The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  Get a shave, too, his brother said.

  Yes, I heard the first time. Congratulations on the baby.

  Is this the first you’ve heard about it?

  What do you mean, John?

  Oh, I just thought maybe Irene might have told you.

  Why would she tell me before her own husband? Tyler said challengingly.

  No one replied for a moment.

  Irene has actually been looking a bit tired lately, their mother put in.

  Oh, you think so? said John. I thought she was starting to fill out.

  But she’s not so far along, is she? But it is true that the first two or three months are the worst. Later she’ll be more tired, of course, but the changes in the first few months are the most drastic. At least that was my experience with both of you.

  I guess your experience beats ours in that department, said Tyler, going out the door.

  My, but he looked sour! their mother said. I wonder if he’s feeling well?

  He’s ridiculous.

  John, you don’t have anything against your brother, do you?

  And if I did, what would that be?

  That’s not an answer, John.

  Well, maybe it’s a question with no answer.

  Every question has an answer, his mother asserted with considerable conviction.

  Really, Mom? Then tell me this. Where do we come from and where are we going? Gauguin said that. I still have that book of reproductions you gave me. Where does my baby come from, and what will he become?

  Yes, John, I know Gauguin said that and painted it, said his mother, rocking. He was a very, very unhappy man.

  John tapped his foot.

  Oh, dear. Is he jealous of you, sweetheart?

  It’s nothing. We get along fine. Don’t you worry about it, Mom, replied the son in what he considered to be a brusquely well-meaning tone, but which came out a little more peremptory than that. Mrs. Tyler, absently rubbing together her arthritic fingers, gazed into his face with large eyes.

  That fog’s pretty solid now, he said.

  Have you decided on a name?

  Eric.

  And if it’s a girl?

  Suzanne. But it won’t be a girl.

  So you think it’s a boy. Have you gotten the ultrasound done?

  Irene didn’t want to. It’s not up to me. Nothing’s up to me.

  Nothing’s up to you? said Irene in a quiet fury as she came through the door. Mom, I want you to listen to that. This is how he always is with me. This is how your son talks to me, and I can’t bear it anymore!

  Irene, Irene, Irene! said her mother-in-law, with a smile of loving exasperation. I was just telling John that the first two or three months are the worst. I recall that I got very moody as well . . .

  I’m sorry, Mom, whispered Irene, suddenly very frightened. I’m sorry, John.

  Oh, forget it, said John. Why don’t you sit down, Irene? You want an ice tea?

  I want a beer, Irene thought to herself. I want to get drunk. —Yes, please, she said aloud. Can I pour you one, Mom?

  The pitcher’s in that little fridge, said Mrs. Tyler. No, thank you, Irene. But it’s very sweet of you to ask. Maybe John would like a refill.

  John said nothing. His eyes were pale blue like the Bay on a half-cloudy day. Irene brought the pitcher out and silently filled his glass, careful not to add any more ice cubes, which he detested. Then she poured herself one.

  Where’s Mugsy? she said.

  Mugsy’s taking a little nap, said her mother-in-law, with the usual smile of instant inanity that came whenever that creature was mentioned. Suddenly, awaking from her loving trance, she said: Irene, is it true that Koreans eat dogs?

  Yes, Mom, in Korea. But I never have. My father’s side of the family really likes them, though. You want to hear a funny story, Mom? When we first moved to this country, my second uncle and auntie went to the supermarket, and they couldn’t read English very well, so when they got to the aisle where the pet stuff is and they saw all those bags of dog food, you know, with the different pictures of dogs on the different brands, they thought it was different kinds of dog meat, and they said: Wow, what a great country America is; it has everything!

  Oh, my God, said Mrs. Tyler.

  I’m sorry, Mom. Did I say anything wrong? I was just trying to—

  John grinned. —You never told me that story, Irene. That’s pretty good.

  No, I—

  I’ll tell that one at work. Singer in particular will be amused. I’m always making him laugh. He keeps asking where I get so many good dirty jokes. You know where I get them? From the Internet.

