by Kevin Shay
Oh, no.
I race down the hall and back to the bathroom. It didn’t register before, but now the labels of the products on the counter around the sink leap out at me. Toothpaste, liquid soap, hand lotion, box of tissues—all brands I’ve never heard of before, never seen advertised or sitting on a pharmacy shelf, and not store brands, either. I jerk open the medicine chest. More of the same. Shaving cream, pain reliever, deodorant, cosmetics, dental floss, all of it. Formucare? Glister? Deter? It’s like walking into a foreign country, a parallel universe of consumerism.
But let’s not jump to any conclusions. Maybe there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. I go into the kitchen, turn on the lights, and slowly, with great trepidation, open the doors of the cabinets beneath the sink.
Oh, Uncle Frank. Not you, of all people.
Not Amway.
Dusk descends on the mountains. The setting sun bathes the craggy peaks in a glorious pink-orange glow. I watch serenely from the table in the dining nook, enjoying a bowl of Critic’s Choice Honey & Nut Toasted Oats, and wait for my uncle and aunt to come home. The cereal is pretty good. I figured I could help myself, not only because the note said so but because there are at least two more twelve-count cases of cereal in the garage. Along with several years’ supply of lots of other products, so many stacks of boxes that it’s no longer a two-car garage. If you could eat detergent and drink shampoo, Frank and Lela would be all set for Y2K.
A car pulls up behind mine in the driveway. Doors slam. I close my eyes, absorb a final moment of solitude, and pray I’m missing something. Then I go to greet my relatives at the door.
“Well, look who’s here already!” Aunt Lela hugs me warmly, managing to hit me in the back with her overnight bag.
“Lela! You look great!” Which she does and doesn’t. She’s much more put-together than I remember her ever being, even for weddings and funerals. Lela’s always had a fairly consistent Wal-Mart aesthetic, casual poly-blend pastels and tans, but here she is in full-on makeup, a black silk top, a stylish gray skirt, some understated jewelry. And she’s dyed her hair for years, but never such an aggressively age-defying shade of blond. On the other hand, the outfit is wrinkled, the makeup smudged, the hairdo undone, and she radiates exhaustion. So does Frank, whose shirt and tie look slept in.
“Hi, Uncle Frank.”
“Randall! Hello there. Sorry we didn’t make it back sooner.” He sets down his bags and shakes my hand (Knight men don’t hug). “You found the key OK?”
“Yes. No, no problem at all. I was just relaxing.”
Nobody would mistake Frank for Dad, but nobody would fail to recognize them as brothers either, and the similarities and differences always distract me when I’m with Frank. He’s a few years ahead in the receding-hairline race, but unlike Dad he wisely keeps his dwindling fringe cropped close. Objectively, Frank is the less handsome one, but he has a vain streak about his appearance that Dad doesn’t share. Wears his contacts every waking minute, for example. My father can’t even be bothered to pick out a flattering pair of glasses.
Frank pushes open the storm door and cranes his head out. “Well, are they gonna come inside or what?”
I look out the window toward the driveway and see Derek and Marcie standing there, having what appears to be a heated conversation. Lela pushes past her husband onto the front step. “Kids,” she yells, “Cousin Randall is here!” Which can’t be news to them—they’re practically sitting on the hood of my car. But Marcie breaks off the dialogue and marches toward the house, her angry stride hindered slightly by her second-trimester belly. She’s a small woman, and it’s going to be a big baby. Derek yanks some bags from the back seat, hip-checks the door closed, and follows her.
I say hello to my cousin and his wife. Like Frank and Lela, they’re dressed in their rumpled Sunday best. Marcie looks thinner than I remember in her face and the non-baby-carrying parts of her body. You’re not supposed to lose weight when you’re pregnant, are you? Derek, though, has chunked up considerably, a process that began long ago but has crossed some unfortunate threshold in the past year.
“Hey, listen, buddy.” Derek claps me on the shoulder. “Sorry to consign you to the cot.”
“Yes,” Marcie says.
“Oh, please, don’t worry about it. I don’t mind at all. So you guys are…here now?”
