Joe's Liver

by Di Filippo, Paul

  After a time, the Digest is exhausted, and Ardy, growing impatient, looks around for other reading material. A stack of leaflets attracts his attention, and he picks up the top one.

  Join Now! it says. The Urban Masters of Domestic Pets Against Further Leash Laws — UMDPAFLL — Needs You!

  Feeling exceedingly uneasy now — and with good reason — Ardy gets up to leave. What he will tell Roseanna he does not know. But anything other than this …

  He is almost at the door when a voice halts him.

  “Come here, boy. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  Ardy follows “Doctor Spence Hubert” into his office as if hypnotized. Clutched in a tetanic grip is the dog carrier.

  Door closed, Doctor Spencer seats his bulk behind his desk. His jowls are quivering with emotion as he stares at Ardy.

  “Well, son, what do you have to say for yourself? Do you feel proud, after running out on your comrades in their hour of need, like some yellow-backed skunk? I thought we had an understanding, son.”

  “Herb, I —”

  “Don’t try to trifle with me, boy! I’m meaner than a bobcat when I’m riled, and more ornery than a junkyard dog! I ought to take all the trouble and suffering you’ve caused me out of your blessed hide! Why, I’ve even got Federal agents on my tail now, thanks to you. Some jerks named Johnson,”

  “I fail to see —”

  “You’re darn right, son. You failed to see where your best interests lay. You cut out on the revolution that was going to help you and your fellow Spice Islanders by removing the heavy hand of American Federalist intervention. And now that glorious revolution has had a temporary setback, thanks to your desertion.”

  “Herb, my role really wasn’t so large.…”

  Doctor Spencer holds up a massive placatory hand. “Son, say no more. I can tell you’ve seen the error of your ways. Lucky for you, I’m a forgiving sort. Also, I’m in a generous mood for another reason. The revolution is not dead! Under a different guise, we have merely relocated our base of operations. I sneaked a look through the one-way mirror at you perusing our recruitment literature. Different audience, different approach. But the goals are the same, son. Can we count on you?”

  “Herb, I —”

  Doctor Spencer’s takes note of the carrier for the first time. “What’s this then? An ailing patient who needs Ol’ Doc Hubert’s ministering touch ? Let me just look here.… Tell you what I’m a-gonna do, son. I’ll just hold on to this little rascal to insure your cooperation. You go home and think about what I’ve said.”

  Ardy gratefully rushes out.

  In the car, he considers all angles of his plight.

  Arriving home he tells Roseanna that Poo-Chee was suffering from fatally impacted bowels and had to be put to sleep.

  The ensuing tears and wailing are unpleasant.

  But the rituals of consolation that follow are not.

  5

  All in a Day’s Work

  One day shortly before Christmas the doorbell rings, while the morning is still young.

  Ardy jumps up out of bed as if bitten simultaneously by the ghosts of a thousand fleas from a less dignified, albeit simpler time in his past. He struggles awkwardly into his pants, hopping from one foot to the other. He dons his chauffeur s jacket over his bare chest, misbuttons it so that the collar on one side is up around his ear, then looks around frantically for his shoes. Not spotting them, he slips automatically into the nearest footwear available.

  Meanwhile the doorbell continues to be rung insistently, and in a manner indicative of great impatience upon the part of the ringer. The annoying chimes echo through the big house on Beacon Hill as Ardy races downstairs.

  At the door Ardy pauses a moment. His appearance, he feels, might not be up to snuff.… The doorbell bongs away maddeningly, permitting no last minute alterations, and so Ardy is forced to open the heavy carven door.

  Standing on the snow-dusted front step is a young man of Ardy’s general age. He is as typical an example of his years, race, class, and species as any unique individual can be, that mix being specifically Young White Upper-Class College Student.

  He is dressed in expensive sneakers, black Levis, and a plain white shirt over which he wears only a black cotton blazer, despite the cold. His hair is black, his chin sharp. His eyes are concealed behind sunglasses, although the day is overcast. Ardy cannot detect the color of his irises, of course, but he expects they will prove to be bottle-green. Completing the almost Biblical image of The Return of the Prodigal, the youth carries a backpack slung nonchalantly over one shoulder.

