Cricket’s fingers rubbed the ugly needlepoint.
“‘Have We Failed Our Children?’” he read. “How’s that for a headline? ‘There is a growing trend to consider churches at best outmoded and at worst hypocritical, even tyrannical. But have we failed an entire generation by not offering adequate moral guidelines?’” He glanced up at her. “Fantástico? ‘Yesterday a murder was committed that will leave its echo on our decade just as the Manson murders left their imprint on the sixties. A young doctor and a talented actress were held by three youths while a fourth fatally stabbed the victims. This youth then killed himself. He had acted in accordance with the beliefs of a bizarre sect. The leader of this group, a man earlier imprisoned for homicide, stated that this was their punishment for acts contrary to their religious beliefs. Young people, he told police and reporters, seek him out because he is willing to show them a way of life.’” Vliet took a breath. “Paragraph. ‘These young killers came from so-called advantaged homes. They had been in no previous trouble with police. They simply had not found the faith that they were looking for in their homes.’” Vliet clucked his tongue. “Paragraph. ‘There is no question that many of today’s youth seek values formerly found in religion. Now, in a time of national cynicism and disbelief, it is no wonder that they have turned elsewhere. Many find solace in Far Eastern faiths. Or in so-called communal living. A few, inevitably, fall into the clutches of a Giles Cooke. That such a man as Cooke can throw his spell over a group of otherwise peaceable youths is ultimately a fault of society.’” Vliet tapped newsprint. “Paragraph. ‘In essence, society has failed by no longer providing boundaries and an ethical structure. We have left our children in a moral vacuum.’”
Cricket didn’t look up.
“Blessed are the simplistic minded,” Vliet said. He refolded the paper on the coffee table, then thought better of it, going out the kitchen door to crush it into a garbage can.
“There can’t be anything for Ma to find in the family section, can there?”
She shook her head.
He rubbed his neck thoughtfully. “You haven’t said a word, Cricket, since you got here.”
She raised her rounded little chin a fraction to indicate possibly that he was incorrect.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I think it’s printed ahead of time.”
“Let’s not get garrulous.”
Cricket rested a cheek on worn needlepoint.
“Come on, little cousin, you must have a word or two.” He lit a cigarette. He reached for an Indian brass dish.
Finally she said, “It’s my fault.”
“What?”
“The whole thing’s my fault.”
“Let’s not have any of that, Cricket. You were selecting the prime cuts with us.”
“Roger met them, Genesis and Orion, through me.”
“Well?”
“That started it.”
“Roger’s keen medical eye, that’s what started it.”
“Remember in Carmel?” She reached across the narrow mahogany table toward him, then dropped the hand as if she’d burned herself on his cigarette. “You said they were weird.”
“I don’t care for this line of reasoning, Cricket.”
“You warned me. I could’ve listened.”
“Really. You could’ve. Except at the time they weren’t in business.”
“They were getting weirder,” she said, sighing. “If I hadn’t gone there that Sunday, Roger never would’ve seen Orion’s scab.”
“Christ! More third-rate inductive reasoning.”
“And think of RB.”
“I’d rather know how to avoid thinking of her.”
“She had nothing to do with them. She’d never met Genesis, even.”
“But according to this youth-attracting religion, Cricket, she was corrupt. And therefore deserved to die. And then some.”
“All through me.”
“Don’t let’s have the mea culpas,” Vliet said. “I’m not up to ’em. One thing we don’t need here, Cricket, is more self-blame.”
“How can I help it?”
“Make an effort,” he said, leaning into the couch, riffing his fingers on his knees. “Siegfried’s Funeral March,” he announced.
Cricket’s face was intent. “This weekend Orion was talking crazy. I felt sorry for him, but also I had that sort of uncomfortable, itchy thing. You know. Something’s wrong, but you refuse to let yourself think it through.”
“Cricket, no more instant replays, huhh?”
“He said Genesis had let him back into REVELATION. It hit me as far out, but I didn’t ask how come, or why.”
“For Chrissakes, forget it!”