  Oh, please don’t tell that story at work, Irene said. I’d be embarrassed if other people knew. It makes my family sound so fresh off the boat. That’s why it’s kind of funny, I guess . . .

  No one will think any the less of you if John tells that story, Irene, pronounced Mrs. Tyler decisively. It’s a sweet story.

  Thank you, Mom.

  Hey, Irene, said her husband.

  What?

  Your hair looks ratty. Lots of split ends. When are you going to fix it?

  I have an appointment with Jordan for next Saturday, Irene said. Can you wait that long, or does it bother you so much to look at me?

  How much does Jordan cost me?

  I pay for Jordan, not you.

  I said, how much does he cost?

  Forty-five.

  Forty-five dollars! For what? Does that include his tip?

  Excuse me, said Irene, but it was you who started complaining about how I look, not me. You heard it all, Mom. What do you think?

  Oh, I don’t want to get involved, said Mrs. Tyler. But I do think a woman should try to please her husband.

  Okay, Mom, Irene said. Well, maybe you and your son can find a cheap haircutting place that will please your son, and I’ll cancel my appointment with Jordan and go wherever you say. Is that what you want me to do?

  Don’t get ants in your pants, said John. Just calm down. If you want to go to Jordan you can go to Jordan. I can afford it.

  I want a beer, said Irene.

  But you’re pregnant! said Mrs. Tyler, shocked.

  I’m going for a walk, said Irene. Do you want me to take Mugsy?

  Sure, take Mugsy, said John, with evident relief. Mugsy, like the weather, was always a safe change of topic, perhaps even the shortest path out of the family labyrinth.

  Thank you, Irene, said Mrs. Tyler. Mugsy will be thrilled to get another walk. You’re such a thoughtful girl.

  Thanks for saying so, Mom. Where’s her leash?

  It’s in the car.

  Can I bring you back anything, Mom?

  Not a thing, thank you.

  Mom would like some low-fat yogurt, John said. Wouldn’t you, Mom?

  Why, John, what a good idea. Irene, darling, would you mind?

  No problem, said Irene.

  And what about you, John? said Mrs. Tyler.

  I’m fine. Hurry back, Irene.

  Oh, John, said his mother, you never think of yourself.

  | 31 |

  When they were alone, Mrs. Tyler said: It’s almost as if you want them alone together.

  What do you mean, Mom?

  Well, you tell him to get a haircut; you tell her to fix her hair; don’t you think they’ll run into each other?

  What are you saying?

  Oh, she’s such a dear little girl, John, but don’t you see that she’s discontented?

  Mugsy will have a good walk anyhow, John said. Mom, why don’t you lie down until Irene gets back with your dessert? I’ll wake you . . .

  | 32 |

  The frayed vacation went on like a whore babying her worn-out old cigarette lighter to get one last hit from her crack pipe, and then one more hit beyond the last hit, until finally it was over. The two brothers each made a separate mental note never to do that again. Mrs. Tyler for her own part felt relief upon regaining her solitude, and then felt guilty to be relieved. Irene remai
ned silent. All these reactions were customary.

  John and Irene drove Mrs. Tyler back to Sacramento. Tyler went quietly to San Francisco, smiling because in his shirt pocket were three long black hairs he’d stolen from Irene’s pillow.

  | 33 |

  The Vincy Company wanted him to screen three job applicants on his computer. It took him forty-five minutes for all three. He sent them a printout and a bill for three hundred and twenty-five dollars.

  Two weeks later they hadn’t paid, and meanwhile he’d received an envelope from Datatronic Solutions which contained a Statement of account marked “urgent.” His current balance was zero dollars and zero point zero cents. Thus likewise his balance thirty-one to sixty days past due, and his balance sixty-one to ninety days past due. In the ominous box “Over 90 Days/Past Due” the figure $190.99 had been printed in boldface. Underneath this warning of liability, the Statement of Account, still trying to be friendly with Tyler, proposed the following helpful advice: To arrange for your balance to be paid with a Credit Card, please call the telephone number above. Thanks so much for your business!!!

