by Homes, A. M.
She puts the box down on the table, opens it, and extracts the pearl earrings, the bracelet, and the necklace with the ruby.
“She wondered if that one was lost.”
“Your father sold it to me,” she says. “Can you imagine, he sold me his wife’s jewelry. He wanted to keep it in the family.”
Lillian gives me what my mother was looking for and more. “Some of it your mother gave me, some she wanted me to hold for safekeeping, but I don’t want it, I don’t want it on my conscience, I want nothing to do with any of it, I never did.”
She grabs my head with both hands, pulls me down to her level, and gives me a wet kiss. “You’re still a little retard,” she says, pushing me towards the door.
When I speak to Nate a few days later he asks, “Are you coming for our Winter Field Day?”
“Am I?” I’m just beginning to feel back to normal, or not really normal, but whatever it is that’s filled in for normal for the last month or so. I can’t say I feel like myself at all; in fact, I can’t actually remember what I ever felt like, and what “myself” might mean.
“My parents always came for Field Day,” Nate says.
“When is it?”
“This weekend. It starts Saturday morning and ends after church on Sunday.”
“Do Jews go to church?”
“It’s nondenominational,” he says.
“Church means that it’s Christian.”
“I like it,” he says.
“Do I bring the dog?” I ask.
“No, someone stays with the dog.”
“Does Ashley come?”
“Didn’t they leave you a manual or any kind of instructions?”
“None,” I say. “I’m flying blind. I’ll figure it out—just need to know the parameters. Anything you need me to bring you—something you want from home?”
“Like what?”
“A favorite sweater, your copy of Catcher in the Rye?”
“No,” he says, as though the question is stressful. “I’ve got what I need.”
A weekend in the country sounds good—permission to get the hell out of here. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m totally trapped in George’s world, worried that if I leave for a moment, whatever is left will all fall down.
While Nate and I are talking, I’m Googling the school; it’s far more prestigious than I was imagining. Among the alumni are several of Nixon’s former Cabinet and staff members.
“Do you know anyone at the school named Shultz?”
“As in Peanuts Schulz?”
“No,” I say. “What about Blount? Or Dent?”
“Who are they?”
“Historical footnotes.”
“Not ringing any bells,” Nate says.
“No worries. I’ll see you on Saturday,” I say, signing off.
The school’s Web site has a list of local accommodations; I start calling, but all the hotels and B&Bs are booked. By the time I speak to the woman at the Wind Song, I’m imagining sleeping in the car. It’s fine, I’ll bring some pillows, the arctic sleeping bag, extra blankets, some Ambien, and find a safe place right on campus.
“Is there anything you can do to help me?” I beg. “I can’t let this kid down, I’m all he’s got, his mother died, his father is under lock and key—do you have any ideas?”
“My daughter’s room,” the woman says. “We don’t usually rent it, but there’s a twin bed, I can let you have it—a hundred and fifty a night, breakfast included, shared bathroom.”
“Perfect,” I say.
“Actually,” she says, pausing—and in the background I hear voices—“I was wrong, it’s a hundred and eighty a night. Like I said, we don’t usually rent it, but my husband is reminding me that last time we did, it was one eighty. There’s a new mattress.”
“Can I give you my credit card?” I say, fearing another uptick in the price if I don’t act fast.
Determined to do a good job playing the parental substitute, I borrow a tie, shoes, and a sport coat from George’s closet and depart promptly at 6 a.m. on Saturday. It takes two hours and twenty minutes to crawl to the edge of Massachusetts. At the gates of the academy, parents in their Mercedes wagons and weekend toy sports cars are directed to the main building, where coffee and Danish are being served. Young men with names like Scooter and Biff greet their parents, gruffly hugging their corduroy fathers and politely pecking the boiled-wool mothers. They all have the same heart-shaped faces, deeply American, impenetrable. There are four Asians, three blacks, and that’s it for diversity.
