The Ask

by Sam Lipsyte

  "I wonder why," I said.

  "These things are chemical," said Claudia. "We all have different temperaments."

  "So you think the nurture bit was top quality? Even the sociopathic cokehead dad part? And your perpetual war on flatware?"

  Claudia smiled.

  "Who knows what helps and what hurts, honey. Francine! Let me do something! Purdy, would you and your friend like to stay for dinner?"

  "Love to," said Purdy. "But we've got to get back to the city. Melinda really appreciates me being around these days."

  "Of course. It's so wonderful. A baby."

  "Mom, you hate children."

  "You know that's not true, Milo."

  "Just mine."

  "Don't be silly."

  Claudia rose, joined Francine in the kitchen.

  I leaned forward on my elbows toward Purdy.

  "What the hell are you doing here?"

  Purdy glanced over at the glass door that led out to the patio, the yard.

  "Tetherball? Lordy. May we?"

  We walked out to the rusted pole. A shrunken ball, just a hunk of desiccated leather, dangled from the cord. Years ago, during a rare moment of domestic tranquillity, Jolly Roger had dug the dirt and sunk the pole and poured the cement. We'd played a few spirited games after the cement dried, to "test the apparatus," then never again. Later, in my teens, I liked to stand out there alone, punch the ball, watch it whip and switch directions, duck as the thing looped back around, asteroidal, screaming.

  All the creatures of planet Milo, extincted.

  Purdy unwound the ball, slapped it into the air. The pole creaked. The ball sliced through the patio lights.

  "What a crappy setup," he said.

  "It's not so bad."

  I whacked the hunk back. Purdy caught it.

  "You know what?" he said.

  "What?"

  "I always regretted not convincing you to work for me back in the day. It really was the best thing you could have done. We both knew the art stuff wasn't going to happen."

  "We did?"

  "You didn't?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Right, I guess you didn't. Or you wouldn't have kept trying."

  Purdy tossed the ball up, smashed it into orbit.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" I said.

  "How could I? Besides, what did I know? I'm not in charge of everybody's destiny."

  "You're not?" I said.

  Purdy stared until he seemed to understand.

  "No," he said. "I'm not."

  "Oh."

  "Don't be so down, buddy. I'm sorry about this job of yours. I know they pulled the rug out on you today. We all just thought it was best to uncomplicate things. To disentangle. But I'll make it up to you somehow."

  "I'm sure you will."

  "There's that negative tone again. You know, Milo, it was always pretty hard to be your friend. You have a lot to offer but you're so afraid to give up your best. It's like at the supermarket, when they put the old milk at the front of the shelf, so people will buy it. That's you."

  "What's me? The milk? I'm the milk? Or am I the supermarket? Or am I buying the milk?"

  "I'll get back to you on that."

  "Get back to me on this: Why did you come here tonight?"

  "I came by to say hello. To make sure we were cool."

  "Cool?"

  "That's right, Milo. Are we cool?"

  "Sure, we're cool. I mean, you are definitely cool."

  "Good."

  "What could be cooler than all the stuff you've done? To your wife. To your girlfriend. To your son. That's cool shit. I could be cool, too. I could learn."

  "See," said Purdy, caught the ball, cradled it. "You're confusing things. You think you're talking to me, but you're not. Because you have no right to talk to me that way. And because you're talking to somebody else."

  "To somebody else? Whom would that be?"

  "Fuck if I know," said Purdy.

  "No, really," I said. "Tell me. I'm so curious."

  "Are you?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Probably you are talking to yourself, Milo. You are probably talking to yourself. Or the deadbeat junkie that bought this ridiculously sad tetherball set for you."

  I lunged, snatched Purdy by the collar, yanked him into my chest, wrapped the cord around his neck.

  "Jesus!" he gasped.

  "Sonofabitch," I said.

  "Milo, cut this shit out right…"

  I tugged hard on the rope. Purdy clawed at his neck. "Where are the bodies?"

  "Bodies?" gurgled Purdy.

  "Where are the bodies, you motherfucking murderer!" I said.

  "You're… insane," said Purdy. "Bodies? No bodies."

  "I know," I said. "It's just fun to say. I'm making my own fun. I just really feel like choking you right now. Is that cool? Are we cool?"