  Gazing out his living room window at the fog-suffused red and green traffic-winkings of the Sunset, he telephoned Datatronic Solutions and said: I have a question on my bill. Well, three questions actually.

  Yes, sir. What’s your customer identification number?

  We’ll get to that, Tyler said. But I get to ask my three questions first. Number one: Why do you have a slashmark between “ninety days” and “past due”? Number two: Why is “Credit Card” in title case? Number three: Why do you think you need three exclamation points when you’re thanking me for my business when I actually haven’t given you any business because I owe you two hundred dollars?

  Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s this?

  That’s for me to know and you to find out, said Tyler, hanging up. He telephoned the Vincy Company and asked the woman at Accounts Payable if she’d received his invoice. She said that she didn’t know.

  | 34 |

  It’s just a standard incorporation thing, said Brady. I’m trusting you to help me out on this, son.

  You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Brady.

  Glad to hear it, because I don’t disappoint very well. So what I need right now, John, I need a hardass. I need someone to say, this is what Brady’s gonna do, no arguments. I don’t want to drag it on.

  I don’t know what to say, said John, trying to be polite.

  If you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything.

  Fine, said John.

  You got a problem with me?

  Gazing into his client’s swollen, florid face, John said nothing.

  I said, you got a problem with me?

  Let’s leave me and my problems out of this, said John in a steely tone which Brady instantly recognized and respected.

  You passed the test, sonny. All right. Now, the name of the operation is going to be Feminine Circus. Nationwide franchises planned, that kind of crap. It’s gonna generate competition. I want you to rig things for me, John, so that my enemies can’t get to me. I want interlocking trusts, dummy corporations, whatever you think I need to be protected. Until the deal’s done, I don’t want anyone to know I’m behind it. The first outlet is going to open in Vegas, so that’ll be governed by the laws of Nevada, but I want you to handle it for me because I anticipate opening two more outlets very soon in L.A., another in San Diego, and maybe one here in Frisco.

  Whatever you say, said John. But I’m sure you know that Nevada, like Delaware, is exempt from a lot of regulations. So many California businesses do it the other way around and incorporate in Nevada. I mean, Nevada is corporate paradise.

  Yeah, well, I’d just feel a lot safer dealing with contract attorneys who don’t have any ties to Nevada. Feminine Circus is a unique concept, John. I don’t want some big boy in Vegas to rip me off.

  Fine, said John.

  Now, what do you need to get started?

  Maybe you could tell me a little about the business, Mr. Brady.

  Entertaaaaaaaaaaainment, said Brady with a wink.

  Anything illegal? said John. I don’t care who you are or how much money you have. I’m not interested in breaking the law.

  That’s your bottom line, huh? Well, don’t worry about that, you little twerp. It’s all gonna be virtual reality. Electronic sex shows. Just masturbation with a few photons. No minors admitted, of course. I’m counting on you to take care of the zoning commissions. Your brother was just telling me how the Sacramento city council fucked over that Club Fantasy, made ’em install handicapped ramps for their dancers and all kinds of other shit, then pulled the plug because some day care center popped up outta nowhere . . .

  My brother? said John slowly.

  Sure. That pimply-faced Hank Tyler. Says he’s your brother, anyhow. I’m paying him less than I’m paying you.

  What are you using Hank for?

  Hunting up some talent for the big act. I guess you and he don’t communicate much, do you?

  You’re paying me for my time, Mr. Brady, said John. If you want to squander money asking me questions about my brother, I can’t stop you. But I’d really prefer that you mind your own goddamned business.

  Heh! heh! Boy stands up to me! I like you, Johnny! Listen, sonny, said Brady, waving a purple finger in John’s face with the utmost sincerity, you and I are going to go places.

  | 35 |

  Since the Queen had not yet replied to any of his letters (with each of which he’d included his business card, the answering machine number circled in red), Tyler made arrangements to meet his old friend Athena, who was as Greek and wise and upliftingly haughty as her name. Seeing her might get family matters out of his head, and help him with the Brady job, too.

