The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  “Lot of traffic today, huh?” False Teeth said. He kept taking glimpses at me in his rearview mirror. Waiting for an answer.

  “Uh, what?” I said. “Traffic? Yeah.”

  “Of course, from what I hear, we ain’t seen nothing yet.” He glanced at the road, then back in the rearview. “You want to see traffic? Wait’ll that casino opens up. This town’ll be bumper to bumper.”

  Ray shifted in his seat. Folded his arms across his chest and sighed. . . .

  Ma had gone upstairs to tuck Thomas in, to go to bed herself, and Ray and I had sat at the kitchen table, eating pizza pie.

  “She fell,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your mother. She tripped and fell on the stairs bringing laundry down. Landed the wrong way. You understand?”

  I looked at him. Waited.

  “What goes on in this house is nobody else’s business,” he said. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the top of the table. “You understand me?” he asked again.

  I nodded.

  “All right then,” he said. “Good. Things just got a little out of hand tonight, that’s all. Just forget about it. This kind of thing happens in every family.”

  Did it? I tried to picture the kids in my class being dragged, kicking and screaming, down the stairs. Ladling soup onto the kitchen floor.

  “And if those two ever play that game again—if you ever get wind of that again. Well . . .” He stood up. Went over to the sink. “But they’re not going to play it anymore. It’s not going to ever come up again. . . . But if it does, you come to me. Okay?”

  I asked Ray if I could go to bed, please.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. Sure, Ray. I’ll sacrifice them to you. Survival of the fittest.

  “Good,” he said, nodding his approval. He lit a cigarette. “Good. Because you and I are on a team, all right? We’re buddies, you and me. We stick together. Right?”

  I nodded. Looked at the hand he was offering. Shook it.

  And I climbed the stairs knowing, somehow, that in my two-man struggle, Thomas would always win: that Ma would always love him more than she loved me. That Ray would always hate him more than he hated me. Like it or not, we were two teams. Thomas and Ma versus Ray and me. Survival of the fittest. . . .

  And now, here we sat in the back of the undertaker’s limousine. The winning team—the victors in our good suits, riding away from the cemetery. No fingerprints. No autopsies. They were both in the ground now. Mrs. Calabash and Mrs. Floon. . . .

  Back at Hollyhock Avenue, people milled around the kitchen, the living room, talking in hushed voices. What was that—respect for the dead? Fear that normal speaking voices might wake him up again? Across the room, I watched Sheffer and Dr. Patel approach Ray—introduce themselves, engage him in a little polite conversation. They did most of the work; Ray just stood there, nodding at whatever they said. He couldn’t look at them. Far as I knew, he had never returned any of their phone calls. He’d never visited Thomas once down at Hatch; I knew that for a fact. In seven months, not once, because believe me, I checked the log book every goddamned time. So let him stand there and squirm a little. Let him feel guilty about it. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy.

  Jerry Martineau came over, handed me a manila envelope. “What’s this?” I said.

  “Look.”

  I had to smile when I opened it: an old picture of our high school basketball team. Martineau said he’d gone looking for it that morning—that he wanted me to have it. It was a candid shot taken in the middle of some game. Our senior year, I figured—my muttonchop sideburns era. The first string was out on the court, passing by in a blur, but for some reason, the photographer had focused on Martineau and me, warming the bench as usual.

  “Hey, how come Coach doesn’t have Havlicek and West in the game?” I said.

  Martineau laughed. Reminded me that we did get in the game sometimes: usually the last thirty seconds of every lopsided victory. “Look at what a beanpole I was back then,” he said. “I remember I used to come home from practice, eat two or three sandwiches, and then sit down and eat a big dinner. Snack all night. Those were the days, eh, Dominick? Other day, Karen buys me a pair of dress pants, size thirty-eight waist. Isn’t that sad? And to be honest with you, they’re a little snug. . . . But look.”

  I followed his finger to a spot near the top of the picture. “What?” I said.

  Then I saw him: my brother. He was seated in the middle of the Pep Squad section, his mouth wide open in mid-yell. My real brother, I thought. Unsick Thomas. . . .

  More tea, Mrs. Calabash?

