“Hey Brianna,” he said in a loud voice.”
“Oh my word, it’s Claude Amognes,” she said. “Well, Claude, how are you?”
“Oh, you know, doing all right.”
“Well I’m so glad you have the courage to come to events like this. A lot of people don’t, you know.”
Claude twisted his face a bit. “Well, I’m still an employee.”
“Of course you are. And I think it’s terrific you’ve decided to come.”
Claude slid a five dollar bill across the bar as he ordered another beer. “Hey, Brianna, you guys do the guest list for this shindig, right?”
“We do.”
“Are Frank Dombrowski and Scotty Williams coming?”
Brianna snorted. “I have no idea. Hey, nice to see you. Have fun.”
She left. With a full beer, Claude walked slowly toward the main hall and thought of what to say to get himself into a conversation with Jane, or John, or Felicia, or Brad. It didn’t matter. When he returned to the table in the far corner of the room, the other couples had moved. Rather than search them out. Claude sat, with his back largely to the party, and nursed his drink. When the entertainment began, he turned to watch, but kept his gaze on the stage. Dinner arrived. He ate quickly. Now the big screwdriver and the three beers really kicked in, both in his head and his bladder, so Claude rose and walked without running to the bathroom. This time he had no difficulty going, with nobody watching, and was well satisfied when he picked his beer from the sink and headed back to the lobby.
At the door to the main hall, though, Claude paused. The empty table seemed a lot farther away than it did a minute ago. When he left, he didn’t have to face anyone, but if he returned there’d be no avoiding it. He’d see every smirk and chortle. Moreover, once he sat down again, he’d be stuck there, through dessert, through the speeches and awards. To sit and then leave would be worse than not going back at all. From the edge of the doorway, he scanned the entire room for someone to plop down next to, but Dan Thompson was about the only candidate and his table was already full. He found the stores table, which had two empty seats, but it was smack in front of the stage. As he debated whether to go or not, he saw Gino spot him in the doorway. Gino nudged Elton, and all heads at the table whipped around toward Claude. Felicia covered her mouth as she laughed. Brad leaned back and adjusted his belt, a big grin across his face. Claude stepped out of the doorway, back into the lobby, tilted his beer, and sucked it down. No one else was in the lobby, bartenders included. Claude set the empty bottle on the bar, scooped up two dollar bills someone had left as a tip, and collected his coat from the check girl, handing her the two dollars with a gracious smile.
Outside it was cold.
Chapter 46
Christmas came and went, and New Year’s too, without Joan. To Claude’s chagrin, Jamie spent most of winter break with Joan and Connie. She had a date with Peter Greeley New Year’s Eve, and came home early enough to squeeze in a game of cribbage with Claude before she ironed, showered, and dressed, but that was the longest single stretch he’d seen her since Christmas. Jamie told Claude she’d be spending New Year’s Eve at Connie’s, which annoyed Claude, who figured she’d told Joan she’d be sleeping at home so she could spend the night with Peter. That’s what he’d have done. But he said nothing.
I guess this is hard for her, he told himself. She’s a good kid. I bet she is sleeping at Connie’s after all.
On New Year’s Eve, Jamie left at 7. Claude drank alone, watched whatever bad comedy he could find on television, and passed out in his recliner at 11:30. The next day, he ate canned spaghetti and watched college football. His one resolution: to drink his vodka with cheap kool-aid instead of expensive orange juice.
After a wet December with frequent snows and melts, a cold snap came in with the new year and stung the area for three weeks, but the cold didn’t bother Claude as much as the January darkness. The sun gave people energy. It spurred them to bundle up, shovel the walk, scrape the car, do things. Darkness sapped them. It lulled them into doing little, sitting lots, and watching television. Claude longed for the return of the sun, and cursed 4:00 in the afternoon, when sunny day slipped into freezing, windy night. On the other hand, he didn’t fight the night. He did little, sat lots, and watched television.