The school is laid out like an olde English village and makes the college where I teach look like an urban vocational school buried in one of the five boroughs that at best would teach men and women how to change oil and fix TV sets. The main building is a mansion, grand, imposing, with enormous oil portraits of the school’s founding fathers hung high, large flower arrangements on ancient wooden cabinets. Everything is dark—there’s a lot of deep, dark wood paneling, secret passageways, old leather sofas and chairs. On long tables dressed in starched white tablecloths they’ve laid out quite a spread. Nate finds me in the coffee line; I’m grateful to spot a familiar face.
“The Danish are really good, you should have one,” I say, unsure of the protocol regarding my hugging him or not—I assume not.
“I already did,” he says. “They bake them every weekend. There’s a pastry chef on staff.”
“How did you end up at this school?” I whisper.
“You mean, what’s a loser like me doing in a place like this?” He pauses. “I test really well, and Dad used to be ‘someone.’ The Chairman of the Board of the network is a very active alum.”
“You have friends here?”
“Yes,” he says. “I’m happy here, happier here than at home.”
“And Ash is at a place like this too?” I ask, chewing through a cinnamon bun.
“Hers is different. The girls live in small houses, not dorms. It’s a bit less competitive, more homey.”
“Your mom did a great job finding the right places for you guys.” I slip a bagel with cream cheese, wrapped in a cloth napkin, into the pocket of my sport coat. My hand bumps into something. “Tessie sent this,” I say, pulling a well-chewed rawhide from my pocket and handing it to Nate. He smiles. As we walk out of the building, Nate points out the library: “We have approximately one-point-five million volumes and an active interlibrary loan system.”
“Better than most small colleges and where I teach,” I say.
“Wait until you see the pool,” Nate says.
Outside the field house, a man dressed like a court jester hands out parchment scrolls tied with a ribbon, like something they would have passed out in Rome long ago.
“It’s the program for today’s events,” Nate says. “It begins with the dedication—used to be the firing of the first arrow, now it’s the Headmaster’s cannon. He’s from Scotland.”
Moments later, there’s a droning of bagpipes, and a pair of pipers slowly crosses the hill opposite us, followed by the Headmaster, marching in his plaid kilt, pumping his scepter up and down, keeping time. “He’s naked under there,” Nate whispers, “that’s the tradition. And he’s hung like a horse and makes sure everyone knows it.” From the grassy knoll, the cannon is fired, and reflexively I duck. “Let the games begin,” the Headmaster declares.
“Do you have a sport?” it suddenly occurs to me to ask.
“Sure,” Nate says, “ice hockey, lacrosse, tennis, I’m on the inter-school fencing team, and swimming—we’ll do both of those today. I also do hurdles and the pommel horse. And I signed us up for father/son rock climbing.”
“I didn’t even know you liked sports,” I say. I really only ever saw the kid playing video games.
In the field house, the coaches remind us that “these games are intended as demonstrations of our programs rather than competitive events. Within the school we work to build teams so our boys can bond.” The coaches spew catchphrases s
uch as “environment of success” and “a prize for every player, medals for all who participate.” But, despite the coaches’ talk, everyone is clearly keeping track of who wins and loses.
“Which one is yours?” one of the parents asks me, nodding towards the cluster of boys.
“I’m with Nate,” I say.
And I feel the theoretically imperceptible recoil. “Of course,” he says, and nothing more; they all know what happened.
I look at Nate—tall, tousled. The other boys are a range of shapes and sizes and pimple patterns. Nate is among the better-looking, attractive in a way that the others are not. In sport he is neither the best nor the worst; what is clear is that he is the one they all want on their team. He’s a reliable performer, steady, true, with no need to sacrifice the team for personal gratification. I feel an unfamiliar sensation of pride, a rising in the chest, a pleasant reflux as I watch Nate butterfly-stroke across the pool. I cringe, during the fencing exhibition, when the other boy lunges forward, “stabbing” Nate, and the “assault” is called to an end.
