Authors: Ed Taylor
Theo needs to remind him again: today.
The lady says, my name is Gina. Then she asks, who is your friend.
He’s not my friend.
I’m the Seal. Nice to meet you. I like your work.
Yeah. Somebody mentioned you in the car last night. You’re an artist, right.
Are you a friend of my mother.
Who’s your mother.
Frieda.
So you’re Adrian’s son.
Yes.
The lady says nothing. The back of Theo’s neck is tickling because of the sun. He remembers the cigarettes. Can you help me find cigarettes. My mom asked me to get them.
Mmmsure, she says, stretching, and leaning forward to sit up a little, pulling her skirt down and the shirt, shivering once. She strains to sit up more, and puts her ropey arms on the front seat back, then hangs her head over. You check the glove compartment yet.
No.
Try there.
Theo presses the knob on the car door and opens it, as Gina rests her head on her hands on the seat back, watching. Because the car’s pointing up, he has to hold the door off his legs. He reaches into the glove compartment using his left hand, then he decides it’s okay to sit on the front seat, and slips in as the door bangs shut and uses his right hand to fiddle with the glove compartment button. He’s better with his right. He pushes, the compartment door flops open, paper falls out.
I just met your mom last night.
There’s a gray gun under a strap in the glove compartment. Theo doesn’t touch it and tries to move stuff around it to see. Nothing left but wrappers and gold paper bands like rings that Theo knows are from cigars. He wonders whose car this really is. The seat is sofa-long and wide, like the one in the back, and
black and still cool: it’s a big car, like the limousines Theo’s ridden in, but not as many seats. Theo notices a syringe on the floor on the driver’s side. Theo wonders when his dad will get here.
Hmm. I need to get out of here. The lady is sitting up now looking around. Whyn’t you check the floor right there, in front of you.
Theo looks around, pushes the glove compartment door up and snicks it shut. Down in the footwell on the passenger side he sees red: there’s a pack of cigarettes under other junk. He tugs it out and spins out the door and back onto his feet and away from the car, letting the heavy door thunk shut. The Seal man is gone.
Gina is pushing her way up and out through the rear, ducking her head and stepping down. She stands for an instant on the steps staring down at the banked car.
Theo says, where did you meet her.
Who.
My mom.
Mudd Club. Do you know it.
No. Do they play music there.
Yes. I was playing there.
What do you play.
Keyboards and sometimes other things if I have to. Do you play anything.
No.
Does your dad ever try to get you to play.
No. He says music either grabs you by the throat or it doesn’t. And if it leaves you alone you’re lucky.
Yeah. Could be. Do you think I could get some water.
Yeah. Come on.
Oh holy jesus. I didn’t realize that guy had no clothes.
The Seal is struggling back onto one of the pillars at the entrance to the driveway. The beach road is getting busy.
Do you think he’ll get in trouble.
Yeah, that’s just not a real good idea. I’ll go try to talk him down. Can you bring me some water, please. I’d really appreciate it.
She starts walking, the skirt swishing, shoes crunching. Her hair has different colors in it. Then she starts to jog, shaking her arms out. Hey, she yells, at Seal, what’s up.
Theo doesn’t like it when people get in trouble, it makes him upset even if he isn’t the one in trouble, especially if it’s not the person’s fault. Theo isn’t sure it is the man’s fault, maybe he can’t help it. Maybe he’s angry about his arms.
Theo squeezes past the car into the main hall and then feels the cigarettes in his hand. He thinks for a minute and decides the water and the man first, then he’ll bring the cigarettes to his mother. He jams the pack into his pajamas – he remembers the brown glass eye snug in there – and from the entrance hall runs down the left passage to the kitchen.
In the kitchen he picks up a glass and holds it toward a
window
to see if it’s clean, and it sort of is. The faucet taps are stiff and old, so sometimes he has to strain, get a leg up, to turn the water on. This happens when grownups who don’t live there use the sink: Colin and Gus have learned how to turn off the taps so that Theo can turn them back on. Sometimes they forget to turn the water off and it runs all night. Theo always stops and makes sure it’s off if he’s passing through. He wonders if the lady would like ice, but then just pushes the glass into the stream.
