The Royal Family (118 page)

No, Maj, I—

All right then, Strawberry. You run along and take care of Sapphire while I deal with him.

That was why she’d gotten in the big man’s car.

Now just what was you fixin’ to do with that blade? she said. You fixin’ to get fierce with me?

The bigheaded man glared into her face, raising the knife high above her upturned throat. But the Queen breathed upon him, and he was still. As wide-eyed as hordes of goldfish in a tank in some Chinatown aquarium store whose proprietor’s happy radio blared into the street, he sat choking, turning purple, and the knife fell out of his hand.

You think you can put a hook in my jaw? laughed the Queen. You think I’m gonna beg and plead to you? You think I’ll just be your bitch? You gonna put me on a leash an’ bargain over me with pimps an’ chop me into little bites? You think a woman is just a thing to use and hurt even if she don’t wanna be hurt? You think you can lay hands on me? You think you can stand up to me?

The bigheaded man fell back against the door, chewing on his moustache. A big bubble formed and burst between his lips.

Havin’ a little heart attack, the Queen explained. Gonna be three or four days before they find you. Meter maid’s gonna be sliding her tickets down and down on your windshield, and all the time you’ll be in here rottin.’

He coughed. His eyes bulged with pleading pain. His sweaty face turned white.

If you’d been good, I could’ve made it feel good. Don’t feel too good now, huh? You goin’ straight to hell now. I know that for a fact.

The Queen slid her hand into his pocket and worked his hot fat wallet out. She said to him: This money’s gonna go straight to Lily. You know who Lily is? You even know that? She’s that poor girl that just tried to bring you happiness, that little girl that you hurt . . .

All right, heart, said the Queen as she opened the passenger side door. Wicked old heart, you can stop an’ go to sleep now. An’ all that blood in there, you can dry up an’ turn to dirt.

Thought he could put a hook in my jaw, she muttered to herself as she walked away. Thought he could play with me like I was a little baby bird . . .

•

Hear the words of the Lord, O nations . . .

“He who scattered Israel will gather him, and keep him as a shepherd keeps his flock.”

 

J
EREMIAH
31.10

•

It’s going to be a decent open casket funeral with flowers, John said. And a top-quality casket, too. That’s the least we can do for Mom.

Tyler looked at him.

And you’re going to wear a real suit for once, I hope, John went on. Assuming you want to attend. Assuming you’re willing to do that much for Mom.

And will there be a brass band, with all the brass painted black? Tyler said. I’m sure Mom’s going to hear every note.

Don’t you irritate me one more time, you asshole, John told him. I’m trying to deal with you now for Mom’s sake. It’s not because I like you. You’re dead to me, Hank. Irene and Mom will always be alive in my heart, but you’re nothing but a goddamned corpse.

What can I say to that? replied Tyler, swallowing. You’re so convinced you’ve been wronged—

I’m not even talking about that. I’m not even
thinking
about that (a self-evident contradiction, thought Tyler). I’m just talking about the fact that you make me sick. Now, I’m making all the arrangements. Are you going to participate or not?

Participating means what, if you made all the arrangements? —Oh, I get it. It means paying.

I’m doing you a favor, Hank, believe it or not. You know you’d screw the arrangements up. Your idea of a funeral would be a travesty. You’d cut corners. You know that with me on top of it, it’s going to be done right.

Tyler was stunned to hear in his brother’s voice a tenor almost of pleading. Pity gushed through his blood vessels and dissolved the hard stone of rage in his chest.

(You feel totally passive in a way, Dan Smoth had once told him. Totally open.

(But Smooth had been talking about popping amyl nitrate.)

I understand, he said.

Do you mean that, Hank?

I know you’ll do the right thing for Mom.

Okay. At least you’ll do that much.

Yeah.

At least there’s a corner of you that’s not completely—

Yeah, yeah,
yeah.

Tell me one thing, though. Did you ever love Mom? Did you care about her?

Look, said Tyler in a shaking voice, I’ll try to cooperate with you if you can just keep from getting abrasive. Can we make a deal, John? Can we lower the crap level for the three days?

So I’m abusive, John said. I know that’s exactly the catchword. I could say that about Dad and go cry my heart out at some abandoned children’s group. You could say that
about Dad, too, but you’d rather say it about me. But who slammed whose fingers in the car door? And, more importantly, who screwed who over?

All right, John, I give up. Go have your own goddamned funeral.

Naturally. The asshole walks out on his responsibilities once again.

All right, Tyler sighed, how much will it cost?

This was the kind of question that his brother could process well. The reply came quickly: five thousand for the casket, two thousand for a classy embalming job (he’d found a really good place, the best in Sacramento), six thousand for the plot, seven hundred fifty or thereabouts for the flowers, two thousand for the service. John had it all written down, in two columns. He’d employed the octagonal silver pen which Celia had given him.

I get it. So that’s thirteen grand plus eight plus two, so twenty-three grand, right?

Very good, said John. You can add. I already knew you and my wife could
multiply.
Get it?

All right, so my half will be around twelve, I figure . . .

What’s the matter? Too rich for your blood, Hank? You going to come crying to me for another loan?

