The New York Stories of Elizbeth Hardwick

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Authors: Elizabeth Hardwick
probably thinking about his health, I guessed. That was his single neurotic aspect — the fear of the decrepitude and suffering of old age and with it he mixed, almost as an effort to forget the first, the fear of poverty. His expectation was intimately felt. ‘It is all so hopeless,’ he often said. ‘Suppose one got sick.’
    “He had great imagination about these calamities and it was unnerving to see this healthy boy suddenly weakened by his visions. ‘Yes, if you live long enough,’ I said, ‘you’ll have a fatal sickness.’
    “‘That’s just it. But some people escape better than others. My grandmother lived to be ninety and was only sick for a week at the end.’
    “‘But still it was the end.’ It seemed to me that he pushed himself forward to the age of seventy and that he hoped, if he worked hard enough at it, to present to the world a magnificent, death-defying physique, which showed age only by some arbitrary change like the growing of a mustache or the use of an attractive walking stick. Like Charmian in Antony and Cleopatra , Edgar loved long life better than figs.
    “‘If you take care of yourself...’ he whispered.
    “‘But everyone takes care of himself. At least most people do. It’s much more mysterious or perhaps more simple than that...’
    “‘And if you have a good constitution to begin with...’ He took intense pride in the longevity of his family — that was his pedigree and ancestral vanity, the large number of obscure people on both sides who had not died young. ‘Oh, well, let’s change the subject,’ he said with determination.”
    While I was composing these bits about Edgar’s wish for long life, I never thought of recording my adoration for his green Chevrolet convertible. Such a darling little car, I was always thinking, it “almost makes up for everything .” Sheer bliss to drive about with him. In his little green car, even his reedy tenor pleased me. But often the Chevrolet would drive us to taverns and I would have too much to drink and say to Edgar, without batting an eye, without even a flush of shame, “Where, you idiot, is my art, my spirituality, my socialism!” as if he had swiped these things out of my pocket! Even now the inventiveness of this accusation startles me.
    All of this was some years ago. If now I were suddenly to run upon him again, to see his sweet brown face, his charming nose bent a little to the left, if I were to shake his hand I do not know what I would say. But I would be thinking what pleasure we have all received from someone we imagined “not quite good enough” for us.
    1949

The Final Conflict
    Around ten o’clock in the morning, Russell Simmons left his dingy rooming house on Pinckney Street and walked down the hill to his shop on Charles Street, in Boston. The Olympia Antique Shop (Estates Purchased, Appraisals, Repairs) was a narrow, poorly stocked shop, one of those baffling small-business operations that appear to offer little advantage or profit to either buyer or seller. Russell, opening the door, switching on the back light, showed no more interest in the business of the day than if he had been going into a subway station. He yawned, he smoked, he soon sneaked next door for a cup of coffee, idly watching the street in case Mr. Soferis, the owner of the shop, happened by. Around noontime, the morning paper read, Russell could often be seen standing at the door of the shop, staring into the street with something of the same wandering, idle vacancy of those who outside peered into his display window, looking at Toby jugs, cracked plates, pewter bowls, and worthless beads. His blank, bored stare; their blank, bored stare; pale eyes yellowed by the amber light of tulip-shaped vases; the cold glint of blackened coins; dolls in dusty nightgowns, with matted hair — of these images, covered over by the smoke of a nearly constant cigarette, were his days made. There was seldom anything interesting or attractive offered to

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