Watching the water Theo wonders how the Seal got here. And where his clothes are. The glass is full.
Theo realizes he’ll have to walk carrying the water or he’ll spill it. So he walks, but fast, and water slops over the glass rim onto his pajamas and the floor. He’s leaving a wet trail but he doesn’t stop, just stares at the water’s surface trying to connect how he moves with keeping the water inside the glass and it’s not really working. Unless he slows he’s just going to spill. Then he thinks he’ll cover it with his other hand and run. And he does, but it’s hard to run without using your arms. How does the Seal do it.
Theo reaches the hall, squeezes past the car and down the steps and into the full sun and sees a police car at the foot of the drive; no lights or siren but a police officer talks to the Seal, sitting on the pillar, and to Gina, who’s got her hands on her hips. Theo stops. The gravel hurts his feet. He stands, watches, as the police officer turns and gets into the car, and the Seal shifts and crouches, and jumps from the pillar into the grass and then lies down on his back. He’ll get itchy, Theo thinks. Gina strides back toward the house pushing hair out of her eyes.
Theo sees her see him and wave. He doesn’t wave back, still holding the glass and covering it with his hand. She suddenly turns sideways and puts both hands over her head and turns a fast cartwheel, so fast her skirt doesn’t even go down, and comes up smiling and running to where Theo still stands. He doesn’t understand adults.
Thanks.
She takes the glass and drinks it all down. She is pretty. She closes her eyes while she drinks. Theo suddenly is thirsty.
Is he in trouble.
She shakes her head no: The cop just asked how he was, and asked him if he would do a favor and take it back up to the house. Does he do this a lot.
Theo remembers the cigarettes. I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.
Really. She squints down at him. She’s taller than him but not by a lot.
It’s a big house, Theo says. The grownups have lots of friends.
She’s holding the glass with her little finger out, tilting it back and forth, looking at him, turns it upside down. Are there kids around here, she says.
No. I have to go see my mom now.
Okay, sure.
Theo runs back to the house, rocks hurting again.
At the front doors he squeezes in past the car and shoots up the right staircase two risers at a time, hopping because of the distance between them. He is trying not to think.
Theo runs all the way to the floor his mother stayed on last time she came, where her window was earlier. Aside from some clanging and banging from the second floor, there’s
little
sound now except birds and wind up and in from doors and windows, which are open mostly everywhere. Birds get in and bats, a flying squirrel last month. Sometimes there are nests.
Out of breath, Theo pants on the fourth landing. Someone squeals.
Is this him.
Ahead down the hall in shadow, another woman stands with her arm around Theo’s mom, both, he can see, smiling. The other woman’s taller than his mother, her hair shines even in the dark, and she’s got a big chest in a leather vest. She has tight bands of metal around her arms, jewelry, Theo supposes. And she’s got a rug wrapped around her bottom half, which she’s holding up with the hand not around his mother’s waist.
His mother’s in the high-collared white thing like fur. It covers her from head to foot.
Yes, this is my angel of mercy, his mother says.
Quick love, bring the cigarettes, says the other woman.
Hello baby, his mother says, walking out from under the arm toward him, stumbling a little. It feels early, is it early, she asks. Lots of times grownups ask questions that’re not questions.
He reaches into his pocket for the pack, pulls it out and holds it out at the end of his arm.
You didn’t open it did you, she asks, kneeling to hug him, his arm still extended.
Theo knows better: no, mom.
Thank you, my darling.
She holds his face in her hands and looks at him like the doctor, looking at the parts of his face and into his eyes. Good morning my sweet. Her eyes look very tired.
Good morning mom. Are you okay.
He leans into her, feels the softness of what she’s wearing, feels the friend take the pack from his hand now curled around his mother’s back. He feels his mother’s ribs, her spine even through the thick thing she’s in.
Yes, baby, I am fine now that I see you. I’ll be downstairs in a minute. I’m going to get dressed. This is Marthe. She and some people came out with me last night from the city. You’ll meet them later.
Sure mom. I don’t know if we have any food.