  “Lost my fucking keys,” says the young man sullenly. He brushes past Ardy without further comment or inquiry, Striding angrily — in what Ardy instantly divines is his habitual walk — into the depths of the big house.

  After the taciturn youth disappears, Ardy stands mute. Finally he shuts the door upon the wintry street, and turns toward the staircase. The motion of his feet produce an unexpected shuffling noise, which attracts his gaze downward. He finds he is wearing a pair of Roseanna’s mules, each tufted with a pouffe of dyed pink pinfeathers.

  Ardy kicks off the mules, picks them up, then, barefoot, hastens upstairs.

  Back in Roseanna’s bedroom, Ardy confronts the charming bare rump of his mistress, still elevated by a pillow beneath her belly. A second pillow covers her head, weighted down by an arm against the importunings of the doorbell. From beneath this latter lump of expensive goose down emanate tiny snores.

  “Mrs. Mountjoy.”

  Roseanna rolls off her precarious perch and onto her side. Her free hand scrabbles for the sheets. Finding them, she covers herself, murmuring something that sounds like “Go ’way.”

  “Mrs/ Mountjoy.”

  “’Zannna, chrissakes.”

  “Mrs Mountjoy, you must gather your wits about you and arise from Morpheus’s arms, for I believe your son has arrived home for the holidays.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Roseanna leaps from bed with more dispatch than Ardy has ever witnessed her exhibit before. Clothes begin to fly through the air as she attempts to put together a suitably maternal outfit. As she bends over a drawer, Ardy finds himself becoming aroused by the pendulousness of her breasts.

  “Goddamn it, he promised to call if he was coming home! Last year I didn’t even see him between Thanksgiving and Easter! Christ, I’m not cut out to be a mother! And you, you self-satisfied Caribbean gigolo, what are you looking at? Don’t just stand there, get out, go on, scram! Go make yourself presentable and introduce yourself to him. Make it perfectly clear that you’re my new chauffeur. My God, I can’t believe this is happening.…”

  Ardy is saddened by the epithet Roseanna has chosen to describe how he is perceived by her, although he admits it might be objectively accurate, if one discounts the “self-satisfied” part. But surely she cannot totally ignore the subjective emotional aspect of their relationship. Surely she is aware that Ardy harbors, if not love, then at least enormous affection for her, stemming from the day she rescued him from frozen rain and a predatory prowl-car. Ah, cruel life, to be so constantly misunderstood …

  Back in his own room Ardy assembles the rest of his uniform and orders his appearance as directed. With some trepidation he heads toward the room he knows to be Roy’s. The door to Roy’s room is shut. Ardy knocks once, twice, a third time. No reply.

  “Young Master Mountjoy,” he tentatively inquires, “May I come in?”

  Still no answer, either positive or negative. Should he inform Roseanna that it has proven impossible to establish communication with her son? The risks entailed do not appeal to Ardy.

  “I am entering on official business, Master Mountjoy, and under direct orders from the head of the household, who pays both my salary and your tuition. Please excuse my servile impertinence.”

  Ardy finds Roy flat on his back on his bed. A pair of enormous padded headphones is clamped on his head. The little red power light indicates that the
stereo is on. The volume control is halfway to jet-decibel level. Twin puddles of melting slush have formed on the clean white coverlet beneath Roy’s sneakers. Since Roy retains his sunglasses, Ardy is unable to tell if he is awake, asleep, or catatonic.

  “Master Mountjoy, I have come to acquaint you with my job description and a short resume of my activities here in your mother’s household. May I have your attention for a brief moment?”

  No response. Hesitating briefly, Ardy shuts off the receiver.

  Roy lays still a moment. At last he sits, drawing his legs up into a lotus posture. He doffs the headphones. He calmly removes a pack of cigarettes from his blazer, lights one, and begins to puff. He fixes Ardy with his bespectacled gaze. He speaks.

  “You’re screwing my mother, aren’t you, man?”

