Alfred

He trailed his mother, tugged on little feet, connected by stretched arms. “Keep up, keep up.” He could see only the long brown leather glove and a nubbly orange-red sleeve which pulled his hand along, little tug, little tug big tug. He wore his olive green corduroy coat and matching hat, which he was allowed to wear if he was good. That’s why Mama called it his good coat.
A man stands with feet in an ”L” shape, near the gate impediment smiling at nothing. A tiny red-capped monkey crouches at his elbow, worrying a chestnut. Feet do a triple time to keep up with the tap, tap of his mother’s unstoppable boots. Here a bench with tired people waiting, there a can of criss-cross metal overflowing with cups, newspaper, an inside-out umbrella. Smells flowing over, under, around – smoke exhaust coffee bubble gum garbage.
He chanted in his head - A crack - as he went swiftly down the sidewalk. Break your mother’s back – crack – break your mo – oops! Tripping a little, took a big step to steady himself.
There’s Joe’s butcher shop, looks closed, “I Like Ike” poster still in the window – gosh, from last year! They waited to cross. A dime on the ground was soon in his pocket. Corner of Pennsylvania and – what does that say? Straight Street?
The trees in their concrete pens radiated colors from his crayon box – bright yellow, deep crimson, amber – and the leaves flew about freely in the breeze. The sky was cast iron grey, and the holiday crowd matched his burnt sienna, brown and hunter green crayons. The squirrels scurried about, beige streaks with black currant eyes and bushy tails.
Mama had finally agreed that they would go to Uncle Henry’s for Thanksgiving, although Alfred had to be perfectly behaved all morning. Luckily, he had, and now he skipped to stay under the huge green umbrella that she clutched as they went down the sidewalk.
Usually they had the turkey dinner at their small apartment. Mama would bring out the orange plates and the “nice” straw place mats and the little turkey salt and pepper shakers that she got at the flea market. Dinner was dry turkey, creamed corn, some purple jelly stuff and some lumpy bread mixture that never quite turned out right. She’d light the candles on the table and sometimes she’d even have music playing on the phonograph. But then she’d get mad at him because he didn’t hold his fork right, or he forgot to put his napkin in his lap, and she would leave the table and start banging the pots and pans. He’d sit there pushing the turkey and corn around on his plate, painting in the purple stuff, swinging his legs quietly, until he was done eating, because “we don’t waste food.”
A big orange leaf wetly caressed his cheek flying by and away; the chilly breeze blew light rain at them, but she hummed. Rips and crumples of tissue paper blew with the leaves, debris left from the earlier parade. People, buildings streaming past, blocking then letting the subdued sun, walking this way, that, like an ocean, waves of people from the bus, streams, sidewalks, stores, and then they recede until they are all behind and he and his mother are tap, tapping. He almost walked into her patent leather shoes as she came to an abrupt halt at the wide curving steps of his uncle’s brown bungalow. Warm light shone through sheer curtains.
She pulled him up the stone stairs and to the dark red door. Alfred shivered extra hard as she pulled down the huge umbrella and shook it out. At last she wrapped smartly two times with the brass knocker, then pushed the door with a gloved hand. It opened slowly and Alfred felt pulled in by the warmth and aroma. As they stepped across the golden oak threshold, he saw his reflection in the brass knocker, blond hair and a nose growing then fading. Mack the Knife played in the background.
Uncle Henry, a huskier version of his mother with jolly cat-like eyes, had held out a meaty hand and pulled Alfred into a bear hug. “You’ve grown up since we last saw you.”
His puzzlement was pressed into his uncle’s shoulder as he thought, did some kids shrink?
Then Uncle Henry faced Mama, holding out slack arms.
“Ruth, how you been? It’s good to see you – it’s been a – a couple of years now?”
She made an imperceptible noise, turned around and shrugged off her coat. Uncle Henry threw a quick look Alfred’s way as he took the falling coat. She had spotted a bottle of wine on a table only a few feet away; she made for a glass and poured.
Billy, who even then had slicked back hair, was Alfred’s age, but he’d kept to himself and his plane, so Alfred hadn’t bothered to take out the Superman comic book he had hidden in his inside pocket folded in, against his mother’s wishes. He carefully folded the coat now and handed it to Susan, who placed it as carefully on a chair by the door. Alfred had followed Susan’s long straight dark blond hair to a festive orange table by the side window for some punch. She was about the same height as he, and slender.
They had put up decorations for the holiday; corn husks, little pilgrims. They’d even picked some autumn leaves to put under the punch bowl.
Spilling a little punch on the tablecloth, she handed him the glass and whispered, “Is she okay?”
He nodded.
