Ecstatic

by Victor La Valle

  I shut the door then slapped down on the standing ironing board.

  When Grandma grumbled I apologized.

  I remember when she turned around in the green rented car. That whole trip from Ithaca my grandmother only spoke once. She was in the front seat, taking tissues from her bra and handing them to my mother. It was September 3, 1995. Grandma turned to me and said, – We will be fixing you.

  2

  They were surprised when I turned down a family cookout. They wanted to celebrate my return, but by cookout they only meant four of us in the backyard turning franks on a tiny grill. In that scenario Mom would be pre-chewing my rice the whole afternoon. No thanks. I demanded guests.

  – Who? Nabisase asked.

  –These other buildings have people in them, you know.

  – Bring neighbors!? Grandma yelled.

  Mom walked to the front window just to pull down the shade. – Why would we tell people you were back?

  I said, –They won’t ask.

  Other folks must have it easier when they’re throwing parties. Invite people and watch them come. But I tried to be objective about my family; we’d have to offer a bribe. I printed flyers and put them on car windows, in mailboxes. I taped them to trees. The two biggest words were the ones that worked: ‘Free’ and ‘Food.’

  Even with charcoal blackening the beef and unthreatening soul music on a portable radio, guests wouldn’t enter our yard. I was in the basement waiting to make an entrance when my sister came down the stairs. She said, –They’re on the sidewalk.

  –Then open the gate.

  –They just keep asking to see you.

  Nabisase was Old-Testament-beautiful; wrathful, privileged loveliness. A short girl with long legs and big thighs. Her face was mostly lips and chin. She’d been to forty beauty pageants in thirteen years, but never won or placed. My sister didn’t take them seriously enough to try, just to attend. There were plenty of participation sashes in a suitcase under her bed. She was one of those good-looking women who can be so carefree about their natural splendor that you only want to kick them in the forehead.

  Next to her I would have felt insignificant if I wasn’t wearing my purple suit. I’d bought it with my savings. I didn’t have much, but the suit wasn’t worth much. The material was wrinkle-proof. There were washing-machine instructions inside the jacket.

  But still I wore the slacks, tie, shoes, everything, because a suit explains a man to his world. It organizes him in a respectable compartment. This formal outfit wasn’t camouflage, it was an announcement.

  On the drive back, from Ithaca, Nabisase showed me card tricks. She was practicing for a pageant in November. Even long after getting bored Nabisase flicked face cards around the car just to keep me from becoming maudlin.

  More maudlin.

  –They want to greet the man of the house formally, I said.

  Nabisase nodded. – I’ll send Mom.

  Neighbors were on the sidewalk honking at each other informally.

  I pulled our gate open, they walked in.

  This was on a Saturday, October 7th. A clear day, but chilly because it was winter. People wore coats, scarves, dickeys.

  One woman passed me, then two. Like that. Women. Women. All these women and me.

  Nabisase tapped my shoulder. – You couldn’t invite shorties? she asked.

  – I don’t think there are any other men in this neighborhood.

  – What about those two? I can go tell them right now.

  Before she could talk I put my hand on her mouth. –They look busy, I said.

  The pair of guys were about my age and only twenty feet away, relaxing on a stoop next door. One was muscular and the other was thin, so you can guess why I ignored them. I believed in market dominance, not competition. They waved, but I didn’t. I pulled my sister to the backyard; I had the only ‘y’ chromosome around.

  It had been three parched years for me. I don’t mean three years since I had sex; I mean thirty-six months since a friendly handshake. I’d been reduced to brushing past women on crowded elevators; I was that man in the subway car who enjoys overcrowding way too much. When I made it to the back the crowd called my name.

  – Anthony! they hailed instinctively.

  They didn’t question what I’d done in the world. College, work, armed forces, whatever.

  My hands uplifted, they encircled me; the planets continuing their heliocentricity.

  I knew what I needed and that was a woman, but my mother had her ideas. After the great greeting I had an appetite, so I went to the tables. We had plastic plates, knives, forks and spoons.

