Free A Fairy Tale of New York by J. P. Donleavy

mile
    Of linoleum

7
    Standing on the deep maroon pile of Fanny Sourpuss's carpet. Where she lives twelve floors up, the phone constantly ringing, on the east side of town. I hold a tall glass of scotch poured over dancing ice cubes and splashed with bubbling soda. This sprawling apartment of marble tables and icons. Looks down on the grey wind swept slate roof of an embassy, its flag flying in snow and darkness.
    Friendly Glen shovelling sticks of chewing gum between his jaws, drove us downtown under the elevated train. Along the cobbled trolley tracked avenue called White Plains. Past drifts piling high against darkened store fronts and up steps and over porches. Cars stalled and buried lining empty white wasteland streets. The big limozine skidded and slid crossing a trestle bridge into Manhattan. Lights of barges on the river and edges of ice along the shore. Mrs Sourpuss's hand came searching for mine under the furry rug. And as we pulled up outside a frozen marquee halfway down the canyon of Park Avenue she said you must come in for a hot drink. A grey uniformed Irish doorman in knee boots led us across the black and white tiled lobby to the elevator.
    "By the powerful strengths of himself on high, weren't you lucky to get back safe from your husband's funeral."
    "Yes. This is my nephew Mr Peabody."
    A pigeon crouches sheltering, fluttering its wings in the snow on the window sill. Just to feel the warm softness here. Stare out at the blizzard. And other yellow lighted windows. The city stopped. I could not desert the bereaved. Lost as we were in the blizzard. Believe me Mr Vine, it was somewhere in the god forsaken Bronx, east of Eastchester. West of Hart's Island. Where prisoners bury the amputated arms and legs and the unclaimed dead. And Clarance I sincerely thought of all the money you were losing.
    "How about some cold cuts Cornelius. I got some potato salad. Don't be shy. Make yourself at home.''
    Christian sitting at the black grand piano. Playing a sad melody. Up and down the smoothest of ivory keys. Staring at a white fluffy ceramic dog. Fanny sweeping in and out in a long green dress with legs. Heard her raised voice speaking to someone and then a door slammed. She came back carrying a platter. Placed it on the coffee table in front of a sofa. Stacks of rye bread, white little tub full of cubes of butter. Bowls of olives, swiss and pimento cheese, potato chips and plates of liverwurst, bologna and salami.
    ''Come on. Dig in Cornelius. What are you waiting for."
    She stands eyes lurking under longer lashes. Notches tighten a chain of silver buckles around her waist. Golden slippers and a black satin bow tying her hair behind her head. She knelt. Stared up at me. Blazing away with her blond skilled beauty. As I bit a bologna and swiss cheese sandwich. Cemented together with mustard. Chewed down with a cascade of olives.
    "You hungry boy. You don't mind if I just sit here and watch you."
    "No."
    "Have you always been fearless.''
    "Yes."
    "How did you get that way."
    "I don't know."
    "I don't think I've ever met anyone like you before. Just watching you play the piano. So beautifully. So effortlessly. You've got something more than just nerve. I can't understand what you're doing in the funeral business. With your kind of class there are hundreds of better slots for you. Let me ask my lawyer."
    "Mrs Sourpuss."
    "So formal"
    "I am when I talk about my business. Being an undertaker is performing a guardianship. Both for those living and dead. Bringing one closer to people. It's dignified. Might even say it achieves the quality of art. Death also brings a renewing pause in the life of others."
    ''I'll go along with that."
    "It also allows me to meet someone like you. And Mrs Sourpuss believe me when I say, I know the real tears of death and they don't go down the cheeks.''
    "Christ almighty. Sitting here like this. With an undertaker. Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against your business. But it really takes the