"Me? Bull^^z/." The chatter and the silverware noises around them suddenly hush. "Oopsy," Champ says.
"Besides, they make you dress for dinner?" says Tina. "That's like a thing there? And he looked so cute in his jacket and tie."
"I looked like a fucking anchorman," says Champ.
"I'm going to go in and just make sure Jean's all right." Tina gets up, comes around and kisses Willis on the cheekbone. "You are so sweet," she says. "I can't believe you."
"Hold that thought," Willis says, and commands himself not to watch her ass as she walks away.
"Listen, bro," says Champ. "Can you really swing this?"
"Hey," says Willis. "If MasterCard says I can, who am I to argue?"
''There you go," says Champ. "So Jean doesn't like it when the jizzbags arrive before the soup?"
Willis shrugs. "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke, right?"
PRESTON FALLS
"What I always say."
"Dames. Can't live wiih 'em, dot dot dot."
"I hear you," says Champ. "So listen, this might be the moment for us boys to powder our noses." He pats his shirt pocket. "Little cut in your strut? Glide in your stride?"
"What is this, the eighties?" says Willis. "I'm just about keeping it together as it is."
"That's why you need to lively up," says Champ. "Lively up yourself," he sings, "don't be no dra-hag."
Willis shakes his head. "Bad idea."
"Well, shit iil'm not going to go get festive."
"God help us." Willis picks up his martini. "Listen, be discreet, will you?"
"Yeah, right. I'm going to stand at the fucking urinal wagging my wang with one hand and—"
"You're being very loud," Willis says.
"Oopsy." Champ raises his hand and whispers, "May I be excused?"
Willis sits there alone at the table. So now what the fuck. He takes a sip of martini. Fair. Except too much of whatever shit vermouth they pour here. He should've gone in with Champ; Jean never saw him in his druggy days and wouldn't have a clue. Hell, he could go in now. But. He takes two more gulps and beckons the waiter while emptying the glass. And bingo: when Jean comes back to the table he's got another, drier one in front of him that anybody would think was still the first.
"Mel and Roger are fine," she says, sitting down. "If you're interested."
Already he's mellow enough to let that one roll. "Oh, you called up?" he says, a blithe and blase martini-drinker like Mr. Postmodern Collage Man on the Tanqueray posters. Mr. Something.
"Yes. I called up."
He'll ignore her tone too. Superciliously, he sips again.
"They want to stay overnight."
"And you told them?" he says.
"I told them fine. I thought under the circumstances it was just as well."
"The circumstances?" Dear me, whatever can the woman mean?
"Oh, stop," she says. "Just stop. Tell me something, have you lost your mind? It was just so loutish. A box of rubbers, for God's sake."
"Hey, I am a lout. That's my big aspiration anymore. To be a fucking lout."
"Well, you're succeeding," she says.
"Well, good, great," he says. "You know who I want to be? Fucking John Madden." It's the example that leaps to mind.
"I'm sorry, this is all too deep for me," she says. "I'd appreciate it if after we get our food we could get out of here as quickly as possible."
"We haven't even ordered, for Christ's sake."
"Yes, I know that, thank you." Then she looks up and says, without moving her lips, "Oh, great."
Tina sits down. "Oh, I feel so much better. What happened to my one and only?"
"Went to the men's," Willis says.
"This place is so happening." Tina's looking at another suit of armor, in a wall niche. "Do you think these are actually real?"
"Not unless they were for midgets," says Willis.
Jean has gone behind her menu.
"But weren't people smaller in the old days?" Tina says.
"/was," says Willis. "You should've seen me in 1954."
Tina does a batting-at-him gesture. "No, I mean—like wasn't Napoleon five two or something?"
"Hey," says Champ, sitting down and rubbing his nose. ''Heya heya heya heya."
"Champ?" says Tina. "Wasn't Napoleon like five two?"
"Could be," says Champ. "Napoleon? Could very very well be. I do know they pickled his dick and put it in the Smithsonian."
"Oh-oh," says Tina. "What's this vibe I'm getting? You weren't being a bad boy in there?"
"Unbelievable," says Champ. "Guy takes an innocent whiz. You want to pat me down?"
"Could be hot." Tina narrows her eyes. "Hmm. I don't know about you."
"I think we should order," Jean says.
