Dana Drive and the Belinki Twins

Dana Drive and The Belinki Twins

by Devon Pitlor



“Mais où sont les neiges d’antan?”  François  Villon 1431-1463





I. England froze last winter.



I have a secret to tell tonight, and it is not about something I saw on television.  Damn the television, anyway.



I stopped watching the news every evening in October when a new island was formed off the coast of Iceland, and no one living in this hell-hole cared.  They don't care about anything.  They sit in the overstuffed chairs and pick filler out of the armrests, and some of them even chew it or blow their noses with it.  They all have colds every day, and that is all they want to talk about.  They look at Walter Cronkite and listen to the news, but they hear very little except their own wheezing and snotblocked coughing.  England froze solid last winter.  Even the waterfalls turned to ice. They didn't thaw out until spring.  The English I mean.  In July, they shot that guy who tried to kill President DeGaulle of France.  He faced the firing squad with a cigarette in his mouth and a rosary in his hand, and we saw him fall flat to the ground, punctured by lead.  Have they no decency about what they show?  The others here hardly notice, and nobody wants to talk about anything anyway.  Patsy Kline was killed a few months ago in a plane crash and won’t be singing anymore.  All these old stubs did was laugh and say she was no match for Vera Lynn or Rina Ketty who got us through the war. These old feeble hens only think about the war, about a constant parade of dead Georges who never came back.  Myself, I never had a George, so I can't talk about one.  Not a George, not an Edward, not a Herbert...no one.  My mother told me to fear men, and I never questioned her judgment in that regard.



I have a secret to tell tonight. 



And it is about the street, Dana Drive.  I watch the street and know something about it that they don’t know.





II. The water main broke.



Oh, no.  That is not my secret.  I’m saving my secret until after dinner when the TV room is full.



But a water main did break again today.



Or was it the sewer pipe?  It smelled horrible, and finally they were forced to open some windows.  Was that to let the odor in or to get our old-age stench out?  They never said. The first time it happened, it was mid-summer, and it stank for weeks.  Men in orange suits stood around in small groups watching a Mexican or two push the sludge around with a shovel.  Men in business suits came and watched the men in orange suits watch the one or two Mexicans work.  Finally, a stout, sassy woman came with a clip board and started taking notes on the men in suits who were watching the men in orange who were watching the lone, remaining Mexican. She jabbed her pencil into the clipboard and ticked off things and showed them to a fat man in a dirty white singlet who just seemed to be strolling around enjoying the mess.



On television, they gave today’s break a two sentence pass-over and said Dana Drive was closed and that you couldn't go down it to the cemetery because of the flooding.  They didn't say whether it was dirty water or just water-water.



Leonard, who for some reason is still living, started laughing.  The old hens love it when he does that.  Men are so sparse here, and who cares?  I never had one.  My mother saw to that.  But Leonard was really amused.  "What do you think about that?" he said to no one in particular.  I replied---sharply as I always do with these old relics---that I could stand up and see the break out the window.  I said I could smell it too.  "I avoid windows," was all that Leonard said before his huge armchair, full of old-man scent, absorbed him and he fell asleep.  THAT conversation was ended.



Outside all the workers disappeared later except today’s Mexican with his shovel.  He was still using it to scrape away the sludge.  I took the bold move of closing the window.  It is, after all, late November.  We might be getting frozen over like England did last year.  Who knows what is coming in this crazy world where I know I won’t be much longer?



But I have a secret for them all.  And it will be tonight, the 21st of November, and don’t ask me the year because I don’t pay attention to years any more.



My secret is outside the window.



Even with my failing eyesight I can see the old Tronger place.  It is right in front of the cavern left by the broken main.  Maybe they will tear it down, I’m thinking.  What an eyesore.  It is totally out of place on this street.  I hate that house.  I hated it before I knew its secret.



III. The Tronger "mansion."



I hated the Tronger mansion immediately when I was first confined to this place, and I hate it now.  It is huge, uninhabited at present, but there used to be people there.  Coming and going.  People that I didn't like.  They all looked richer than we are, richer than everybody else.  And they came and went in Lincolns and Cadillacs.  Like rich people.  I hate rich people.  So did my mother. She told me to walk big circles around them.  The Tronger place is empty now, but it used to be full of people. People I hated.  I often told the others what I thought, but like with the evening news, they didn't care.  Who was Tronger and why did he or she have a house so big on this modest street?  I asked everyone.  No one knew or cared.  But I found out.



IV. November 21, 1963.



Okay, so now I remember the year.  Things like that come and go in my mind now.