“Temporarily!” Marcie almost shouts.
“Only temporarily. Just to cut down on the expenses until the kid comes.”
“Makes sense. When are you due, Marcie?”
“Beginning of February.”
“Yeah? That’s so great. Congratulations, by the way. I don’t think I’ve had a chance to talk to you guys since then.”
“Well, thank you.”
Lela lays a hand on my arm. “We’re really happy you could come, Randall.”
“Me too. Sorry it has to be so short. Are all of you off for Columbus Day?”
The four of them exchange a brief but complex volley of looks.
“You know, Randall,” Derek says, “Marcie and I have made a little change. About a year ago, you know, we went into business, sort of a sideline at first. But there’s so much opportunity out there that now we’re trying to make it work full-time.”
“Yep. So no more J-O-B for us!” Marcie says with a happy little hand-flip, maybe meant to indicate tossing the J-O-B over her shoulder.
Frank rubs the corner of his eye, listening to this with a mouth-only smile. “And Lela and I have tomorrow off,” he says.
“Derek, that sounds great. I had no idea. It really has been a while, hasn’t it?”
This would be the time to play the when-did-we-see-you-last game, except we all realize simultaneously that it was at Granddad’s funeral a year ago last August, so instead we share sort of an accidental moment of silence for Granddad.
Derek stretches his arms behind his back. “Man, I’m stiff,” he says. “Sorry if we all seem a little dazed, Randall. We were just at this amazing function.”
“It was a little overwhelming,” Lela says.
“Yeah, but so much great stuff.”
“Six-hour drive from here, the function,” Frank says.
“Six hours, wow.”
“Totally worth it, though,” Derek says.
“Oh, absolutely,” Marcie agrees.
“Yeah, it was quite a spectacle,” Frank adds, deadpan.
His son flashes annoyance, then recovers with a grin. “Well, I thought it was inspirational. Got me totally pumped. Dad, how could you listen to all those great speakers and not be pumped?”
“Hmm. Well, unfortunately, son, my pumping process kept getting interrupted by the thought of how much all the pumping was costing me.”
“Frank,” Lela says, frowning.
“Worth every penny,” Derek assures me.
“What got pumped was the cash right out of my—”
“Well, you know,” Marcie says, “I just think of what Lucy always tells us.” Her eyes brighten when she says the name.
“Lucy’s our upline,” Derek tells me.
“Ah.”
Marcie says, “What Lucy says is, you have to invest in a good foundation if you want to build something.”
“A dream,” Derek clarifies. “If you want to build a dream.”
“Well, that’s what we’re all trying to do,” Aunt Lela says softly. “Aren’t we, Frank?”
“Mmm,” Frank says. He nods his head to a slow beat, exactly like my father does when struggling to bite back some exacerbating remark. Dad generally loses the struggle, and right now Frank does too. “Quoth Lucy,” he says. “Randall, one thing you’ll discover pretty quickly around here is that Lucy has a lot to say about a lot of things. Quick question. If Lucy’s such a genius, why after six months bragging how she’s about to make silver direct hasn’t she done it yet?”
“Frank, stop.” Lela sits down heavily on the sofa, shaking her head.
“Derek, make him sto-op,” Marcie sa
ys, a whine creeping into her voice.
“Dad! You know how upset Marcie gets when you talk about Lucy like that! How many times have we been told, we have to edify Lucy?”
I listen to all of this with mounting dismay. Upline? Silver direct? Edify Lucy? What could that even mean? No, I can’t hope for a reasonable explanation any longer. Time to face facts. The members of the Denver branch of my family have become multilevel marketers, pyramid schemers, Ponzi people.
Frank holds up his hands in submission. “All right, all right. I apologize.” Forgive me, Lucy, Dad might add, falling to his knees in an orgy of sarcasm, and I can tell Frank wants to.
Lela stands up. “I’m sorry, Randall, we’re all just a little tired. Would you like some tea or anything?”
“Tea would be great, thanks.”
