Sh*tshow

by Richard Russo

  Richard Russo

  Richard Russo is the author of nine novels, most recently Chances Are… and Everybody’s Fool, two collections of stories, and the memoir Elsewhere. In 2002 he received the Pulitzer Prize for Empire Falls, which, like Nobody’s Fool, was adapted to film in a multiple-award-winning HBO miniseries; in 2016 he was given the Indie Champion Award by the American Booksellers Association; and in 2017 he received France’s Grand Prix de Littérature Américaine. He lives in Portland, Maine.

  ALSO BY RICHARD RUSSO

  Mohawk

  The Risk Pool

  Nobody’s Fool

  Straight Man

  Empire Falls

  The Whore’s Child

  Bridge of Sighs

  That Old Cape Magic

  Interventions

  Elsewhere

  Everybody’s Fool

  Trajectory

  The Destiny Thief

  Chances Are…

  Sh*tshow

  Richard Russo

  A Vintage Short

  Vintage Books

  A Division of Penguin Random House LLC

  New York

  Copyright © 2019 by Richard Russo

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data for Sh*tshow is available at the Library of Congress.

  Vintage eShort ISBN 9780593082508

  Cover design by Megan Wilson

  Cover image © TeamDAF/Alamy

  www.vintagebooks.com

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Richard Russo

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Sh*tshow

  Still stunned and feeling the need for companionship the morning after the election, Ellie and I invited our old friends the Schuulmans and the Millers over for drinks and dinner that evening. We’d been neighbors and good friends back when we all worked at the university. Roughly the same age, we’d been hired, tenured, and promoted on the same clock, and we’d bought our houses here in the Sam Hughes District around the same time, so when it came time to retire, we did that in lockstep as well. I guess Ellie and I just took for granted that things would continue—us empty nesters taking turns hosting one another for spur-of-the-moment get-togethers on our back patios, aging comfortably, we hoped, with so many of life’s challenges safely in our rearview mirrors, its latter ones on the horizon, sure, but still at a relatively safe distance.

  So we were pretty surprised when both the Schuulmans and the Millers cashed out, buying new homes in the foothills north and west of the city, a full forty-five minutes away. Though there was no reason it should, their defection had felt like a betrayal. Not long after they were settled, though, we were invited out to see their new digs, and we had to admit that they offered great views of the city below, as well as cooler summer evenings. Why not join us? they wanted to know. Get away from the sweltering valley. Leave the traffic and congestion behind. We could afford to, right? That last question, to be honest, was more than a little annoying. After all, ours was still a good in-town neighborhood, close to the university and convenient to most of what we wanted, or at least what we’d wanted when we were younger and raising families. Sure, crime was modestly on the rise, gang graffiti (if that’s even what it was) had been spray-painted onto the shoulder-high adobe walls that surrounded our properties, but come on. The foothills were a crime-free zone? It wasn’t like we in the District were living in some sort of urban hellhole. Why should we be treated like objects of pity?

  Strange, then, that it should be the Schuulmans and the Millers we’d thought of when things headed south on election night. That morning, though, when I called with the invitation, both Nathan and Clay sounded more pleased than surprised, and I was happy to learn that last night they’d thought of us, too, and wished we were all together like we’d been for so long.

  Best to keep things simple was the idea. Ellie made pasta and green salads, and I bought steaks for the grill. We debated about whether to eat indoors or out. I favored the latter because it’d be like old times, but Ellie wasn’t so sure. After all, it was early November, and while mid-afternoon temperatures still got up into the high seventies, the desert cooled quickly after the sun went down, and temperatures could dip sharply. “Let’s at least start out on the patio,” I said. “If it gets too chilly, we either can put on sweaters or move inside.”

  Ellie, her post-election funk more profound than my own, gave in with a heavy sigh, went over to the sliding patio door, and stared out into the backyard. Joining her there, I put my arms around her waist and kissed the top of her head. “What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to sound more puzzled than concerned. She’d been ill that summer and hadn’t, it seemed to me, bounced all the way back.

  She shrugged. “Nothing. Everything.”

  “I know.”

  “I wish the kids lived closer.”

  They’d both called last night when it became clear how the election was going to go, Sebastian all the way from Paris. “You should sell the house and come to California,” our daughter, Alison, said, not for the first time. “It’s still America here.”

  * * *

  —

  I was outside pouring charcoal into the metal tower when I heard a car pull up and Ellie called, “David? They’re here.”

  Which? I thought, heading back inside. The Schuulmans or the Millers? Joining Ellie at the front door, I saw they’d arrived together, the Millers pulling into the drive, the Schuulmans parking in the street. I could tell from Ellie’s expression that we’d had the same thought: They’d come together. They’d been together this whole time. Their friendship had remained intact.

