The Landlord. Kristin Hunter

the rage only comes later?”

      “Much later.”

      “And turned, always, on yourself. Yes. To the point of self-destruction. Which is why, Elgar, we have agreed that contact with your father is dangerous for you at present. At your present stage of maturity, even to telephone him is an act of self-destruction.”

      Borden paused before dropping the awful question into the silence. It shook the room with the force of a boulder.

      “Then why, Elgar, did you phone your father today?”

      “I didn’t say I phoned him, Borden,” Elgar replied stubbornly, fighting back his unreasonable fear of being caught. “How do you know? Maybe he phoned me.”

      Borden simply stared back at him quietly, that calm, empty stare which at times drove Elgar to fits of frustration. And, at other times, to fits of honesty.

      “Yes, Borden, I called him,” he admitted finally. “You sad imitation of Basil Rathbone imitating Sherlock Holmes, you know he couldn’t have called me. He doesn’t know where I live, hasn’t been able to find me since I holed up here in the Trejour. So yes, Borden, I admit it. I walked into that sidewalk phone booth, that elegant glass coffin designed by Mies or somebody like him so all the world could watch my death throes, and put the coins in the box, and dialed my father’s number myself. Why did I do that, Borden?

      “—Because the tenants at my apartment house are driving me out of my mind. I haven’t collected a cent in rents from them. I’ve collected nothing but abuse. I thought maybe the great Empire Builder would have a suggestion to help me clear up my minor problems with a small empire consisting of only four measly apartments. But he was no help at all, Borden. So I smashed my way out of the booth again.” Christ, he was crying.

      “You wanted him to be helpless,” Borden suggested. “You wanted your father to meet with a defeat. It is what you have always wanted, Elgar. At the cost of your own life, if necessary.”

      Tears really flowing now. Stop bawling, he thought, you’ll ruin the bandage, lying prone like this. Shut up or sit up, you slob.

      “Elgar,” Borden said softly, “I think it is too high a price to pay.”

      Funny, how Borden was really getting to look like Lincoln. Like the Old Emancipator himself.

      “To summarize,” Borden said with an elevated bony finger, “you feel a strong desire to kill your father. You can’t stand this idea, so you try to destroy yourself instead. But you are getting better, Elgar. Today you only sliced yourself up a little. Also, I think you no longer need your father or his advice. I think perhaps you can arrive at your own solutions, now that you have made a beginning.”

      “Please, Borden, tell me. Where in the crazy mixed-up mess of my life do you see a sign of a beginning?”

      “Buying this apartment building. Taking on new responsibility. I think it is a healthy project for you, Elgar. I think you can use it to work out many of your problems.”

      Borden glanced at his watch. It usually angered Elgar that he should never fail to notice the end of what must surely be the most fascinating hour of his day. However, today Elgar’s rage, usually his trusty ally in every situation but one, had deserted him.

      “Your hour is up for today, Elgar. I suggest you go back to your property and attempt to collect your rents. If you meet with resistance, take out your aggressions on your tenants. That will be good for you. And it will be appropriate.”

      Smiling bravely if wanly, the bandaged old warrior saluted his commander-in-chief, tottered out of command headquarters, and made for the front lines once more. To faintly fluting strains of “Yankee Doodle.”

      An hour later he was back in his barracks, staring distrustfully at a small, gaily printed white card. It had been far too easy. His instincts smelled a trap. Yet there it was in his hand, frisky and friendly as an innocent lamb.

      This time Marge had come to the door to announce that she was the duly elected president of the newly formed Corner Poplar Street Tenants’ Association, and therefore authorized to speak for everyone in the house. The C.P.S.T.A. had held its first meeting today, she said. In addition to the election of officers, they had aired their grievances and come to an important decision.

      “What goddamned grievances?” he’d asked in disbelief.

      “We’ll get to those later, Landlord. But I can tell you one complaint was about foulmouthed language on the premises. Yours. So just be quiet and read this. Here.”

      The card she handed him said:

       Does your blood feel tired, does your back feel bent?

       Help us raise the roof while we raise the rent!

       There’ll be Fountains of Youth ^* and lots of eats

       At the corner of Jackson and Poplar Streets!

FRIDAY EVENING,	*(ALCOHOLIC CONTENT)
SEPTEMBER 4TH	ADMISSION TWO DOLLARS

      8:30 P.M. ’til ???

      “We used to have these lots in the old days,” Marge explained proudly. “The rent comes due every week in Harlem.”

      “Well,” Elgar said, smiling all over himself, even under the bandage. Pleased and shaken. “Well. What do you know? A party. Well. Am I invited?”

      “Well of course, Landlord,” Marge said, with indignant hands on her wall-to-wall hips. “You’re the reason for the party. There wouldn’t be any party except for you.”

      “Yeehoo!” he howled, ripping off the bandage like an imaginary ten-gallon hat and doing three rapid battements élevés between the top step and the sidewalk. “Whee! Yoohee!”

      “There will be no rowdy conduct allowed,” Marge said severely. “And you got to pay your way in the door, just like everybody else. After all, this is a rent party, Landlord.”