Marcie yawns. “I think I need to lie down for a little bit before dinner.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Lela says. “Randall, I wanted to make dinner but I just haven’t had ten seconds to get anything together. So I think we’ll eat out tonight.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Marcie picks up a shopping bag they brought in from the car. “I’m so excited to use all our new tools.” She pulls a CD jewel case out of the bag. That’s a tool? “I’m gonna listen to this one right now.”
Derek taps the CD, whose cover has a photo of a smiling fat white man wearing a tuxedo and many ugly rings. “This guy spoke at the function. Showed slides of his mansion. Oh, God, Randall, you should have seen this place. Unbelievable. Indoor Olympic pool, ballroom, how many cars? I can’t wait to use his tools.” A phrase pops into my head: Man is a tool-using animal.
“Yeah,” Frank says. “Let me know if he mentions how many CDs he had to sell to get the mansion.”
That sets Derek off. “Dad! He’s not rich off selling CDs! He’s rich because he built the business! He didn’t make excuses, he didn’t complain about investing in tools, he went out and built the business! Which you could stand to learn a little something about, you know? I mean, how many times have you even shown the plan this month? God! The negativity in this house, the…the stinking thinking. Well, I’m gonna set an example here. I’m gonna work on building the business right now.” He storms over to the entertainment center, opens a glass door, and from a stack of books pulls out what looks like a high school yearbook. “Yep, do a little prospecting before dinner.” He stomps out of the living room with the book.
Three seconds later he returns. “Um, Randall?” he says, not meeting my eye. “You mind if I use the office for a while?”
“Of course not. It’s all yours.”
“Thanks.” He leaves again, less haughtily.
“Well, wake me when it’s time to get ready to go,” Marcie says, and leaves.
“I’ll get that tea on.” Lela leaves.
Frank sits down and motions me to do the same. “Randall, I’m afraid you haven’t caught us at our best.”
“Please, don’t worry about it. But I have to admit, Uncle Frank, this…business is not something I’d expect to find you involved in.”
“I know. I know it. What can I say? Lee thought it was important to support the kids.”
“Well, I hope it works out for you.”
Frank smiles. “If it does, you’ll be the first one invited to the mansion.” He shakes his head. “But anyway. How’s your pop?”
“Not bad, I guess. The fact is, we’ve been having a, you might say, some issues.”
Frank ponders this. “Yeah. He did hint at that when I last spoke to him.”
“Did you happen to tell him I’d be here this weekend?”
“No…No, it was before we knew you were coming, but if—Oh. Got it. Avoiding the old man, huh?”
“Little bit.”
“Hey, your secret’s safe with me. But Randall, listen. You know, I can’t blame you for being upset. I mean, Lela and I were very surprised to hear about the whole situation. But look, even if he did do it, which, hey, wait until all the facts are in, right?”
Like Nicole, he’s jumped to the conclusion that Dad and I are fighting about the damn plagiarism. What kind of self-righteous prig do they take me for? But at least Frank’s family hasn’t been forewarned about my Y2K diatribe. For all the impact it’ll have while they’re in dreambuilding mode.
“Sure, of course.”
“But say for just a minute it’s true. I mean, I think you have to look at it as, you know, one mistake when he was young. God, I remember when that book came out. He was really very young, Randall, not much older than you are now.”
“I know.”
“It’s been a rough year for your dad, you know? Losing his father, and then the whole thing with Anita.” He has the order of events wrong. In fact my father’s second wife had moved out a few weeks before Granddad died, but none of us had known about the separation yet, and she agreed to accompany Dad to the funeral for form’s sake. I flash back to Frank weeping at the graveside. Dad got moist-eyed a couple of times but was outdone in grief by his brother, no contest. No one ever accused Howard Knight of demonstrativeness. Or filial piety, for that matter. Frank and Lela shouldered the burden when Granddad got sick, moving him to Denver, supervising his treatment in the hospital where Frank works as an administrator and Lela as a physician’s assistant, and Lela acting as his personal nurse. Dad called on Sundays.
“And now this on top of it. Look, I don’t want to get in the middle. That’s my two cents, that’s all.” Frank shrugs.
