by Homes, A. M.
She cuts me off.
“I am not afraid of Democrats, Mr. Silver,” Julie says. “I know you have a deep affection for my father that goes beyond politics. We’re hoping something can be done with this body of work, and we’re interested in having you begin to give it a shape.” She goes on to say that she’d like my thoughts about whether or not there might be a book or two in the boxes and that she’ll arrange for further access, and reminds me to bring some identification next time, and then laughs.…
“Clearly Wanda delivered a full report,” I say, embarrassed.
“It’s all right,” she says. “My mother always did things like that—left the house without her purse. And we’d get these calls about a woman down at Garfinkel’s in Tenley insisting she was Mrs. Richard Nixon and trying to use the ‘house charge.’ She didn’t go out all that often on her own—usually Trish or I went with her.”
We wrap up with Julie proposing a fee of seven thousand five hundred dollars to start and a contract that provides for either the termination or continuation dependent on a review in eight weeks.
“Sounds good,” I say.
“We’ll speak soon,” she says, hanging up.
As soon as we’re off, the phone rings again.
“I hope you realize that I don’t give up easily,” a woman says.
I say nothing.
Is it Julie calling again or is it her? I wait for another clue.
“Are you there?” she asks. “Are you ready for me? I am ready for you…ready and waiting.”
“We are supposed to be working on building a friendship.”
“I don’t want to be friends,” she says. “I want you to pound my pussy, I want to come hard, fast, and frequently. I want you to do me and then do me again.”
“Do you do this with other fellas as well or am I the lucky one?”
“I cut back, you’re it. You and my husband.”
“And what does he think about all this?”
“He wants me to pretend I’m a hooker and negotiate with him for my services. He likes to pay me after the deed in front of the kids, who have no idea what he thinks is so funny. So when am I seeing you? Seriously, how about I come to your place this afternoon?”
“Not possible.”
“I thought you lived alone?”
“I have animals,” I say.
“Like what, a jealous monkey?”
“It’s not my house, I’m just a guest here; complicated story.”
“What about a motel?”
“How about we meet at a diner, like for lunch or coffee.”
“I want your cock in my hole.”
“Look, if you keep talking to me like that we’re not going to be able to continue.…”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Am I?”
“I met you on an Internet site. If you don’t do what I want, I could claim you raped me; I still have the underwear I wore the day you came over—no pun intended.”
“What do you mean?”
“I save my underwear from every encounter, just in case…”
“In case you feel the need to extort?”
“How about you do me on the phone—I’ll talk you through it.”
She somehow forces me to engage in phone sex with her, and even though I don’t want to be excited by it, I am slowly drawn in.
“I keep thinking I’m supposed to be helping you—not enabling you,” I say as I unzip my pants.
“I’m already so wet,” she says. “My hand is way up my pussy and I’m dripping—all I need is your cum gun to nail it. I want you to bang me. I want to feel your balls slapping my ass. I want you to do it to me doggy-style. Pinch my titty, pinch it hard.” And then she starts whooping—that’s the only word I can think of for it—kind of a charging, galloping sound like a rodeo cowboy, and I can tell she’s not faking. It’s kind of grotesque and kind of inescapably hot. As she’s coming I get more and more excited, and then it’s like I can’t stop myself—I’m sitting in George’s desk chair and just before I erupt I turn away from the desk, spinning in the swivel chair, and explode, shooting onto his bookcase, his volumes of American history and the silver-framed family photos. I immediately grab a tissue and try and clean up. “I have to go,” I say. “I’ve made quite the mess over here.”
She laughs. “I knew you’d crack.”
I’ve been had.
Moments later, when Nate calls, I feel as though I’ve been caught with my pants down. I pick up the phone on George’s desk, clear my throat, and bleat hello.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” I bleat, clearing again.
Nate is filled with energy and thoughts going about a hundred miles a minute—by comparison, I feel stoned.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“At your father’s desk, I was doing a little work.”
“We can video-chat,” he says, excited. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. There’s a camera right there on Dad’s computer, it’s all set up. You just push the blue button at the bottom of the dock—it looks like a word bubble. Wait,” he says, “I’ll call you.” And seconds later, the computer makes a ringing sound. “Click ‘accept,’” he says, and without thinking I do.
Nate is there, waving at me. “I can see you,” he says.
“And I can see you too,” I say into the phone.
“We can hang up the phones,” he says. And I do.
“Can you hear me?”
I can. A video camera mounted in the computer—it’s terrifying. What if someone has been watching me? “What do you call this?”
“Facetime, iChat, or Skype,” he says. “It just depends on the program—the end result is pretty much the same thing.”
“Skype,” he says, and all I can think of is Ella Fitzgerald singing skat.
“What can you see?” I ask Nate, wondering how fine the resolution is.
