Man of the Year

by Caroline Louise Walker

  Before he died, I did my best to return the favor. I flew him up to Alaska to go salmon fishing on the Kenai River. Vanessa was about halfway through her pregnancy with Jonah at the time. Bonding with my own father seemed appropriate. Everyone warned me that life would turn upside down once the baby arrived, so yes, it was a vacation, but it was also a way to honor my old man for all the fish that came before.

  We caught nothing, not a single salmon—and not for lack of trying. Not for lack of salmon, either. They were running, all right, directly by our boat: hundreds, probably thousands of them. Most had turned from silver to red. Some pink, some burgundy, their bodies covered in white patches. We could have reached down and picked them up with our bare hands. Instead, we dangled our lines in turquoise water and watched the shoals swim past our impotent, sparkling lures, oblivious or disinterested or both. As it turned out, they weren’t biting because they weren’t hungry. They were too close to their spawning grounds and too close to death.

  Those very fish, our guide explained, had been born in that very river. They’d hatched, then fled out to estuaries, then eased out to sea, where they’d eaten like kings. At last, they were returning home to complete the cycle, but this time, they could not pause to ease into the river, so they could not digest freshwater food. They’d eaten their last meal before starting the journey. Now their bodies were eating themselves.

  This is why our spawning salmon had changed color. They were absorbing their own light-reflecting scales for spare nutrients, in turn stripping away their skin’s protective film, in turn exposing them to fungal infections and exposing their flesh. “You see,” said our guide, “they aren’t turning that color. They’re revealing that color.” We were just seeing what had been there all along.

  I guess I’d known a little about how salmon found their original spawning ground, how that was some kind of mystery or something. It’s their sense of smell, I think. Maybe their own magnetic brains, I can’t remember. I knew they swam upriver. I knew at least that much. I’d seen the inspirational posters and the National Geographic photos of hungry bears, but those photographers edit out the decay and demise. They do not show the luster caving in on itself, the flesh rotting on bone. Males will change shape. They’ll grow humpbacks and fangs. Their bodies are preparing to fight to the death for their little zygotes, if that’s what it takes.

  Learning this made me sick to my stomach. I remember reeling in my line, wanting nothing to do with the hunt. My father—he responded differently. He cackled until he coughed up a mouthful of phlegm, which he spit into a handkerchief, which he then tucked back into his pocket. He looked me in the eye, and—I’ll never forget it—he said, “That’s fatherhood for you, Son. Turns the best of us into monsters.”

  Our guide backpedaled by explaining how most fish actually eat their young, which didn’t exactly lighten the tone, but it did give me an excuse to look away from my father, who had succumbed to another coughing fit. He’d be dead from advanced chronic obstructive pulmonary disease in six months.

  I’m not a monster.

  I’m a good man and an excellent father, but I’m no sadomasochist, and I can call a spade a spade. Jonah is bored. Nick is uninterested. I’m tired of waiting. After a couple of hours, when it becomes clear that fish aren’t willing to help the three of us bond, I give up and say, “Reel ’em in.”

  The boys don’t hesitate. At least I tried. I raise my arm and wave back to the McAlister party waving at me from across the bay.

  Luna

  Just when I think nothing will ever end this dreadfully boring story Lars Clyborne is telling and telling, Frank says, “There’s Hart again,” and lifts his arm in a mariner’s greeting.

  “Robert’s son joined them after all,” I say. “Handsome boys, aren’t they?”

  The women nod.

  “Watch it, ladies,” Frank says, and everyone laughs great big fake belly laughs, as if our wrinkled bodies are in terrible danger of being ravaged by young men. Bonnie is using her hand as a visor even though she’s already wearing one. Monique is waving like she’s just been crowned homecoming queen and this cruiser is her float in the parade.

  “He’s a weird guy,” says Frank.

  “You’re a weird guy,” I tell Frank. “We’re all weirdos, and for your information, that boat is a collector’s item. In some circles, it’s a prize.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

  Bull. Frank McAlister is a numbskull who always has to know things, even when he doesn’t. Nouveau-riche and full of shit. It’s only a matter of time before Frank becomes the expert on boats like Robert’s and tries to capitalize on his newfound wisdom.