  But then they all got out of their cars and Clay hollered, “How’s that for timing?” and we understood that their arriving together had been serendipity, which made sense. After all, they lived as far from each other as they did from us. I expected us guys to shake hands, but Nathan was having none of that, and we ended up sharing hugs all around. So did the gals, Dawn and Betsy fussing over Ellie and wanting to know how she was feeling. They told her she looked wonderful, which was true, though, being women, they would’ve said that even if it weren’t. Anyhow, when we all headed inside, my happy thought was Hey, they’ve missed us as much as we’ve missed them.

  “I still can’t wrap my head around it,” Dawn was saying when I brought out a tray full of our favorite chips and salsa from Rafa’s, a place we’d often gathered on Friday afternoons. We were all seated comfortably out on the patio, the sun about to disappear behind the distant purple hills. We’d said there was no need to bring anything, but both couples arrived with wine, an Italian white and Spanish red, neither of which I was familiar with. What did it signify, I wondered, that they’d moved on from the default California chardonnay we’d all drunk back in the day, several bottles of which I had chilling in the fridge? “I’ll forget for, like, ten minutes and then suddenly it’s back. We elected him. He said ‘grab ’em by the pussy’ and we elected him anyway. Women voted for him.”

  “In a democracy,” her husband said, “you always, always, always get what you deserve.”

  “Oh, come on, Clay,” I said. “Surely we don’t deserve this.”

  “No exceptions,” he insisted.

  “How could the polls have gotten
it so wrong?” was what Betsy wanted to know.

  Nathan shook his head. “Nate Silver warned us last week that there was a path.”

  His wife rolled her eyes. “What does that even mean? ‘There’s a path.’ ”

  “Out where we live, there are Trump signs everywhere,” Clay admitted, causing Ellie and me to share a glance. Was this a regret he was expressing? They should’ve stayed here in town?

  “I only saw one around here,” I told them. Our next-door neighbor, a widower who’d lived in the District even longer than we had.

  “We had to replace our Hillary sign three times,” Nathan said. “It kept getting stolen.”

  “Who had to replace it?” said Betsy.

  “Okay, yes, you replaced it.”

  “Admit it. You couldn’t stand her.”

  “I admit it.” Nathan grinned conspiratorially at Clay and me. “I couldn’t stand her.”

  Dawn threw up her hands. “This is what we’re up against, ladies.”

  “That’s not fair,” Nathan protested. “I held my nose and voted for her.”

  “That’s big of you. You want an award for not singing in the Lock-Her-Up chorus?”

  He shrugged, pouring himself more wine. “I think I do deserve an award. Help me out here, guys. What do I deserve an award for? There must be something.”

  “Let me think,” Clay said, and pretended to for about two seconds. “Nope, I really can’t think of a thing.”

  Everyone but Ellie laughed. Unless I was mistaken, she was sniffing the air, as if the conversation had an odor. And come to think of it, there was an odd smell. Was one of the neighbors fertilizing the lawn? Unlikely. Desert landscaping was the unwritten neighborhood rule.

  “Should I start the fire?” I suggested.

  “Absolutely,” Nathan said. “I’m starved.”

  “Right,” said his wife. “Don’t let an existential threat to democracy put you off your feed.”

  “Lord, lord, lord.” He sighed. “It’s going to be a long four years.”

  “In a democracy…” Clay began.

  “Oh, stop,” everyone else agreed, and even Ellie smiled, perhaps pleased, as I was, to recall what good friends we’d all been not that long ago. Anyhow, it was a lovely evening and it pretty much accomplished what we’d hoped it would. Yes, we agreed, the nation had taken a shot across its bow, and there was genuine cause for concern but not for panic. Vietnam had been for shit, too, and more young men had been dying then than were now. We promised not to wait so long to get together again.

  When our guests were gone, I tried to help Ellie load the dishwasher and tidy up the kitchen, but she shooed me away, complaining that I was useless after drinking wine. If I really wanted to help, I’d just get out of her way. Upstairs, getting undressed, I found myself thinking about when I was an altar boy serving the early weekday Mass at the smallest of the four Catholic churches in the gray industrial town where I’d grown up. Back East, this was. Most mornings there were just a half dozen elderly women in attendance, which was probably what appealed to me—the church so still, its stained-glass windows dark when the service began, the altar illuminated by candles. During the service, though I understood it was a sin, I allowed my mind to drift from the mystery of the faith to whatever pretty girl I had my eye on, imagining how our conversation might go should I ever locate the courage to speak to her. By the time Mass was over, morning had broken and the stained glass was alive with color, a miracle. Sometimes, after I’d hung up my cassock and surplice in the sacristy and said goodbye to Father John, who made his way across the lawn to the rectory, I’d sneak up into the choir loft. Was it the elevation I found so pleasurable, or the sense that I was above the world? Occasionally someone would enter, slip into a pew, say a short prayer, and leave again, blissfully unaware of my presence. Was that how God felt, quietly looking down on us, his creation, never letting on how close he was? Remember this feeling, I thought at the time. This is important. Though of course what was important about it was now as lost to me as youth itself.