The day he looked forward to was the 24th of January, a Thursday Jamie promised to spend with him. She’d finish her last final exam by 4:30—in a fanciful attempt to appear academic, West adopted the prep school calendar of semesters ending in January—and said she needed a night to veg, to sit and play cards and just relax. But Claude noticed she didn’t say it with her usual smile. Instead, she moaned it. Even so, Claude was so happy to spend an evening with his daughter that he tidied up the family room and for the whole day left the vodka out of his vodka and kool-aid. He vacuumed. He chipped the ice from the base of the ladder and put the aluminum thirty-footer back in the garage. He pulled back the cover of the boat to make sure no snow had snuck inside and no ice had formed on the floor or seats. When he returned to the family room, he cleared everything off the card table except the cribbage board and the cards. The phone rang, but Claude didn’t answer it, figuring it was a telemarketer. He almost picked it up when he heard it was a woman asking for Jamie, but since didn’t recognize the voice or the name, he let it be. As the sun started to dip toward the trees, Claude clicked off the television and put a compact disc into the stereo. Although he started with his own music, he went up to Jamie’s room to grab two of her favorite CDs, so when she sat down to play cribbage she’d see them on the table and would know he was thinking of her.
When he heard Jamie come through the front door, Claude rushed to the living room to escort her to the card table. She muttered that she’d like to remove her coat, so Claude held the collar as she slipped out of it. While Jamie continued to the couch, Claude hung the coat on the doorknob of the hall closet.
“Are you all right, Princess? You look tired.”
“I am. I studied until one last night. Plus I’m crampy. Plus I bombed my last final.”
“Well, I bet a night with Claude Amognes will be just the tonic to put the dander back in your diapers.”
Jamie forced a smile, and sat up. She set her elbows on her thighs and hunched over to rest her chin on the base of her palms.
“Maybe it will,” she said. “Let me get some caffeine in me, and then we’ll play.”
“Stay where you are,” Claude said. “I’ll get you a soda. Diet or regular?”
“Regular.”
“Some Chinese lady called you today. I didn’t catch what she wanted, but it’s there on the machine.”
Claude went to the fridge and grabbed two cans of soda. When he returned, Jamie was standing, holding a pad and pencil while the end of the message played. After it beeped off, Jamie wheeled around and thrust both her thumbs near her father’s face.
“Wow, thirty seconds ago you were dragging around like a lizard through the morning frost,” Claude said. “Now you look like you’re gonna do cartwheels out the front door.”
“I know,” Jamie said. “It was Evelyn Tagaki. She wants to talk to me about a job that will be part-time now and full-time once I graduate.”
“Who’s Evelyn Tagaki?”
“My boss at the Dixwell Center. And she’s Japanese-American, not Chinese-American.”
Claude shrugged. “You ready to play?”
“Just let me call her first.”
Jamie went to the kitchen. Claude sat at the card table and cracked open his soda. As he shuffled the cards, Rubber Soul finished in the stereo. Claude took the disc from the tray and replaced it with Fush Yu Mang. Of all the music Jamie owned, Claude liked Smashmouth best.
As the last notes of “Walking on the Sun” faded, Jamie bounced into the room, hopping a circle around the recliner and the card table, waving her arms and pumping an occasional fist.
“Great news,” she said. “I took the job. It starts in February, f
our days a week after school. I can pick which four days I want. When I graduate, I become an assistant job coach. And get this: they pay 90% tuition for college, so I can start night school in the fall. Isn’t it awesome? It’s a dream come true.”
She tapped a button on the stereo and “Walking on the Sun” played again. She closed her eyes and danced, moving not to the beat but to every other beat in controlled, flowing motions, as if she were a tall piece of sea grass responding to multiple currents on the ocean floor. When the song ended, she sat at the table and motioned for Claude to give her the cards.
“So. Are you excited for me?”
“Sure, Princess,” Claude said. “But aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“Softball. You can’t work and play softball too. Couldn’t you play softball in the spring and take the full-time job in the summer?”
“I didn’t ask,” Jamie said. “But screw softball. I’d rather work.”
