They were moving away, out of Skyler’s earshot.
IN THOSE YEARS PEAR UND FEESE EMERGED AS A RAMPIKE HOUSEHOLD theme at irregular intervals. Skyler understood that it had to do with Daddy spending “quality time” with him, and not (for instance) with Skyler’s baby sister, or with Mummy. (Mummy said, “You don’t want Skyler to grow up ‘gay,’ you know a boy needs a ‘male model’ to emulate,” and Daddy said, with a grim Daddy-chuckle, “No way any kid of mine is growing up ‘gay.’ That’s like an obscenity for you to utter, darling.”) (Did Skyler really overhear such exchanges? Often!) In the family room in the sprawling white Colonial on Ravens Crest Drive Daddy had installed not one but two gigantic “state-of-theart” TV screens so that, when crucial sports events occurred simultaneously, Daddy could watch both at the same time, wielding remote controls in both hands. Sometimes a few of Daddy’s close buddies joined him to watch “the Stags wash out the Bruins”—“the Pythons crush the Elks”—“the Stingrays destroy the Condors”—“Crampas clobbers McSween”—and all these occasions, which roused Bix, Jim, Dan, Wade, Russ and Rich* to a pitch of noisy enthusiasm, and made them very thirsty, and very hungry, Skyler was pressed by Daddy to attend. “Skyler! Say hi to my friends,” was Daddy’s genial command, “and run tell your Mummy we’d like some curb service here.” (Daddy was just joking! Of course.) Hurriedly Mummy came in Cuban-heeled slippers, a cashmere sweater the hue of crushed strawberries, designer jeans and Mummy’s hair perfumy-bouffant-bouncy, and Mummy was blushing with pleasure, Mummy knew herself much-admired by Daddy’s buddies, and consequently by Daddy himself, bringing the men ice-cold beers, imported ales, overflowing bowls of pretzels, potato chips and Daddy’s favorite salsa dip, and Daddy’s favorite cashews; and, after a few minutes’ banter, flirtatious, just slightly risqué, Mummy tripped back to another part of the house, and Bix and his friends returned avidly to the giant TV screens where, in football season, mega-men, humanoid figures in bizarrely padded costumes and helmets shiny as the glistening shells of beetles plummeted at one another mercilessly, tirelessly, in pursuit of an object that, at a distance, resembled a giant peanut. “Jesus! Fucking Jesus you see that?”—the men’s reiterated cries erupted around Skyler leaving him dazed, disoriented. He knew better than to yawn for (as Mummy often observed, fondly) Daddy had “piranha eyes on the sides of his head” and Skyler did not wish to be scolded by Daddy in front of Daddy’s friends but Skyler could not prevent tears of boredom from sliding down his cheeks.
(In the kitchen, Mummy was laughing. Why was Mummy laughing? And was this sad Mummy-laughter, or happy Mummy-laughter? And was Edna Louise with Mummy? Skyler wanted to be with Mummy and Edna Louise where Skyler was the little man and the center of both Mummy’s and Edna Louise’s attention.)
(Skyler was not jealous of Edna Louise for Edna Louise was not happy at the Montessori school, described by the director as “weepy” and “listless”; while Skyler, in first grade at Fair Hills Day, was one of the top students in his class and already reading “at least at third grade level.”)
Stupefyingly dull as TV sports were, halftimes and breaks were more hellish for it was then that Daddy tried to spark “sports-talk” between Skyler and the men, each of whom was equipped with at least one husky strapping athlete-son named Mikey, or Dickie, or Kevin, or Charles and the question pitched to Skyler was which sport was his sport and Skyler had no sport, especially Skyler disliked rough rowdy running-and-yelling sports (football, soccer) where the sole object was jeering triumph: WE WIN, YOU LOSE. Yet Skyler was expected to reply, had not better shrug, or mumble, Daddy had a fierce dislike of mumblers for “only losers mumble,” or was it “only assholes,” Skyler had sensed that frisson of pride when Bix Rampike had introduced Skyler to his friends This is my son. This is my DNA and did not want to disappoint Daddy and so said, vaguely, haphazardly, having seen a few minutes of TV Olympics gymnasts, astonishingly agile young athletes from China, Russia, Ukraine: “Gymnastics.” The men regarded Skyler with inscrutable expressions and Bix, wielding both remote controls, cursed to himself for what reason Skyler did not know.