  There was a bowl of off-white sweet potatoes, a flat pan of fried chapati which are these flat bread disks originally from India that my mother loved since childhood. A pot of oxtail soup. A pot of chicken in salty brown gravy. A pot of meatballs hand-rolled by Grandma, then fried before being simmered in tomato sauce. A dish of brown rice and another of white. When I list these things it’s to say which items I sampled first. There were nine others that I’d touch on the second round.

  When I sat on one of the cheap chairs we’d rented for the party Mom propped herself next to me. –That’s quite a calorie base you’ve made.

  It was a diet tip. Mom was full of them, but because I was feeling so special and wearing my purple suit I had thought she was complimenting me on choosing foods well.

  – But do you know what’s just as filling as those meatballs?

  –The crawfish?

  – Broccoli.

  What a stupid person. What a colossal wingnut. – No plant tastes as good as meat.

  – You’ve never had a shiitake mushroom, then.

  I couldn’t lift the first forkful to my lips, though I tried. This seemed odd until I realized my mother was holding my left hand down.

  – Eating healthy doesn’t just help you lose weight. It can change your complexion. Your blood pressure improves. So many of your problems could be solved.

  She was referring to my mind of course; as if lentils were a natural antipsychotic. Though she’d been on a number of medications she wasn’t pushing them on me. I’m sure Mom gave more credit for her wellness to leeks and various tubers.

  – I’m not asking you to become a vegetarian.

  I looked at her strangely; I hadn’t realized I was talking out loud. That happened to me occasionally; the blinds between thoughts and words drawn up.

  –Then what are you telling me to do?

  – You remember when I was 270 pounds? Mom asked.

  – 1981–1990.

  – You don’t have to be that specific. Was it really for so long? Now I can’t remember.

  – We used to sneak whole bags of cookies.

  – It was never that much, she said.

  One of us was lying.

  I thought: If my mother doesn’t let me swallow some ox I’m going to fall into a coma right in the grass. I’m telling you this even though I’m not proud of it.

  – I’ll start tomorrow, I promised, though I didn’t mean it.

  – You don’t mean it, she said.

  I covered my forehead so she wouldn’t also see the sexual frustration I had gathered inside.

  – Start today, she said. I’m talking about a whole change. You won’t believe how much of a difference it makes.

  Imagine that everywhere you went some sprightly guy follows you; a train, an elevator, in the shower. Now this guy isn’t so bad; he doesn’t hit you. He just plays an accordion loudly and right into your ear. This goes on so long that it’s no longer exactly noticeable, but the sound is wearing you down. You become irritated and try to make him stop, but when you try to grab his throat he takes a tiny step just out of reach. And keeps playing. It’s no longer music or even separate chords, but a constant buzzing just behind you. It keeps you awake for days until exhaustion makes the stupid acts seem sensible. I’d been walking around my apartment naked on the day my family found me only because wearing clothes in the house felt too c
onfining, I’m sure that lots of people do it. The problem is that when I opened the door I was just too haggard to get dressed. Though they must have thought I went outside like that all the time.

  I gave my mother the plate of food then she took it to the trash. While Mom felt sure that this would save me, I had my own idea.

  Walked up to a seventy-year-old woman with a face like warm pie crust, soft and dimpled. I took her hand and kissed it.

  While pouring a dumpling-shaped teenager some fruit punch I told her: – Cornell’s architecture program is one of the best. You should let me see if I can get you in.

  She shrugged then went back to her chair, somberly chewing potato chips. She was expressionless, her face amorphous, but I was so horny that she charmed me.

  None of my lines worked, but then neither did straight conversation.

  There was a lady leaning against one side of our house with her hair pulled back under a bright scarf, face in some book. I tip-toed closer because if I’d had any luck in the world it was with literate women. But this one was only checking the horoscopes in the back of her TV Guide.

  Though she did smell like cocoa butter, which was nice.

