The Royal Family (103 page)

The Tenderloin? said Celia’s father. Doesn’t he mean the bad area?

. . . Drinking myself into a stupor until next June twenty-seventh, or would June twenty-sixth be good enough? If there’s no leap year I guess then we could wrap it up. The
mourning
period, I mean, John shouted.

(Celia would not forget the sight in that bathtub, not ever. Nor would she forget the
refinishing man who’d arrived two days later and lounged in the doorway saying to John: That bathtub’s gonna be as smooth as a baby’s ass, Mr. Tyler. Don’t you worry about that. I take pride in my work.

(All right, fine, said John. Just make sure you mask it off. I’m a clean freak.

(What happened in this bathtub, anyway? said the refinishing man. It don’t really look so bad.

(My wife died in it, said John. Just make sure you mask it off, all right?)

Donald said: For Christ’s sake, John, we get the picture.

Oh, you do? Good. Then let’s talk about something more pleasant. Mutual funds, for instance. Do you have a Keough IRA, Donald?

I don’t even know what I have. When I started working for the company last year they told me something about stock options, but . . .

Wrong answer, said John. I want you to tell me yes or no.

Celia laid a hand on his shoulder, but he shook her off. He went on and on. He talked about stocks and bonds. Only Celia’s father was interested, but Celia’s father was
extremely
interested.

Easy to put John in a bad light, to perceive in him a desire to torment! But, if we set aside his undeniable territorialism regarding his inner life, his mastiff’s instinct of self-defense even to growling and barking, we’re left with a sincere, almost ingenuous enthusiast of market forces, an almost convivial do-gooder, who enjoyed shepherding his fellow creatures towards security and riches. (Come tax time, Donald’s life is
not
going to be pretty, he said.) Mr. Keane’s anxiety about the future might have been tiresome to the family; to John, it was natural, prudent, appropriate. John would help him if he could. Passionate believer in self-help and mutual aid, unsurpassed justifier of insurance, accumulation and other end goals, he remained in his own peculiar way as kind to human beings as he was to his mother’s dog. It was natural that in due course he would advise Domino, who always wondered where the money was in her life. (He easily withstands comparison with his fraternal antipode, one Henry Tyler, whose twenty-thousand-dollar investigative access bond with the Department of Motor Vehicles John had paid half of, out of duty to that same Henry Tyler who when walking down Jones Street, enjoying in equal measure clouds over Ellis Street and fire escape shadows on that classy watering hole the Cinnabar, was approached by a man who said: Yo, brother, can I bum a quarter? I ain’t gonna lie to you. It’s for a beer. —You can smoke crack with it for all I care, said Tyler, fishing for a promise-keeper. Sure I’ll give you a quarter.) John wanted the best for everyone, even for the impudent Donald. Did his pity contain contempt? To be sure, John loved dignity. But his hardness was less a means of intimidation, or even of expression of any sort, than an inescapable constituent of his being.

I recall the afternoon at the office when Mr. Singer grinned, sneered and shrugged at the same time, back-tilting his massive bald head. —You’re certainly all business, John, he said. If it weren’t for the fact that the clients seem to like you so much, I’d have to consider you—well, almost abrasive—

If they like me, it must be because I’m all business, replied John. After all, we bill them for my time. They don’t want to pay me to talk baseball. I had a lawyer once who—

But, you know, sometimes talking a little baseball puts a person at ease. Sometimes you can get them to open up . . .

You mean, like a girl on the first date, said John.

Now, you see, said Mr. Singer with a tiresomely professorial air, you can say that to me, and it’s really quite funny. But if I were to say that to Joy, or, God forbid, to Ellen, why I could be sued for sexual harassment. Creating an unsuitable working environment, they’d call it. I’m sure you know what not to say to the client . . .

That’s why I keep it all business.

Maybe you’re right, John. Maybe you’re right. God knows, it’s easier to get castrated than you think.

And if John had failed to keep it all business that night at Celia’s house, it was because that very day an untoward discovery had caught him up. Celia’s allergies to mold had impelled him to have his carpet steam-cleaned. It was one of those half-rare Saturdays when he did not need to be reading briefs or visiting the tall, windowed huddle of downtown, so while Celia, who was an excellent cook, went home and made peach ice cream, meanwhile adding to her latest list the following items:

call Jeffrey
return video
draft exclusion to Merino policy
call John—dinner on Monday or not?
delete Sandy from system
create agenda document
database A-2

John began moving furniture up against the wall, rather enjoying the work. The bed was on casters. When John rolled it aside, he discovered among the inevitable accruement of dust, lint, a penny, and several of Irene and Celia’s hairs, black and brown together, mixed together in the dirt, a sheet of Irene’s blue notepaper, which he recognized as instantaneously as he did the handwriting of Irene’s which rippled so evenly across it. Longing then to rid himself of all such memory-capabilities fluttering like voracious moths amidst the already moth-eaten curtains of self which hung inside his airless skull, John sat down on the bed with a dully submissive look upon his face, weakened by the immensity of his anger and anguish. His first impulse was to tear up the letter without reading it, but he mastered this desire, believing (though he could not have said so) that communications from the dead are sacred, that they must be accepted with trembling awe. He was afraid. But he also hoped. His wife’s suicide would never, could never, be entirely explicable to him, but he understood it well enough to interpret it as a reproach. Had Irene been less desperate on her last day, or perhaps less vindictive, she could have left him with an explanation or a few lines of tactful self-blame, so that John could try more successfully to persuade himself of his own righteousness in the matter. After all, what had she to gain by torturing him after her death—unless, indeed, that motive was the wellspring of her act? This question haunted John. And there had been no message whatsoever. The two policemen who came to take his statement told him that in San Francisco only about one out of every four people who killed themselves left a note; he musn’t feel bad about that aspect of the case, they said. But of course he wondered whether he’d been too lenient with her, or not lenient enough, or simply negligent; and
if his hostility later fastened upon his brother, one reason was that Irene had herself been negligent in allowing that hostility no proven act or assertion of hers to cling to. Work, time, Celia, self-discipline, and above all the logic of hopelessness had combined to dull the ache. Now it throbbed so fearfully that for a moment he could almost believe—he
had
to believe—that she who would never rise again now stood before him, calming him and helping him. She would speak to him. She would explain. Sitting there on the stripped bed, he brushed the dust off that blue page and began to read—only to cry out when he saw that it was not addresed to him:

