CHAPTER 121, THE BEAST WITHIN

The 49th Street Subway Entrance

A short time later

An unyielding mass of urbanites clamored through the subway entrance and forced Bates down the stairs as he clutched Old Ram and struggled to keep his balance. The crowd deposited him at the turnstiles where he parted with a nickel and followed them onto the first train that arrived. The destination did not concern him. Any packed car would do. All he needed was a couple of blowhards debating where to get crocked that night on the best hooch for the least jack. Bates would apologize for overhearing and politely ask their advice. They would understand his not being able to afford the swell joints that were better known to the public and enjoy the chance to show off their expertise on the subject.

Bates would have been satisfied with the rotgut he could buy on the street, but he had heard stories. He might unwittingly buy stuff made with wood alcohol that could blind a man or worse. Harv had confirmed the danger; the bell captain's own uncle had taken the risk regularly, against his nephew's advice, and it cost him his life. Harv knew everything worth knowing about the city, and Bates wanted to ask him for guidance, but he could not bring himself to say the words. It might get back to Anna or Thomas. As visitors in a country that was becoming less tolerant of foreigners by the day, the three of them had made a pact to avoid any appearance of impropriety. They specifically agreed that they would visit no speakeasies, not even for a peek. As desperate as Bates was for one stiff drink (or two), he was not prepared to ask a decent man like Harv to lie on his behalf.

The hours rolled by, uncounted, as Bates moved from car to car and train to train, furtively listening to any conversation that caught his ear. He learned that Cut-Rite waxed paper could keep a pineapple upside-down cake from sticking to the pan, that insects in a potted plant could be killed with a spoonful of mustard diluted in a gallon of water, and that a romance was doomed to failure if the man was more attractive than the woman. He learned all this and more and yet was none the wiser than when he left the hotel.

Bates surfaced at Union Square. He had skipped breakfast, and his hunger was interfering with the demands of his thirst. He reached into his pocket and fingered the last of his spending money for the week. It wasn't much, but he knew he was close to the 14th Street Automat where a few coins would buy a satisfying meal and a nickel would fill a cup with the best coffee in the city. Bates, Anna, and Thomas knew the whereabouts of several Manhattan Automats and relied on them for affordable meals when they were out and about.

The Automat's expansive interior with its clean lacquered tables and shiny vending machines was a relief from the chaos of the streets. Bates used his sketchpad as a tray to carry his usual Automat lunch: soup (green pea, today), a ham and cheese sandwich, a side of baked beans, and gingerbread cookies to dunk. He set down the meal at a vacant seat and asked an obliging businessman to keep an eye on it while he filled a cup with coffee from a cheerful dolphin spout. Bates thanked the man as he sat, and the man, whose mouth was stuffed with coconut custard pie, raised his fork in acknowledgment.

As Bates sampled his soup, a sliver of conscience managed to sidestep the craving for drink that filled every cranny of his mind. He recalled, but did not permit himself to dwell on, his poor treatment of Thomas that morning. Had he not done everything in his power to ensure the man's happiness? Was he not permitted one single day in which to indulge his own desires? Bates set down his spoon and sighed deeply. What was happening to him? He had shaken himself free from the urge to drink hundreds of times over umpteen years. What had changed? Why was he weakening just as things were going so well? Bates knew exactly who to blame. "It's that damned Jack Pollock," Bates declared aloud. He looked up self-consciously, but the racket of plates and conversation had swallowed the accusation.

Bates pressed his hand to his eyes, but he could not erase the image of Pollock stumbling about, several sheets to the wind, at an Art Students League party. Bates had come to the gathering hoping to speak to his instructor in a less formal setting, but there was something about the sight of Pollock, stooped and mumbling, that fascinated Bates. He followed Pollock out of the building where the lad fumbled with his trousers and took a piss right on the sidewalk. A woman hurrying to cross the street was startled and dropped the butcher-wrapped package she was carrying. Two mutts appeared from behind a pair of garbage pails, and the larger grabbed the bundle in its teeth and ran off with the other dog yapping at its heels. The woman ran after the dogs, and Pollock ran after her, but his trousers fell to his ankles, and he hit the pavement, face first. Bates knew he should have been disgusted, utterly repelled, by what he had witnessed. He should have been, but he was not.

Bates could recall little of his own inebriate years. Most memories had drowned long ago in a sea of beer and gin. Still, he could remember taking his share of tumbles. He could remember his mother's impassive face as she treated his scrapes on those nights when Vera locked him out. He could remember emptying his bladder on the street and not caring. Those were the years when alcohol dissolved the responsibilities that bound him. As he watched Pollock roll onto his back and giggle, he knew he had to taste that freedom again. He knew he had to set free the beast that was shackled deep within, if only for an hour or two. And the key to those shackles lived in the bottom of a glass.

Bates moved closer to Pollock, pressed his leg against the pole that supported the building's canopy, and pulled the lad to his feet by his shirt collar. He did not weigh very much.

Pollock wrapped himself around the pole and gazed at Bates stupidly.