“You wanted me to talk.”
“Not like this, I didn’t.”
“I’ve been thinking and thinking.”
“And hasn’t it occurred to you that others have their own thoughts?”
“You?”
“Me. If I hadn’t been drinking coffee and mulling over the meat, I’d’ve been there with him. And he’d’ve had a chance, a chance is all. I mean, don’t you remember who insisted we go with you on that jaunt to Carmel Valley?”
She sat forward. From the closed door of the bedroom hall came muted female voices. It was impossible, though, to tell who was talking.
“Without me, none of you would’ve been there, not in a million years.”
“Cricket, I don’t give a damn for whom the bell tolls. I don’t wanta hear about it, I don’t wanta talk about it, I don’t wanta think about it. So shut the hell up!”
The door to the hall opened. Mrs. Wynan moved ponderously into the room. Her stockings were knotted below the knees of her thick, veined legs. She held onto a table, then a chair.
“Heading outside, Grandma?” Vliet asked, taking her arm.
“Thank you, dear.”
Vliet opened a French door, warm breezes tagged ecru curtains, and the flat, homely old face lit.
Said the forgetful Mrs. Wynan, “I do so enjoy seeing you, Roger dear.”
She sat on the morning-shaded patio. Vliet remained where he was. Shoulders heaving, he dropped his face in his hands.
Vliet Reed, sobbing, thinks. Into this world they come alone. Not me. I came half of a twinship, which is closer than kinship, and if at times I felt like the back part of a vaudeville horse, the heavy costume suffocating me and forcing me to follow Roger, I also felt like part of a very exclusive society. Us two. This relationship being severed by the Big Break. Or, as Ma puts it, “her.” And even after it was schizo, how often I would call him or he would call me, just as the opposing twin had an opposing hand—left him, right me—on the phone for the very purpose. This I can’t explain. I’m not the fuzzy-minded sort who would classify it as psychic phenomenon. Still, when I found Roger on that kitchen floor, hamburger, I had a, well, an Experience. Horror, yes. And grief, sure, grief. But more than horror or grief. It was as if certain nerves along my spinal column were being cut, certain areas in me were becoming numb. Part of me will be forever numb. And right now, that part—Roger—lies under the scalpel of some coroner, maybe the great Noguchi himself. Christ, how Roger would’ve appreciated the performance. Unfortunately he’s there in body only.
Roger Reed, always having to buck for sainthood. Who would look after and pay surgical bills for a stranger, a freaked-out, mixed-up San Marino weirdo kid? St. Roger, that’s who. Now on God’s right hand, not mine.
I am half a twin.
Is there such a creature?
Half a twin is better than none.
No, half a twin is none.
He even smelled stronger than me, and Christ, whoever dreamed without him so much of me would be missing?
Vliet does not pursue that which has been taken from him. It is mostly in the area of conscience. Roger always had acted as a sort of detainer: Roger never would be doing this shitty thing, Vliet had thought, and possibly had desisted. This concept is dissolving from the electrical im
pulses of Vliet’s brain.
“Vliet,” Cricket said, leading him to the couch. “Here,” she said, handing him her damp handkerchief. They had run out of handkerchiefs. Mrs. Monk was washing a load now.
4
“I don’t see why she can’t be there,” Vliet said.
“She’s not Family,” Em repeated.
“In this particular case, Ma, it’s beside the point.”
“Vliet,” said Sheridan, “we don’t need arguments now.”
Vliet lit a cigarette. Carefully. The Reeds had finished a late lunch. (Cricket had been taken by her parents to the downtown offices of Sidney Sutherland, cousin and attorney.) Em, elbow on her raffia place mat, rested her cheek in her hand. For once she had let down on appearances and was without makeup, wrapped in an old, too-large robe of Mrs. Wynan’s, a safety pin holding the neckline together.
Vliet exhaled. “Roger would want her.”
“Son, I don’t think you understand.” Sheridan still wore the suit, his good navy suit, that he’d worn while making the last arrangements for his other son. “We’ve decided. The matter’s closed.”