"Ah yes, I'll have the, ah, pickled dick}'' says Champ. "Served with a light cream sauce?"
"Sweetheart," says Tina.
"Oopsy."
"Honey lamb," says Tina.
PRESTON FALLS
"Ah yes, I'll have the, ah, honey lamby
As the rest of them eat. Champ combs his pasta into patterns with his fork and explains that "Maurice Bishop" had been seen with Oswald before the assassination, and that if you looked at the sketch of "Maurice Bishop" and then at the photograph of David Attlee Phillips, it's just unmistakable, even though the guy who saw them together backed off from explicitly making the identification because he was scared shitless of the CIA.
"So the whole thing came out of Langley," says Willis. "What else is new."
"Langley?" says Champ. "You don't seriously believe headquarters is at fucking Langley, do you? Langley is the fucking cover.''
"Okay, so where's the real place?"
"Orlando. They got this whole like underground city underneath Disney World, right? Fifty thousand million people with their kids and shit walking around overhead, fat, dumb and happy," He teases out a strand of pasta, regards it, then drapes it over a piece of broccoli. "Nah, shit, how would / know? I don't want to fucking know. That kind of information could be very very dangerous to have." He whistles the little four-note Twilight Zone thing.
"You live with him," Willis says to Tina. "Does he really believe this stuff?"
"Hey, talk about me like I'm not here," says Champ.
"He gets off on it, I know that" she says.
Willis is pretty well hammered after his three martinis (officially two) plus wine with dinner, so he lets Jean drive them back to Preston Falls while he rides shotgun and plays deejay. Hot Country really is unlistenable, so he settles on a classical station—it's that Hovhaness piece of garbage that everybody likes because they're getting old and right wing. The Magic Mountain or whatever. Willis is smashed enough to where he finds himself enjoying the heU out of it. As they pull into the dooryard, he sees stars in the black sky above his own hilltop, and that is just about fucking perfect. He gets out of the Cherokee and stands there staring in shit-faced reverence.
Champ and Tina call good night. Yeah, yeah, good night.
Jean touches his arm. She came right out of nowhere. "I'm going up to bed."
"Good," he says. "That's good." And now Rathbone is here too, tail
wagging, Rathbone! Forgot he even existed! Rathbone races off and lifts his leg against the spooky white birch tree.
"This probably isn't the best time," Jean says. "But do you think you could give me a clue as to what's going on?"
"In what sense?" he says.
She goes Oh as if somebody knocked the wind out of her.
This tells Willis he'd better try and be lucid for a second.
"Look," he says. "We've been over this. It's like I've been in the wrong life."
"Well, do you have any conception of what your life properly is? I mean, is it really up here, driving a truck?''
"That's what I hope to figure out," he says. "In my big two months." But hey, Rathbone's back! Willis gets to his knees, roughs up Rathbone's neck and teUs him That's my boy.
"Something else you might want to figure out," says Jean. "What role, if any, do your children have in this real life of yours? Not to mention your wife. Have you given thought to any of that?"
"To my shame, no," he says.
"I'm not that interested in your shame," she says. "I know you find it fascinating."
"Hey, give the little lady a brass ring," he says. "The low blow award." He strokes Rathbone's silky side and stands up again. Reelin' and a-rockin', but basically okay.
"Oh, I'm sure you took it to heart," she says. "You've fixed it so nobody's even in the same universe with you. I don't know, I just truly worry about you. As someone who knows you."
"You know me very well."
"Oh, please," she says. And goes inside.
He sits down on the stepstone; Rathbone comes over, circles, then lies at Willis's feet sniffing the night air. There's the good old Big Dipper up there, the only constellation Willis knows. Or gives a rat's ass about. Light from the upstairs window makes a night-baseball-green parallelogram on the wet grass. Lawn needs mowing. Tomorrow, without fail.
Jean gets her nightgown from the closet, shoving aside old shirts of Willis's that he's put on hangers even though they're dirty. He'll wear them when he's working, sweat them through, then hang them back up.