  Frank asks Lars, “Think we’d get a finder’s fee if we hooked him up with a buyer for that boat? I might know a guy who would be interested—”

  Well, what do you know? That didn’t take long.

  Bonnie starts in on her annoying habit of trying to protect the sanctity of her husband’s precious guy talk with the boys, which means distracting chatty women, which today means complimenting my hair color, even though I bet she hates it—which is precisely why it’s so fun to captivate her with banal details about highlights and lowlights and balayage, making her sorry for patronizing me so she won’t do it again. I’m describing, in great detail, the way Alfonse massages my scalp during shampoo time, when Frank says, “How about a little something to eat?” At which point Bonnie jumps up and says to me, “Excuse me, sweetie. Duty calls.”

  I roll my eyes and volunteer to slice saucisson and soppressata while Bonnie unwraps the brie. Monique devotes an obscene level of care to arranging water crackers on a tray like she’s fanning a deck of tarot cards—carbon copies of the same bland, beige fortune—and I’m thinking I’d kill for a little more wild in my life. Boredom’s so bad for the complexion.

  • • •

  A million hours later, we return to the marina to hug and kiss good-bye and make empty promises to grab lunch next week so we can laugh at each other’s cute comments about the weather. At last we part ways, and I’m flooded with relief—but just as quickly, my peace is surpassed by an oppressive fear of being alone. These gaps between distractions are getting harder to bear every day. I fill my ten-minute drive with NPR cranked to max volume.

  At home, I shout, “Darlings!” into an empty foyer. My voice bounces off slate tile and returns to me. “I’m back.”

  “We’re on the patio!” Birgitta yells.

  I kick off my shoes and slide my feet into a pair of Ferragamo slippers by the door. Our house smells like cardamom and sugar, and I’m absolutely certain Birgitta will be the death of me, but I grab a warm roll from the kitchen anyway and head outside to where my husband is lounging in a chaise beneath the wisteria. I say to his nurse, “Birgitta, you little cunt. You baked again.”

  She laughs. “I can’t help myself, Luna.”

  “You’d better help yourself to half those cinnamon rolls or you’ll make me fat and I’ll end up with hip dysplasia, and I’m too damn young for a replacement, okay?”

  She laughs again. I rest my hand on her shoulder, and we look at Graham, who laughs at the both of us, filling my heart just so he can wring it dry. “How was everything today?” I ask. “Did you two engage in acrobatic acts of sexual deviance while I was away?”

  Graham smiles. My heart.

  “Yes,” Birgitta says. “Pulled a hamstring, broke a chandelier. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not a problem.” I wink.

  Birgitta packs up books and tools that don’t seem to be doing any good, and she pats Graham’s hand and says, “Until tomorrow, sir.” Then she’s gone.

  I tuck my sadness away and tell Graham, “I missed you today,” kissing him lightly on the mouth, then the nose. “Frank McAlister was fanning his peacock feathers something terrible. He’s too clumsy to even do vulgarity right. There was no one to make funny faces with but myself.” I tear the roll in half and hand the smaller piece to Graham. “This wisteria is goi
ng bonkers, isn’t it?”

  He grunts.

  “Yes, I know it’s poisonous, but our children are out of the house, so lighten up.” I feed myself warm bread that feels like a warm hug from Birgitta, Graham’s helper, my godsend. “Make room for me, would you?” I climb onto the chaise where Graham rests after he’s exhausted himself practicing words. My husband, the genius who commanded a courtroom like no other—renowned as one of the most elegant and eloquent litigators in the whole state—is still struggling to master fricatives. How about that? He tries to wrap his fingers around my hand, but his grip is weak and uneven, so I squeeze back to distract us both from his loss of strength.

  “We saw Robert Hart on his salty old boat. He’d taken out one of his son’s friends, the most adorable boy. I’d say he’s about twenty, twenty-one? He’s just a doll, but good Lord if he didn’t remind me of our Julian. He has that liquid quality to him. Do you know what I mean?”