  Yes, thank you, Mrs. Floon.

  A hand clamped onto my shoulder. “Hey, Dominick?” Leo whispered. “You think Pop’s got any hootch in the house? Some of these old geezers’d probably appreciate a drink.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.” I looked around for Ray, but he’d left the room. “There’s some glasses in that cabinet there,” I said. “Get those out. I’ll go see what he’s got.”

  Jesus, I hadn’t even thought about booze. But Leo was right. Most guys like a drink when they come back from a cemetery—a chaser to help them swallow down the sight of a casket over an open grave.

  Old Grand Dad, Canadian Club, Cutty Sark: I walked back to the living room cradling the bottles. Leo was wiping down the last of the glasses with his handkerchief. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I only blew my nose on this thing once today.”

  I just looked at him.

  “I’m kidding, Birdsey. It’s a joke.”

  Sam Jacobs and Mr. Anthony saw us setting things up and approached, magnetized by the booze. “Ice?” Leo asked me.

  Out in the kitchen, Angie, Vera Jacobs, and Mrs. Anthony were bustling around like June Taylor dancers. I had to smile. Men had booze; women had food to fix.

  “We’ve got everything under control, sweetheart,” Mrs. Anthony told me. “You just go out there and relax. We’ll be ready in five minutes.”

  She was wearing one of my mother’s aprons—that faded, flowered, snaps-at-the-shoulder smock thing you’d always see on Ma when you went over there. It was strange seeing Ma’s apron again.

  The room darkened. I saw Thomas hanging from that tree—the noose. Felt his dead weight fall as I cut him down, slung him over my shoulders.

  Angie stood there, in front of me, staring. “Uh . . . what’d you say?”

  “Serving spoons?” she repeated. “Do you have any idea where your mom would have kept her serving spoons?”

  I stood there, stupefied. Serving spoons?

  “They’re in the hutch.” Ray walked past me and yanked open a middle drawer—handed Angie a bouquet of big spoons.

  “I, uh . . . Ray? I put some liquor out.”

  He ignored me. Walked over by the windows and stood there—his back to the women and me. “Ray? You hear me? I put out a bottle of rye and some—”

  “Put out whatever you want,” he snapped.

  Fuck you, I thought. This is your victory party, too, you bastard. You were the team captain. Remember?

  “Dominick?” Angie said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sure.” I yanked opened the freezer, banged ice cubes into a bowl.

  Back in the living room, the men were standing around in a half-circle, kibbitzing. “Pension-wise, we probably should’ve stuck it out a couple more years,” Sam Jacobs was saying. “But it gets to you, you know? It’s like working at a goddamned ghost town down there. And once they close the Settle building, forget about it.”

  I tried to follow the conversation, but my mind kept floating away. You get cancer, it’s like a wakeup call. . . . Not too much cream, now, Dominick. One nice-sized squirt and that’s it. Save the rest for supper. . . . Nobody else’s business . . .

  “Of course, it’s a whole different operation down there now,” Sam said. “Everything’s premixed, prepackaged. If you can open up a foil bag, you’re a cook, for Christ’s sake.�
��

  Leo handed me a Scotch. “Drink this and shut up about it,” he said. Ray walked in from the kitchen. Walked over to us.

  “Hey, Pop, you limping a little there?” Leo asked him. “What’s the matter with your foot?”

  Nothing was the matter with it, Ray said. It was just lettin’ him know it was there, that was all. If Leo wanted to climb into the ring and go a few rounds, Ray would be glad to knock him on his ass, free of charge. Foot or no foot.

  “Macho Camacho,” Leo laughed. “What are you drinking, Pop?”

  “Nothin’,” Ray said. “Milk of magnesia.”

  “Down in Boca Raton?” Sam Jacobs was saying. “Where my son is? They ain’t even heard the word recession.”

  Leo reminded everyone that it wasn’t over in Three Rivers until the fat lady sang—that if all the predictions were true about the casino, the Wequonnocs were probably going to end up saving the scalps of every goddamned paleface that Electric Boat laid off.