His mother took note and called him over as she filled her glass again.
He took his time walking around the dining room table set for dinner. They’d only been here for a couple of minutes, and already he’d done something wrong. The long table was covered with a golden tablecloth, white dishes with gold rims, silverware lined up neatly in its place, glasses coordinated and ready for drinks. Even the potholders fit in. He imagined Aunt Ellen in slow motion lamenting a spot on a fork.
He reached his mother and moved close, hoping she would speak quietly.
“Does Susan say it’s okay to come over and talk to me?” She was loud as usual. Everyone watched them, and the color rose in his face, as always, but he tried to feel normal.
“Well?”
This was a no-win situation. Take the path of least resistance.
“Yes, she said it was okay.”
“Quite the comedian, you are. “ Mama gave an ugly laugh and slapped her thigh. She moved in and regarded him carefully. He imagined fumes of alcohol dancing around her head.
“Why the heck did you wear that shirt? What, did you get it out of the laundry basket? It’s got a spot on it. And take your shoes off. You’re being disrespectful.”
He didn’t dare glance down at her own shoes which were still on her feet. He moved towards the door to remove the offending items.
“Where are you going? I’m not done talking to you yet.” She reached across and pulled him over by his collar.
“Dinner is served.” Aunt Ellen bore the turkey to put on the table.
Mama looked into his eyes, daring him to shrug or say something. Then she gave him a little push and let go of his shirt. “Come on, let’s not keep everyone waiting.” She said in her high party voice.
Alfred walked over and took off his shoes, and by the time he got back to the table, the only spot left was next to his mother. Well, she was his family, after all. His whole family. At least there was a table leg in between them.
He furtively glanced around the room as Uncle Henry boomed a prayer. Cherry-finished furniture, nice paintings, soft cream-colored carpet under his feet. Uncle Henry was doing well by the look of things. When he compared it to their small dingy apartment, he sighed contentedly during the “Amen.”
There was a confusion of passing dinner plates and serving food as everyone chattered.
“So, what do you have to do to be able to buy nice china like this?” His mother turned to Aunt Ellen who sat across from her.
“Well, Henry gives me an allowance and I buy it with that,” Ellen replied. “Of course, sometimes I go over a bit, but he doesn’t mind.”
His mother examined the serving spoon in her hand. “Probably doesn’t go over by much.”
That was strange – she was always excited when they went to the flea market; that’s where she bought their “china.”
Uncle Henry glanced at Aunt Ellen, then turned to Alfred. “So, how’s school going this year, Alfred?”
“Well –“ he started, thinking of the great spelling test he’d just taken.
“He got a C in math again,” his mother jumped in. “But he did get a B minus in English, not that that’s much better than a C. I’m sure Susan and Billy are doing much better.”
Susan’s eyes were saucers.
“Could you pass the salt?” He half-shrugged the shoulder opposite his mom. Susan smiled carefully. The rest of the dinner was like this; someone would make a comment, his mother would volley, and someone else would have to spike it and risk going out of bounds.
Alfred practiced a deaf ear as the hard shots were directed at him. The crunchy rolls were handy for drowning out superfluous noise.
As he ate the last of his second helping of perfectly cubed stuffing, Aunt Ellen began clearing the plates off the table, which looked rather like a war zone with bits of turkey, stuffing and drips of gravy here and there.
“So, Ruth,” she said, “How is John these days?”
The table quietly and collectively gasped at this outward slam. Mama sighed, picked up her wine glass and drained it, then turned toward Ellen who was behind her.
“John is not with us anymore; he chose to leave us.”
“Really. I’m surprised that he would leave Alfred like that.”
Susan and Billy had quietly gotten up from the table and were stacking dishes. Alfred was jealous that they had such a good excuse to scram. Uncle Henry sat motionless, hand in mid-air on the way to adjust his glasses, wine-stained napkin hanging from his shirt.
His mother got up very quickly and pushed her chair back. “Kids, I’ll take those plates for you.”
She followed Aunt Ellen into the kitchen. The door swung closed behind them, and as it cradled at its hinges, what could be heard was not a conversation so much as a grudge match through clenched teeth.
Uncle Henry and the kids sat silently fidgeting, anxious to listen.
The voices rose in the kitchen, followed by a crash. His mother pushed her way out the door and walked over to Alfred.
“You broke it!” Aunt Ellen stood in the doorway, the jagged part of a dripping gravy bowl hanging from her outstretched hand. “How could you?”
Mama turned to Uncle Henry. “Thank you for a very nice dinner, but we must be going now.”
“Mom, we haven’t had dessert yet…”
His voice drained into his chest when she turned her look at him. He cringed at the smack he knew was coming, Bam! Upside the back of his head.