  She embraced him calmly, wearing a long black dress. They went to the hotel bar, which she knew as well as she did all the other hotel bars in that part of town, and she ordered a shot of Red and he ordered a shot of Black.

  You look so beautiful, he said. Are you and your husband going to have a child?

  Never, she said. How can I have a child and keep making calls?

  Your husband wouldn’t be a good father?

  No, she said, lighting a long thin cigarette. And what’s your news? You look tired. Anyway, why do you want me to have a child?

  It would be nice if there were a little girl in this world who looked like you, he said.

  That’s sweet, she said, smiling.

  Cheers, he said.

  Are you going to have a child? asked Athena in an innocent tone.

  Tyler choked on his drink.

  I’ve been looking for the Queen, he said. Do you know her?

  Of course I know her. But we don’t exactly move in the same circles. Twice a week I do volunteer work and hand out condoms to the street girls—

  I tried a female condom not long ago, Tyler said. It was like screwing a plastic bag.

  She laughed. —You know what I do? I make all my clients wear two condoms! I’m a little bit paranoid.

  Why do they even bother to stick it in? he asked wonderingly. I guess I would just touch you with my hand or my mouth or something.

  Some of them do that, she said.

  And your husband?

  He only has to wear one. I don’t want to get pregnant, and I don’t want to take the pill, but he’s my husband.

  Athena worked out of her house and advertised in the adult newspaper the Voyeur. Last weekend she had made in one day eight hundred dollars—six clients back to back, so to speak, for the full service; at the end of the day she was really tired, but it was the best money that she’d made in a long time. She paid off her credit card bills.

  So you see the street girls twice a week? Tyler pursued, trying to be the conscientious detective.

  I do. And sometimes I feel like there are two people inside me, one for the streets and one for the bars.

  I always figured you were somehow struggling w
ith yourself. You seemed kind of tense when I saw you last year. I was worried about you—

  I was? I don’t remember.

  You don’t seem as tense tonight.

  Actually I’m feeling pretty tense, she said. I’m so bored with everything.

  How much does the agency take? Fifty percent?

  A little more. Not much.

  Why don’t you and your friends set up your own agency?

  You keep telling me that. You don’t understand. An ad in the yellow pages costs five thousand a month. I don’t know anyone who has that kind of money.

  In Vegas they use fliers.

  I hate Vegas. They don’t like me there. They want big tall blondes with those scary boobs.

  So you’re bored, he said. How have the customers been treating you?

  Oh, fine. I like some of them. One German banker just took me to Switzerland for two weeks. He was very generous, but I thought the food would be better. And I tried to get him to leave me alone, but he kept trying to make me angry . . . One man looked at me and said: Do you do this for the money? I thought that was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard . . .

  Tyler finished his drink. The lounge waitress brought him another. There goes seven or eight more dollars, I guess, he thought to himself.

  Maybe I’m more tense because I know you better, Athena said.

  Well, that’s a compliment, said Tyler. Hey, I want to rip my employer off. You know a good place to hide money?

  I hate you! she laughed.

  She was very beautiful and severe, a slender brunette with sad black eyes. He had known her for three or four years. —Athena, I’d like to see you professionally, he said, swallowing.

  Oh, stop it, she said. He could tell that she was pleased.

  All right. So what’s the best way to meet the Queen?

  Write her. There’s a parking garage where she gets her mail . . .

  I know about that. I tried that.

  And did she answer?

  No.

  I guess she doesn’t want to meet you then, said Athena.

  You’re right, Tyler said. Well, I’m tired. I suppose I’ll turn in.

  He left thirty-five dollars for the drinks. As they were leaving the bar, they spied a knot of businessmen standing in the doorway, and Athena sighed and said: Maybe I’ll stay here and see if I can get one of them to go upstairs with me . . .