Dear Henry,

 

I rarely write people, the occasional letter yes, I have written a few, but not enough really. I feel bad that I haven’t written more letters in my life. The idea of writing to people strikes me as very pleasant. I write them and think not to send them. Someday I will come across this and wonder why I didn’t send it.

No, I will send this one, if only to write you—when you thought I wouldn’t. What did you think?

Did you think I would?

Will you write back . . . ?

I was feeling pretty unhappy that day at the Korean restaurant. It made me feel better being with you. Thank you for holding my hand.

I feel so strange writing to you. But first letters are usually difficult. No matter what, they sound forced.

It’s good that I wrote it, though. I wanted to write you. And I have.

I’ll say goodbye now. And goodnight.

I
RENE

He was still sitting there half an hour later when the phone rang. He sat listening as on the answering machine Celia’s voice asked over and over where he was; they were supposed to leave for
OAK HILLS
in forty-five minutes . . .

Did something happen to upset you today? Celia asked.

Oh, Brady wants some stupid clause about protecting himself from market saturation. I thought we’d be done months ago. That’s like me wanting a clause in a friggin’ marriage contract to protect myself from unhappiness . . .

Tell me what I should do, said Irene, playing one of John’s computer games.

The Queen or the King? asked John, and he stroked her face.

The plan is to expand
internationally,
was what Brady had actually said in a rambling, tedious message on John’s voicemail. (Wherever John went, he had to call his private line at the office for voicemail, check his answering machine at home, read his electronic mail, then return telephone calls in a breezy voice, after which he hung up, and swore, then with an addict’s eagerness called new numbers in order to leave contingency messages or, more likely, to get caught up in conversations he didn’t care about so that he fidgeted, tapped his foot and silently implored his watchdial until he could hang up once more.) Brady went on: We gotta capitalize on our opportunities, son We gotta launch Feminine Circus outlets in Amsterdam and Tokyo. The American market may get saturated faster than we think, or there may be local legal repercussions, and in fact, John, I want, no, I
demand,
some quick-release option allowing me to pull out at or just before we reach that point . . .

John hadn’t moved the bed yet. Irene remained temporarily deniable. He sat down on the leather couch and called Brady. Lighting a cigar, he said: You seem to think I’m a stockbroker or something. I’m just your contract lawyer.

All right, son, Brady said vaguely; John could tell that he was “with someone,” as they say, that his message had not been about anything anyhow except making sure that his hired help remained on the ball. John knew Brady’s type very very well.

Now, did we talk about executive compensation, John?

Yes we did. Several times.

Good. I want you to structure executive compensation to make it performance-based, because that way we can say screw you to the revenue code. Get the hint? And I presume you know how to get us a full tax deduction for non-qualified stock options . . .

That means that nobody actually gets the use of the income when the option is first granted, John said, stubbing out his cigar, which he had not once placed in his mouth.

That’s right, Brady was saying.

Then you’ll get your deduction for
ordinary
income above the market value . . .

Yeah, yeah. —Brady cleared his throat. —We’ve added two new members to the senior management team, John. So they’ll be needing to sign off on all this paperwork.

Fine with me, said John. If it takes up more of my time, that’s just more of your money. Was there anything else?

Yeah. You heard how to titillate an oscelot?

Oh, brother, said John.

Oscillate her tit a lot. This little girl here in the room just told me . . .

All right, Mr. Brady. You have a good weekend, said John, hanging up.

Sometimes I think that guy’s a clod, he said to Celia.

A week before her suicide, John had attempted for the last time to make love to Irene.

As he laid his hand on her naked shoulder, she began murmuring sadly in her sleep. He reached up under her nightgown. Usually she wore clean white cotton underpants to bed, but tonight she was wearing nothing. Stroking her thick, hot pubic hair, John felt the vibrations of desire. His fingers began probing and searching.

Ouch, said Irene, wide-eyed. You’re hurting me.

John believed that he had actually been very gentle, but he removed his hand and placed it on her breast instead.

My nipples are sore, Irene told him. Can’t you see how big and swollen my breasts are? This pregnancy really hurts me. I feel awful all the time. I don’t like to be touched.

All right, said John, slipping an arm around her so that they could simply go back to sleep.

You’re hurting my neck, Irene said. Please take your arm away.

He lay on his back all night, desiring his wife and wondering why that was so—probably because he couldn’t have her, he decided. At dawn, not long before the alarm was due to go off, he found himself touching Irene again. She opened her eyes wearily when he pulled her legs apart.