  “Master Mountjoy, I assure you —”

  “Hold it right there, man. Don’t get me wrong, it’s cool, I can see where you and her are coming from. I know my old lady’s still pretty young, she’s got needs, whether my old man’s in jail or not. And you, whatever your background is, you got as good a shot as anyone to satisfy her and make her happy, maybe even better, being a spade and all.”

  “Master Mountjoy —”

  “Cut the ‘Master’ shit, man, this ain’t Southie, you know. You’re laying on the sarcasm and irony a little too thick. I’m telling you, I understand. It’s cool, I like it, I’m on your side. This rotten fossilized city needs more slaps in the face like you and my mother getting it on. I’d like to see the whole lousy, stinking social structure come crashing down, man, like totally. So you don’t have to worry about me approving, if that even matters. I hear you, I’m with you, I’m intensely sympathetic, like. I even got a hunch you and me could be friends, you know, establish some sorta cross-cultural ties, like. So I know you’re gonna understand when I tell you one thing.”

  “Yes — Roy?”

  Roy removes his glasses. As expected, his eyes are the same disconcerting green as Roseanna’s.

  “Don’t. Ever. Fuck. With. My. Music.”

  Utterly taken aback by the unexpected ferocity of Roy’s deliberately measured injunction, Ardy can only dumbly nod. Satisfied that he has made his point, Roy repositions his glasses.

  Roseanna chooses this instant to stage her arrival. She clutches a large mixing bowl filled with pancake batter to her bosom and is stirring it energetically but without convincing expertise. Ardy divines that she is attempting to portray an image of rampant domesticity. Unfortunately, she looks more like Lady Macbeth suffering under a novel compulsion.

  “Oh, Roy, how wonderful to have you home. I take it that you’ve met our new employee —”

  “Cut the shit, Ma. You got your blouse caught in your skirt zipper, and this ‘new employee’ of yours has just told me what’s really happening.”

  “Oh, Ardy, how could you ever —”

  “Mrs Mountjoy — Roseanna — I never even got a chance to speak.…”

  “Oh, Christ, I suppose it’s too late to put the cat back in the bag now. Roy, can I have your assurance that this information will go no further than this room?”

  “I already told Ardy here that everything was cool by me. You got your life, Ma, and I got mine. If you want to finally break free of convention, I can only say it’s about time.”

  Roseanna sighs. “I suppose that’ll have to do. Well, in any case, it’s nice you could make it home for the holidays, even if you didn’t call ahead as you promised.”

  Roy passes a hand over his short crop of hair. “Well, Ma, things were a little confused. You see, I actually got kicked out of school. I can’t go into it now, but that’s how it was.”

  “Oh, Roy! How could you? Whatever will your father say?”

  Roy smiles. “I could ask you the same thing, Ma.”

  Roseanna colors, but holds her tongue. Sensing a certain small level of tension, Ardy seeks to dissipate it.

  “Perhaps it would not be amiss of me at this moment to suggest that we all just stop and reflect a little on our various blessings, especially in light of this particular season with its secular and religious connotations. As the Digest once said —”

  “Oh, Ardy, just shut up!”

  “Hey, man, cut the lecture shit!”

  Grateful to have brought about this unanimity, Ardy yet suspects that having mother and son so firmly allied will not prove to his best advantage.

  The next afternoon there is a knock on Ardy’s private door. Ardy is busy trying to decipher American television. He finds it a medium radically different from the printed page (as exemplified, of course, by his childhood reading material) and is uncertain of whether he enjoys it or not. Certainly, the cooking shows and six-hour prime-ministerial lectures featured on the single Spice Island channel had little in common with the spectacle of six men in skirts and their spouses regaling a studio audience with intimate details of their lives.

  Ardy hopes Doctor Spencer is not watching this spectacle, for it would surely confirm his worst fears about the downfall of the country. Ardy hopes, in fact, that the egregious vet — whom he has not heard from since so cleverly escaping his waiting-room by sacrificing Poo-Chee, thereby killing two birds with one stone — is watching nothing other than the wall of a jail-cell. Where, of course, he will receive the necessary therapeutic help to restore him to his quondam status as a productive member of society.

  Right now, in any case, Ardy is quite willing to be interrupted. He rises, snaps off the set, and goes to the door.