“I see Dad’s whole office, his bookcases, his prizes. Everything that’s behind you. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before—we could have been talking face to face this whole time.…”
“Yes, we could have been talking like this all along,” I say, all the while obsessing about my earlier encounter, wondering if there’s any evidence left behind on the bookshelf—some missed bit of something.…
Video chat is like talking NASA-style; there’s an ever-so-slight delay to the sound and images that reminds me of pictures sent from outer space, pixelated, like some weird postmodern animation.
“Helloooo out there,” I call out.
“You don’t have to yell,” Nate says. “I’m in the library; a normal voice is sufficient.”
“Okay, then,” I whisper.
“Where are we going over break?” Nate wants to know.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a school break coming up, and I’m wondering where we’re going.”
“Do you always go somewhere?”
“Yes,” he says in an almost patronizing tone.
“Does Ashley’s school have break at the same time?”
“Yep.”
“It seems excessive to take a trip for no reason,” I say.
“Sometimes people need a break, a little time off.”
“Where do you usually go?”
“Skiing in Aspen, sometimes the Caribbean, or on an educational exploration, like to visit a turtle habitat in the Galapagos.”
“And what about the summer, what happens then?”
“Camp, summer school, travel, some time at the Vineyard. Mom has it all figured out. I’m sure there’s already a plan for this year.”
“Good to know. So, about this upcoming holiday vacation, is there a plan? Something you’ve got in mind?”
“Not really. If you can’t think of anything, we can always go to Disney World.”
“How does a kid who has his own town in South Africa want to go to Disney World?”
Nate is silent for a moment. “I’m human,” he final
ly offers. “You think the kids in Nateville don’t know Mickey Mouse? They wear Mickey Mouse T-shirts. All those clothes that we stuff in charity bins in the parking lot of the mall are sold—not given—to poor people in foreign countries.”
“I had no idea.”
“No one does, but that’s why whenever you see a documentary about impoverished parts of the world the kids are all wearing U.S. character or slogan T-shirts. Meanwhile, what about the boy, the orphan—can we take him with us?”
“It’s certainly something to think about,” I say, stalling. I’ve never traveled with children, much less two children, much less two children and an orphan.
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“How could you not know? Didn’t you go see him in the hospital?”
“I stopped in and dropped off some gifts,” I say, wondering if I did at one point know his name and have since forgotten. I agree with Nate, it seems odd. “I’ll find out his name,” I say. “While I have you on the phone—do you want an update on your father?”
“No,” says Nate.
“Okay,” I say. I’m not going to force it on him, but I don’t exactly like being the only one sitting with information.
“So—can we plan a conference call with Ash to talk about the trip?” Nate asks.
“Of course. Should we Skype with Ash?” I ask, more softly.
“Can’t,” Nate says. “Her school doesn’t allow video chat—they’re worried about predators and stuff.”
“Okay, then, we’ll set up a regular call for later this week.”
A few nights later, with both kids on the phone, I begin by saying, “The purpose of this call is to come up with a plan for the holidays.”
“Something fun,” Nate says.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Roller-coaster rides,” Nate says.
“Room service,” Ashley says. And then she adds, “Nowhere too hot, or too cold, and not entirely indoors.”
I don’t know how, but we decide on Williamsburg—credit goes to Nate, who Googled his way through the conference call like a travel agent, sifting wants, needs, demands.
“It’s historic, it has room service, and it’s near Busch Gardens Amusement Park and a water park called Great Wolf Lodge. If we wanted to, we could stay at Great Wolf in a room that’s, like, got bunk beds and a built-in log cabin. There’s also a go-cart track nearby.”
I look up the place he’s talking about and am reminded that he’s a child. What we’re talking about looks like a bacterial nightmare, a summer camp run amok, a child’s fantasy—water slides and French fries. I feel the chlorine singeing my sinuses as I’m picturing sheets made of 100 percent polyester, chairs with vinyl-wrapped cushions. I think of my weekend visit with George, and by comparison even that looks better than this. I say nothing—some cards are best held tight.
“Shall we take a vote?” Nate asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“All in favor of Williamsburg and the surrounding area?”
“Yay,” we all say.
And so it is decided—and as soon as it is decided, Nate starts gunning for me to take the orphan.
As we’re about to hang up, the boy’s name comes back to me—it’s really the memory of George and some crappy comment he made about the boy’s mother crying out his name—“Ricky,” I say. “His name is either Ricky or Ricardo.”
“And what do they call him?” Ash asks.
“Ricky or Ricardo,” Nate says.
“Nice,” Ashley says. “Let’s invite him.”
I agree to call, even though I fear injecting our family further into the lives of these people who we’ve already harmed so profoundly. And then I think of Nate and Ashley and their youthful belief in the possibility of repair, and so it is with that that I push myself to make the call.
“Is Christina Menendez there?” I say her name slowly—because in my head I’ve inexplicably started calling her Carmen Miranda and am convinced I’m going to actually say it to her face.
