Ironweed - William Kennedy [82]
“Hey Mac,” Francis said, “you really hungry or you just mouthin’ off for somethin’ to say?”
“I’m hungry,” Mac said. “I ain’t et since noon. Goin’ on thirteen, fourteen hours, whatever it is.”
“Here,” Francis said, unwrapping one of his turkey sandwiches and handing Mac a half, “take a bite, take a couple of bites, but don’t eat it all.”
“Hey all right,” Mac said.
“I told you he was a good fella,” Andy said.
“You want a bite of sandwich?” Francis asked Andy.
“I got enough with the onion,” Andy said. “But the guy in the piano box over there, he was askin’ around for something awhile back. He’s got a baby there.”
“A baby?”
“Baby and a wife.”
Francis snatched the remnants of the sandwich away from Michigan Mac and groped his way in the firelight night to the piano box. A small fire was burning in front of it and a man was sitting cross-legged, warming himself.
“I hear you got a kid here,” Francis said to the man, who looked up at Francis suspiciously, then nodded and gestured at the box. Francis could see the shadow of a woman curled around what looked to be the shadow of a swaddled infant.
“Got some stuff here I can’t use,” Francis said, and he handed the man the full sandwich and the remnant of the second one. “Sweet stuff too,” he said and gave the man the plum pudding. The man accepted the gifts with an upturned face that revealed the incredulity of a man struck by lightning in the rainless desert; and his benefactor was gone before he could even acknowledge the gift. Francis rejoined the circle at Andy’s fire, entering into silence. He saw that all but Rudy, whose head was on his chest, were staring at him.
“Give him some food, did ya?” Andy asked.
“Yeah. Nice fella. I ate me a bellyful tonight. How old’s the kid?”
“Twelve weeks, the guy said.”
Francis nodded. “I had a kid. Name of Gerald. He was only thirteen days old when he fell and broke his neck and died.”
“Jeez, that’s tough,” Andy said.
“You never talked about that,” Old Shoes said.
“No, because it was me that dropped him. Picked him up with the diaper and he slid out of it.”
“Goddamn,” said Old Shoes.
“I couldn’t handle it. That’s why I run off and left the family. Then I bumped into one of my other kids last week and he tells me the wife never told nobody I did that. Guy drops a kid and it dies and the mother don’t tell a damn soul what happened. I can’t figure that out. Woman keeps a secret like that for twenty-two years, protectin’ a bum like me.”
“You can’t figure women,” Michigan Mac said. “My old lady used to peddle her tail all day long and then come home and tell me I was the only man ever touched her. I come in the house one day and found her bangin’ two guys at once, first I knew what was happenin’.”
“I ain’t talkin’ about that,” Francis said. “I’m talkin’ about a woman who’s a real woman. I ain’t talkin’ about no trashbarrel whore.”
“My wife was very good-lookin’, though,” Mac said. “And she had a terrific personality.”
“Yeah,” said Francis. “And it was all in her ass.”
Rudy raised up his head and looked at the wine bottle in his hand. He held it up to the light.
“What makes a man a drunk?” he asked.
“Wine,” Old Shoes said. “What you got in your hand.”
“You ever hear about the bears and the mulberry juice?” Rudy asked. “Mulberries fermented inside their stomachs.”
“That so?” said Old Shoes. “I thought they fermented before they got inside.”
“Nope. Not with bears,” Rudy said.
“What happened to the bears and the juice?” Mac asked.
“They all got stiff and wound up with hangovers,” Rudy said, and he laughed and laughed. Then he turned the wine bottle upside down and licked the drops that flowed onto his tongue. He tossed the bottle alongside the other two empties, his own whiskey bottle and Francis’s wine that had been passed around.
“Jeez,” Rudy said. “We got nothin’ to drink. We on the bum.”
In the distance the men could hear the faint hum of automobile engines, and then the closing of car doors.
o o o
Francis’s confession seemed wasted. Mentioning Gerald to strangers for the first time was a mistake because nobody took it seriously. And it did not diminish his own guilt but merely cheapened the utterance, made it as commonplace as Rudy