Again Harry yanked on Livingston's arm.
"Come on, Livingston, let's go."
And again Livingston's small eyes opened.
"Where are we going?"
"Home," said Harry. "We're at your house."
"Oh," said Livingston. He sat up straight, blinking. "Splendid. What do we owe you, my good man?" he said, addressing the driver.
"Nothing," said the driver. "Your buddy already paid me."
"Oh, thank you, Harry," said Livingston.
"It was your money," said Harry. "I took the liberty of taking it from your wallet."
"Splendid, splendid," said Livingston.
"I put the wallet back in your trousers," said Harry.
"Yes, of course you did," said Livingston. "Shall we disembark then?"
"Yes," said Harry.
Livingston was sitting on the street side of the back seat, and he turned, depressed the door handle, opened the door, and fell out into the street.
Exactly one minute later Harry was pulling Livingston to his feet as the cab pulled away into the blizzard, belching exhaust into the falling snow and groaning like a dying elephant.
"Home at last," said Livingston, looking up at the snow-shrouded house before them, with a tall leafless snow-whitened tree in front it, its branches reaching up into the blizzard. "The ancestral manse."
"Yes," said Harry. "Are you all right to walk?"
"Right as rain," said Livingston. "I can't wait to introduce you to la famille."
"There's no need for that," said Harry.
"What do you mean?" said Livingston.
"I mean I'm going to get you up the steps and into your house, and then I'm going home."
"But you can't mean that!"
Actually Harry didn't mean it, because what he really wanted to do was to make his way back to Bob's Bowery Bar and get a quiet peaceful load on, vowing all the while never to go on such a fool's expedition again. Nevertheless, "Yes," he lied. "I think I just want to go home."
"I won't hear of it," said Livingston. "You must stay for dinner."
"Look, Livingston, let's just get you up there, okay?"
"Yes, of course. We can't just stand out here in this blizzard, can we?"
"No," said Harry.
He took Livingston's arm and guided him out of the street and onto the sidewalk to the snow-covered stoop of the tall house that loomed above them.
"Mind the steps now," said Livingston. "They're under this snow, somewhere.
Keeping his left arm on Livingston's right, and his right hand on the snow-caked iron railing, Harry pulled and yanked and slogged them both up the five or six steps to the landing and into the front doorway, which was flanked by fluted weatherworn columns. A stained-glass fanlight above the door glowed with various colors.
"Do you have your key, Livingston?"
"My key, yes," said Livingston, and it only took him three minutes to remove his thick wool mittens, shove them into the pockets of his mackinaw, and then, after patting and probing various pockets, to produce a large old tarnished skeleton key attached to a ratty rabbit's foot, and then it took him another full minute to insert the key into the keyhole in the door. "Now here comes the tricky part," he said. "You have to turn the key while you simultaneously turn the door knob, jiggling both key and knob in unison."
"Okay," said Harry.
"Like this," said Livingston, turning the key and knob and jiggling. "Voilà!" He pushed against the doorknob, but nothing happened. "Oh, dear," he said. "That usually works."
Another minute of turning and jiggling and pushing passed, and then Harry said, "Look, let me try."
"Yes," said Livingston, "you try, Harry."
Harry had never been good with keys and door locks, but he did his best, and he failed, and failed again, and again.
"You have to jiggle it, old chap," said Livingston. "Simultaneous with sort of pushing."
"That's what I'm doing," said Harry.
"Let me try again," said Livingston.
"Can't we just ring the door bell?"
"Oh, my dear fellow, that door bell has been en panne since as long as I can remember."
"Okay, fine, then what about the door knocker."
There was indeed a heavy engraved bronze knocker on the door.
"Yes," said Livingston, "I suppose we could do that. Here, give me the key and let me try it just once more."
"All right," said Harry, thinking, Never again. He pulled the key from the lock and handed it to Livingston, who stared at it, and then put it in a pocket of his mackinaw.
"Well, then," said Livingston. "Shall we go?"
"What?" said Harry.
"Shall we hie us hence, old man? Where are we going anyway? Shall we start at the San Remo? It's only just up the corner, and we can be there in a trice. I don't know if you've ever been there, but it's a delightful establishment, and quite popular among the bohemian set."
"Livingston," said Harry, "we're not going anywhere. We're trying to get you into your house."
"Oh, bother my house," said Livingston. "I've spent my whole life in that dump. Come, the great pulsing city awaits! Women, wine, and, yes, perhaps even a song or two!" He turned to face the street, and then turned his head to look at Harry. "It's a veritable winter wonderland, old boy!"
He took a step forward and then fell to his knees. He quickly got up and then fell forward again, tumbling down the snow-covered steps. And then he lay there facedown in the thick snow, perhaps alive, perhaps not.
Harry turned and put his cold bare hand on the cold bronze heavy knocker, and knocked. He continued to do so for for perhaps two minutes and then finally the door opened.