Em found a handkerchief in her sleeve. She blew her nose. “Family,” she said. “Only the Family.” Even now, her voice went respectful as she spoke of Van Vliets.
“She would’ve been family,” Vliet said.
“No,” Em denied.
“Roger was going to—”
“Vliet, watch it,” Sheridan said.
“—marry her.”
“Never!” Em shrilled.
“Thursday. They were coming to tell you.”
“No!” Em.
“For Chrissake, they might as well have been.”
“They weren’t.” Sheridan stood. Erect, almost martial. He often said, proudly, that he could still fit into his old sergeant’s uniform. “And you won’t keep this up.”
I’m out of my skin about her, Roger had said, and set about proving it, not endearing Alix to their parents. Roger had left Vliet one hell of a job.
“Dad, think what Roger would’ve wanted.”
“I’m not about to tell you again!”
“But—” And then Vliet shut up.
Em had taken off her glasses and was crying. Who can argue with a weeping, grieving mother? Especially if she happens to be yours?
“Hey, Ma, none of that. Doctor’s orders.” As he spoke he realized doctor was an unfortunate word. She shifted into fierce, gasping sobs. He hugged her. What’s here to fight, anyway? A small, frail woman with flesh gone slack who smells of stale tears and liquor, a woman close to fifty, mourning her son.
In truth, Vliet shaped up equally poorly. Even though he was not crying, he had no resources left. He was incapable of further combat. They habeas corpus, he thought, they have the corpse and possession’s nine-tenths of the law and is it so crucifyingly important that Alix Schorer be graveside? No, he decided, not if your mother’s sobbing hysterically. He blew his nose and went to the cabinet, turning the key on the left side, taking the first bottle that came to hand, pouring Em a quadruple. “Salud,” he said. “Dad?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
By the time they had finished their sherry, Em was snuffling quietly.
Vliet got up. “See you at dinner, then,” he said.
“Where are you going?” Em asked.
“There’s this little thing I gotta do.”
“What?” she wanted to know.
But he was out the door. For maybe two minutes neither Em nor Sheridan moved.
She wiped her eyes. “He’s going to her.”
“He’s worried she’ll find out and come, that’s all.”
“If it weren’t for her, Roger would’ve been home. Safe and sound.”
“Please, Em. Don’t.”
“She came between the boys.”
“There’s no point, not now.”
“Nothing else ever did. They were so close. It’s how we raised them.”
“We did a good job.”
Em’s wan face suddenly went anxious. “Vliet’s not angry, is he?”
“No. Not Vliet.”
“I am being fair, aren’t I? It is Family only.”
“And she’s not.” The tension around Sheridan’s mouth had been loosened by time and grief. “She’s just a little Jew tramp.”
Alix was not at her mother’s place. She was, Dan said coldly, not elaborating or inviting him inside, at her father’s. Vliet requested the address. Dan scribbled in a black-leather memo book, tearing the scrap of paper. He closed the door. Vliet deciphered directions before starting. Another hot day—he thought of putting down the top, but somehow an open car seemed frivolous.
Boats, thousands of them, enmeshed between docks. Sun rippling on tideless, turgid water. Vliet rechecked the address.
“What is it?” asked a gray man rising from a step.
“Is this Philip Schorer’s apartment?”
“Why?”
“Are you Mr. Schorer?”
“No.” The man’s eyes were frisking him.
“Does he live here?”
“Yes. And you’re trespassing.”
“Is Miss Schorer around?”
“She’s not seeing anyone.”
“I think she’ll see me. I’m Van Vliet Reed.” He gave it the full treatment.
And got the expected results. “Let me ask Mr. Schorer,” said the gray man politely. “Wait here, please.” He used a key.
Vliet didn’t have a chance to light his cigarette. Alix’s father was at the door, a fabulous-looking guy, his deep tan set off by white sailing clothes, good ones. Well, Vliet thought, it figures, it figures.
