The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  Where are you calling from?

  Menlo Park, said Tyler, which was true; he’d driven down for the occasion, and was calling from a pay phone there, between a big billboard for Caesar’s Palace and another for an upcoming club entitled Feminine Circus.

  Look, Hal Nemeth said. You’re probably OK, but for certain reasons I can’t really get into, we prefer not to publicize anything yet. If you want me to transfer you back to Judy, she can put your mailing address into the database so that you get a copy of the press release.

  Sure, I understand, said Tyler ingratiatingly. Thanks for your time.

  Do you want me to transfer you?

  Sure. Judy has a nice voice.

  Hal Nemeth grunted sourly, and there was a click, and the next thing he knew the receptionist was saying: RoboGraphix. May I help you?

  Is this Judy? he said.

  Yes, this is Judy. How may I help you, sir?

  Judy, this is Chuck Wildmore. I don’t know if you remember me, but my sister Karen has been trying to reach you.

  Karen? I don’t know any Karen.

  Your name is Judy, right?

  Yes. But—

  And you work for RoboGraphix?

  Obviously this is RoboGraphix. Who—

  Well, you must be the one, he insisted, enjoying what in the industry they called a “gag call.”—She’s in the hospital right now, which is why she asked me to call you. It’s kind of important to her.

  But I’ve told you I don’t know anybody named Karen, said the woman in stony exasperation.

  Well, I apologize for bothering you, but Karen said it was important. She’s in intensive care, you understand. You know, where they put those tubes into your arms. They say if you go in there you have a forty percent chance of coming out.

  I’m sorry, the woman said reflexively.

  She says you were a friend of hers a long time ago, and she wanted to see you.

  Some friend. I—

  Look. Would you mind giving her a jingle at the hospital? Or—no, that’s going to be a hassle for you. How about if I—

  But I don’t know any Karen! the receptionist said plaintively. Can I put you on hold? I’ve got another call.

  Sure, said Tyler. I’ll wait.

  He listened to the tinny music, and then Judy picked up the phone and said: RoboGraphix. May I help you?

  Hi, Judy. This is Karen’s brother.

  Listen, Judy said, weren’t you the guy I transferred to Mr. Nemeth?

  Mr. Nemeth? Who’s that? Listen, Judy, if you don’t want to talk to my sister why don’t you just say so? I’m trying to help her out. I don’t know what this is about, because we went our separate ways for years, if you see what I’m saying, but now she’s . . . Anyway, I guess I was wrong to bother you. Thanks for your time. I’ll tell Karen you were unavailable.

  The girl hesitated. —What hospital is she in?

  San Francisco General. No health insurance. It’s pretty chaotic up there, so if you call you might not get through.

  I’m sorry, Judy said again. (Closing his eyes, he remembered Irene boredly picking at her fingernails.) Look, I have to go. There are three calls waiting. If your sister wants to call, I’m in the book.

  All right, Judy. I’ll pass that along. Has your last name changed since she knew you?

  No, I’m not married, she said, her voice dark, foggy and lost like beer bottles on the bottom shelf of a refrigerator case. My last name is Knowles, and I’m in the book.

  For Palo Alto?

  Sunnyvale.

  Thanks a million, Judy. I guess it will mean a lot to her to speak with you, said Tyler, hanging up.

  He called Dan Smooth about that drink on Friday at eight o’clock. He had to go to L.A., he said. Could they reschedule? Dan Smooth, momentarily as silent as the grating-sealed shops late at night in Chinatown, said at length that they could. He called his mother, who was having chest pains. He called his answering machine, but there was no new business.

  He drove down to Los Angeles for another of what he called his secret visits, and after he had done his business there he telephoned his old friend Jake, a downsized engineer. He asked if there were any special place in an office where a small company would be inclined to store secret chips.

  Well, said Jake, you start with any kind of chip you’re going to make in an exotic environment, it needn’t be a big place. If you’re going to hide things, it’s going to be by classifying the whole place.

  They’ve done that. And then how would they store the actual chip? Would they have to keep it in a refrigerator or something like that?

