Specimen Days. Michael Cunningham

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СКАЧАТЬ not help imagining this procession of walkers, all of them poor and battered, wearing old coats too small or too large for them, dragging children who could not or would not walk, all marching along Rivington Street, impelled by someone or something that pushed them steadily forward, slowly but inexorably, so it only seemed as if they moved of their own will; all of them walking on, past the houses and stables, past the taverns, past the works and into the river, where they would fall, one after another after another, and continue to walk, drowned but animate, on the bottom, until the street was finally empty and the people were all in the river, trudging along its silty bed, through its drifts of brown and sulfur, into its deeper darks, until they reached the ocean, this multitude of walkers, until they were nudged into open water where silver fish swam silently past, where the ocher of the river gave over to inky blue, where clouds floated on the surface, far, far above, and they were free, all of them, to drift away, their coats billowing like wings, their children flying effortlessly, a whole nation of the dead, dispersing, buoyant, faintly illuminated, spreading out like constellations into the blue immensity.

      He and Catherine reached the Bowery, where the rowdies strutted together, brightly clad, past the taverns and oyster houses. They swaggered and shouted, chewing cigars fat as sausages. One tipped his stovepipe to Catherine, began to speak, but was pulled onward by his laughing companions. The Bowery was Broadway’s lesser twin, a minor star in the constellation, though no less bright and loud. Still, there was more room to walk here. The truly poor were more numerous.

      Catherine said, “Was it dreadful there?”

      Lucas answered, “The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass.”

      “Please, Lucas,” she said, “speak to me in plain English.”

      “The foreman said I did well,” he told her.

      “Will you promise me something?”

      “Yes.”

      “Promise that as long as you must work there you will be very, very careful.”

      Lucas thought guiltily of the clamp. He had not been careful. He had allowed himself to dream and drift.

      He said, “I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass.”

      “And promise me that as soon as you can, you will leave that place and find other work.”

      “I will.”

      “You are …”

      He waited. What would she tell him he was?

      She said, “You are meant for other things.”

      He was happy to hear it, happy enough. And yet he’d hoped for more. He’d wanted her to reveal something, though he couldn’t say what. He’d wanted a wonderful lie that would become true the moment she said it.

       He said, “I promise.” What exactly was he meant for? He couldn’t bring himself to ask.

      “It’s hard,” she said.

      “And you? Were you all right at work today?”

      “I was. I sewed and sewed. It was a relief, really, to work.”

      “Were you …”

      She waited. What did he mean to ask her?

      He asked, “Were you careful?”

      She laughed. His face burned. Had it been a ridiculous question? She seemed always so available to harm, as if someone as kind as she, as sweet-smelling, could only be hurt, either now or later.

      “I was,” she said. “Do you worry about me?”

      “Yes,” he said. He hoped it was not a foolish assertion. He waited nervously to see if she’d laugh again.

      “You mustn’t,” she said. “You must think only of yourself. Promise me.”

      He said, “Every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”

      “Thank you, my dear,” she answered, and she said no more.

      He took her to her door, on Fifth Street. They stood together on the stoop that was specked with brightness.

      “You will go home now,” she said, “and have your supper.”

      “May I ask you something?” he said.

      “Ask me anything.”

      “I wonder what it is I’m making at the works.”

      “Well, the works produces many things, I think.”

      “What things?”

      “Parts of larger things. Gears and bolts and … other parts.”

      “They told me I make housings.”

      “There you are, then. That’s what you make.”

      “I see,” he said. He didn’t see, but it seemed better to let the subject pass. It seemed better to be someone who knew what a housing was.

      Catherine looked at him tenderly. Would she kiss him again?

      She said, “I want to give you something.”

      He trembled. He kept his jaws clamped shut. He would not speak, not as the book or as himself.

      She unfastened the collar of her dress and reached inside. She drew out the locket. She pulled its chain up over her head, held locket and chain in her palm.

      She said, “I want you to wear this.”

      “I can’t,” he said.

      “It has a lock of your brother’s hair inside.”

      “I know. I know that.”

      “Do you know,” she said, “that Simon wore its twin, with my picture inside?”

      “Yes.”

      “I was not allowed to see him,” she said.

      “None of us was.”

      “But the undertaker told me the locket was with him still. He said Simon wore it in his casket.”

      Simon had Catherine with him, then. He had something of Catherine in the box across the river. Did that make her an honorary member of the dead?

      Catherine said, “I’ll feel better if you wear it when you go to the works.”

      “It’s yours,” he said.

      “Call it ours. Yours and mine. Will you do it, to please me?”

      He couldn’t protest, then. How could he refuse to do anything that would please her?

      He said, “If you like.”

      She СКАЧАТЬ