The game was over! One of the games, at least.
Must’ve been halftime. The men were talking. Like Bix Rampike these were affable, breezy, good-humored men who laughed often, and loudly. There was a kind of contest among them: who could make the others laugh most. Or the contest was: who laughed the most. Yet there was Daddy saying, “God, I miss the team. My Cornell teammates, I miss. I miss being young. Y’know, that young. Double-practice days, in the heat. I mean serious heat. Then, in the season, like a locomotive it goes so fast, we’d play in the mud, starts to snow we’d play in the snow, get knocked around, in the head and in the gut and stay up all night drinking, and screwing, and get smashed, and fucked-out, and next day by early afternoon you’re ready to go again, Jesus that’s a life.” Daddy sighed, roughly wiping his mouth on the edge of his hand. “That’s a life that is gone from us now.”
Daddy’s buddies were still smiling but looks of doubt and uncertainty had come into their faces. One of the men, Rich, or maybe Russ, made a snorting sound to signal mild derision, good common sense: “Sure, shit, but there’s compensation, isn’t there? You can’t be twenty all your life.”
Another said cheerfully: “There’s—well, getting married. Having kids.”
A long silence.
“There’s making money.”
The men laughed, loudly. There was a merry clicking of beer/ale bottles against teeth.
But Daddy persisted, in a pensive mood: “Those things are what you get for losing the other. Future generations of Homo sapens will engineer themselves not to age. ‘Genetic engineering.’ Way I see it, the bottom line is Homo sapens will be extinct in a century, the old species I mean, like we are not our puny ancestors, y’know?—we are taller, and smarter, and live longer if maybe not long enough. ‘Humankind is something that must be overcome.’”
“CLIMB IN, SKYLER. I TOLD YOU, WE’RE RUNNING LATE.”
Daddy was in a hurry. Daddy did not like to be delayed. Impatiently Daddy jammed the key into the ignition of his new Jeep Crusher XL as Skyler struggled to crawl up into the cab that rode as high from the ground as Skyler was tall. Daddy took no notice of Skyler panting and puffing nor did he check, as Mummy always did, to see if Skyler had buckled himself into the seat-harness.
With one hand Daddy steered the new steel-blue vehicle along serpentine Ravens Crest Drive at twice the speed limit—no burly guy in a carpenter’s cap was likely to tailgate Daddy and honk at him to speed up, you betcha!—while with the other Daddy fussed with the dashboard’s vents, air temperature control, tape deck. Daddy was wearing a (faded) Cornell sweatshirt and rumpled khaki trousers and size thirteen Nike running shoes and Daddy’s hair had been recently trimmed and stood straight from his head like dense grass. His profile looked like something hacked out of a coarse kind of rock (soapstone?) but his expression was intended to be upbeat, optimistic. (One of Daddy’s more recent favorite sayings was If you’re not an optimist you’re dead meat.) The previous week had been a time of more than usual confusion in the household since Daddy had been away for several nights in succession and Mummy had not seemed to know where Daddy was, or when Daddy would be home. At the Great Road, Daddy swore under his breath having to swerve around a crew of dispirited-looking Hispanic laborers waiting in the rain (it seemed to be raining here) to be picked up by a foreman. Daddy said, “That’s something no white man need ever do, if he’s educated.”