  Don’t expose it to any strong electromagnetic fields, or it’ll get fried, said Jake. That’s the thing. Well, actually I don’t know about field, but pulse is certainly a problem. You just want to put it in a conductive piece of rubber or foam to keep it from being shorted out. . .

  And then I suppose you’d keep it in a safe . . .

  The principal investigator’s desk drawer might be good. The safe is more sexy, of course . . .

  Okay, so the principal investigator has got to investigate it. He’s got to make sure that it’s good, I guess.

  Right. He verifies that it’s good by using a device called a comparator, which basically projects magnified images of a chip onto a ground glass circle. Well, that’s old technology now. A chip can be as complicated as the Thomas Guide.

  I get it, said Tyler, narrowing his eyes. Anyhow, the principal investigator will be sitting at his desk, doing something with the chip. Maybe he’ll project a digitized image of it onto his computer screen. Maybe he’ll have a comparator. It really doesn’t matter, just as long as I have some idea where the chip is. Thanks, Jake.

  He let the rest of the week go by and then called Judy at home on Saturday morning. —Judy, this is Chuck Wildmore again, he said, picking his nose. I’m sorry that Karen never called you. She died on the operating table. She didn’t regain consciousness.

  Look, said Judy unpleasantly, I’ve been trying to think who this Karen might be, but I’m drawing a blank. I’ve never, ever known anybody named Karen except for one girl in third grade who hated me. I think you’re confused. I’m sorry for your loss, but I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me anymore.

  Karen left you something in her will, he replied with equal coldness. I’ll let our attorney know that you refuse delivery. Goodbye.

  Now at last he had her, for an avaricious curiosity came into the girl’s dull and hostile voice, and she said quickly: What did she leave me?

  I guess that’s not your concern, said Tyler snappishly, since you refuse any connection with the family. I’m sorry I ever called you. Don’t worry, Judy. You won’t hear from me again.

  Then tell your lawyer to get in touch with me.

  Every time a lawyer talks to you about baseball you have to pay for his time, said Tyler, his voice now modulated to the melodies of patience. Judy’s estate is dirt poor, and I don’t have much myself, so with all due respect I’m not paying for an extra hour of legal consultation just to have his secretary mail you something you probably won’t appreciate.

  What do you mean I won’t appreciate it? You don’t even know me. Where do you get off trying to define me?

  I wasn’t trying to define you, Judy.

  Well, what did Karen leave me?

  It’s a little velvet box, with—do you want me to open it? I haven’t looked inside. I didn’t figure I had that right.

  Yeah, the girl said carelessly, why don’t you open it?

  There’s a ribbon around it, said Tyler, impressing even himself with this improvisation. Do you want me to undo the bow?

  No, that’s okay, she said finally. Why don’t you send it to me?

  I’ll send it to your office then, he said. It may be a couple of weeks before I get to the post office. I’m kind of in a state of shock right now, to tell you the truth.

  Mr. Wildmore, I—

  I don’t know whether to send it registered or not
. It may be valuable. What do you think?

  Cupidity won out, or maybe just good manners. —Look, Mr. Wildmore, the girl said, where are you?

  Menlo Park at the moment. But I need to be in San Francisco at three-thirty to claim the body.

  And you have the box?

  Yeah. I have the box.

  I thought you said the lawyer had it.

  Judy, I’m getting kind of tired of being interrogated.

  I’m sorry. You want to do lunch?

  Tyler pretended to hesitate, then said in his best grudging voice: I guess I have time to meet you for lunch if you want.

  And you’ll bring the box?

  Sure.

  The girl sighed. —You’re sure you’re not a nutcase?

  I’m not a nutcase, said Tyler. I’m not even a nut. Where do you want to meet me?

  Are you near a Sizzler’s? I always like eating at Sizzler’s.

  Sure, said Tyler. I like their surf ’n’ turf. Karen was also very fond of Sizzler’s.

  She was? Gosh, I wish I remembered her.

  She was an awfully special person, he said, pretending that he was talking about Irene so that his voice would get properly sad. He closed his eyes and saw the mole on Irene’s forehead. His grief rushed in and carried him safely along.