Claude leaned over to the stereo and hit the stop button. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You made the varsity last year. This year, it’s your turn to be a starter.”
“So?”
“So call the woman back and tell her you’ll start in June.”
Jamie put the deck of cards down. “No way, daddy. Softball isn’t that important to me.”
“Well it is to me,” Claude said. “I can’t sit in the bleachers and watch you work at the Dixwell Center.”
“Oh so this is about you.”
“No, Princess, no. It’s about you. Why be so eager to start working? You’ve got your whole life to work. If you don’t play softball, you may regret it for the rest of your life.”
Jamie leaned forward and put her hands on her thighs, with the thumbs pointing toward her hips. She shook her head twice and winced.
“Regret it for the rest of my life? As opposed to a chance for a college education? As opposed to starting a real career when everyone else in my class will be flipping hamburgers or working at the mall? Look, when it comes to advice about work, you’re not exactly on the A list of people to consult.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Claude said. “I’m still your father, and that puts me on the A list of advisors. About everything. Work included.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, daddy, but you are faking a disability so you don’t have to work, are you not? For crying out loud, I had clients at Dixwell who wanted to work more than you do, people with I.Q.s in the fifties, people who were blind, people in wheelchairs who were so shriveled up they could hardly talk, but they didn’t bitch and moan all day about work like you did. They wanted to work! I’m talking about people who are certifiably disabled, not chicken-poop make-believe disabled like you, and they’d do anything you asked them, all day long, for half the minimum wage, and if you were kind enough to pat them on the back and thank them for doing a good job, my word, they’d stick labels or sort screws like there was no tomorrow. And you who has ten times the ability of any one of them goofs off and gets in trouble and pretends to have a fear of insects so he can sit home and do nothing. Please, don’t tell me about work, because I’m not interested in hearing it.”
Claude swiped the cribbage board off the table and leaned forward to put an index finger near his daughter’s face. “Now you listen here,” he said. “What I do at work is my own business. I didn’t ask them to offer me early retirement, they just did it, and I only did what was smart to do. When my father said something, I didn’t argue, I listened, and I did what he said, and now that I’m the father, the same rules apply. This is still my castle, and I’m still king. I put food on the table. I put cars in the garage and keep a roof over your head. I buy you clothes and toys and CDs and jewelry and anything else you want, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“Oh yeah? Since when? Mom pays the bills. Mom gives us food money. You’re king of nothing. You’re not even king of yourself. All you do is watch t.v. and get drunk, like that fabulous father of yours, the one who never did anything wrong, Mr. Perfect, the one who ignored you so he could play politics with his union buddies, the one who embarrassed Grammy every stinking day, yelling at whoever happened to be in the room whether it was me or you or mom or one of Grammy’s friends, hollering whether he had a reason to or not. Great freaking shoes to follow in, great freaking shoes.”
Claude slapped his palms to the table and stood. “Don’t you ever talk about your grandfather like that. He clawed and scratched to get to the top and was the best union president Rhode Island Electric ever had. Guys could count on him. He didn’t leave people high and dry like the bastards running the union do today. He was loyal, and you could count on him, and he was a great man. Don’t you ever say he was anything but a great man. Ever.”
Jamie put her own palms to the table and thrust her face into Claude’s. “He was a bum! Do you hear me? A drunken, obnoxious bum, and you are following in his footsteps, because you’re a goddamn drunken bum too. Your wife doesn’t live with you —do you understand that?—your wife does not live in the same house with you, and yet you won’t call her to make up, even though all she ever wanted is for you to be nice to her, to show her you cared about her in the teeniest way, and you can’t even do that, not even a little, never mind do it right and show her in a big way, because you don’t care about anything but yourself. It’s mom’s fault. It’s the boss’s fault. It’s the union’s fault. It’s never your fault. It’s never your fault! You’re the perfect worker. The perfect father. The perfect provider for the perfect family. Well, I’ve got news for you: from now on, the perfect family includes you and you alone. I’m going to Aunt Connie’s and I’m not coming back. Good-bye.”
