.EYES OVER SOOTHING MELODIES
..by Jerry Vilhotti
.
"After breakfast Byrom, I want to
see you as my guest in Pa-Pa's study," Mr. Bush said
holding his slice of toast with both hands before his
mouth.
Six year old Byrom, whom his mother
attempted to name after the poet who fought for Greek  independence, tensed.
Mr. Bush took a little bite, counting
his penetrations into the little lightly brown morsel
being flung around the inside of his mouth among mucus,
and spoke only after he swallowed: "Your mother -
who is being tormented by the vapors - told me you've
been up to The Row throwing stones at all the fine homes
there and swearing at the colored groundskeepers.
You are one of those vapors!"
Mr. Bush's feelings alternated from
unbearable bitterness toward all those who owned homes in
that exclusive part of town where lamplighters still lit
darkness into small circles of light and where Cousin
Agatha lived, whose husband owned a large part of the
Erie railroad that Mr. Bush's father worked on for nearly
forty years doing menial tasks; the shame and humiliation
of it all!
Mr. Bush sipped his juice giving Byrom
another stern look that burned deeply into the boy's
eyes. This stuttering second son of his who ever since
his birth had caused his mother to be an invalid - a
prisoner of countless medicines that he could ill afford
to pay for since companies were taking back their promise
to pay for their employees' health care only if they
accepted less pay. She was a withered leaf devoid
of color except for her purple crises-crossing veins
copulating upon her face in the most degrading of ways.
Mr. Bush had been tossed by
circumstances - losing his chemist position at the
Brandywine chemical firm due to trains constantly being
late. Had he not gone to one of the most elitist of
schools in the East? Had he not worn suits of an
Italian cut and in his senior year took to using a
walking stick and despite becoming a "darn good
chemist" had dabbed in Proust while joining the
secret society called "The Eye of the Sphinx in the
Musuma" that was just as powerful as "The Skull
and Bones" of a rival sister school that also
desired a one world society ruled by superior
beings?
"My father worked hard for me to
attain the position I have in life and I shall not allow
you to ruin it. Do you understand, young man?"
Mr. Bush said liking the omnipresent state of euphoria he
was feeling; being in charge of the house while his
parents were vacationing at Atlantic City.
Byrom mumbled a yes sir taking several
attempts at getting the first word out as if it were
wounded but before the second word could be grabbed from
his mouth by his father's twitching fingers he blurted it
out.
Stephen, his eight year old son who
would become a minister, laughed with sadistic
anticipation at his brothers fumbling attempt to speak.
Mr. Bush closed his eyes in a vehement
fit of condescension. He was keeping a meticulous
notebook on Byrom's doings which he called "Byrom's
Ledger of Infractions".
"Of course young man, I'm afraid,
you realize your last episode is going into the book and
pray it was not your fifth infraction."
Byrom shuddered for it were the that
number which always brought on his father's punishment in
its most dazzling burst of malice - when the wooden
match would be struck and then placed beneath his
quavering hand.
Byrom bowed his head nearly into the
small torte he was allowed to have even though he hadn't
finished his herring in aspic the evening before.
Mr. Bush pushed the button beneath the
table buzzing for Lena May again; even permitting  Stephen to have a go at it and
told her after her three minutes of deliberate
procrastination, he wanted more marmalade and another cup
of coffee and then thrust his frustration against her
inevitable tardiness to the victrola to put on Bach's
Cantata. During the next waiting period to smother
his growing anger, he put on a Handel piece as he
reminded himself he would go see his wife after his
coffee. He would not allow himself to think of how the
sloppiness of her bed would appall him. Looking
ahead, he promised himself he would call down in his most
grating voice to order the "nigger" to come
upstairs and make the bed while he told himself to make
sure he turned his back, in a modest gesture, to look out
the window as a gentleman never looked on such
matters. Only then would he go to the study to
greet his little visitor.
Jerry Vilhotti©10-23-03
VILHOTTI@peoplepc.com
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