  He recollected something that another prophet had once told him: Your generic secretary is not a secretary by choice. Who picks a crappy job like that, all responsibility and no power? They start off like that because their Nazi husbands don’t allow them to have any job that’s higher status than that, and after the divorce they’re stuck. Secretaries hate their jobs, Henry. That’s why all the hackers get what they want by just calling them up.

  I’ve seen plenty of secretaries with power, Tyler had countered. Plenty of old dragons. Plenty of smart ladies who know where all the bodies are buried.

  Yeah, I’m talking about the young ones, his friend had said. Those poor, trapped young broads. It’s just like being a whore except the pay’s not as good.

  Are you there? Judy was saying.

  Yeah.

  Look, I’m sorry if I was maybe a little bit suspicious. It’s just that, like, some things have happened to me before, you know, guys taking advantage of me and stuff.

  I understand, he said. Then, thinking of Irene, he muttered: Jesus, I wish I could put my arms around her right now.

  Are you sure you’re going to be okay? the girl said, obviously not wanting to sustain some stranger’s neediness.

  Hm? Sure, I’ll be fine. See you at Sizzler’s, then. How about in two hours?

  Okay, she said softly. ’Bye.

  ’Bye, he said.

  Tyler went out and cadged a velvet box from a jewelry store. He took from his keyring an old key from an office in Emeryville where he hadn’t worked for twelve years; he’d always known that that key would come in handy someday. He put the key inside the box and tied a ribbon around it. Considering carefully, he went back to the jewelry store and bought a gilded silver pendant so that the girl wouldn’t be completely disappointed, and enclosed that with the key.

  Judy was plump, unattractive, and shy, although her shyness she disguised as grumpiness. He bought them both lunch and sat there with her at a table beside the window. When she asked him what he did, Tyler tried to talk as much like an office rodent as he could: Oh, I work for CiceroNet. I’m new there. Basically, they do some kind of Web stuff. Originally I was a consultant. You know, it’s a time or money trade, and I’m here to help. That’s what I told them, and then I spent some time talking to see if I could wangle an extra few hundred bucks. I was pretty sure that they were going to bite, and it’s tempting to inflate things a bit, but I was honest; I kept their costs down . . .

  He chatted merrily away in this jargon, his words as hurried as red ants rushing over terraces of bark, until he was satisfied that she’d stopped listening.

  So tell me about you, he said. Do you like the people you work with?

  Well, Mr. Nemeth’s kind of impatient sometimes but everybody says he’s the real genius, the girl said. I don’t know if he’s a genius or not. All I know is that he makes me work late sometimes, mailing out all those little diskettes and stuff, and I have to put them in special envelopes . . .

  That’s not very nice of him, said Tyler. Can’t you bring a book or something for when he’s not looking?

  Then I’d never get home. He makes me stop by the Federal Express place at night on my own time.

  Tyler had been considering giving Judy a special desk calendar or something of the sort which when properly hung would orient a flat camera at Hal Nemeth’s desk, but now he saw that such grand plans wouldn’t even be necessary. All he’d have to do was take Judy out to dinner a few times, and sooner or later he could get her to bring the mail with her . . .

  And then he was ashamed of himself. What had the poor girl ever done to him?

  He handed over the box, stood up, and said abruptly: Well, Judy, this is from Karen, and I thank you for meeting me.

  The girl’s mouth dropped open. —You don’t have to go, she said. I mean, if you don’t want to. I can see I made a mistake about you. I think you’re really nice.

  Thank you, sweetheart, he said. You’re nice, too. I guess I’ll be getting back.

  Don’t you even want to see what Karen gave me?

  Maybe it’s something betwen you and her, he said. Well, see you around.

  He strode quickly out, got into his car, and drove back to San Francisco, passing the airport with its gloomily lit runways and warehouses, its planes like robot iguanas waiting for the heat of some unholy day to burst through their dark torpor. Nothing but concrete, lights and fog ahead . . . The nearest parking garage was a sickening prismatic crystal of light. No security-minded Queen would ever set up shop there. It began to drizzle, and the pavement shone as black and strange as squid-ink. He remembered Irene with her baseball cap fashionably backward, thoughtfully bringing chopsticksful of black noodles into her mouth in a Korean-Japanese restaurant in Japantown; the highway was the color of those noodles.