  “That’s a bunch of bullshit!” Mr. Anthony chimed in. “They must be smoking something funny in their peace pipe down there if they think New Yorkers are gonna come all the way up here to the boondocks when they got Atlantic City.” He told us not to get him started on the Indians. “Any of you guys slaughter their ancestors?” he said. “I know I didn’t. Why the hell should you and me have to pay taxes if they’re getting a free ride?”

  Benign old Mr. Anthony: what was he so hot under the collar for?

  “Because for two or three centuries, we fucked over their ancestors,” I said.

  Everyone stopped, looked at me. No one gave me an argument, though. The dead guy’s poor twin brother. I probably could have gotten away with saying anything that day.

  Then Mrs. Anthony was at the kitchen door. “Okay, everybody! Come and eat! Dominick, honey? Ray? Why don’t you fellas start?”

  The others put down their drinks and drifted out to the kitchen. “You all right, Dominick?” Leo asked me.

  I shrugged.

  “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  “In a minute,” I said. “You go in.”

  I was thinking about Ralph: how he had and hadn’t shown up for Thomas’s funeral. How, back when we were on that work crew, he had climbed up into that tree—had stood on that branch that lurched out over the waterspill, rocking it, flirting with his sister’s fall. . . . He’d been getting fucked by white guys his whole life, and still, he’d stuck his neck out for my brother down there. Down at Hatch. He could have shut his mouth, looked the other way, ignored that memo. . . . Why shouldn’t he cash in, now, down at that casino? I hope Ralph ended up rolling in untaxed revenue.

  I drained my drink. Poured myself another one. Stood there, on the verge of tears.

  “Here,” Sheffer said. “Mangia.”

  She handed me a plate of food. Invited me to come and sit with Doc Patel and her, over on the stairs. So I followed her over there. The three of us sat and ate.

  “This is difficult, yes, Dominick?” Dr. Patel said.

  “I can handle it,” I said. “Thanks for coming. Both of you. I know you’re busy.”

  “Has it sunk in yet?” Sheffer asked me.

  I shrugged. Told her it had and it hadn’t. “Yesterday? I called up the monument place about getting the date put on his headstone? And the woman asked me if I could stop by next Tuesday afternoon to sign the paperwork—if that would work? And I go, ‘Yeah, that’ll work.’ And then I catch myself thinking about how close that place is to the hospital—about how maybe, while I’m down that way, I can swing by and visit him.”

  Dr. Patel smiled. “Grief is a gradual process,” she said. “Two steps forward, one step back.” The three of us sat there, nodding.

  With everyone feeding their faces, the house got quiet again. Too quiet. I looked across the room at Ray. He was sitting by himself, not eating, just waiting for everyone to get the hell out of there. There was a grayish cast to his face; man, he looked like shit.

  I figured folks would leave after they’d eaten, but they didn’t. Everyone sat around, stood around, hovering around the subject of Thomas’s death without actually landing there. Mr. and Mrs. Anthony told stories about my brother and me: the time I’d pogo-sticked into their prize rosebush and then tried to repair the broken stems with masking tape. The time they’d taken us for ice cream and Thomas’s scoop had fallen off the cone and right into Mrs. Anthony’s open purse.

  “Oh, and they always found some excuse to visit me on Saturday morning when I did my baking,” Mrs. Anthony said. “This guy here was Mr. Chocolate Chip and his brother was Mr. Oatmeal Raisin. That was the only way I could tell them apart.” She had us reversed, but who was counting?

  Mr. Anthony told the story of the day our TV exploded. In my own memory, Mr. Anthony’s efforts to rescue my mother as she burst from our burning house had been a day late and a dollar short. Ma had already saved herself by the time he yanked her coat off, threw it on the ground, and started doing the Mexican hat dance on top of it. But in Mr. Anthony’s version, my mother was a flaming shish kebab and he was Indiana Jones. To hear Mr. Anthony tell it, he had saved the day. “Now, you were away that weekend as I recall, weren’t you, Ray?” he said.

  Everyone turned and faced my stepfather. My teammate. He nodded. “Bad picture tube was what it was,” he said. “At first they said they couldn’t do anything about it, but I raised holy hell. Got it replaced free of charge—upgraded to a cabinet model, too. Got the house cleaned and painted on top of it.”