I skipped dinner and went directly into the TV room where I am now.  Leonard is still a part of his chair.  He may be dead.  That happens a lot here.



Colored people….negroes, we are supposed to say now… have been all over the screen.  Sam Cooke singing about how things are going to change because he didn't get a room in a white hotel somewhere.  That Reverend King, who likes to make people march and has them cause trouble.  And someone is always playing that hillbilly guy....Roy Orbison...that song "In dreams I walk with you; in dreams I talk with you."  I never had anyone to walk and talk with. I never had any dreams. I did my job during the war and kept my mouth shut. When I retired, I came here.  That is the end of my story.



But I do have a secret.  And this is a good night to share it with them.  Because some of them are just going to die soon anyway.  Most of us are just “in temporary storage,” as one of the nurses said thinking she was so very funny.



V. The Catholic president



The Irishman Catholic they elected after the General to be president is coming to Texas tomorrow and riding in a parade.  Who cares?  That is all presidents seem to do now.  The General was a real president.  Besides, he won the war for us too.  People have forgotten that.  This Irishman Catholic has too many teeth in his smile, and his wife wears ridiculous pillbox hats and looks half-crazy all the time.  So that is all the TV is about tonight.  The Irishman’s visit so we get to see his long hair and his too-many teeth again and again. 



This will be a good night for my secret.  Nothing in the news.  Besides, these people don’t pay attention to the news anyway. I’ve already said that.  England was frozen solid last winter, and not one of them cared or would discuss it. 



So there is no news worth watching or talking about.  Tonight will be a good night for my secret.



The shadows have almost made the Tronger house invisible.  Good.  I hate to look at it.  Rich people showing off in a poor neighborhood. Leaving their empty house behind.



But I know the whole story, and it is better.



VI. How I know.



One of them is sure to sneeze across the room and then ask me just how I know this secret.  Well, I got it word for word from a Tronger family member who used to visit me, and don’t ask me who, because, to begin with, I can’t remember, and secondly, I wouldn’t tell you if I knew.  I hated all the Tronger people except him, but he was chatty and he told me everything.  I’ll tell them that much.  A Tronger family member walked down here and brought me flowers or candy, I can’t remember which, and told me why everyone was leaving the house.  That was years ago.  When I first came here.  I still could move about without a walker, and no cat had my tongue.  When you chat with people, they chat with you.  That is the way things go.  Give and take.



So here they come now, smelling of dinner.  Smelling of burnt sugar.  Everything they serve for desert is full of burnt sugar. 



Clomp…clomp…not one of them can walk without some clomping thing.  Clomp…clomp.  Old people, I’m old, but I don’t belong with them.



No, you can’t turn on the TV tonight because I have a story to tell you, and I want you all to listen. Leave the TV off.  It is just about the president coming tomorrow, and that is nothing new. It’s not like the General is coming with him.  That was the other party.  They don’t parade together. So leave the TV off and sit down and listen.  That’s right, let Bernard sit in his usual chair.  It is molded for his body anyway.  And he can’t hear worth a damn, and I’m not going to shout.  How many of you have seen the hole in front of the Tronger house?  Bet they don’t cover that up for weeks, and bet they finally tear that evil, stinking place down.  The Drive doesn’t need it.  Iona, you sit in Irene’s place.  Velma, you sit close to the heater because you’re always cold.  Arthena, you close the door.  We don’t need a nurse in here prying.  Margaret, you bring me a glass of water if there is any.  Do we still have water here? Don’t call me Marilyn.  Just Mari will do.



Now don’t fret about the television any of you.  It’s just that “in dreams” fellow Orbison again on the variety show.  And a broadcast about the Irishman-Catholic president visiting tomorrow. I know you don’t care about that. He is parading all over the country.  Is that what we elected him to do?  England froze last year, and he didn’t send any money. 



Okay, everyone ready?  I’m going to tell you about the Tronger house. I’m going to tell you the secret story while I still have the chance.



VII. The Tronger house



Stop calling me Miss Marilyn.  I know damn well I was never married.  None of you ever use your ears right.  Try to understand about the house…the mansion…whatever you want to call it.  This may be your last chance to know the truth.  Old man Tronger’s nephew brought me a pie once…maybe it was a cake…and told me why everyone was leaving the place.  First of all, the Trongers proper were all dying off, and they didn’t need to move down here with us because fancy people like that have bigger, better old-age homes to flock into.  Secondly, it was Nettie Tronger’s niece and her pretty daughter who were living there alone now.  Girl’s name was Gretchen…Gretchen Tronger, maybe the last of the Trongers.  I don’t know. 



