The Royal Family (119 page)

It was lunchtime. The office, immense, air conditioned, bright and carpeted, lay almost empty. He had an appointment. The receptionist led him to his assigned place in front of the L-shaped desk with the two computers.

His credit counselor wore an eggshaped stone in her wedding ring. She was very well kept. She grimaced. She said: I’m not an attorney. I recommend you consult an attorney.

Dandy, said Tyler. Why didn’t I think of that?

And this is just a copy, the well kept woman said. You just sign right here. And here. And also here on page three.

Celia, suddenly anxious that she might not yet possess the perfectly appropriate dress to wear at Mrs. Tyler’s funeral, and encouraged in this nervousness by John, who believed it impossible for anybody to take too many pains at the impending ceremony, drove with the two brothers down to I Street in order after obtaining the appropriate parking validation to join the big-buttocked matrons at Macy’s stalking down bargains, lonely
old ladies inspecting tag after tag, letting the fabric drift through their fingers; hearty old shopping women with two Macy’s bags already in each hand, still wandering and gathering, while from ceiling speakers so-called “easy listening” music fell like a mist of insecticide, not quite drowning out the real music of cash registers. A crisp indigo skirt hung in the
PETITES
section like a pinioned butterfly; that would have looked very pretty on Irene (who’d been fascinated by shoes and who knew every relative’s waist size). An Asian mother wheeled her little boy in a stroller, looking for something secret and specific. A saleswoman in high heels clattered rapidly back to
PETITES
, returning an escaped dress to prison. Women mulled through the sales racks in meditative pairs, slowly nodding and considering. Sometimes they looked up, gazing vaguely toward a nonexistent horizon. This was the kind of place in which, like an elf-queen’s cave, one spent a moment and lost a life. By some cheerfully hypocritical caprice, the addictions that it sold were all legal; thus they lacked the thrill of real need and predaciousness. Macy’s smelled better than the Tenderloin, and people didn’t hurt each other in its chrome-trunked forests of sweaters and checked pants-skirts; Tyler used to rebel against it all, as if he were some Communist, but now he was contented enough to sit in one of the overstuffed armchairs because he wasn’t struggling anymore; he had no hope of working free. This place had belonged to Irene’s world, so how could he have anything against it? Where could he go anyhow?

Two necktied men swung open the double glass doors as John, Celia and Tyler entered the funeral parlor. —Aw, horseshit, Tyler muttered.

They kept the lights burning all day in there, to mimic a vigil atmosphere.

John, is my tie on straight? Tyler whispered. I haven’t worn one in so long, I—

Let me adjust it for you, said Celia with a friendly smile. He felt her cool fingers on his neck.

It’s all right now, she said.

Thanks, Tyler said. Which room is it? I—

Hank, you were just
in
this room yesterday, John said. Are you going to screw up now and wander into the wrong room?

Henry, do you want me to run and get you a drink of water? asked Celia. Are you okay?

No, I—

Hank’s fine, laughed John. It’s just an act he puts on to get the girls. Here’s Mom.

Mom never wore lipstick, said Tyler.

Yeah, well, it’s not so bad on her. What do you think, Ceel?

She looks very . . . well, I don’t know. I feel a little uncomfortable. I—

Hank, where did you get that ratty necktie? That looks like one of my high school castoffs.

I think it is.

Did I ever tell you about Gaspard’s? That’s the place for ties. If I’d known you were going to wear that piece of shit necktie, I would have—oh, hell. So that’s Mom.

Tyler stared at his mother’s corpse in silence.

I remember that dress, Celia said faintly.

Of course you do, John said. That was her favorite dress.

She looks so thin, Tyler said.

That’s because you haven’t
seen
her in a long time, John instantly replied in a needling voice.

Henry, why don’t you sit down for a minute, Celia said.

I’m fine, Tyler said.

He’s actually eating up all your attention, John explained. Hank’s a bit like a vampire. Well, that’s not exactly the right comparison at a time like this, but . . .

But you get the gist, Tyler said to Celia, who said nothing.

When he saw how happy John was to get a bargain on the casket, Tyler felt him to be
innocent;
he felt that he himself had fallen so far below him, into hellish guilt. He thought John infinitely better than himself. John thought the same.

John rolled the wine around in his mouth and made a face.

It’s okay, sir?

If this were a cabernet I’d send it back.

He’s a schmuck, said John to everyone (a category comprising Celia, his brother, some of the neighbors—his mother’s best friends Mr. and Mrs. King were on vacation in Santa Barbara—and an aunt they hardly knew). I’ve had this waiter for two years and he never improves.

Celia cleared her throat. —I feel a little tickling feeling, she said.

How’s the wine, Hank? said John.

Good, thanks.

Well, that was a beautiful, beautiful funeral, Mrs. Simms said. You brothers certainly went all out.

It was the least we could do for Mom, John said.

And, Henry, it was such a pleasure to see you doing your part.

Thank you, Mrs. Simms.

You looked so nice in that suit. Did John loan it to you?

No, it was a rental, except for the tie, which I, uh—

That’s the sort of man I like, said Mr. Simms. Pays his own way. No obligations.

And the casket was beautiful, said the old aunt. Was it mahogany?

Tyler nodded with his mouth full, hastily swallowed, and prepared to explain, but by then John was already saying: Celia and I looked at every damned casket they had in stock. When we saw the mahogany, we knew it was just right for Mom.

And she was smiling almost, said Mrs. Simms. Well, well. And what’s going to happen to the house?