"If you care to avoid a night in jail, then you should pull up your trousers before the cops see you," suggested Bates.

"My brother'll do it."

"Is he here?"

"No."

Again, Bates propped his leg against the pole, so he could lean and pull up Pollock's trousers.

"I know you," jeered Pollock. "You and your ritzy suit. You're Lord Muckety-Muck."

"That's me."

"Ha!"

Bates distanced himself from Pollock's offending breath. "Where do you live?"

"Ha!" repeated Pollock.

"Fine." Bates left Pollock for the school entrance.

"Ha!" shouted Pollock.

Bates turned to see Pollock slip to the pavement, still hugging the pole.

"I'm taking you home."

"We don't entertain royalty."

"That's clever from a man who can't find his way to the toilet." Bates hailed a cab and managed to stuff Pollock inside with the help of the wary driver.

"Well?" asked the cabbie.

"Where do you live, Jack?"

"14th Street."

"Where on 14th Street?" demanded the cabbie.

"We'll worry about that when we get there. Let's go," ordered Bates. A cab was an extravagance he never allowed himself, and he did not want to run up the meter.

When they hit Union Square, the cabbie turned back to Bates. "WELL?"

"Which way, Jack?"

"Home," was the mumbled reply.

Bates gave Pollock a good shake. "Which way?" he shouted in the lad's ear.

Pollock glanced out the window and pointed west.

Bates took hold of Pollock's blond hair and held his face to the window. "Say when we're there, Jack. There's 5th Avenue. Now?"

"No."

"6th Avenue. Now?"

"No."

"7th Avenue"

"No!"

"8th Avenue?"

"Stop the car!" Pollock opened the door on the traffic side and rolled out.

"Christ! Jack, get on your feet!" shouted Bates as pushed himself out the door. He was too slow. The driver had already leapt from his seat and was dragging Pollock to the curb. Bates thanked the man and added a generous tip to the fare. The cabbie drove off leaving a trail of invectives behind him.

Bates managed to maneuver Pollock to the corner so they could cross the street without further calamity. After several mistaken attempts, Pollock identified his building. Bates stood on the stoop and shouted, "Mr Pollock! Mr Pollock!" hoping the alleged brother would appear. A man poked his head out a fifth-floor window. When he caught sight of Pollock, he disappeared from the window and reappeared, straight away, at the entrance, quite out of breath. He was a sober, modestly dressed young man.

Bates remembered the struggle the two had forcing Pollock up four flights of stairs and into bed, but as soon as the lad hit the mattress, he was asleep.

Pollock's brother turned his attention to Bates. "I'm Charles. Jack's my brother. I appreciate your bringing him home. Most wouldn't have bothered."

"I know a little something of his condition."

"Really? You don't seem the type."

"It's ancient history."

Pollock studied Bates a moment and nodded.

Bates glanced about. Canvases, mostly landscapes, lined the walls. "This can't be your brother's work. He's not that advanced."

"No, it's mine. Are you an artist?"

"A student. I study with Sloan."

Charles laughed. "I'm surprised my brother deigns to speak to you. I was a student of Benton, but my brother's a disciple. I'm afraid he has a narrow view of art."

"He's young. He has time to learn better."

"I hope he does. I worry about him." Charles took a deep breath. "You say you used to drink?"

"I did."

"Excessively?"

"To put it kindly."

"What made you stop?"

Bates hesitated.

"I'm sorry. We've only just met, and it's none of my business."

Bates held up his hand. "Please don't apologize. It's a difficult subject, that's all. I can't speak of it. Even my wife doesn't know."

Charles nodded. "I understand, but ... can you offer any advice?"

Bates headed to the door. "Don't help him too much. Don't make being a drunk easier for him."

"You make it sound simple. It's not."

"I know. Loving a brother can be a complicated thing."

"It certainly is with him." Charles held out his hand. "Thank you again. I'm very glad to meet you ... ?"

"Bates. John Bates." The two men shook hands, and Bates turned to the door where he spotted a couple of canvases on the floor. Immediately, he knew they were not produced by Charles. They lacked his skill, and he lacked their fire. "Are these your brother's work?"

Charles smiled. "They're terrible, but they have something, don't you think?"

"Yes. The courage of his convictions."

Charles stopped smiling. "Exactly. More difficult to come by than talent."

"I'm afraid so. Goodbye, Pollock, and good luck."

Charles nodded. "We'll need it. Goodbye, Bates."

Bates recalled the encounter often and was rehashing it as he sat in the Automat staring at his untouched sandwich. He usually relished simple fare, but today, he found no pleasure in it. He sat back and watched eager customers visit and revisit the wall of windows through which an endless assortment of morsels competed for attention. Tourists were dazzled by the display, children agonized over the perfect choice of dessert, and the less fortunate sought the options that best stretched a nickel. Bates considered offering one of the hollow-eyed fellows his lunch, when he caught sight of a thin lad in overalls. The young man selected a coffee cup and filled it half-way with hot water. The he shuffled to the free condiments on one of the tables and topped off the cup with ketchup to which he added salt.

