Michael Chabon by The Mysteries of Pittsburgh

Author:The Mysteries of Pittsburgh
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780062072238
Publisher: San Val
Published: 1988-01-02T06:00:00+00:00

13

PINK EYES

BY THIS TIME, ARTHUR resided at the Shadyside home of a rich young couple, his third residence of the summer. After leaving the Bellwethers’, he’d spent ten exultant and sinful days, so he said, in a small, pretty Shadyside apartment with a genuine rose window, of which I got a brief glimpse one hectic Sunday when I dropped by. Now, with this third place, he’d continued his upward journey through the World of Homes. The rich young couple, friends of some friends, had gone to Scandinavia for July. I’d seen the wife many times on television (she read the weather), and it was strange now to look at the framed Maxfield Parrish postcard over her toilet, or to wear one of her husband’s pale beautiful oxford-cloth shirts, or just to think that there I was, stretched out across the carpet of a lady I’d seen on television, her head wreathed in lightning and tiny paper storm clouds. Arthur had won his battle against the “little animals from hell,” but now all the shaved hair was growing back, which itched, apparently, and made him unable to sit still for more than a few minutes.

The morning after Phlox and I did not see Ella Fitzgerald, I stopped by my house, to put on clean clothes for work. The telephone rang as I rumbled with the front door; in the mailbox was a fat wad of mail, most of it, at first glance, informing me of imminent bargains on beef, garden hose, and charcoal briquettes. The apartment felt stuffy, vacant, and the jangling telephone sounded somehow plaintive or lonely, as though it had not been answered in days. It was Arthur.

“Hello,” I said. “No, I just walked in the door.”

“I’m calling to say I’m sorry.”

“Oh. Well.” I couldn’t think. It is always so simple, and so complicating, to accept an apology.

“I was very rude and I hate myself for it.”

“Um—”

“Look, do you think we could meet today?”

“I don’t think so. Oh, I don’t know.” There was an unusual warmth in his voice, a note of truth or of plainness. “Okay, maybe later today. I guess we have to talk about this?”

“I’m home today. Call me after work. Oh, and, Art—”

“Yes?”

“Have a nice day.”

Not only did Boardwalk suffer under the curse of having to sell books; there seemed also to be a curse on the premises themselves, so that throughout the summer entire days of business were lost, here and there, to the need to remedy some minor disaster or other: Sometimes a pipe would burst in the basement, ruining overstock and making the place stink of wet books, and sometimes the air-conditioning froze and quit working, and once some vandals smashed the huge display window; on this day, there was a fire. It was a small fire, caused by a paramedic cigarette, but Valerie closed the slightly blackened bookstore and sent us all home.

I decided to walk to the Weatherwoman House through the clear, hot Monday morning. For some reason, many crews

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