She ran from the room. Claude started after her, but caught himself. He slammed the recliner with his fist, then sat down and looked away from the door. Behind him he heard Jamie, in the kitchen, trying to explain to Connie through her sobs, trying to spit out a request to have Joan come get her as soon as Joan returned from work. From there Claude heard Jamie run up the stairs and slam her bedroom door. Since her bedroom was directly above him, he heard her scuffling around as she packed what she’d be taking. When the scuffling stopped, he heard Jamie’s sobs. They wafted through the closed door, down the stairs, through the living room and hall, and into the family room, and were well muffled by the time they reached Claude’s ear. Still, he heard them, the loudest portions anyway.
Within an hour, Claude heard a car pull into the driveway and honk. He heard Jamie walk slowly down the stairs, and heard the thump-thump-thump of whatever she dragged behind her. He heard the front door open, but for the click of the latch he didn’t hear it close. He heard the sound of a car backing slowly into the street. He heard the louder sound of a car driving away.
Claude turned off the lights in the house. After he slipped out of his shoes, he lifted the covers of his unmade bed and laid beneath them. He slid his left hand beneath his pillow, and pressed his forehead into the crook of elbow, massaging the elbow twice to remove a wrinkle in the sleeve of his sweatshirt. For six hours he kept his forehead against his elbow. The next thing he knew, it was light in the room; during his sleep he had rolled to his other side, but still his forehead pressed his elbow. His pantleg had twisted around, but he didn’t adjust it.
At two o’clock in the afternoon, Claude climbed from the bed, showered, and dressed in clean clothes.
Chapter 47
By three o’clock that day, some bounce had returned to Claude’s step. He climbed into the truck, stopped at the drive-through of the burger joint, and ate his first meal in almost a full day. Three blocks from Rhode Island Electric, Claude stopped again, for a cup of coffee he barely sipped. It will work, he told himself, it will work. He had an opening he liked. He had a rationale that seemed sensible. He had a good speech if things became rocky.
He worried a group of union guys would be hanging around the UUW office, so he was relieved to see Jim Shepard sitting alone, jotting something ont
o a notepad. He tapped his knuckles on the open door and dropped his voice to an exaggerated baritone.
“Excuse me, sir,” Claude said.
“Mr. Amognes,” Shepard said. “Well top of the morning to you. Come in, please, come in. What brings you here this freezing winter day?”
“Just want to know if you have a second. Can I sit down?”
Shepard rolled a chair toward Claude and swung his own chair away from the desk. He grinned, like a ten-year-old stepping onto a roller coaster after a long wait in line, but Claude didn’t notice, immersed, as he was, in final rehearsal of his opening statement.
“I just want you to know, Jim,” Claude said, “that I’ve been working through my fears. I, um, think I’ve begun to have some success, that is, I’ve made very good progress, and in fact, I’ve turned some important corners, yessir, some important corners, and, well sir, I feel as though I’m cured—or at least ninety-nine percent cured—and I feel great about it, yessir, just great.”
Shepard smiled and maintained eye contact, but didn’t speak. Claude noticed himself wringing his hands and broke them quickly, but then thought the action too unnatural and buried them beneath his thighs.
“I, uh, you know, fishing helped,” Claude continued. “It did. I tied flies, and gradually got comfortable, then moved on to real bugs. I was surprised how well I did. Then I figured, what the heck, I’m going to lick this entire problem here and now. And I did. I dug in my heels, and now I’m cured.”
Again Claude stopped, hoping Shepard would jump in. Although the smile lessened some, Shepard remained silent.
“So what do you think?” Claude said when the silence became awkward. “How soon can I get back into the stores department?”
“Not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because you signed a piece of paper saying you’d never return.”
“It’s just a piece of paper,” Claude said. “We signed it when I was disabled, and I’m better now. If I can work, I should work here, not at some hardware store or shoe factory.”
The Jig of the Union Loller Page 35