  Mom came around again checking if I’d loaded a new plate, but I hadn’t. The backyard was only about twenty feet by twenty, so where could I go to nibble mashed potatoes undetected? Since I couldn’t fulfill one hunger I tried the other; applying my smile to more women regardless of age or infirmity. One old woman had no voice box thanks to cigarettes, so she used that electric wand against her throat. As a girl she said she’d loved to sing, but no one listened since her operation. She wasn’t bad looking or at least I tried to be objective about myself here; I had no room to discriminate. She told me she’d sing two Jim Reeves songs, but if that was English I didn’t understand. Every word she sang was just a long or short variation on a sound, -zzz- or -zzzzzz- and occasionally, -zuh-. I held her hand gently, but it was clear that sex was long past her. So when Mom went inside to get napkins I ran to the meal tables and stole a chicken leg.

  I crept to the side of the house then waited next to our Oldsmobile Firenza; even bent over like I was checking the hub-caps. Until I heard Mom out back again.

  – You’re Anthony.

  A man behind me spoke before I could eat so I turned with more than a soupçon of agitation asking, – What? What?!

  – Nothing to worry about, my man. Your mother told me about the party. She told me about you.

  He was taller than me. His suit was tailored tight to make him seem even longer. From a block away he’d look six foot three, but closer it was an even six.

  – What did she say? I may have sounded agitated. All I needed was for Mom to ruin me with the neighbors, by telling them I was touched in the head.

  This guy smiled, saying, – Hey now. No problems.

  He said, – Ishkabibble.

  – S’l’m aleikoum, I answered, unsure if this was right.

  He asked, – You a Muslim?

  – No, I thought you were. What did you say?

  – My name. Ishkabibble. I helped your grandmother get the paper she needed for this house.

  – She couldn’t do it on her own?

  – I’m better than the banks, he said. I am the U.S. Treasury to half this neighborhood.

  Ishkabibble had a doofy tooth. One of his front teeth was doofy. White and fully grown, but twisted about twenty degrees abnormal. He could sip a straw without opening his mouth. Would it be rude, I wondered, to suck the marrow out of a chicken bone right now.

  He said, – I understand that you’re ready to enter the world.

  – I bought brand new clothes and everything.

  He nodded, then smiled. – Of course. I’m not trying to down you. Your mother just told me you were gone.

  –That’s what it was.

  – So now you come back to help them out?

  –That’s what it is.

  What I didn’t want to do was act greedy. – She’s in the back if you’re looking for her, I said.

  Go ahead out back and let me feed, that’s what I actually meant.

  – Your mother? I’ll speak with her later, Ishkabibble said. Right now I want to talk with you. Young man comes home and starts to work, he needs a way to get around.

  – I’ll get a bus pass.

  He slapped my shoulder lightly. – Are women putting out for bus transfers these days? Let me tell you, a nice car gives any man a polishing.

  – You think I need one?

  – Who doesn’t?

  This guy was good. If he’d had a contract I’d have signed it without reading.

  We were at my open front gate. –There’s five cars on this block that I helped with. Come see what we can do.

  I had the chicken leg palmed so that the meaty top was hidden in my hand while the bone was up against my wrist, obscured by the sleeve of my suit jacket.

  My neighbor’s garbage bin had been tackled in his yard. A big mess, there was a splash of yellow rice, egg shells and diapers across their front steps. A spoiled wave lapping at the shore. Before I could figure what made the mess a tiny dog ran out from behind the garbage can, leapt the neighbor’s low fence and attacked Ishkabibble’s skinny leg.

  Rosedale was used to this. I hate to admit. Yes it was a middle-class outfit, from the mid-price cars to the Catholic schools nearby. A neighborhood of well-kept homes. But it was still common to find feral dogs hopping from yard to yard; so starved that their ribs showed through. Where had they come from? Children. Stupid, stupid kids. Who lost their dogs or set them free. Or even some who let their dogs hump in the park just to laugh at the sticking motion. This is how five loose dogs becomes fifteen. Then forty. Besides the domesticated house pets and yard guards, some frenzied crossbreeds terrorized the neighborhood. Daily there was shit on many stoops, torn garbage bags in driveways. At night they bayed from Brookville Park or street corners or under our windows.