That’s it! I knew I’d seen that shrug somewhere before. The habitual shrug my father picked up post-Anita. I never knew Dad to shrug before, but he did it all the time last Christmas when I went to visit him, the first time I’d seen him since the split. When I walked into his apartment, it became clear that all the decorative furnishings in the place had been Anita’s, and after she packed up and left, the overall effect was one of thorough burglary. Not a single nonfunctional item remained, no painting or plant or knick-knack. And oddly, Dad’s overstuffed leather recliner, the lone relic from my unbroken childhood home, was gone too. The movers grabbed it by accident, he told me with that sheepish shrug. A gesture of helpless resignation, as if to say, Hey, things are tough all over, what can I do about it? I was pissed about the recliner, which I had always loved. Apart from being suffused with an indefinable nostalgic redolence, it was really fucking comfortable. Why the hell, I asked him, did you give Anita’s movers the run of the house when you weren’t here? Shrug. Now I see the tic runs in the family.
“Thank you, Frank. I’m sure we’ll work it out.”
“Hey! What do you feel like for dinner? We were thinking Italian.”
We pack ourselves into Frank and Lela’s Mercury Tracer and drive into Denver. Nobody says much during the ride. We park in a lot right off 16th Street, the main drag. The plan was to take a stroll on the way to the restaurant, but the temperature’s dropping and Lela and Marcie are underdressed, so after a couple of blocks we catch one of the free shuttle buses that run up and down the pedestrian mall. Someone gets up to give Marcie a seat, but the rest of us have to stand. Derek hovers near the driver. “Pretty busy for a Sunday night,” he says.
“Yep. Holiday tomorrow,” the driver says.
“Oh, right, right. I forgot. It’s funny, holiday or no holiday, makes no difference to me.”
“No?”
“Nope. Not since I left my boss behind and started working for myself.”
“That right?” The driver is only halfway listening, but that doesn’t deter Derek.
“That’s right. You’re probably wondering how I pulled that off, right?”
“Mm.”
“Well, a couple years ago I was fortunate enough to happen onto a fantastic business opportunity.”
“Look,” Frank says, pointing to a horse-drawn carriage on the opposite side of the mall. “Horse and carriage. Randall, remember we used to take you and your sister on those?”
“Sure do.” He’s t
rying to distract me from Derek’s conversation, but I’m fascinated by my cousin’s brazen attempt to share the word in the course of a ten-block bus ride.
“He seemed like he might be interested,” Derek says after we get off the shuttle. As far as I could tell, the man could not have been less interested, but I’ll defer to Derek’s experience in such matters. “Have to come back later this week and look for him. Shouldn’t be hard to track him down. They do a circuit every forty minutes or so.”
“So who’s hungry?” Frank says.
The restaurant we’ve decided on is a steakhouse and brewpub in an old brick railroad building, right next to the baseball stadium. Derek and Marcie wave to the bartender as we pass the bar.
“Jake’s a distributor,” Marcie explains. “We sponsored him into the business.”
“One of our first,” Derek says. “He’s been calling me, says he wants to talk about something. I’ll go over after we order.”
So that’s why Derek vetoed the Italian place. Well, the food here looks good, anyway. We order a round of microbrews. “I love these guys’ beer,” Marcie says, wistfully examining the list. “Can’t wait until I can have one again.” I’ve never actually seen Marcie get drunk but always had the impression she might have been a bit of a lush in her college days.
“You guys get to many games this year?” I nod toward Coors Field, which we can see out the window.
“Oh, absolutely,” Derek says.
“We have a quarter share in a pair of season tickets,” Frank says.
“I mean, I can’t say much for the team,” Marcie says, “but it’s a great atmosphere for networking.” God, I can only imagine how many unsuspecting Rockies fans have found themselves “prospected” by Derek and Marcie.
“Sorry about the Sox, by the way,” Derek says.
“Yeah. Thanks.” In fact I’ve been only dimly aware that the Red Sox made the playoffs, or got knocked out, or for that matter that a baseball season even took place this year. I’ve had more important things on my mind. “We’ll get ’em next year.” Come to think of it, we’d better, because it’ll be our last chance.