  "Stop… this shit. Can't breathe. Help!"

  I heard the patio door swing open, a swish in the grass.

  "Help!" said Purdy, choked, drooled.

  I pulled Purdy to the ground, cinched the cord tight. Something heavy stabbed my head. A pointy hammer, I thought, right before thought stopped.

  I woke a moment later in the wet grass, saw a blur of boots and black trousers, a flicker of metal, gone. Michael Florida stood over me.

  "Man." Purdy coughed. "This is ridiculous. What the hell? You can't do that. Who does that? My fucking neck. My fucking trachea. What the… I mean, that's… what, were you going to kill me?"

  Purdy coughed again, stood.

  "Probably not," I said.

  "Ridiculous. Unbelievable."

  "I think it was a joke," I said. "I can't think."

  "Get up," said Michael Florida, pulled me to my feet.

  The patio door swung open again.

  "What's going on?" said Claudia.

  "Nothing," said Purdy, unspooled himself from the cord, coughed once more, hocked phlegm into the hedges. "Every-thing's fine."

  "We heard these noises."

  "Ladies," said Purdy, "it's been a beautiful evening. Let's do it again real soon."

  Francine and Claudia nodded, frozen. Some sound, almost a growl, started up Claudia's throat, fell back.

  "Milo," said Purdy. "Walk us to our car?"

  Part of me considered resisting this little frog march across the street, but I was still dizzy and Michael Florida's grip on my arm was strong. He shoved me in the back of the sedan. He and Purdy slid in front. The door locks clicked. Purdy stared straight ahead. I rubbed the throb from my skull.

  "Well," said Purdy. "We tried. You can't say we didn't try. But I really don't think we can be buddies anymore. It's so hard to keep up the old friendships, isn't it? People change. Priorities change. It's sad, but it's also natural, I guess. Let's remember the good times. The parties, the high blood-toxicity levels, the laughs. We had a lot of laughs. But those days are over, I think. Those days are definitely done. Let's just leave it back on Staley Street, shall we? Let's just never write or speak to each other ever again. That would be wonderful. Let me not ever see your face again and I will die, well, not a happy man, but maybe vaguely content on the subject of Milo Burke and how he tried to strangle me-with a fucking tetherball rope, mind you-because he happens to be a sick freak living in a pathetic hallucination of a life, though you wouldn't know that right away because he comes off as fairly normal at first so you might even befriend him, or re-befriend him, as the case may be, and then go so far as to trust him with some sensitive information until you realize, almost too late, that he is completely out of his fucking tree. Yes, I foresee vague contentment on my deathbed if we stick to this plan. Does that sound okay by you?"

  "Sure," I said.

  "I can't hear you, you piece of psychotic shit."

  "Yes," I said.

  "Good. Now, I know you're getting some severance from the university. But I also know how tough things are out there, and you with a kid, who nobody can blame for having a father like you. So,
here's our severance to add to your other severance. Mix all that severance together. It's like a jambalaya of fucking severance. It's tasty and you can stuff your fat treacherous face with it. Michael?"

  Michael Florida slid an envelope between the bucket seats. Everything with Purdy had been these envelopes, these seats. It could really put you off envelopes.

  "That, along with the other cash I've given you, it should hold you for a while, no?"

  "Sure," I said.

  "Sure, he says."

  "This should be sufficient," I said, everything still blurred from the blow. I felt the tender bloom of the wound under my hand.

  "Sufficient," said Purdy. "You're a fucking loser, Milo, and it's got nothing to do with the fact that you didn't win. Do you understand that?"

  "Maybe," I said.

  "All I ever did was give love, Milo. To everybody, I gave love. Even my old man, and that bastard…"

  Purdy pinched his eyes shut, punched the glove box, lightly.

  "I didn't wreck her car," he said. "I didn't put her in a coma. The doctors recommended she be moved. The state place was better suited. That was their phrase, better suited. It was their suggestion. I was still going to pay. I loved her. I still love her. I can't help it. And I am really tired of trying to help it when I truly cannot help it. You can all go to hell. None of you feel. You are feeling's assassins. Get out of my car."