Susan tried not to look but he could see her watching biting her lip, right before his head bounced forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Billy smirked.
“Come on, Alfred, we’re going. Now.”
He put his napkin on the table trying not to look angry. Glancing at Susan, he told her with his eyes that it was okay, he was used to it. Her lip quivered. His mother grabbed his arm and yanked it so hard, the chair tipped. She forgot about their coats and they headed out into the cold. He barely shoved his shoes on, still tied.
It was so much colder now; freezing rain pelted down. He was uncomfortably full, like there was coal in his stomach. They had gotten about a block away when Uncle Henry caught up with them, his napkin half-flapping, half plastered to his sleeve. He held their coats in one beefy hand.
“Ruth, please don’t go like this. I’m sorry – it was rude of Ellen to touch on such a sensitive subject.”
She turned around, on the attack. “You should keep her on a leash then.”
With that she ripped the coats out of his hand and continued, her hand like an iron grip on Alfred’s freezing hand. Uncle Henry stood there, pleading with her, but it wasn’t long before his pleas were drowned in the pouring rain. Alfred wished he could go back and have some of that delicious pumpkin pie he had seen on the cooling rack.
He wished they hadn’t seen her hit him and cringed at the thought of it. It surprised him that the embarrassment was worse than the pain. He wished Aunt Ellen had kept her mouth shut. Now as the freezing rain poured down, he hurried so he could just get inside.
They finally reached their building, fourth from the left, or fifth from the right, in the long line of row houses. He took his time, kicking off soaked suede shoes, then his coat. He took off the offensive shirt, and looked around.
Same old place, even shabbier than usual. Small and spare, oatmeal-gray carpet, the coffee table from a sidewalk sale, the couch a threadbare lime-green. Dark orange drapes covered the windows and the wallpaper was old and cracking. The highlight was the small phonograph perched by the window under a sickly spider plant.
Still hungry for dessert, he went to the kitchen, quietly grabbed a cookie and moved towards his room. He heard a low sobbing and expected the door to his mother’s room to be closed, the floor mysteriously squeaking as it usually did at such times.
He reached the tiny strip of dull greenish linoleum which ran between her room and his. Her door was open a crack.
She was sitting on the floor with her back to the door, rocking back and forth, ochre in black and white. It looked like she was holding something in her arms. Curious, he forgot for a moment that he was standing there, staring. Then as she heaved another sob, he started, and headed back to his little room on the right.
The weekend after Thanksgiving was quiet; he kept to his room, not knowing what else to do. He took stock of his small comic book collection, reading here and there, reminding himself of the characters in another world. Superman, who was really Clark Kent, the glasses… Mama was in a mood, as she always was after holidays. It was better to make himself scarce. Like Invisible Man.
He was doing some homework on Sunday afternoon when an unidentifiable noise came from the front room. Sounded like crumpling cellophane, and then a thump. Cellophane, then a thump.
He opened his door quietly. Mother had her back to him; she was fumbling with the Christmas lights. He was relieved that she was pulling out the Christmas decorations. That usually put her in a better mood.
He stood in his doorway, but he couldn’t tell if the lights were frustrating her.
She turned around and looked at him. Gentle eyes.
“Hey.” She said quietly.
“Want me to put on some music?”
“All right, I got out the Christmas albums. Try one of those.”
Alfred went over and picked out something quiet that he thought she would like. He saw the song from a few years ago, and took a chance. The phonograph crackled when the needle went down.
“Alvin, Simon, Theodore…”
She smiled weakly at him. They spent an evening not talking very much, and it went by quickly.
It felt good to him that he was doing everything right for once, not making her mad.
* * *
In the spring of his sixteenth year, Alfred’s asthma was getting worse. Even before he got to the first step of their apartment building, the wheeze began. Twenty steps of relative peace.
He paused at the wide base step, watching a coated figure move away down the sidewalk, then picturing his dad’s foot the last time he saw him. A snapshot in his head; the bony ankle under rumpled brown corduroy, thin sock in a scuffled penny-loafer, even the angle between the heel and the cement, a guy in a hurry, out of here.
There were four steps up to the door; a few steps of relative calmness in outside air. The breeze ebbed and beckoned him to stay outside, stay out. Up to the glass door, and here goes nothing. How bad could it be? He braced his foot against the short step and pulled the brass handle. Heavy door; he had to lean against it to hold it open, and get himself all in before the door closed, an echoing boom in the dim silence of the damp hall.
No one about in the long octagon-tiled hallway to the left of the stairs. Usually he could count on a chat with Mr. Franklin meandering out for the paper, or Miss Smith stepping out for groceries.