Oh, get up and do it, and make it back fast.  All of you go line up and do it, and get back, and don’t touch that volume button.  You can listen to me and watch it without sound.  It’s just that Roy Orbison and the Irish-Catholic-boy-president. 



VIII. Tronger house continued



Okay, Mitch, I WILL get to the point so you can watch your infernal boxing.  Myra, no, you can’t knit right now. 



That girl Gretchen…Gretchen Tronger was prettier than she should have been, and she was COURTED by the Belinki twins.  They were rich too and lived where the rich are really supposed to live, not like here where they don’t belong.  They were identical twins, and they visited her all the time.  She would only let them go so far.  I mean with their hands. She was about sixteen.  I was sixteen once, but I never did any of THAT. It isn’t moral or right.  We had a war about to start. Girls were more serious in their thoughts.



Gretchen entertained them both at the same time. I mean they each had a hand somewhere on her privates at once.  Twins do that, you know.  They do everything together because…because …they are identical, and that means feeling and thinking the same way as one another all the time. 



So night after night, the Belinki twins came over and were entertained by this Gretchen.



Shameful and lewd.  People should raise their daughters with more decency.



Yes, Fred, I see him.  It’s the Irish-Catholic president with his sharp teeth all spilling out again.  Forget it.  Listen to the rest of my story.



So one day, Gretchen decides to make them wait in a parlor off her bedroom while she goes in with the kid who used to peddle papers on his bike up and down Dana Drive, this very street.  Kid’s name is Shane or Zane or something.  She makes the Belinkis wait in another room while she and the newsboy go to her bedroom for hours on end.  The Belinkis find a bottle or two of that fancy brandy—cognac—that rich people drink.  They just drink and drink and get angrier and angrier. 



Turn the damn thing off and listen.  Who cares about that hillbilly singer Orbison?



So finally this news kid comes out of Gretchen’s room and he is well…buttoning…zipping up.  The Belinkis are drunk as pig swallow now and all flushed with anger.  He winks at them and slips out.  What happened is clear.  In a minute, Gretchen comes out.  She is buttoning up too.

Shameful. The Belinkis see her and threaten to kill each other if she has been fowled.  The one twin….and don’t ask me their names because they were IDENTICAL…has a silver pistol that he has been carrying around for days and showing off at school.  They both ask Gretchen what she had done with the newsboy, and she hints that…that it was the whole dirty thing.  This makes them so depressed that they get dramatic and once again threaten to kill themselves.  Gretchen giggles at them and says that the newsboy is coming back the next day and that they can discuss it with him personally if they want.



Oh, yes, the president again. Well, I don’t care.  He’s not here yet.  He is somewhere else.  When he gets here tomorrow, some of you might even be dead.  We die overnight here.  You know that.



So listen about the Belinki twins.  Probably your last chance.  I’m not going to tell this again.  Ever.



Don’t ask me that question, Herbert.  I know about it because it was told to me by someone who knew, who was there, probably hiding in the room.



So up jumps Belinki One with the pistol and shoots Belinki Two in the mouth.  Then Belinki One takes the gun and puts it to his temple…that is the side of your head…and kills himself, and all of this in front of Gretchen. 



That is my secret.  The family sends Gretchen off to a private school in Idaho far away, cleans up the mess, and pays off the police and news people.  And then they all move away and leave the accursed place empty just like it is now.



That is my secret, and now you know it, and, yes, now you can go to bed, Millicent.  All of you can go to your beds.  I’m going to sit here and think about my story some more.  I’m going to sit here and stare out the window at that Tronger place and remember what happened there.



IX. Conclusion: Friday, November 22, 1963



I feel terrible today, and I need to stay in bed.  There is too much commotion outside.  Must be the street crew again watching their Mexican with a shovel.  But why the sirens?  What does this have to do with the Belinkis, and what is that pain I feel today?  Everyday a new pain.  This one is worse.



No, I know what this is.  It is death.  It is my warning that I’m dying.  My eyes are really failing, and I can’t sit up.  I’m dying.  I’m going to go and see my sensible mother.  The sirens in the street are ambulances coming for me.  I’ll just lie back and let it happen.  Ah, there.  Numbness in both arms.  Legs won’t work.  Sirens getting closer.  Television blasting.  It may be about me.  My eyes are too heavy to hold open.  And now my mouth won’t work.  Can’t breathe.  Oh thank god, I told them about the Belinki twins!!  That is what I’m leaving them with. Good. The sirens are coming for me, and I’m really cold now. Really cold.

_________________________

Devon Pitlor, November, 2009