At lunch, various boys and their mothers stop by our table. “If you ever need a place to go during the holidays, you can always come ski with us,” one mom says. Another squeezes his shoulder and asks, “Are you holding up?”
“I’m doing well,” Nate says.
“Of course you are,” she says.
I’m eating my second piece of cake, simply because it is there, because there were four kinds of cake to choose from and two seemed reasonable. I am eating cake when Nate fills me in about the father/son rock climbing.
“It’s right after lunch,” he says, clearly looking forward to it.
“It’s a tradition,” I say sarcastically as I’m pushing my plate away. Too late, one whole piece of cheesecake is gone and half of the chocolate layer.
“Yes,” Nate says. “It’s on a man-made indoor wall three stories tall. The fathers aren’t expected to go all the way up, but some will—even if it kills them, some will always exceed expectations.”
“I’m not that man,” I say bluntly. “How about I stand at the bottom and watch you.”
“Can’t,” Nate says. “It’s a hundred percent participation.”
“I recently had a minor stroke and am supposed to avoid overexertion,” I say.
Nate looks at me, worried, suddenly fragile.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just have to be a little careful.”
“You’re pretty much just managing your own weight,” he says. “Would that be okay? There’s a harness and a lock, so you can’t really fall.”
“I never was much of an athlete,” I say.
“Trust me, these guys aren’t either—they’re blowhards.”
It’s turning into a standoff—my dread of sports, of having to show off or, worse, failing to show off, in front of all these children and their parents, is making me cranky. “Dad would never do it either,” Nate says, annoyed.
“Why not?” I ask; I’m surprised.
“No real reason. Every year I signed up for it, it always happened that he didn’t have to do it—a call he had to take, a pulled this, sprained that.”
“I’ll do it,” I say, finding inspiration in the fact that George never would.
The climbing teacher fits each of us with a harness. We’re given a lesson on how the ropes work. He makes it sound simple, effortless—I’m sweating. The other men look no more or less capable; a last-minute addition is a chunky guy wearing dark sunglasses and dressed like he’s left the house in his black long underwear—or someone else’s long underwear, because it’s way too tight. He’s wearing nothing beneath it—his cock and balls are pancaked, all too explicitly. I can’t help but stare, and then wonder, is this kind of full-on peacock display standard around here?
By the time I get four feet off the ground, I’m praying that Nate, who’s holding my line, is stronger than he looks, and that when I plummet, he doesn’t go flying through the air like some seesaw gone wrong. I’m both defying gravity and entirely aware of gravity’s pull.
“Use your feet,” Nate says, coaching from below.
I feel around for the lumps of faux rock to use for leverage; they’re like doorstops. Pushing off, I rise a few feet and then grab at the holds just above my head.
“Push,” he says, “push yourself up, don’t pull. It’s easier.”
For sixty-five thousand dollars a year in tuition, according to the school’s Web site, I’m glad he’s learning something about physics.
I push up and belch; acrid coffee and cake fill my mouth. I swallow, get my footing, and push again. There are other men above and below me; the air is filled with a gamy scent of men under pressure. I go higher, determined, really fucking determined.
While I’m on the wall, the Headmaster comes around, working the crowd on the ground, shaking hands. I’m two stories up and hoping that Nate doesn’t get distracted by his “boss” in a skirt. I shift my weight and look down below; suddenly my testicles are trapped under the harness, which has slipped. It’s excruciating, and now I’m almost dancing, trying to address the situation.
“What are you doing?” Nate screams.
I hug the wall, use both hands, and adjust accordingly.
I notice some men have special climbing shoes on—I’ve got George’s fucking slip-ons. One falls off, bouncing against the wall, tumbling to the floor.
“I can throw it back up to you,” Nate says.
“Never mind,” I say, pushing higher, my sock foot slipping.
“Is this Dad’s shoe?” Nate shouts up to me.
“Yes,” I call down.
“Weird.”
I turn and focus on the wall. Fuck, yes, I tell myself as I fight my way to the top.