Down the grungy steps to the garden level.
I’ll just say, Mom, they didn’t have any Parmesan, and frankly, you’re putting on a little weight. He smiled to himself a little, even at the part where she reached out and smacked him. It didn’t hurt if it was in his head.
Mood back to gray as he passed the crucifix halfway down the stairs which someone had placed on the dingy wall.
A little panic, then he imagines they’ve already gotten past that issue, on to dinner. A veined hand curled almost white-knuckled around the jelly wine glass, like something from a Joan Crawford comic book, up for a swallow, then down, in between her tirade about Ike, what crap was on tv, the new lady at work, pass the salt…
And there he was, in front of the door in a momentary daze; he caught sight of a blond curly headed reflection in the privacy mirror she’d put on the diamond shaped window. He gasped a little; he looked years older than sixteen. He shook his head to get back in the now and the door flew open.
“Alfred, come in, you’ll catch your death. Who was that person you were talking to?”
His mom pulled him on the door helped him with his coat.
“Nobody, Mom. Just someone asking for directions.” He suppressed a smile that would surely get him in trouble.
“Alfred! I’m talking to you! How could you forget the Parmesan cheese? I asked you to get it, you know Mama can’t make your favorite recipe without it. Where is your head today?”
His fast reply flew out of his head. “Sorry, mother – I’ll go get it—“
Here goes.
“I ask you to do one simple thing, and can you do it, no!”
He backed into his usual corner, only hearing the crescendos.
“…work hard for us to put food on the table”…”decent meal”…”Asking too much? Is it? Forget about it. We’ll have to have the roast beef and rice leftovers instead.”
When the dull ringing in his ears subsided, he looked up, and she was moving to the refrigerator. She was still in her work clothes, the orangey-red suit she’d bought at Lord & Taylor’s.
At one time she must have been handsome but he couldn’t remember it. Everything about her was faded, her dull blond hair tucked into a twist, her white skin, her eyes. Only her temperament still snapped.
He took off his shoes at the front door, allowing his distance from her to take him back to Annabelle, the girl outside, if only for a moment.
The girl’s reflection appeared in his size-14 narrows as he untied them. Scraggly blonde hair flowing like a head cape, sending him signals… He had to get back to her; he’d have to wait until he went to bed tonight.
He zoned through the long dinner, excitement evacuating his appetite. His thoughts wandering to a certain park, where she wanted to meet him later… the impossibility of it all…
“Are you listening to me? I asked you if you knew where your father is these days.”
“No, I’ve been working late, mom.” His job at the little market at 71st had provided him with many excuses to be gone. And it’d been his mother’s idea, to bring cash into the house.
“Oh. Well, that’s just as well. Bastard probably doesn’t have anything to say for himself anyway.”
“Give him a break,” he thought from his balled up stomach.
His mind recalled an attempt a few years ago at standing up for his dad. A plate of spaghetti had hit the wall above his head, and he had spent a tearful afternoon cleaning it up.
When he was about five, Mama and Dad had a fight over the brand of milk Dad brought home one day. She sent him back out to get the “right kind”, and he just never came back.
When his mother took him to the store, he’d see it in the cooler and point it out. “There it is, Mama. Let’s get it for Dad.” She’d just shake her head and give him a dirty look.
Alfred hated milk but Mama had him drink it for his stomach. He pretended to hate Dad too, just to make life bearable with her.
Tonight, after the usual eggshell walking, he finally escaped to his room and lay in his narrow maple bed and waited for her to go to sleep – or pass out. This was a drinking night.
A Duke Ellington saxophone whined out the last few notes of “Prelude to a Kiss” on the phonograph.
In the silence, he looked up at the reflection of the leaves off the wavy ceiling lamp and let the scene play again in is head, meeting Anna outside the market. She was so different, not like the girls at school, not like his relatives, and nothing like Mama. He wanted to go through it again…
He had stood at the deli counter, at a loss. Glanced at his loafers for a second, seeing Mama’s disappointed face, then hurriedly back up, once meeting the eyes of the counter man who was glancing at the line of customers waiting on a busy Saturday. Asking a second time about Parmesan, maybe you have some in the back? An annoyed look from the counter man told him otherwise.
What to tell mother? He could try the deli across the street, only she said she wouldn’t shop there on a bet. He rubbed his shaven chin and muttered okay, shuffling away. He’d have to think of something.
Wait – maybe he could ask for a bag from here and take it across the street. He tried to catch the counter man’s eye again. But the man had moved on to the next in line, an old lady in a pink crocheted hat asking for beef tips. Oh, that probably wouldn’t work anyway, she’d catch it sure enough.