  Graham makes a sound. Birds chatter above us.

  I look up and say, “They won’t stop crapping on the patio furniture, but I can’t bring myself to bother their nests. Russell thinks they’re robins, but Birgitta swears she saw blue jays. Did you?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Me neither. I do miss the orioles.” I can’t remember when I stopped leaving quartered oranges in the window boxes—if it was before or after the orioles went away. “Russell says the rhododendron need to be cut all the way back to the quick. I hate to do it, but he’s probably right.”

  Graham stares at our leggy shrubs, but he’s not thinking about landscaping. He’s thinking about his loss of authority. He has so much time now to think about everything he’s lost. So do I, of course, but at least I get to run around hunting for hobbies and managing our lives. Graham just sits here ruminating on how he chose to live when he had choices. Not that he ever chose to prune the hedges, even then.

  I measure my next words carefully. “J.R. Voss was out on the water, too.”

  Graham doesn’t grunt or moan this time. Good. He’s listening.

  “Missy was with him,” I say. “The kids, too. Monique went on and on about how brave Missy has been and how much stronger the Vosses are now. She said it’s a blessing they’re getting on with their lives.” I listen for Graham’s heartbeat to hear if it’s quickened, but the birds are too damn loud. “Do you know what Frank said? He said, ‘All thanks to Graham.’ Isn’t that something? J.R.’s legacy is part of your legacy now, darling.” I let that sink into Graham’s damaged head before asking, “Aren’t you proud of yourself?”

  If Graham could speak, this is when he’d accuse me of being a smart-ass—but then, if he could speak, I wouldn’t give two shits about the fate of J.R. Voss.

  Voss versus That Girl.

  Voss versus The Cops.

  Victories on both counts, all thanks to my dear husband.

  No, if Graham hadn’t lost his verbal and fine motor skills last winter, those successes would be mere mile markers on our road toward retirement. Every lawsuit, whether nasty or righteous, was a means to our golden years, which should’ve been spent traveling the world, relaxing, dancing, eating oysters for breakfast and bonbons for dinner. Instead, stress and billable hours earned my husband an aneurism and me this. Lucky us. Now we have nothing but time to think about all of the shit we avoided before. Take, for example, J.R. Voss. Did we know he was an absolute squid who should’ve had his slimy tentacles chopped off and fed to sharks? Yes, sure. She was seventeen years old, that girl. Seventeen. She’d only just reached the age of consent. J.R. Voss is worse than chum, but where the law is concerned, chum is neutral. Chum has the right to an attorney, too, just as Graham and his firm have the right to be extraordinary.

  The girl should have exercised her right to choose the same. This is what pisses me off. Her family hired that hack from heaven-knows-where, when what they needed was a firm like Graham’s—not that my husband’s loyalty was up for grabs. Graham doesn’t even like J.R., but he favors him as an honorary member of some implied Brotherhood of Important People, so Graham took the case, drafted a nondisclosure, calculated the price of that girl’s silence—a mere morality tax for J.R. that must’ve seemed like a fortune to her—and made a deal. She deserved a lawyer with enough confidence to refuse the offer and enough experience to warn her of how it would feel to stand in front of cameras and recite lines scripted by one of Graham’s minions: “I misrepresented the relationship between myself and Mr. Voss. He never touched me inappropriately. I lied, and I am embarrassed and deeply sorry to Mr. Voss and his family for the damage that I’ve caused.”

  I watched the press conference in real time that day and told myself, This is part of the job. And, Graham represents the law, not the person. And, Two words: early retirement. People scoop actual shit at the zoo. People clean shit from airplane bathrooms and hospital bedpans. Those are real jobs people do so they can make a buck and get on with their lives.

  At least we never scooped shit.

  It’s not our fault the girl hired a nimrod attorney, and I am not sorry that Graham is excellent at his job.

  Was excellent.

  Was a lot of things. Not anymore.