  The door locks clicked again.

  "Wait," said Purdy. "Give it to him."

  Michael Florida swiveled back. There was another glint in his hand.

  "Jane heard you at the party," said Purdy.

  "Pardon?"

  Something dropped in my lap.

  "And one more thing," said Purdy. "I never texted any drink order. That mojito? It was a mistake. They just made a mistake."

  "What?" I said.

  "Exit the fucking vehicle."

  I got out of the car, watched it tear down Eisenhower, turn onto the county road.

  I held my father's knife up to the moonless sky.

  Thirty

  Don called late in September. I was living in the kiddie-diddler's basement, his boiler room. It was the only place near Bernie I could afford. Maura and I still spoke, but we'd stopped going to the marriage counselor. Maura quit when the counselor suggested she take a break from having sex with Paul. There was talk of finding another counselor, one more amenable to Maura having sex with Paul, of inviting Paul to a session, even, but nothing happened. We were still, I believed, the loves of each other's life. But that life was maybe over now.

  The kiddie-diddler was a kind and extremely unstable man named Harold. He had, as I suspected, once been in radio, voiced some very famous advertising campaigns. I no longer wondered why whenever he spoke I thought of a certain laundry detergent or strawberry-flavored milk.

  Harold's brother Tommy slipped me extra cash to make sure Harold didn't wander the streets at night. Harold had dozens of stories he told over and over again, in the way of a man who has traveled the world, or never been anywhere at all. I listened to him talk less for the delight of his adventures than his timbre, his pitchman's pitch.

  The shopping bag stuffed with shopping bags was never far from reach, but when I asked him its meaning or purpose he told me I didn't have the proper clearance. He let me look at his notebooks, but I couldn't read his nanoscopic script. The drawings, far more maniacal than I'd imagined, depicted little girls in snowpants. These bundled moppets rode a magic toboggan through arctic skies. I figured my boy would be safe.

  Every day I picked up Bernie at my old apartment, walked him to school. Happy Salamander had reopened. They'd booted Carl from the board. The creamery, apparently, was his new site of revolutionary practice. Maddie had been sketchy about the whole kerfuffle when she called Maura to offer Bernie a spot. We made a joint decision, as separated but equally engaged parents, to give very inexpensive experimental preschool pedagogy another go. Soon enough he'd be fresh meat for the wolf packs at the local kindergarten.

  I took Bernie in the afternoons, unless Nick needed me for a job. When Nick heard about the governor's daughter's possible interest in his project, or at least in him as a lesson in cultural failure, he offered me work in gratitude. We did okay. For some reason the deck bubble had not yet burst, and Nick and I had evolved into a crackerjack team. I hauled the tools and the wood and undertook a good deal of the construction. Nick snacked on sausage subs and honed his broadcast vision. My body, it ached all the time. The pain thrilled at first. Maybe it felt authentic. Soon it was just pain.

  I began to send out resumes. Late capitalism was a corpse, but you could still get lucky, couldn't you? Besides, I was so unaccomplished, I could fit in anywhere. I'd never pose a threat to colleagues. That would be my angle.

  Most evenings I stayed in my basement room, reading or watching television or painting. I had no illusions now. I did not expect to jet down to Miami or over to Venice after the nearly haphazard but ultimately inevitable discovery of my genius. I just wanted to see what I could do with my cache of filched Mediocre paint. My current canvas was called Raskovian/Replacable. I planned to give it to Harold for his birthday, thought he might get a kick out of the giraffe bukkake. One night as I touched up the rusted toboggan in the veldt grass, my phone rang.

  "Hey," said a voice.

  "Jesus, Don."

  "No, just Don."

  "Where are you?" I said.

  "I'm here, bro. Home. Bangburn Balls. What a goddamn awesome feeling."

  "It's good to hear from you," I said. "I've been wondering how you're doing."

  "I have been to the mountain, my friend."

  "The mountain?"

  "Just screwing with you. I was in Texas. Visited Vasquez."

  "Vasquez?"

  "Yeah, you got a problem with that?"

  "No. I just thought… you said Vasquez was dead."

  "She is dead. I went to her grave. And to see her folks."

  "That was good of you."

