’

  He shook his head warningly at her. ‘Don’t you have any friends you sit around and talk to?’

  ‘Oh, a few. No one special. Is she dead a long time?’

  Astonished, he stared: bony, hungry shoulders, sharp chin, green eyes digging in him. ‘I don’t discuss it.’

  ‘Oh, well. Do you have any circus pictures?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do. I have quite a few.’ Maybe they would appease her. He never bothered with them—two-dimensional things, no feel or texture. He had dragged the
albums from place to place, unable to toss them out, because they were precious to her. ‘Su—my wife took them; it was a hobby of hers. I’ll show you. You’ll see it’s not so glamorous as you think.’

  He fetched the two large albums from a shelf in the bedroom closet. They were heavier than they used to be; his muscles slumped with the weight. ‘I haven’t looked at these in I don’t know how long.’

  ‘Oh, this is great! I love old pictures.’ She swallowed the last bit of brownie and came to sit close to him on the couch, pulling the album over so it rested on both pairs of knees. She had a funny child smell—chocolate, sweat, pencils, rubber-soled sneakers. ‘Who’s this? He looks like some kind of animal.’

  It was Henry Cook, standing on parched shaggy grass in front of the tent in an absurd muscle-man pose, arms held out L-shaped and biceps bulging. Somebody—Brandon or Susie, he couldn’t remember which—had stuck a clown’s small dumpy hat on his head. Off to the left, a banner suspended between two poles rippled in a forgotten wind. It was Henry Cook all right, but also nothing, a weightless image no one looked at, a moment no one alive could locate. Without this evidence, that moment, that wind, might never have existed.

  ‘Henry. He was the man on the bottom, who supported everyone on his shoulders.’

  ‘I thought you did that.’

  ‘Oh, no, you need those shoulders and legs. Look at the size of the fellow.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  Max shrugged.

  ‘What’s this?’

  He peered. It was in color, faded and indistinct. ‘Oh, yes, I remember that now. We were having a party, New Year’s or something. See the balloons? We took it with a flash—that’s why it’s so blurry. You see this fellow over here on the side? John Todd. He was a wonderful clown. This was his trailer. I can’t make out the others too well, there’re so many crowded in.’

  ‘Is that a monkey he’s holding?’

  ‘Yes, she was his pet. He called her Joanna. I never cared for her myself. She used to sit up on a kitchen cabinet sometimes, while we ate breakfast.’