PRESTON FALLS
Unbelievable. No wonder it smells in here. She makes space on both sides of her cotton dress with the cerise flowers, the one halfway decent thing she keeps in Preston Falls. Willis bought it for her three birthdays ago at—where else?—Laura Ashley, and it's actually not that dreadful, though she had to exchange the six he'd gotten for an eight. So obviously he should have married Laura Ashley, some willowy honey-haired size-eight hippie princess with a fetching little English accent and Pre-Raphaelite pallor and breasts that get magically gigundo once she takes off her chaste Laura Ashley dress. Jean puts her underwear in the laundry bag, gets the nightgown on and goes downstairs to the bathroom. Through the screen door she sees Willis sitting out on the stepstone with his back to her. Feeling lonely and misunderstood. Or sensing his own insignificance in the vastness of the universe. Or planning how he's going to dump her. Or wondering whether to buy a motorcycle or another guitar. Really, at this point, how would anybody know?
She pees, puts in a new Tampax, washes, brushes her teeth and pops two Advils. The cramps have pretty much passed, but Advil might help her sleep. In addition to everything else, she's worried about the kids. Though it's crazy to suspect Arthur Bjork is a pedophile just because he's overweight and because he and Katherine have marriage trouble. After all, don't she and Willis have marriage trouble? Isn't that what this is?
When the upstairs light goes out, Willis gets to his feet and goes inside, holding the door for Rathbone, who comes clicking in, leaving wet footprints on the kitchen floor. The footprints make Willis think the seat of his pants must be wet too, but damned if he can feel it. He reaches around: yep. He gets down that bottle of Dewar's and pours himself some. Pours himself really quite a bit, actually. He brings his glass into the living room, stretches out on the couch—Rathbone lies down on the floor by his side—and starts looking through Dombey and Son for just any scene with Old Joe Bagstock, old Joseph, Joey B., Sir. Funny as shit. When he's polished off the whole glass he rests the open book on his chest and closes his eyes. Then the room starts to spin. Oh shit. Shit shit shit. He tries to pretend this is actually desirable and he can just merrily spin away into dreamy dreamland. No good. He opens his eyes, sits up a little and tries to read, but now that's no good. He eases back down and the room goes so crazy he wonders if he's having a stroke on top of being drunk. He gets to his feet and moonwalks into the bathroom.
closes the door behind him, drops to his knees and flips up the toilet seat. The sight of a pubic hair on the rim does the trick: he sticks out his tongue and out it pours, vanity after vanity, this whole evening's stupid history. He wipes his mouth with toilet paper and lies sweating on the floor, thinking At least that's over with. Knowing God damn well it's not.
He wakes up on the sofa, mouth nasty, head throbbing. Still in his clothes. Turns his head, and the son of a bitch throbs worse. Yellowish daylight in the living room. Rathbone rises from the floor, stretches and sniffs Willis's face. Willis pats his head and tells him Good dog, then gets up to piss and take Advil. The house is silent. Before going into the bathroom he gives Rathbone fresh water and makes sure he's got food, hoping to placate whoever might be watching and judging all this shit from on high.
He's putting on water for coffee when he hears somebody coming downstairs. Jean? Please, no. Rathbone's tail gets going. But it's Champ, thank God.
"Hey, the hostess with the mostest," says Champ. "Didn't expect you to be up." He squats and tousles Rathbone's ears. "Yes, you're a good guy."
Willis spoons coffee into the filter paper. Then he turns and sees Champ's t-shirt and says, "Jesus H. Christ."
"What— this}'' Champ tugs out a Httle tent of fabric with thumb and forefinger. "Had a guy silk-screen it. He's got the image on file, if you want one."
"I'll pass," says Willis. "Listen. You just put this on to model it for me, right?"
"No, not—oh. I see what you're saying. Too punk for Preston FaUs."
"Well, not just that."
''Oh. Gotcha. Okay, that's cool. I got another thing I can put on."
"That's a real autopsy photo?" says Willis.
"Yep. Well, actually sort of yes and no. It's like it's reaUy him dead, but the CIA dicked around with the photo. Or they dicked around with the body. Like right here, see?" He cranes his neck to look down at his
chest, then puts a finger just above and behind JFK's ear. "When you look at the Z film, right? This area here should be completely blown to fuck. So something's fuckin' weird. I don't know. Shit, I like wearing it, you know? Tina has the same reaction you do, by the way."
"I'm past the point of having reactions," says Willis. "All I want now is an easy life." Champ plays an invisible violin at him as he gets down the JOE mug and the mug with the green band around the rim. "What got you started on this shit? You were like three years old."