  "It wasn't anything," said Don. "But I'm glad I went. You know, I'm calling because… well, I wanted to apologize."

  "For what?"

  "For whatever. I know I was a rat bastard. I don't have specifics."

  "I understand."

  "I still think you're a leech and a shithead."

  "Thanks."

  "But my sponsor says I have to make these calls."

  "I get it," I said. "Good. You're taking care of yourself."

  "I'm back with Sasha now. I'm living in her place in town."

  "I'm glad to hear that."

  "I'm in therapy. For the stress. I have money now."

  "You signed the papers."

  "They're just fucking papers."

  "Right."

  "I wasn't going to get love from that prick. Might as well take the money."

  "I agree."

  "I used to think if I took the money, he won. But now I see it's the opposite. If I don't take the money, he wins. And my anger wins. I'm talking about my anger a lot. I have a lot of anger."

  "I'm sure that's true. You've earned it."

  "Doesn't matter if I did. I can't keep it. It'll just kill me if keep it. I have to man up to my inner child. Do I sound like a fag? I bet both Nathalie and Purdy would laugh at me. But fuck them. Fuck you, too. And I mean that most sincerely. That's where I am now. You can all take the bad shit back and rot. I'm moving on."

  "This is good, Don," I said.

  "I don't need your goddamn approval, Milo."

  "You called me," I said. "I know-your sponsor made you."

  "Actually, I lied about that. I'm doing something a little different than making amends right now. What I'm doing tonight is getting high and calling up people to tell them what spineless twats they are."

  Don chuckled, a tiny trace of Purdy's trace. We both hung wordless for a moment.

  "You hear from Purdy?" I said.

  "I signed some papers."

  "No, I mean-"

  "And I mea
n I signed some papers."

  "Okay, I understand, Don. I should apologize to you, I guess. I'm sorry."

  "Whatever."

  "So, what's next? You guys going to stay up there?"

  "Hell, no," said Don. "I'm trying to convince Sasha to vacate this hole with me. Like I said, I got some money. I want to travel. I want to go to Europe. Nathalie always talked about going to Europe. Maybe her dumbass son can."

  "Of course he can."

  "Yeah, I'll just tidy up some shit around here, and go."

  "Why don't you just go now?"

  "Not till I'm squared away."

  "Okay, just so you go. It's too easy not to go."

  "Don't talk to me about easy," said Don.

  "Fair enough," I said.

  My eyes fell on my father's knife. Bernie had found it in my desk last week, tried to cut his shoelaces with it. I snatched it away before he could hurt himself, but I could see its curve and heft had seduced him. He asked about its history, wondered if I would pass it down to him when he got old enough.

  "Of course," I had told him. "That's a promise."

  But it was not a promise. I knew I had to get the knife out of my family for good. Something very important depended upon it. But I also couldn't bring myself to throw it in the trash.

  I could wrap it up in butcher's paper, walk to the post office, and stand in line. Or on line.

  "Just give me your address, Don."

  "My address?"

  "I want to send you a gift."

  "Why would I be stupid enough to give you my address?" said Don, but then he did.

  "Thanks."

  "It better be a good gift," said Don, and for a moment he sounded much younger, almost as young as Bernie.

  "I promise," I said. "It will be a good gift."

  "All right, then. I guess I can cross you off my hit list."

  "Goodbye, Don," I said, but he'd already hung up.

  I never did mail the knife. The parcel sat on the table for months. Sometimes I'd notice it, think of Don. I felt guilt for not posting it. Then I figured I was saving him from some kind of curse. Then I remembered I did not believe in curses. I believed in symbols and the wondrous ways they could wound.

  After some books got piled on the parcel I did not notice it at all.

  Mostly, if I ever thought of Don, I just hoped he was happy. Maybe he was in Europe with Sasha. Maybe he was dead in Bangburn Balls, but still, maybe he was in Europe with Sasha. Sometimes I'd picture them in the leafy, medieval quarter of some city, strolling through a park, sitting with a coffee, a beer, tired from walking all morning, tired in that contented way when you are moving through a land of alien pain, a land that expects nothing but your money in return for the privilege of strolling and drinking coffee and beer and being forever unaccountable for this city's particular and ancient agony.