  Thanks to my husband, people didn’t just forgive J.R., they groveled. Acquaintances scrambled to offer testimonials of unwavering faith, even though they were the very same gossips who’d said, You know, I always thought there was something off about that guy, when they first read the headline: “PROMINENT LOCAL ACCUSED OF SEXUALLY ASSAULTING TEEN BABYSITTER.” Oh, their faith had wavered all right.

  J.R. surprised us all with his arrogance, though. Spectacular show. Went on a crusade against the police department, threatening to sue for defamation but winning in the all-important Court of Public Approval before filing the suit, which was only ever a bluff anyway. Such a claim would have been dismissed out of hand.

  As for Mrs. Missy Voss—well, she’s just enough of a dolt to tolerate him, but smart enough to make it work in her favor. She gets sympathy now and recently treated herself to a week in Rome, “just to get away.” People called it self-care, but Missy Voss doesn’t get my sympathy. She’s getting my vacations, isn’t that enough? I’m the one who should be gorging myself on antipasto in Trastevere with the love of my life. I did everything right. I married a good man who did not sexually assault our teenage babysitter, yet somehow I’m the one who’s being punished. The universe is a cunning little bitch.

  “These rolls smell like India, don’t they?” I ask Graham, encouraging him to dwell on the past, too. We had so much power and freedom. We had fun. “They remind me of Sri Lanka as well, but Birgitta says the recipe is from family of hers in Norway. Isn’t that something? They’re heavenly, aren’t they?” I stroke Graham’s face, thinking, Fuck you, darling.

  Ah, there it is, the pesky bastard: a recurring thought molded into a vice. My secret habit. I take another hit: Fuck you, sweetheart, for becoming a different person overnight, for smoking cigars and working too hard and eating too much red meat, for going to the doctor once a year instead of twice, for not keeping a cell phone in your pocket, for not considering how a disaster might affect me, your wife, the woman who tolerated your endless hours at the office because you promised me—you promised—it would all pay off right about now. I’ll keep loving you, of course, but now you’ve forced me to hate you, too, so I’ll keep loving you and hating you under my skin, forever and ever. Forgive me, my darling. I really am doing my best.

  “Are you ready for a little supper?” I ask aloud.

  He makes a sound.

  “Good.” I stand and help him rise to his feet. “Let’s fire up the grill.”

  5.

  Elizabeth is slicing lemons and adding fresh tarragon to homemade tartar sauce when we return. Four empty wineglasses are arranged neatly by the sink. Music I recognize but can’t identify plays through speakers professionally hidden throughout our house.

  “This sounds familiar,” I say as Elizabeth kisses me on the c
heek. She kisses the boys on their cheeks, too. “It’s from a movie?”

  “Dvořák,” says Nick. “New World Symphony.”

  Jonah dumps his gear by the door and takes off his shoes. “I’m telling you. This guy is a walking Wikipedia.”

  Nick shakes his head. “Nah. I just know a little about a lot.”

  This guy.

  “Well?” Elizabeth covers the bowl with plastic wrap and hands it to me. “How’d it go?”

  “It was fun.” I open the fridge and clear space.

  “We caught nothing,” Jonah tells her.

  Elizabeth seems genuinely distraught. Charming and ridiculous. “Nothing at all?”

  Jonah is all too happy to confirm: “Zilch.”

  “Were they biting?”

  “Nope.”

  “Yes they were,” I insist.

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Maybe not for you, but I had a few bites.”

  “Sure you did, Dad,” Jonah says, and Elizabeth and Nick laugh, ruling his comment cute rather than disrespectful. I flick Jonah’s ear—cute—and he claps a hand to the side of his face. “Ouch. Jesus, Dad.”

  “Robert,” Elizabeth says, turning my name into a threat.

  I wink at Nick, forcing him to take my side, forcing him to see that I’m not a punch line in this house. He smiles politely.

  “Well,” says Elizabeth, “I thought we could fry up whatever you caught and have fish tacos for dinner, but now we have an excuse to get pizza.”

  “Tacos sound good,” I say.

  “Let’s get pizza,” says Elizabeth, who never craves pizza.