  Ardy knows this cannot be Roseanna. For one thing, she never knocks, always entering with proprietary certitude. For another, she is out at a Newbury Street salon with Priscilla Bayswater, having her hair done. (The insouciant Mister Balboni, while holding the limo-door open for Roseanna, made motions as if to goose her, knowing Ardy was watching their departure through the window. Ardy was angered, but quickly realized the futility of trying to get a leopard to change its spots.)

  Therefore, reasons Ardy now, this can only be Roy at the door.

  And indeed it is.

  Roy nods to Ardy. “Hey, Ardy, lets talk.”

  “I have no objection to some civil conversation, Roy.”

  “Great, fantastic, take the chair, I’ll sit on the bed.”

  Ardy follows Roy’s suggestion. He wishes Roy would remove his sunglasses, as it is rather difficult to be sure of his motives, tone, or intentions without the standard visual cues.

  “Ardy, this is my first real chance to dig down deep and understand what motivates you bloods. I really want us to be friends, you know. Forget all about my mother, if you can, and try to relate to me as a guy who’s truly interested in you and your problems, the problems of your race. As representatives of two segregated parts of this fascist country, it’s our duty to establish lines of communication.”

  “Roy, I think you should know that I —”

  “Don’t put up the old barriers right away between us, Ardy! Hear me out first. I know life can’t have been easy for you, growing up in this bigoted, hypocritical town. Roxbury, right ? No, you don’t have to tell me, I can picture the whole thing, the cold winter nights, empty belly, ‘Sorry, no openings right now.’ I can dig it, I can see how you might end up as a paid stud for a rich white woman.”

  “Roy, it’s not like that at all.…”

  “Don’t give me that jive, Ardy, I’m not your typical spoiled preppy snot. I care, Ardy! I hurt for you guys! I’ve dedicated my life to working for radical change, Ardy. That’s why I got kicked out of school. Organizing protects, disrupting classes, stuff like that. But I don’t care about getting the boot, the campus was too small for my activities anyway. Now that I’m back in this city, I’m going to start looking around for people with a similar commitment to the revolution. The ’Sixties aren’t dead, you know, Ardy, they’re just sleeping. The ’Eighties sucked big time, but the ’Nineties, man … The end of the ’Nineties are gonna make the ’Sixties look like the ’Fifties! There’s a lot of people
out there, black and white, old and young, who still have the vision and the will to change the corrupt superstructure that’s weighing us down now. But first I want to get your perspective on things, Ardy. Open up, let it all out, get everything off your chest.”

  “Roy, I’m afraid —”

  “That’s it! Now we’re getting somewhere! Of course you’re scared, what black man wouldn’t be scared in the white man’s world? Wow, this is cool, we’re really talking now. Hey, Ardy, let’s blow some smoke.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Weed, grass, pot, dope, don’t play dumb, I know you guys are always high anyway.”

  Roy lights up and only then does Ardy recognize the skiff odor and realize what Roy is talking about.

  “Roy, I don’t know about this …”

  “Don’t fucking alienate me with that shit, man.”

  “Well, since you put it that way …”

  After several hours of mellowing out while Roy rambles on interminably about his worldview, Ardy is ready to go to sleep. Outside, hiemal dusk has long ago fallen, loading the twisty Boston Streets with shadows and bringing the Christmas decorations to lighted splendor. Roseanna is still not home yet — having probably gotten rather mellow herself in an alcoholic way at the Ritz — and Ardy is fervently wishing for her to materialize and rescue him once more. Realizing his mind is wandering, and desiring to remain politely attentive, Ardy tries to refocus on what Roy is saying.

  “… so I told the fucking Dean, ‘You’re full of shit!’”

  Ardy’s normal sense of caution amid the perplexing labyrinths of The First World has evaporated somewhat under the influence of the skiff, and he now makes a statement he might have otherwise held back. “Roy, I have noticed that your vocabulary is dominated by two rather corrosive words whose initial impact are considerably blunted after their nTH appearance. Did you ever consider that it pays to enrich your word power?”

  “Fuck that shit, man! That’s a strategy imposed on the black man to make him conform to the white world. I reject all such fascist ploys!”