  Jesus Christ, I thought. The three of us could have died in that fire, but all Ray remembered was the new picture tube. How he’d been the hero.

  I couldn’t take any more of this bullshit. This rewritten history. I got up, went out to the kitchen to check on coffee that didn’t need checking. Went outside to breathe. I stood on the back porch for a while, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. I saw Thomas, standing next to me out at the Falls that day—the afternoon I’d sprung him out of Hatch. The Lord is your savior, Dominick. Trust me. I enflesh the word of God. . . .

  Upstairs where?

  In the spare room. Playing their stupid game. They always play it there.

  I would carry him my whole life after that night—shoulder the weight of him because of the way I’d betrayed him. Because of what I had and hadn’t done. But what now? Where did I go from here?

  Leo poked his head out the door. “Hey, asshole?” he said. “You want company?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Another drink?”

  “Nope.”

  He nodded. “Angie just tried calling her sister. No answer.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Seconds passed; neither of us spoke. “All right, man,” he finally said. “You come back in when you’re ready.”

  “Yup.”

  I walked up the cement stairs to the backyard—the place where my grandfather had finally retreated that summer. He’d wheeled his rented Dictaphone onto the porch for pickup, fired the stenographer. Abandoned his bullshit “guide for Italian youth” and gotten, at long last, down to business. Began, in earnest, the penance that priest had given him all those years before. . . . He’d started that thing when Ma was still a little girl. Finished it the day he died. Had made it a real buzzer-beater. . . . How old was Ma by then? That summer he wrote his confessione? Thirty-three, maybe? Thirty-four? She was a spinster in her father’s eyes. A “cracked jug” who had failed to give him grandsons. All those secrets they kept. He’d had no idea she was carrying my brother and me. . . . He’d cried out here as he wrote that thing, Ma had told me. She’d wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but she knew better than to disturb him out here in his “little bit of Sicily.” Knew better than to fuck with omertà. . . .

  I thought about Angelo Nardi, the stenographer that Papa had hired that summer. Had hired, and then fired, and then tried unsuccessfully to hire back again. Angelo Nardi, who might or might not be our long-lost father. Who else had bee
n coming over here on a regular basis? “Dashing,” she had called him. He used to sit out in the kitchen with her. She’d make him coffee. . . . What had Angelo, the recent immigrant, made of my Papa’s strange conflicting need to both speak and hold his tongue? What had he thought of Papa’s timid, housebound daughter? Had he figured she’d be an easy lay along the way to something better—someone so naive that he could get in and out again before she’d even figured out what was going on? Or that, maybe, she deserved a little tenderness—a little something in her life other than service to Papa? Had it been an act of mercy? . . . In the shower that morning, getting ready for Thomas’s funeral, I’d made Angelo a merciful man. A kind man, not a creep. And I’d stood there, hot water sluicing over me, fantasizing about Angelo’s long-awaited return. . . . Saw him showing up at the cemetery later that morning—the father I had always waited for. I saw a dignified man, conservative suit and tie, snowy white hair. “I had to come, Dominick. I regret that I’ve missed your brother’s life, but I could not miss any more of yours. Forgive me, Dominick. I’m here for you now.” And I did—stood in that shower and forgave him immediately, on the spot. . . .

  Up there in my grandfather’s backyard, I let the tears come in earnest. Stood there and cried the way Papa had gone out there when he needed to cry. . . . When I was a kid, I had waited for the Rifleman, Sky King . . . a whole parade of “real” fathers to rescue me from Ray. And there I was—forty-one years old, an untwinned twin, now—and still looking for him. My old man. My perfect mystery dad.

  How pathetic was that, Dr. Patel? What hope was there for this guy?

  I saw Domenico out there, a younger man, clutching the dead son he had baptized with dishwater and olive oil. Saw my mother’s infant brother—her dead soul mate, her twin. . . . Dead babies, dead brothers. Dead marriages. What sense did any of it make?

  By the time I got back inside, Martineau had already left and Sheffer and Dr. Patel were putting on their coats. Doc Patel took me aside for a second. “See you Tuesday?” she whispered.