Manor . He finally got to his bed, fell on it without taking off his clothes, and for the next few days did not know whether he was waking or sleeping. Early one morning when he came to, there was a woman sitting beside him. It was Mrs. Bickle, who had awakened him by the cool pressure of her hand on his temple.
5
ZOE SIGNS WITH PRINCETON
M rs. Bickle had arrived in New York during the big drought, the revival of the wig and white-leadlip makeup, fellatio as the favorite subject in best-selling fiction, the campaign by the Commissioner of Markets to put palm-readers, fortune-tellers, and purveyors of the occult out of business, and world sugar irregular.
Dropping in unannounced from the Gramercy Park apartment that Keith had obtained for her, Mrs. Bickle had no idea she would find Bernie Gladhart as sick as he was or living in such squalor. She called a doctor, a young Sephardic Jew, who prescribed sedatives and told her the sick man was undergoing a minor emotional crisis. He cautioned her to sit at his bedside until he rallied.
Obeying, Mrs. Bickle listened to Bernie; incoherent mumblings through the night, their chief topics being incarceration and the noose. Early in the morning, he seemed to take a turn for the worse when he recognized her beside him. It required time and effort on her part, together with the doctor’s predilect remedy of cup after cup of warm water with lemon juice, to convince Bernie that they were not back in Chicago, and their New York career lay still ahead.
“When you’re stronger and I’ve had my beauty sleep, you can tell me what happened,” she assured him. “I suspect, however,” she added, “it’s the place as much as anything,” and she surveyed the filth and the mouldering walls and ceiling.
“The place, hell! Carrie’s gone and married a nigger,” Bernie exploded.
A few days later when he was well enough to be sitting in a chair, dressed in a monk’s cloth bathrobe, he explained it all to Mrs. Bickle.
“I suppose it’s my fault, too,” she said, “since I’m supposed to have sent you to Brooklyn in the first place.”
“You don’t seem too surprised at my news either, come to think of it,” Bernie studied her face.
“How did you find out he was colored?” Mrs. Bickle asked in reply. She did seem unsurprised. “I mean,” she said, “after all you were only on the telephone.”
“Oh,” he sneered. “Well, that’s easy. She shouted his name.” He laughed three times. “When she was in culmination, she called out, ‘Joel!Joel Ullay!’ and I remembered that was the name of the dinge dancer she knew.”
“I’m already in on the whole thing, Bernie. I may as well tell you.”
“You mean you heard it on the phone too?” he was nearly credulous.
“Curt phoned me about it,” she said. “News travels fast in that neighborhood.”
“Well, then you can tell me,” he snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead.” He lit a cheroot, and began examining the ends of his fingers.
“I’m sorry, Bernie, about it.”
“Skip the shit and let me have the facts,” he told her.
“Somebody talks like he was going to live after all,” Zoe couldn’t refrain from a sigh of relief.
“Go ahead and tell me, Zoe, and then I can decide by myself if I’m going to die or live.”
“Well, of course you’re right, Bernie. It is Joel Ullay. He’s moving in.”
“ Moving? He was clear in the other night.”
Consuming his cheroot in enormous drags, he went on with: “Say, Zoe, did you ever hear of a guy that lost everything as quick as I did: my home, wife, job, my town. I ain’t got a thing left, if you think it over.”
She did seem to be thinking it over, and he turned away from her face with irritation and impatience.
“Go ahead and give it to me,” he told her.
“If you can wait a minute, I’ll give you Curt’s version of it,” she fumbled in her purse for a cigarette.
“Oh don’t give me nothing. I hate people who got
5
ZOE SIGNS WITH PRINCETON
M rs. Bickle had arrived in New York during the big drought, the revival of the wig and white-leadlip makeup, fellatio as the favorite subject in best-selling fiction, the campaign by the Commissioner of Markets to put palm-readers, fortune-tellers, and purveyors of the occult out of business, and world sugar irregular.
Dropping in unannounced from the Gramercy Park apartment that Keith had obtained for her, Mrs. Bickle had no idea she would find Bernie Gladhart as sick as he was or living in such squalor. She called a doctor, a young Sephardic Jew, who prescribed sedatives and told her the sick man was undergoing a minor emotional crisis. He cautioned her to sit at his bedside until he rallied.
Obeying, Mrs. Bickle listened to Bernie; incoherent mumblings through the night, their chief topics being incarceration and the noose. Early in the morning, he seemed to take a turn for the worse when he recognized her beside him. It required time and effort on her part, together with the doctor’s predilect remedy of cup after cup of warm water with lemon juice, to convince Bernie that they were not back in Chicago, and their New York career lay still ahead.
“When you’re stronger and I’ve had my beauty sleep, you can tell me what happened,” she assured him. “I suspect, however,” she added, “it’s the place as much as anything,” and she surveyed the filth and the mouldering walls and ceiling.
“The place, hell! Carrie’s gone and married a nigger,” Bernie exploded.
A few days later when he was well enough to be sitting in a chair, dressed in a monk’s cloth bathrobe, he explained it all to Mrs. Bickle.
“I suppose it’s my fault, too,” she said, “since I’m supposed to have sent you to Brooklyn in the first place.”
“You don’t seem too surprised at my news either, come to think of it,” Bernie studied her face.
“How did you find out he was colored?” Mrs. Bickle asked in reply. She did seem unsurprised. “I mean,” she said, “after all you were only on the telephone.”
“Oh,” he sneered. “Well, that’s easy. She shouted his name.” He laughed three times. “When she was in culmination, she called out, ‘Joel!Joel Ullay!’ and I remembered that was the name of the dinge dancer she knew.”
“I’m already in on the whole thing, Bernie. I may as well tell you.”
“You mean you heard it on the phone too?” he was nearly credulous.
“Curt phoned me about it,” she said. “News travels fast in that neighborhood.”
“Well, then you can tell me,” he snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead.” He lit a cheroot, and began examining the ends of his fingers.
“I’m sorry, Bernie, about it.”
“Skip the shit and let me have the facts,” he told her.
“Somebody talks like he was going to live after all,” Zoe couldn’t refrain from a sigh of relief.
“Go ahead and tell me, Zoe, and then I can decide by myself if I’m going to die or live.”
“Well, of course you’re right, Bernie. It is Joel Ullay. He’s moving in.”
“ Moving? He was clear in the other night.”
Consuming his cheroot in enormous drags, he went on with: “Say, Zoe, did you ever hear of a guy that lost everything as quick as I did: my home, wife, job, my town. I ain’t got a thing left, if you think it over.”
She did seem to be thinking it over, and he turned away from her face with irritation and impatience.
“Go ahead and give it to me,” he told her.
“If you can wait a minute, I’ll give you Curt’s version of it,” she fumbled in her purse for a cigarette.
“Oh don’t give me nothing. I hate people who got
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