And guess what’s there? A goddamned GOLDEN EGG. I’m not joking: there’s a golden egg, a porcelain fucking piggy bank at the top. The problem is—how do you bring it down? How do you carry something fragile when you need both hands and feet? I stuff it down my pants. Hung like a horse, fucking the golden egg, I rappel down. Nate is at the bottom with tears in his eyes, and I’ve got no option other than to unzip my pants, extract the egg, and give it to him—a kind of offering. He’s hugging me and crying. I taste victory and sweat and think this is amazing. For one shining moment I am HIGH!
Twenty minutes later, my head is throbbing. I’m walking like a broken cowboy and I have a distinct absence of sensation in three fingers. When I sit on the toilet I can barely get up. I ask Nate if he’s got any Tylenol, and he says I should go see the school nurse.
“Forget it,” I grouch, and we head back into the main building for afternoon sherry and cheese cubes.
I drink too much—honestly, drinking any sherry constitutes drinking too much. The headache is getting worse.
“Have a Coke,” Nate suggests, and he’s right.
I have two Cokes and a half-pound of cheese, and show off my medal to anyone who will listen to the story of my stroke and miraculous recovery.
“What now?” I ask as the cocktail hour winds down.
“We go to dinner at the Ravaged Fowl,” Nate says, as though it’s obvious. “You made the reservation?”
I look blank.
“We always go there, but you have to have a reservation.” The way he says it, there is no way out, it’s definitive.
“Not a problem,” I say. “All taken care of.”
From the stall of the men’s bathroom I call the Ravaged Fowl; there’s a embarrassing echo.
“Sold out,” the woman says. “Fully booked. No tables until Monday.”
I don’t tell Nate—some things are best addressed in person—but as we’re heading there, my already fragile constitution is taking on a kind of anticipatory stress, wondering what is going to happen.
We arrive, I play dumb, I give the hostess our name. “Let me check,” the girl says. I get nervous. “We have a reservation. Every year we come here. How many years now?” I turn to Nate.
“Four,” the boy s
ays, looking at his shoes.
“For the last four years we’ve been coming here, this same day every year. I always make the reservation.” I become indignant. The girl doesn’t care. She is busy answering the phone; I talk right over her: “I thought we could rely on you.” She holds her finger up, as if putting me on hold—my voice is getting louder. My mood turns.
“Your face looks like Dad’s,” Nate says.
“Always, or just right now?”
“Right now,” he says.
“I’m in a lousy mood.”
“Do you want to leave me here? You can go deal with your headache, I’ll join another table.”
“That’s not an option,” I say. “Can’t I be in a bad mood for a minute? It’s a lot for me.” I can’t begin to explain how or why, but the opulence, the success, the beauty of this bright and shining day is getting me down. It has all been so wonderful that it’s made me sick—I can’t tell Nate and his buddies that the threat, the creeping encroachment of their youthful, excellent promising future, is for me a giant fucking depressant.
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he says, and I feel him retreat, vacate, leaving an empty shell.
The hostess hangs up the phone and walks away. I am tempted to chase after her—you can’t walk away from me, you can’t leave me standing there, having made a fool of myself in front of the kid.
My anger is intense. Without speaking, I am tearing her apart, surprised at the ugly clarity of my thoughts. She is singularly unattractive—grotesque. All too proud of what some would call a good figure, she’s wearing an emerald-green dress that’s too tight with a scoop neck and her boobies spilling out. She looks less like a hostess than a hooker, or a homely drag queen. Her lips are thick and wide, smeared with cheap frosted pink goo. Her pores are large and black, each like an individual cesspool, each blackhead a black hole. There’s a thing or two I have half a mind to say: Don’t tell me you can’t manage a reservation that I made months ago; what’s the point of my making a reservation if you can’t keep track of it? And then I remember that I never made a reservation, and I imagine turning over her little bowl of crème mints, tipping her toothpicks, telling her to shove her creamed spinach up her cunt, and then whisking the kid off to some lousy diner twenty-five miles from here.