  I was in the middle of this wine-soaked reverie when I noticed that the motion-sensor lights had lit up on the patio below. Going over to the window, I saw that Ellie had come outside. She stood directly below our bedroom window, her head cocked ever so slightly, as if she were listening. No, not listening. Sniffing. I thought about asking her if something was wrong, but I didn’t want to startle her, a disembodied voice from above. After a moment she made her way across the deck to the small Jacuzzi we’d installed not long after the Schuulmans and the Millers headed for the hills. We’d used it a lot that first year, especially during the winter, when it felt luxurious to warm ourselves beneath the chill night air. One night, when we were soaking in the nude, Ellie thought she heard a noise over the burble of the tub and wondered if old Robert was out on his patio next door. If he stood on something, would he be able to see over our wall? We couldn’t decide whether we cared. Now, though, when Ellie switched on the Jacuzzi lights, I heard her gasp and saw her take a quick step backward. Had a small animal fallen into the tub and drowned?

  By the time I arrived on the deck, barefoot and clad only in my boxers, she’d turned her back to the tub. “What is it?” I said, but she just shook her head. Peering into the still blue water, I didn’t immediately recognize what I was looking at. Floating there on the surface of the water was a long, impressive, orange turd.

  * * *

  —

  “Please stop,” Ellie pleaded later when we were both in bed with the lights off. I’d bagged the thing and deposited it in the trash. “It’s not funny.”

  “No,” I admitted. “Of course it’s not.”

  “Then why are you laughing?”

  “The look on your face, I guess. The horror. I was expecting something much worse.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. A rat? A snake?”

  “David. Somebody had a bowel movement in our hot tub. That was a human…”

  Whichever noun she was considering, she couldn’t give it voice.

  “You’re probably right, but for the sake of argument, animal turds don’t look that different from human ones.”

  She rolled over onto her side to stare at me. “So what are you suggesting? That a dog leapt up over the wall and instead of crapping on the stones, he trotted over to the Jacuzzi, backed up to the edge of the tub, and…?”

  “You have a point,” I admitted.

  “Someone was in our yard, David.”

  “Again—”

  “Some person climbed over the wall and…did that disgusting thing.”

  “That’s what it looks like,” I said.

  “No. That’s what happened.”

  “Okay. It’s what happened.”

  We were quiet then, for so long that I thought maybe Ellie had fallen asleep, but then there was her voice in the dark. “Do you think he did what he said?”

  “Who? What?”

  “Nathan. Do you think he voted for Hillary? He admitted he hated her.”

  “Good lord, Ellie,” I said, though I was relieved that her thoughts had moved on from the hot tub.

  “I mean, we only have his word for it. Or Clay’s, for that matter. We have no way of knowing what people do in the privacy of the voting booth.”

  “I know, but come on. Nathan? You might as well suspect me.” When she didn’t say anything to that, I continued, “And if you’re open to that possibility, you might as well suspect me of shitting in the Jacuzzi.”

  That did elicit a chuckle, and I have to admit, I was very happy to hear it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It just seems like suddenly everything means something, you know?”

  “Okay,” I said, giving her a kiss on the forehead, “but that’s always been the case, right? Everything has always had meaning. Either that, or nothing
does. I can never remember which.”

  “Me either,” she said seriously.

  “That was supposed to be a joke, actually.”

  Not a bad way to end a conversation, except that I wanted to say one more thing. “The cyst was benign.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re well. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I know.”

  Eventually, we did drift off, and I woke up only once during the night to pee. Noting that there was more light in the room than usual, I went over to the window, and sure enough, we’d forgotten to turn off the Jacuzzi lights. I thought about going down to turn them off, but it was four in the morning and in a couple hours the sun would be up. I could do it then, I told myself. A rationalization, because in truth I feared I might find some new excrescence floating there. I’d assured Ellie there was nothing to worry about, but apparently I hadn’t even convinced myself.

  * * *

  —

  That summer I got a call from Clay, who said he was going to be in town the following afternoon and wondered if I might want to join him for a beer. Back in November we’d all agreed to stay in better touch, but that hadn’t happened, and to be honest I was less than thrilled with the idea of meeting up now. We were suffering a stretch of brutally hot days and the next day’s temperatures were predicted to be in the low hundreds. But of course I said sure, why not and suggested we call Nathan to see if he wanted to join us. “Yeah, well, about that?” Clay said. “He and I had a falling out. He hasn’t said anything?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it.”

  We met at a Mexican joint on Broadway where both the air conditioning and the beer were in icy contrast to the blistering heat outside. Fox News was on the TV above the bar, the orange man proclaiming that there were very fine people on both sides. Clay asked the kid behind the bar if we could change the station, but of course he was on all of them. “In a democracy…” he began.