He pulled his baggy worn coat around him against the cold and was about to step out of the market, when someone crashed right into him. He felt his body flying to the ground, catching himself with his hand, scraping it on the cold pavement. Lying on the pavement, he shook his head to figure out what happened. From a dizzy shake of the head he saw two people struggling, a taller policeman and a shorter, non-descript person in multiple layers of clothing.
“Ma’am, either return the merchandise you took from the store or I’ll have to arrest you…”
“Let me go, you idiot! I didn’t steal anything! I just forgot to pay for it, honest.”
He remembered this person – he saw her filch the very thing she was accused of taking, and she’d actually turned and winked at him! But oh, did that wink do things to his stomach, that face, that cute nose, those blond strands.
Right then he had the thought that he would do anything for her, of course then thinking that was ridiculous. He wanted to stand up for her now, but – well, why not? Mother wasn’t here.
“Take your hands off her, please.” He stood up at once. “She just forgets to pay for things sometimes. She’s - she’s my sister.”
The adrenaline rushed to his head and his face held as much surprise as theirs.
“Your sister, huh?” The officer looked him over but appeared to not want to pursue the obvious lie. “Well then, if one of you has the money to pay for the merchandise, she’s free to go.”
The girl began to dig through a voluminous macramé bag that Alfred assumed was her purse, almost climbing into the thing, before Alfred reached into his pocket and grabbed a little of his reserve money. “This should be enough,” he said, trying not to shake, and handed it over. The satisfied officer eyed them once again before walking back inside. Then it was just her, and him.
They just stood there for a moment, she looking down at the ground, he looking onto the past scene with amazement. He’d never done anything like that before. He felt pride and happiness swell in his chest, just as she was walking past him across the crunching gravel.
He turned and watched her digging in her bag, this time finding a cigarette and a match which she lit as she walked.
“Hey, where are you – what—“
She turned and looked at him, up and down. “You seem like a nice kid. C’mon with me a bit.”
Before he knew what his feet were doing, he was walking alongside her, and she was offering him a smoke.
“No, thanks,” he said immediately. Had to draw the line somewhere; Momma would smell it. The night air which earlier seemed oppressive was suddenly crisp; the moon luminescent over the trees.
“Can I walk you home?” He tried to sound polite but not fatherly.
“Nah, I just live around – well, over by Gartner Park, usually.”
Ah, she probably lived at the Y, and knew Dad then. Sometimes at night, on his way home from work, he’d seen people hanging out in small intimate groups in that park, before the Y’s curfew. He thought he had probably seen her there.
“So what’s your deal? You go around saving damsels in distress often?” Sarcasm drifted with the smoke from her mouth.
“No, I just – well, I thought you needed – I thought that you - - “
“C’mon, you goof,” she laughed as she straight-armed him off the gravel path. “I’m just playing with you. It was really nice of you to do that - mostly I just get busted.”
He was silent for a moment.
“What’s a matter, cat got your tongue?”
“No, I just – don’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“Like, you’re a thief, get some help?” She laughed.
“Well, uh – “
His awkwardness sent her laughing again. “What’s your name?”
“Alfred.” That one was easy.
“Oh, I’m so sorry…That’s an awful name! Where’d you get that from?”
He looked at her, his face burning. “From my mother, who also taught me to be careful of what I say.” He was taken aback by his own openness; wanted to grab the words back, for them to not have been.
“Hah! Oh, I’m sorry – point taken.” She was quiet, flicked her spent cigarette in the air.
“It’s been a while since anybody told me what to say. It’s gotta be kinda nice, yeah?”
He glanced at her but saw that she was serious. Then a light went on.
“Alfred, is that you? Come on in the house, it’s getting dark outside.”
They had walked right up to his building and he hadn’t even noticed. Of all the times he had walked this way, crunchy gravel to blacktop to sidewalk to briar bush; he tried to remember this night’s walk but couldn’t. She looked amused and he was suddenly embarrassed.
“Don’t worry about it. You gotta go. Cool chatting with you. Hey, my name’s Annabelle, and I’m gonna be at Gartner Park later if you want to meet me there. It’s by the Y.”
He smiled shyly. She reached out and touched his hand, and he almost pulled it back, startled. Then she was gone into the twilight, and he was left with his mother. And no Parmesan.
Mama was snoring now. The wind blew a few saplings outside.
She slept like a dead person but he was cautious anyway, slipping into his coat and shoes, avoiding the click of the door, up the stairs – then he just took off running, suddenly filled with glee as he ran harder, faster, to Gartner Park, to her.
Funny, his wheeze lessened the farther he ran.