Marilyn the Wild by Jerome Charyn

known the exact tremors of Rupert’s voice? Philip put his hand out the door, clutched a jacket, and hauled Rupert inside. The fat cheeks were gone. Rupert looked emaciated. He wore the jacket of a housing cop. This was his only disguise. With a hard pull, the jacket could have reached to his ankles. Bound in dark, billowing cloth, Rupert had no fists, no throat, no chest. Philip unraveled him. Except for old, disheveled sneakers and pants, he was naked under the jacket, he first manly hairs, almost blond, sprouting over his nipples. A squeal escaped from Philip’s throat; his mad love for the boy turned to an incredible rage. He had Rupert’s ear in his fingers. He would have gone for a nose. Rupert knocked him down. Philip sat with his knees in his chest. A simple push had stunned him, not a wicked blow.
    â€œPapa, don’t touch my ear again. I’m too old for that”
    Rupert didn’t sneer; he hugged Philip under the arms and straightened Philip’s knees. He was delicate with his father, picking him up. Then he walked into the kitchen. Philip had to stare at his back; half of Rupert was inside the refrigerator. He tore into the flesh of a tomato, marking the refrigerator walls with red spit. He swallowed sour pickles. He crammed his face into a container of cottage cheese. Philip was appalled by his son’s appetite. He’d never encountered a boy with such greedy jaws. Rupert was all tongue and teeth. Philip had lost his way with him. How could he confront this child of his, who was trying to shove the universe into his mouth?
    â€œRupert, did you notice a journalist in the hall, a man named Brill?”
    Rupert emerged from the refrigerator, cottage cheese falling from his eyebrows. “The fatass in the trench coat? He saluted me.”
    â€œBut he saw you standing by the door.”
    â€œSo what? What can he do, papa? Let him blab to Isaac. Who gives a shit.”
    â€œIsaac was here,” Philip declared with a pull of his shoulder, as Rupert dove into the cottage cheese again. “I said Isaac was here.”
    Rupert mumbled with his lips inside the container. “ I heard you, papa.” He came up for air, flicking cheese off his nose. “Why did you supply him with pictures of Esther and me?”
    â€œRupert, he would have torn out the walls. Isaac doesn’t give you much room to breathe. But he wants to help.… Rupert, has he done bad things to you?”
    â€œPapa, you’re a woodenhead. Isaac’s been fucking you blind. You and Mordecai can’t stop paying homage to him. He’s your king. At least Mordecai gets some satisfaction. He brags about Isaac. He talks about the Jewish god who presides over New York City, the kosher detective who can solve any crime. And you, papa? You eat your liver without saying a word. Where’s your terrain? Isaac’s left you his droppings. He’s made you prince of the Essex Street project. You walk around in your three good shirts wishing you were Isaac.”
    â€œThat’s crazy,” Philip said. “I don’t envy his success.”
    Rupert sucked with wolfish teeth. “Success, papa? That’s it Success to do what? Blow people away? To prance in front of Puerto Ricans and poor Jews. Isaac shits in peace because he has his worshipers and his props. He can enter any church or playground on both sides of the Bowery and be guaranteed a smile. Even the horseradish man bows to Isaac. Papa, if you could learn to despise him, he’d run uptown with a handkerchief over his ears. He’d disintegrate. He’d cry in Riverdale.”
    Rupert scooped up his jacket off the floor and began stuffing the pockets with food. After scavenging his father’s refrigerator, he climbed into the jacket and waddled to the door. The pockets hung below his knees.
    â€œI’ll hide you,” Philip said. “You can stay here.”
    â€œWhat happens when Isaac sweeps under the