An old Negro woman in a black and white housemaid's uniform and cap stood there.
"What's this commotion?" she said.
"My name is Harry Beachcroft," said Harry, "and I have brought Livingston home."
"Mr. Livingston?" said the old woman. "Where is he?"
"He's down there at the bottom of the steps," said Harry.
The old woman stepped forward and raised her chin to look down at the sidewalk.
"Is he alive?"
"I don't know, to be quite honest," said Harry.
"Well, I suppose we'll have to get him up here. Won't you wait a moment, and I'll go get Mr. Ralston to help."
"Who's Mr. Ralston?"
"He is Mr. Livingston's younger brother. He's not very strong I'm afraid, but he's the only man in the house, so he'll have to do. Wait here, please."
"All right," said Harry.
The old woman went away, leaving the inner door of the foyer open behind her. Beyond the door were shadows and in the shadows was a carpeted staircase leading up to somewhere. Harry waited. What else could he do? He could just leave, but what if this Mr. Ralston was too weak to get Livingston up the steps by himself? Surely that frail old woman wouldn't be much help.
Harry stood there in the foyer, which was dimly lit from an overhead multicolored fixture. The walls were tiled, old and faded and stained, and the tiles seemed to illustrate fawns and naked nymphs in a sylvan paradise. There was a hat rack on the right wall, with hats on it, and a coat rack on the left wall, with coats on it. To the right was a great cracked vase in a floral motif, with several old umbrellas and walking sticks in it. A dozen or so pairs of boots and galoshes were ranged along the wainscoting of both walls, and there was an ancient rubber runner on the floor. There was also an old wooden stool, as well as a small table with a yellowed tattered lace cover over it, with a pile of gloves and mittens, a chipped ceramic dish with a collection of keys and coins and envelopes, and a glass ashtray with some cigarette butts in it, emblazoned on its side with the slogan The St Crispian Hotel Where the Service Is Swell.
Harry stepped back into the falling snow and looked down the steps. Livingston was still there, and he was either dead or alive. If he was dead, Harry hoped there wouldn't be an inquest.
"Hello, there," said a slightly masculine voice.
Harry turned, and the old Negro woman was there, with a young pale man wearing an embroidered garnet and gold smoking jacket, and holding a cigarette in a black holder.
"Hello," said Harry.
"My name is Ralston Lovechild," said the young man. "At your service. And you are?"
"Harry Beachcroft," said Harry. "I've brought your brother home."
"So Matilda tells me," said the young man. He stepped forward and looked down the steps. "Oh, dear. Not again. All right, just give me a mo to get my rubbers on, and we'll get him inside."
Harry waited while the young man sat on the stool and pulled a pair of galoshes on over his house slippers, then got up and put a great Russian fur hat on his head, and finally the old woman helped him on with a a fur coat of some sort.
Another old woman appeared, this one was a white woman, and with her was a younger woman, who looked like a younger version of the older woman, but with dark hair that looked natural, whereas the older woman's hair looked dyed. They were both smoking cigarettes.
"Ralston, you're letting all the hot air out," said the older woman.
"I know, Mother," said Ralston, taking his cigarette from its holder, and stubbing it out in the ashtray, "but this gentleman and I must bring Livingston up into the house."
"Where is he?"
"Passed out on the pavement," said Ralston.
"Hi, there," said the young woman, to Harry. "What's your name?"
"Harry Beachcroft," said Harry.
Oddly enough, she was not unattractive, at least not by Harry's modest standards.
"A friend of Livingston's?" she said.
"Not really," said Harry. "I just met him a couple of hours ago."
"Livingston could use a friend," said the young woman. "My name is Gwendolyn, by the way. I am Livingston's sibling."
"Please to meet you, miss," said Harry.
"And this is our mother," said the young woman, indicating the older woman. "You may address her as Mrs. Lovechild."
"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lovechild," said Harry.
"And you as well," said Mrs. Lovechild. "I suppose we should thank you for bringing Livingston home."
"It was the least I could do," said Harry.
"Well, are we going to spend all evening gabbing here in the chill, or shall we bring the prodigal inside?" said Ralston. He had pulled on a pair of sturdy-looking leather gloves.
"I hope he's not dead," said Gwendolyn, who had stepped forward to peer down at the sidewalk.
"Well, if he is dead," said Ralston, "he will have gone out the way he would have wanted. Drunk as a skunk. Shall we, Mr. Peachcraft?"
"Yes," said Harry. "I'm ready."
"And then afterwards," said Gwendolyn, "whether Livingston is alive or dead, you must dine with us, Mr. Peachtree. Are you fond of Chicken à la King?"
Harry had only ever had the kind of Chicken à la King that you got in automats or diners, and it had never seemed as good as it was touted up to be, but he didn't want to appear rude, so he said yes, he was actually very fond of Chicken à la King.
{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}