Don’t worry, angel, we’ll figure it all out. Everything. I can’t wait to spend the day with you.
You know dad is coming here to make an album.
She’s still holding him and Theo feels her muscles tense, and she has to shift to keep her balance: No, I didn’t hear that yet.
I don’t know if that’s a responsible thing to do, subject you to that kind of atmosphere. It is not necessarily a healthy one.
Why.
I’ll talk to him about that. Or talk to his people. I’m not sure if I’m currently allowed to talk to him.
Why.
Oh baby. Let me get dressed and let’s have a good day. Let’s have some fun. Marthe, hold your goddamn horses.
The other woman has disappeared with the cigarette pack into an open door.
His mother rises and hurries away in a white swirl of fur into the room, shutting the door and locking it.
Okay mom, he says to her back.
Theo bumps back down the steps, wondering what a good day will be this time. Usually his mother likes to talk a lot early in the day, then she gets tired in the afternoon and just sits or lies down. Sometimes it’s the other way around. Sometimes she can’t sit still at all and she chases him, teases him, says let’s go on a boar hunt, or bowling, I’ve never been fishing, or let’s play football. She meant soccer when she said football, Theo knew. Maybe they would actually do something. At the edge of the back lawn, near the trees, is the rectangle of brick-colored clay with a sagging frayed net cutting across it as if to catch something. Maybe they could play tennis. If it’s just the two of them it’s different than if there are other people. Maybe Marthe likes tennis.
Colin had said yesterday that it was time for a milk run, so that could mean today, maybe. Colin and his mother don’t like each other, but they have to get along because Theo’s dad wants them to. Colin’s supposed to look out for Theo’s mother too,
and she definitely doesn’t like that. Theo’s heard Colin and his mom discussing this: they snarled, and Frieda said how dare you, you fucking valet. Since his mother is here maybe Colin will do the milk run today.
Colin makes the trip once a month to Theo’s father’s office in the city. He picks up envelopes filled with hundred-dollar bills. Colin says this makes much of the household’s more delicate transactions possible.
What does that mean, Theo asked.
I like the feel of money. But American money is so boring, designed by a cabal of Masons. But you take a pound, now, it’s flash colored and you have to fold it up just to get it to fit in your kip. You want some square footage to your currency, hard-earned and stuffed into your pocket at the end of a shift, you want to feel that weight dragging your trousers down so you have to hitch your belt or start spending just to ease the burden. Say, do you know what precipitation that evaporates before it hits the ground is called.
No, Theo said.
Virga. It’s Latin, means twig, but I’m not clear on why. Sometimes cash evaporates like rain in the Sahara, gone before it even hits the ground. Sometimes it’s cold and hard, and sometimes you can float a battleship on it, and you can surf on it, get the thrill of your life, and it can dig the Grand Canyon, rip a divot out of the hardest stone. One day I’m going to ride nonstop across country on a bloody big Harley to the Grand Canyon, get off, stand at the edge and take a piss, then zip up and get back on and ride back. What do you say, you want to ride with me.
Okay, Theo said. If it’s okay with my dad.
Colin was frying meat in an iron skillet the size of a car tire on the big stove in the kitchen while he said this, smoking a cigarette, wearing a Yankees hat. He had a hunting knife in a sheath jammed into the back of his jeans.
Why do you have that knife.
Let me tell you the first rule of using a knife: never, ever, under any circumstances, use your knife.
Why do you have the knife then.
I’m not saying I haven’t violated my own rule, but you can tell them as are not totally comfortable in wielding one. You use the knife to distract your opponent and then either run, or your friend lays him out from behind with a chair, or you kick him in the you-know-where. Then he’s your man. The real key is always have a friend handy.
Here he turned to look at Theo, squinting through the cigarette and shaking the spatula at Theo, flinging hot grease but not noticing. Piece of priceless advice, offered free of charge. Ow – he lifted a foot and stopped shaking the spatula. How do you like your meat – black or gray.
Theo said, how many fights have you been in.
Not as many as some, Colin said. And always
casus belli
. I never took a poke unless someone did first or I could see they planned to.