Too Close to the Falls Read Online Free PDF Page B

they were infiltrating everywhere. Mr. Helms, the butcher, once told me that the miracle at Fatima was “bunk” and I’d seen him leaving church for a cigarette right after communion and not waiting for the closing prayers. All of this seemed very suspicious to me and my worst fears were confirmed one day when I overheard a snippet of conversation at Schoonmaker’s Restaurant. While my mother waited for our order in the dining room, I hadwandered into the bar to play the bowling game. I also enjoyed lying on my stomach and twirling on the bar stools. While I was swivelling at the long wooden bar, Bill Helms strolled in for a nightcap, and bold as brass asked for a “white Russian.” He hadn’t seen me as my head wasn’t above bar level; I was lying flat with only my stomach on the stool in a Superman flying position. I sat up and shot him a glance that indicated I didn’t need a pumpkin patch to recognize a spy. Clearly he’d been schooled in the art of nonchalance at his spy academy. Pretending nothing was wrong, he went so far as to challenge me to a bowling game with Mr. Schoonmaker. I decided never to be alone with him again. His wife, Betty Helms, was the town reeve and she could be infiltrating the government. I warned my mother that I might have smoked out some communists. She suggested that I never say anything about anyone unless I had absolute proof about them, but my father assured me it didn’t hurt to be on our toes. When Father and I went to The Horseshoe for breakfast on the way to work, all the men at the counter talked about the McCarthy show. All the suited Rotarians who were perched in a row on their stools agreed with Loretta’s husband, Giuseppe, known to the patrons as “Lorry,” when he poked his head out through the order window and said, as he smashed down the breakfast specials (I always ordered a Cock-a-doodle-doo #3) that it was high time
someone
cleaned up this country before the American flag was no more than a tablecloth.
    Although people crowded into our house to watch the McCarthy show, there were far more people over to watch Ed Sullivan. He visited on Sunday at 8:00 p.m. I never understood why people enjoyed his show. He had idiots like Topo Gigio, anItalian mouse who said about three lines, one of the most inane being “Hey, Eddie, kiss-a-me-goodnight.” I had two questions about that. First, who wanted to be kissed good night by
Ed Sullivan
? Second, why was it funny? Then there was his idiot rival, Pedro, who said, “S’all right? S’all right.” I watched my parents’ friends laugh at these antics and I didn’t get it.
    I never really enjoyed RCA Victor when others were present. It lost its intimacy. In a way it was like praying. When we said the rosary aloud at school it was boring, but when I talked to God on my own in my good-night prayers, after my mother left the room, I felt His presence. What I cherished was my personal interaction with John Cameron Swayzee and, as time went on, I became more and more fond of the Indian who never spoke but with whom I had formed a friendship. While almost everyone else had brothers and sisters to play with early in the morning while parents slept, I had the Indian. No matter what I played I kept him informed with a running monologue.
    As the months went on I began to realize that the Indian who came to my house on RCA Victor was like the other Indians at Shim-Shacks on the reservation. Although I knew Indians were terrifying as a
group
, since they were trying to kill us for some reason I didn’t understand or RCA Victor never made clear, I had a great affinity for them
individually
. The RCA Victor Indian was like the Bear Clan or the Turtle Clan when we played the bowling game or when I gave away the rifle to Black Cloud. I
knew
how they felt, even if they never showed it.
    It made me nervous when people made some kind of brouhaha about their feelings,