And Alix was saying, “Vliet,” as she came down the stairs. Under her eyes were faint smudges, like a girl who’s slept in lavender eye shadow. Otherwise she was perfect. A little too perfect. She might have been posing for a fashion layout, one leg behind her on the bottom step. Except she was better-looking than the models he’d dated. She gave him a smile, the economy-size smile used for mournful occasions. “Father,” she said, “this is Vliet. Vliet Reed, my father, Philip Schorer.”
Vliet held out his hand and it was taken. “Mr. Schorer, sir.”
“Philip,” Mr. Schorer corrected. And went through the platitudes du jour, how sorry he was, a great loss, and so on and etcetera. He excused himself, tactfully sliding open glass, closing it after himself.
“It’s his only place,” Alix said, removing an invisible fleck from a modern couch. Order, once everything’s in order, I’ll be in better shape. This damn music won’t keep repeating like raw onion. “I’ve got his room. And there’s just this.” She gestured, taking in more square footage than is in most houses. Above the kitchen the ceiling was lowered.
“The bedrooms are up there?” he asked.
“Just one. I’ve got it. The view’s terrific.”
A terrific view, he agreed. And in his estimation it was. A billion dollars’ worth of boats. Mr. Schorer settled into a webbed patio chair, moving a felt-tip pen across a proof sheet.
“He’s doing the new catalog,” Alix said.
“For what?”
“Schorer Furniture.” She moved to the kitchen area. “Let me fix you lunch?”
“Thanks anyway, but I ate.”
“Oh, that’s right. It’s almost four. A Coke, then? A drink? Or coffee’s ready?”
“Thanks, nothing.” He tapped his cigarette. “Why aren’t you home?”
“You mean Mother’s?”
“Yes, Mrs. Grossblatt’s.”
“She keeps wanting to mother. A lot of body contact and stuff.”
“It gets to you.”
Did I sound a mite off? Vliet’s got a very good ear—but if it’s so damn good, how come he can’t hear this hideous Handel? “I just don’t need any,” Alix said.
And perching on that sterile couch, she crossed her ankles to one side. Toned down, yet crisp. Exactly right. It baffled Vliet. She baffled him. Come to think of it, she
always had. There was a mystery about Alix, something mysterious. Untouchable, a perfect, uncrazed Grecian urn in a museum niche, her very imperviousness hinting at unrevealed pasts, depths, twilit secrets. As he’d been hot to hear her breath coming jagged from beneath him, so he now needed Alix to display grief. He needed to see her lose her cool. He needed proof that his brother, his late other, had meant something to her. On the way over, he’d rehearsed speeches to let her down easy. Forget it, he told himself.
“The funeral,” he said, “is Wednesday.”
She leaned back, clasping her knees, momentarily withdrawing to some private speculation. Funeral. Roger wanted cremation—after parts were donated to those in need. But his parts weren’t in donatable condition, were they? Oh God, please don’t let me break down. I’ll never get it together if I do. “Where?” she asked.
“Forest Lawn.”
“The main one?”
“Glendale, yes. It won’t be in the papers.”
“Understandable,” she said.
“Family,” he said. “Strictly family.”
For a blink of time he saw, or maybe he hoped he saw, that she swallowed with difficulty. I never said good-bye, never. My chest is pulling like a cramp, keep moving, that’s what they tell you when you cramp up, don’t they? Roger, tell them if I’m not there, you won’t be, either. What am I going to do, alone? Not go to the funeral. Never say good-bye, ever.
“You’re telling me I’m persona non grata?”
“I’m sorry, Alix.” Really, he thought, I could have phoned it in kinder. She’s smiling, though, so what the hell. His eyes grew moist and he thanked God for giving us Coolray Polaroid sunglasses.
“Flowers, then,” she said. “I’ll send flowers. Where?”
“Forest Lawn.”
“Oh, that’s right. You said. The Glendale one. What time?”
“Alix—”
“Not to worry. Flowers. No me. But the florist’ll need the time.”
Forever and ever, he thought.
She smoothed an invisible wrinkle in her shorts. “The time, Vliet?”
“Noon.”
“Noon,” she repeated.
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