Hank and I were about to talk about that, said John, and Tyler’s heart sank. He cleared his throat and was swallowing a mouthful of half-chewed asparagus, trying to think of some polite way to change the subject when John slipped his arm around Mrs. Simms, leaned toward her as her husband and Celia looked complacently on, and said: Now tell me the latest with your daughter. —Then Tyler remembered: Oh, yes. Mrs. Simms has a daughter.

She still doesn’t want to work. She wants us to keep doing everything.

Well, what are you gonna do? John chuckled. Maybe she’ll change her mind.

She listens to that Satanic music in her headphones. That really bothers me.

Well, her
friend
does, Mr. Simms interjected. We don’t know about Fiona. Maybe Fiona listens when we’re not around. How would we ever know?

I read that Satanism is the biggest problem in America today, said Celia. Of course I never—

It really bothers me, Mrs. Simms repeated. Actually it makes me quite upset to talk about it. Could we please talk about something else?

Have you tried one of those reprogrammers? the elderly aunt put in. Apparently they can kidnap your child and readjust her to get her back in tune with reality. They do a lot of work with cults.

It really bothers me, said Mrs. Simms. I need to see the dessert list now. This place has the best desserts.

Look, Hank, said John. Why don’t you let me buy you some shares of Tostex? It’s a revenue builder.

In Tyler’s heart a feeling had begun to unfurl itself until it was as big, tall and ugly as Sacramento’s new courthouse. Sooner or later, he always got that feeling from his brother. It resembled his sensations upon entering the Wonderbar early on a rainy weekday afternoon and seeing the sadfaced unhealthy regulars already there, the jukebox silent, the place dark and ghastly, and no one wearing even the excuse of exhaustion, the day not having yet advanced sufficiently to be dismissed, merely wasted and dismissed like life itself, passing without desperation, passing, just passing, until cirrhosis, accident, stroke, cancer, suicide, homicide or heart attack.

The other thing is that you’ve got to improve your cash flow. What I want is for you to take Mom’s house.

Well, John, that’s very—

I mean, it needs a lot of work to maintain it, but at least you could live there rent-free until you grew up and made something of your life.

Oh, fuck off, Tyler said.

Mrs. Simms gasped.

Or if you sold it off, well, of course you’d get socked with capital gains, but you might as well take what you can get. I mean, how often do gift horses come begging in your life, Hank?

Oh, every once in a while, but they usually give me V.D.

Unbelievable, said Mr. Simms.

Cut the clowning around and face facts. You’re a nobody and you’re going downhill fast. You’ve got to try to reverse the slide. It’s a bit late, but you can still make something of yourself. Just write off the first forty years and forget ’em. Just—

I don’t want the house.

So you don’t want the house.

When the time comes to clean it, or sell it, or whatever, I’ll come up if you need my support. I can do unskilled work—

I don’t need your support. Mom needed your support. But that’s something I guess you never—

This is so
unpleasant,
said Celia.

The will’s going to get probated in this case, John informed him. So . . .

Tyler continued to be silent.

You know what? You know what the difference is between you and me? I may be a pain in the ass sometimes. I may be meticulous or demanding. But at least I
feel
something. At least I act. I know you think I pick on you. You’re much more polite than I am in conversation. But I refuse to get mad at myself. You may be more polite but you’re the exploiter in all this. You just sit there on your fat duff and—

Mr. Simms cleared his throat and said: I know that at stressful times like this, feelings within families, sometimes run high, but—

Yeah, you’re right, Tyler said wearily. Of course, even that you can’t accept. I can see your face. You think I’m just trying to avoid conflict.

Should we order more wine? asked Celia.

What are you
about,
Hank? That’s just what Singer always asks me. And—

And what
are
you about, Mr. Noble Principles? How do you answer him? I know! I just bet I know! You say,
leave me out of this!

John laughed a merry, ringing laugh and struck Tyler on the back. —You’ve got me pegged, he said in high good humor.

How do I feel about this? Tyler asked himself. Why, how terrible! I must be damned! I feel nothing. It’s just as he says: I
am
nothing! But how can that be? Didn’t my Queen promise me I bore the Mark of Cain? Maybe it’s
he
who’s nothing. But compared to me he
is
noble. At least he never . . .

Look, said John. When all’s said and done, I don’t want you ending up as some homeless bum, okay?

I don’t figure it will come to that, said Tyler palely.

I don’t believe we’re wanted here, said Mrs. Simms. This is such an extraordinarily
personal
conversation.

You hang out with homeless people, don’t you? I mean, those crack whores, those tramps . . .

In John’s eyes, Tyler thought he saw an appeal:
Don’t say anything about Domino in front of Celia. Please.

(Smooth white shirts and soft black trousers, shiny black shoes—that was how Domino thought of John. She gave him good marks for money, cleanliness, and deportment. But now he was trying to run away from her. It was only natural that she would refuse to let him go. And he had gone.)

Yeah, some of them are a bit transient, he said.

The homeless guys that get forced into that lifestyle, I don’t really have a beef with them, his brother announced. The ones that choose it really piss me off.

Something in the pomposity, in the sheer chutzpah of this man’s assertion, why, it reminds me of Domino, Tyler realized. He clenched his fists and said: How’s Brady?

Fine. I hear you parted on bad terms.

Well, he laid me off.

He fired you.

This is the atmosphere I always come back to, Celia told Mr. and Mrs. Simms with an ugly smile. —They say you can’t escape your background, so this must be my background.

I had no idea it would be like this, said Mrs. Simms.