Shyly Skyler asked where were they going but Daddy took no notice for Daddy was waiting for a light to change and eyeing a fellow in a Road Warrior on the other side of the intersection, whose red-blinking turn light signaled left-turn. Softly Daddy murmured, “Don’t even think of it, chum.” In the very instant the light turned from red to green, Daddy floored the gas pedal and the Jeep Crusher XL charged forward and through the intersection and Daddy had only to chuckle deep in his throat at the other driver’s expre
ssion. The Jeep’s sudden acceleration had caused Skyler to become tangled in the safety harness but Skyler was able to extricate himself without drawing Daddy’s attention. In his brooding/visionary voice Daddy was saying, “Way I see it, son: your generation of Americans, born in the late 1980s, is about to burst out of the starting gates. You may be just a kid—what are you, seven?—six?—but already at six, in other parts of the world, the new generation is being primed for combat. The bottom line is, civilization is ‘worlds in collision.’ Civilization is ‘survival of the fittest.’ The United States is the sole remaining superpower now the Commies have been crushed which means that every lesser power has got us in their gun sights, to overcome. Here’s the deal, Skyler: your grandmother Rampike put plenty of pressure on your Mummy and me, to name you after my father Winston Rampike but guess what?—though your Mummy gave in, I demeered. I said, ‘Momma, I loved Dad but my son is my son to name and the name I have chosen for my firstborn son is ‘Skyler.’ ‘Sky-ler Ram-pike.’ That is a beautiful name. When they gave me you to hold, Skyler, in the hospital, Jesus! Still get tears in my eyes at the memory. ‘Skyler’ is to rise above the merely commonplace, son. ‘Sky’s the limit!’—that is your secret destiny. Mummy believes so, too. Mummy has the identical hopes for you that I do. Which is why we went that extra mile, son, to get you into Fair Hills Day School, to set you apart from those children who attend public schools. But Mummy has told me that the headmaster at your school has told her ‘Skyler is going to need special instruction in physical fitness’—so the athletics director has reported to him. Sure, you’re only in first grade, but like I said ‘survival of the fittest’ starts young. Most animal life doesn’t survive the first few days; hell, the first few minutes.” Daddy laughed exuberantly, as if this was amusing, or served most animal life right. “See, to get you into the H.P.I. track at the school—”
Skyler said: “‘H.I.P.,’ Daddy.” What Daddy had been saying was difficult to follow and what he could follow was upsetting to him but this Skyler knew: “H.I.P.” (Though he hadn’t any idea what the initials might mean.)
“‘H.I.P.,’ ‘H.P.I.’—whatever. The bottom line is, it’s the fast track at that expensive God-damn school and we’re not going to fuck up our kid’s chances for the rest of his life because he needs ‘special instruction’ in athletics. Now, team sports were my thing. Little League I was playing when I could barely hold up the bat. And playing pretty God-damn good, too. Sure, these days I play golf, tennis, squash, but when I was a kid and through college it was running with the guys, mixing it up with the guys, nothing like it. Happiest time of a man’s life, he’ll tell you if he’s being honest. On the football field, with your buddies, you know life for what it is and the rest is bullshit. Gymnastics is a whole other thing. Gymnastics is for another kind of athlete and another kind of body. I have to admit, Skyler, I was kind of—well, hurt—when—”
Gymnastics? Was this the surprise? Was Daddy taking him to—gymnastics? A gym? Skyler felt the safety harness strap tight against his throat like a gripping hand.
“—but put aside personal feelings, that’s what a father learns to do. The deal is, we have to start you really young, to keep up with the competition. In the Free World which is where we live, we don’t wallow in state-supported athletic programs. Individuals have to pay. This is over and above property taxes. ‘No free lunch in the universe’—know who said that, Skyler?—Einstein. Also, ‘God does not play dice with the universe.’ The father of the A-bomb. Einstein was a Jew and you don’t fuck with Jews, Skyler. My father used to say, ‘I may be a bit of a Jew,’ with a wink, meaning he had the Jewish brain for making money and I like to think that I’ve inherited some of that and have passed a little of it on to you, too, Skyler. Why I transferred from Rensselaer Polytech to Cornell and switched from chemical engineering to business administration, and sure have never regretted the switch. You’re an engineer, you do what people tell you, for hire; you’re an executive, you do the telling and the hiring and you don’t need to break your head over God-damn fucking ‘higher math.’ Spring of my senior year there were pro football teams recruiting me and there were top companies wanting to hire me and the point is, Skyler, to get anywhere, start young, and stay the course. Who d’you think will be the Olympic gold medalists of your generation, Skyler, but those who—”
As Daddy turned the Jeep Crusher XL onto Cross Tree Road, the car phone rang, and Daddy cursed under his breath and fumbled to answer it, “Rampike here,” as Skyler stared numbly at him. Skyler had been able to follow only snatches of all that Daddy had seemed to be confiding in him but understood that something crucial was imminent, and that he must not disappoint Daddy again.