And I guess I’ll finally get to chat with Celia again, he said, determined to be polite to the very end. That was his only plan now. John doubtless had other plans.

Aha, returned his brother with accustomed mirthlessness. You want to chat with Celia. Well, why should I be surprised? Just don’t expect me to leave you alone with her.

Would you please cut it out?

Fine. I apologize. You’re innocent. So how’s the spying business?

Slow, said Tyler, drinking thick bitter coffee which slowly dissolved the ache in the back of his head, like an archival wash patiently clearing a yellow fixer stain from a photograph.

When was the last time you actually talked to Mom?

About a week before she . . .

I was there, Hank. She asked for you.

I was—

Yeah, where were you? Out fucking around?

I—

In the Tenderloin?

Capp Street.

For Mom’s sake, I tried to reach you all day. She kept asking for you, so I kept calling and calling.

I—

I kept calling, but your answering machine was off. Technical difficulties, I guess, laughed John. And Mom kept asking me where you were. And she loved you so much, but you were busy cavorting with whores, you goddamned asshole.

Yeah, something like that.

And the phone rang and rang, but
you
weren’t fucking there! You were out spreading AIDS!

I don’t have AIDS, John.

Whatever. Don’t you want to know what Mom said about you?

I guess I don’t.

Then you never will. I swear before God right now, Hank, that I will never,
ever
tell you what Mom said.

Get a grip, John, please.

Listen to that! Bastard tells me to get a grip! And meanwhile he—

How’s Domino, John?

His brother’s face altered, and Tyler could not resist a sense of triumph.

So how much pain did she feel? he asked.

Oh, not much. She was having her chest pains, and then about five minutes later she—

John began sobbing.

Tyler sat across the table gazing at him, wanting to put an arm around his shoulder, knowing that if he did then John would punch him. He inquired of himself what the Queen would do, and knew the answer: Comfort John. Slowly his head drooped down toward the floor.

Dan Smooth put him in touch with an undertaker named Mort Robinson who was willing to talk.

My brother wants an open casket funeral for our mother, he said. Is that reasonable? I’d like to save some—

Oh, they’re almost always open caskets. Just yesterday I did one closed casket. The family didn’t want to see her, because she was old. It was the first in a long time.

But just what is the point? I figure an hour after the funeral she’ll be in the ground anyway, so—

The point is
art,
Henry. A good embalming job is a pearl without price. When I first started thirty-two years ago, if somebody fell out of an airplane, you had to make ’em look pretty or they thought you were a lousy funeral director. When I started, they wouldn’t let you use gloves for the autopsy. They used to lock up the gloves to save money. Everything had to be done the hard way. And now they try to take shortcuts such as closed casket funerals where they don’t have to do anything except roll the corpse into the box. In my way of thinking, that’s not art. But lemme tell you something. It’s all a crock of shit. When my time comes, run me through the garbage disposal, man. Henry, you know how many times I’ve had a stiff sit up and thank me for a job well done? I’ll bet you can count the times.

I figure it’s going to be around twenty-five grand.

So you’re going lavish. Your brother has a reputation for that. I remember his high school graduation. Well, Henry, take it from one who knows: It’s all vanity. Let your brother throw his money down the hole. This industry is nothing but a guilt trip. Don’t swallow it. Don’t think you’re doing your mother any favors. Who are you using?

Lewis.

Oh, him. Little glitzy, but he does a good job. Listen, Henry, I can call him up and get him to switch that mahogany job for a plain pine box. He’s using mahogany, isn’t he?

Yeah, I—

See, I
knew
he was the type! Switch it, man. Nobody’ll ever know. It can be done after the viewing. The burial will look just the same. Save you at least three grand right there. And . . .

Let me think about it.

So you’re going to stick with the program. Hey, I respect that. Who am I to come between a guy and his mother?

For some time now Tyler’s debts had been rising, but this sudden new expense, for which he really should have prepared and for which he had laid away nothing whatsoever, in part on account of his unwillingness to acknowledge to himself the seriousness of his mother’s condition, in part simply because his obsession with the Queen
requires
him to neglect everything else, looked fair to trip him up. Last year he’d resigned from the Department of Motor Vehicles database in order to regain possession of his twenty thousand dollar bond, but somehow that money didn’t go as far as he’d expected. Now he couldn’t search the DMV records directly anymore, unless he wanted to take a chance and employ somebody else’s password. If they ever busted him when he did that, he’d be sunk. The previous August, in between desperate stabs at loving the false Irene, he’d taken a hot grim Sacramento freeway drive to the credit counselor’s office, weaving between long white trucks filled with tomatoes. As he watched, a tomato blew off and smashed on the asphalt, and then his right front wheel went over it—a bad omen. He felt nauseous. Broken glass sparkled loathsomely in the yellow grass. The American River was low and brown. (Decades ago, he and John had gone to the riverbank to see a meteor shower, but there was too much ambient light, so in disappointment Tyler had focused his binoculars upon the canted half-moon and actually saw a crater, as well as the tan continent of serenity which clung to that clean white sea of light which bled white beauty into the darkness, like a menstruating goddess.) Green lawns and long low offices with their grass lawns assaulted him. He turned in, and the shadow of a bird passed over the black parking lot.