  But now there was the mutt trying to eviscerate Ishkabibble. It was a mix of Pug and Pekingnese; with a face so flat it might have been concave. A short-haired body, but a fluffy tail.

  The man looked to me for help, but what did he expect? That I would drive my hands into the maw to pry his pant leg free? I turned to get my sister, the tough one.

  Ishkabibble said, –Throw him the chicken leg.

  – Why should I?

  – What?!

  The skin was reddish and greasy. Now he wanted me to give it away?

  He kicked stiffly at me, but moved off-balance like a marionette.

  – Okay, I said to Ishkabibble. I’ll help.

  But not right away. I picked at the chicken tenderly.

  To his credit Ishkabibble checked the dog in the jaw with his heel.

  When it barked Ishkabibble got free and tried to shut the gate, but soon as he pushed it the dog stuffed its charged face in between and there wasn’t enough room to throw down the little metal clasp.

  – What the fuck are you doing? he yelled.

  – I’m just taking the skin, I said. Let me get the skin at least.

  The man actually spat on me.

  On the lapel of my jacket.

  I stopped tearing at the meat then threw it to the road.

  As the food went over its head the dog disengaged from Ishkabibble. It caught the morsel in the air then made a choking noise as it swallowed the bone then broke it under the teeth. And chewed. I watched the Peking-pug do that for a whole five minutes.

  Until Ishkabibble asked me, – Are you crying?

  There was a fight in the backyard, but I was in the basement so it had no effect on me. After four hours with the guests I felt I’d made the strongest impression I could. Strategically speaking, retreat was victory.

  In the basement, beside my bed, were the ten boxes of books I’d brought home. Each one smelled like vanilla because Grandma sprayed them with air freshener that morning.

  My mother was outside, saying, – Just come out and tell me what he s
aid.

  A woman answered. – You told him I was old!

  – I just told him you looked older than me!

  Any book would do. I wanted to read quietly for an hour. Growing up with lunacy means learning to allow the skirmishes. Other people don’t understand and think: look how badly your mother was acting. But one fight was nothing. You can’t imagine how much worse it used to be.

  My learning wasn’t remarkable. When I was enrolled at Cornell I read enough to pass, but couldn’t remember much of it now. Only after the expulsion did learning start to seem important.

  – I don’t want you coming onto my block now, I heard the woman tell my mother.

  – Well then get your husband to stop driving down mine!

  Through the basement windows I saw partygoer legs, but not bodies. The shins had gathered into a circle around Mom and the married woman. Maybe it was true that Mom had slept with the lady’s husband. Though she was on Haldol there were other explanations for that kind of behavior. After losing weight Mom became bitter. It must have been the fat times, decades of being treated like a burlap sack by men and women. Now that she was dazzling Mom used her beauty as a shiv.

  – Please, Mom! My sister yelled out there. Mrs. Hattamurdy, please!

  That’s when I should have gone upstairs, but I’d already chosen the collected stories of Algernon Blackwood. The book was in my hand. They were supernatural tales which, like Edgar Allan Poe’s, were ripping good until the last few pages.

  I might still have helped my sister. She was yelling my name. She was forced to be referee at her own mother’s cockfight. I stayed below. Soon, Grandma came with me.

  Down the basement stairs as I was reading Blackwood’s “The Man Who Was Milligan,” a dumb story that I still wanted to finish.

  – Your mother has trouble, Grandma said.

  – I don’t really want to go up.

  – No?

  I made room for her. – Sit down here, Grandma.

  – I will, she whispered.

  She was wearing yellow rubber gloves. – You’ve been doing the dishes? I asked.

  – Who else?

  – I would.

  The ceiling in the basement was lower than on the first floor. Eight feet instead of eleven. The room felt crowded amid Grandma, our cowardice, and I.