“She no home,” the man says.
I am about to ask if I can leave my name, but he hangs up.
I try again in the evening. “Is Carmen there?” I ask.
“Wrong number.”
“I’m trying to reach Carmen. It’s about the boy?”
“You got it wrong, her name is not Carmen, it’s Christina. She’s not back yet.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, not even realizing that I in fact said it. “When will she be home?”
I’m noticing things in the kitchen, photos of the kids that have been on the fridge for years, things that have been stuck there and now are almost shellacked on with age and coatings of orange juice, milk, splashed spaghetti sauce.
“Can I give her a message?”
“I’d really like to speak with her,” I say, picking at the edge of an old sticker for the newspaper delivery guy. It’s deeply stuck on; my picking makes it worse—it really needs to be scraped with a razor blade.
“Hold on.”
“Hello,” a woman says suspiciously.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m…”
“I know who you are.”
“No,” I say, “I’m the brother, the uncle of the children.”
She says nothing.
I speak, I spill my guts, I say all the things that are so difficult to say. “The children of the man who killed your family feel bad, they are very worried about the boy, they want to help him.…” It’s awkward, I really don’t know what to say. “I’m taking the children to Williamsburg and they’d like to invite the boy.”
“What’s that?”
“Williamsburg? It’s a place in Virginia, an old town, a former plantation. It was the state capital after a fire in Yorktown; I guess it’s where the American Revolution gathered momentum. It’s a place you go when you’re studying American history.” And then I jump to “There are amusement parks nearby. The kids thought the boy might like it—and you too, of course.”
“I work,” she says.
“If you can take time off, we could cover your lost salary,” I say. “We’re going for a couple of days, a long weekend.”
“He is a big pain,” she says without affect, so it’s hard to know what she’s getting at.
“Still in pain from the accident?”
“No,” she says, “he is a big pain, he has learning disability, ADD, DDD, BPI spectrum, et cetera. I have to give him medication.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, the kids would like to get to know him better, and as I said, you’re invited as well.”
She seems unmoved, or like she doesn’t understand what I’m saying.
“I will talk to my husband,” she says.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
A little too proud of myself, I call Jane’s father. “I took your suggestion,” I say.
“You couldn’t have,” he says.
“I did,” I say.
“Trust me,” he says.
“I’m taking the kids away—we’re going to historic Williamsburg.”
“I get it,” he says, pauses, and then comes back: “My suggestion is that you goddamned rot in hell, you and your piece-of-shit brother. You took my beautiful daughter, God knows what you’re doing to those children.”
I collect my thoughts. “You’re right,” I offer. “What happened was unforgivable, and I wanted you to know I heard what you said; I’m trying to do my best for these children.”
“Shmuck,” he says—and then there’s a pause. “So why are you calling?”
“You suggested I take the children somewhere; I wanted you to know we’re going to Williamsburg.”
“And you’re expecting me to pay for that? You think Williamsburg is like Israel? Not a penny, asshole, not a penny.”
“I wasn’t asking for money—I just wanted you to know. We’ll send a postcard,” I say, hanging up.
The next time we talk, I tell Nate that I called the boy’s aunt.
<
br /> “What’s today?” Nate asks.
“In what sense?”
“The date?”
I give him today’s date.
“I know,” he says. “Mom’s birthday.”
“Right,” I say, not having realized.
“Are we supposed to do something—have a cake with an unlit candle, something symbolic?”
“You could do that,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, “I could ask the kitchen for a birthday cake for my dead mother, with an unlit candle.…”
“I’ll go to the cemetery,” I say.
“And do what?”
“Check on things, talk to her.…” The more I say the worse it seems—I picture myself standing at her grave singing “Happy Birthday.”
Silence…
“So what did the boy’s family say?” Nate asks.
“They’re thinking about it,” I say.
“I hope he comes with us.”
“How come?”
“This whole thing has been so bad,” Nate says, “we have to make something go right, and this is something we can do.”
“I hope so too,” I say, surprising myself.
I go to the cemetery and drive in circles—it all looks the same, a few scattered cars, gravediggers, and a funeral in progress. This one allows no markers aboveground, so there’s something apocalyptically flat about it. There’s not a stray baby tree springing up, a lone elm taking root.
I can’t remember where Jane’s grave is and have to check in at the office. “Please sign our Visitor Book,” the woman at the desk urges, but I don’t.
I would have brought flowers, but the cemetery doesn’t allow them: no live flowers also means no dead flowers that have to be collected and thrown away.
I get the directions, and as soon as I’m out of the car and up the small rise of land I see her—Jane’s mother, Sylvia. I see her and am tempted to leave, to turn and go back to the car, to respect her privacy, to avoid a confrontation. But, really, there is nowhere to go, nothing I can do except go forward.