"I don't believe it," muttered Bates, but there was no mistaking the unkempt blond hair and the slovenly posture. "Jack," he called. "Jackson Pollock!" The lad turned, and Bates waved his arm.

Pollock scowled. He picked up his cup of ketchup soup and made his way to Bates. "Look at Lord Muckety-Muck eating with the hoi polloi."

"Have a seat, Jack, and help me out."

"Help you? Why should I help you with anything?"

"My eyes were bigger than my stomach, and I can't bear to waste food. Can't you take something off my hands?"

Pollock set down his cup but not himself. "Such as?"

"Here." Bates picked up half his sandwich and shoved the remainder to Pollock.

Pollock shrugged. "I suppose I can give you a hand, but you'll owe me."

"I know." Bates watch the lad sit and devour the sandwich and pushed the beans towards him. "Tell me, Jack, where did you get the alcohol?"

"What alcohol?"

"You were drunk at the party."

"I have friends," Pollock answered through a mouthful of beans.

"Are your friends in business?"

Pollock shrugged.

"I mean, do they sell alcohol?"

Pollock looked up. "Who's paying?"

"I'll have a little cash tonight."

"For one?"

"For two, if it's not too expensive."

"I can arrange something."

Bates took one gingerbread cookie for himself and slid the plate to Pollock. "Is it safe?"

Pollock snorted. "Safe?"

"I mean, is it the real stuff?"

"My friend's a pharmacist."

Bates nodded. He knew that pharmacists could prescribe medicinal whiskey and had heard that medicinal whiskey bore an exact resemblance to the whiskey drunk by men in good health. He had every intention of verifying that claim. The two men set a time and place to meet, and Bates collected Old Ram, his sketchpad, and his cookie and left. On the street, a wee bit of conscience again hurdled his brain's fixation on alcohol, and Charles Pollock came to mind. I'm responsible for Thomas, Bates argued with himself. I can't be responsible for the fate of other men's brothers.

As Bates retraced his steps along 14th Street, he recalled his last conversation with Thomas. Not wanting his little brother to catch him in a lie, he opened his sketchpad, took a pencil from his pocket, and began to draw. Starting in front of S. Klein's and working his way slowly around the square, he roughed out a few quick sketches on a sheet and then flipped to a new page. He had often been frustrated by a sense of stagnation in his work, so he concentrated on capturing movement rather than detail. He wanted to infuse his work with vitality. When the sun set, he continued to work by the city lights, enjoying the exaggerated shadows they cast. As it always did, sketching separated him from his troubles and made bearable the wait for his first libation in years. He might even have been late for his rendezvous, if it weren't for a loud crack of thunder that brought him back to the events of the day. He shoved his sketchpad under his coat and trailed the others caught on the street as they hurried to take shelter before the inevitable downpour to follow.

Bartholomew Hotel

A short time later

As Bates rode the elevator to his floor, he mentally rehearsed what he would say to Anna when she carried out her Saturday-night routine of doling out spending money for the week. I'd like the bonus Mr Gillespie gave me for that party I booked last month. I'm meeting a mate from school for a night out. Now, Anna, you've always said I should spend time with other artists, and I'm the only one of us who's never taken extra. Bates reconsidered his choice of words. Being defensive was like waving a warning flag. If he made no attempt to justify his request, Anna would probably hand the bonus right over, no questions asked.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a man in an overcoat. It took a moment for Bates to recognize Harv out of his bellman's uniform. His coat was dripping, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. "Hello, Harv. I see the storm caught you. I was spared most of it."

"Good evening, Mr Bates. May I have a word?" Harv turned to the elevator operator. "Go ahead, Norm. I'll take the stairs."

"Yes, sir, Mr Walker."

Bates tried not to appear impatient. "What can I do for you?"

Harv waited until the elevator departed and spoke in a hushed tone. "I'm terribly sorry about what happened, Mr Bates. I never would have agreed if I'd known how ... susceptible your brother is."

Bates felt his stomach turn over. "Has something happened to Thomas?"

"He's fine." Harv chuckled softly. "Well ... he'll be fine tomorrow."

Bates was about to demand an explanation when he heard Thomas singing. He heard his wife's voice too but not in song.

"Here. I almost forgot." Harv handed a wet topcoat to Bates. "I couldn't get him into it. I'll see you tomorrow, Mr Bates." He opened the door to the stairwell and disappeared.

As Bates headed for the suite, he could hear Thomas singing the same lines over and over.

If you're blue and you don't know where to go to,
Why don't you go where Harlem sits, Puttin' on the Ritz!

It was not like Thomas to raise a ruckus in the hotel, even if their room was a distance from other occupied rooms. Bates could tell that Anna was not pleased, but he was not prepared for the next words that emanated from his wife's lips.

"Thomas Barrow, I'll not tell you again. Take off your trousers this instant and give them to me!"

"What in god's name?" Bates unlocked the door while Thomas continued to sing.

If you're blue and you don't know where to go to ...

Bates flung open the door just in time to see Anna deliver a sound slap to Thomas's face. That's when the singing stopped and the crying began.