On the phone Daddy was speaking in a lowered voice. Murmuring, “No. Can’t. Tomorrow. Right!” Daddy listened briefly, grunted something monosyllabic, and hung up.
“Son, did I ever tell you how I played fullback in high school? And how we’d play these redneck bastards from country high schools who were really built, I mean built—and no fucking steroids in those days?” Daddy shook his head in grudging admiration. “They kicked my ass plenty, but I learned from them. I learned that a boy does not take the easy course, as a man must not take the easy course. I learned that a boy’s teammates are his closest brothers, he can depend upon. My best friend was Spit Hotchkiss—fearless player, and smart. But the redneck bastards ganged up on him. Our first game away, senior year, Spit was tackled, fell hard, half the opponents’ team jumped on him, his neck is broke and his ‘upper vertebrae’ and Spit is carried off the field on a stretcher and—” A muffled sob escaped from Daddy’s throat as skillfully he negotiated the Jeep Crusher XL into traffic on Cross Tree Road. “—the point of this is, Skyler, on this crucial morning in both our lives, my buddy Spit was confined to a wheelchair ever after that night, and the rest of that season, at our games, Spit’s teammates would carry Spit out onto the field before a game, and our North Hills cheerleaders had a special ‘Spit cheer’ the crowd went crazy for. Skyler, son, I am warning you: any point in your life, ask yourself the way your life is going, who the hell’s gonna carry you out on the field in your wheelchair and cheer you?”
And suddenly, they’d arrived at the Gold Medal Gym & Health Club.
IN SKYLER’S QUAVERING MEMORY THE STUCCO BUILDING DOMINATING AN entire corner of the Cross Tree Shopping Center was enormous, surrounded by a sea of gleaming vehicles. On the windowless facade were “mosaics” of gigantic humanoid athletes intent upon arduous physical activities: diving! swimming! running! tennis! weight lifting! pole-vaulting! Happily Daddy said, “Here we are, kid! ‘First day of Skyler’s new life.’” Daddy took no notice of how Skyler was struggling to disentangle himself from the damned safety harness, how Skyler managed to climb/fall down from the high cab of the Jeep and in the process discovering that something seemed to be stuck to the sole of one of his sneakers—a wad of gum, and a dried, stiff tissue smeared with something like ketchup, or blood. “Scrape that shit off your foot, Skyler,” Daddy said irritably, as if what was stuck on Skyler’s shoe was Skyler’s doing, “before we go inside.” Skyler stared at what appeared to be a small, soggy, deflated rubber balloon stuck to his sneaker sole: what was a small, soggy, deflated rubber balloon doing on the floor of Daddy’s shiny new Jeep Crusher XL?* And the stained tissue. Quickly Daddy herded Skyler into the Gold Medal Gym & Health Club complaining that they were late for their appointment, Mummy had slowed them down. Yet Daddy appeared to be in good spirits as if just stepping into the special atmosphere of the Gold Medal was cheering to him. In the (faded) Cornell sweatshirt and rumpled khaki pants Bix Rampike moved like an affable upright bear, scenting prey.
A young woman receptionist in a cherry-red jumpsuit with outsized brass zippers, frizzed streaked-blond hair and three-inch polished nails, greeted this father/son duo warmly. Took Daddy’s name and made a quick call to “Vassily” in another part of the building. Saying to Daddy, her eyelashes lowered, “Know who you remind m
e of, Mr. Rampike? Arnold Schwarzenegger.” Daddy shifted his shoulders in a gesture of boyish modesty though the resemblance had been pointed out to Bix Rampike in the past. “Wish it was so, Chérie.” (For there was CHÉRIE in gold satin script on the receptionist’s cherry-red left breast.) Seeing that it was Mr. Rampike’s first visit to the gym, Chérie volunteered to take him and his son to their destination: “Wouldn’t want you to get lost, would we?” Only vaguely Skyler took note of Daddy and the receptionist striding ahead as, like a puppy fearful of being left behind, Skyler had to trot to keep up with the adults who seemed to have forgotten him. How quick Daddy was to “make friends”! Anywhere they went, especially when Mummy wasn’t with them, Daddy struck up conversations with complete strangers. Especially women.
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