  He told H.R. Computer that for legal reasons he couldn’t take the RoboGraphix case. —So you want to kiss away twenty thousand, his client said. —Yeah, drawled Tyler, it’ll be a pretty amorous send-off . . . —He told his landlord that he was really sorry, but this month the rent would be three or four days late. Whenever he thought about Judy he felt guilty, so every day for the next two weeks he anonymously sent her roses.

  Every weekend he drove down to Los Angeles.

  | 64 |

  After so profitably wrapping up that scam he got a call from John, who said: I was going through Irene’s stuff and found a letter that she wrote you last year.

  Flinching from the vibrating anger in John’s voice, Tyler said casually: Is it important? Do you want to send it to me or do you want to read it over the mail?

  Why don’t you stop by and pick it up, said John flatly.

  All right. I’ll come by after eight.

  John hung up.

  When Tyler got to John and Irene’s apartment he found the living room crammed with boxes which gaped like graves. Wordlessly John handed him the triple-folded sheet of paper in lavender flare pen which ran:

  Dearest Henry,

  I hope this letter finds you well. Frankly, I’m a little worried that something must have gone wrong or you wouldn’t be considering disappearing.

  I don’t know you well enough to understand if my concern is warranted or intrusive. Please forgive me if the latter is the case. Let me know how you are.

  Take good care of yourself.

  Love, Irene

  John was standing there with his arms folded. —So, what did she mean by your disappearing? he said.

  Oh, it was just a kind of black period I went through, said Tyler. I pulled out of it. I guess Irene must have realized it wasn’t such a big deal since she never gave me the letter.

  Why didn’t you tell me about it? said John.
<
br />   Oh, I hated to bother you—

  But you never minded bothering my wife. Did she write you any other letters?

  Well, said Tyler jauntily, who knows what else you’ll find when you’re packing those boxes?

  Oh, just go away, said John. Go home.

  You still working with that guy Brady?

  So you really don’t feel any responsibility?

  Well, I’ll be honest with you. Irene was my friend, my very good friend. I asked her how she was doing and she said she wasn’t especially happy—

  Happy with what?

  With her life.

  What about her life, Hank?

  I don’t know. I asked her to call me if she had any problems, and she didn’t, so I figure that you and she were ninety-five percent responsible and I was five percent responsible.

  So you were responsible. What exactly did you do to her?

  Nobody’s ever innocent, Tyler mumbled, looking at his toes.

  It just doesn’t sound like Irene to do what she did, John said.

  Well, as a matter of fact it was Irene who . . . oh, forget it.

  Leave me alone, will you?

  Sure, John. Thanks for the hospitality. And the great conversation, said Tyler with his hand on the doorknob.

  | 65 |

  Yes, Tyler had given up. According to John’s cruel characterization, he had long since begun to vegetate, his mind humming and drowsing though the blocky, sun-shadowed pastel landscapes of the Sunset District. (The Richmond District looked much the same.) As for John himself, he had likewise just now laid aside a quarrel with the world, of which such knowledge as he had—less than his brother’s, naturally—inclined him less to master it by analysis than to assert practical control of a small piece of it; and for the rest to find comfort where he could. Irene’s suicide had been both a desolation and a humiliation; but since, as we have stated without sarcasm, he was a member in good standing of the Order of Backbone, he sought not to get ahead of his other grievances. She left him no note, but for almost two months after her installation in the ground, Irene’s credit card bills kept arriving, like the uncanny communications of a Ouija board. Carefully reading them over before he paid, John never found lingerie purchases, or dinners for two that he didn’t know of, or any evidence of other untoward attachments. Nonetheless, his resolution regarding Hank was: friendly but cool, forever. Hank had had something to do with Irene’s death, at least indirectly. Thus John’s instant bench warrant, followed by summary judgment. Were Hank to forthrightly admit his complicity, begging pardon, John could perhaps forgive him, depending on the circumstances (although here John might have been deceiving himself; for when others dare to confess a fault whose existence we may have strongly suspected, but not yet proved to ourselves, we are more likely to gratify our anger than our magnaminity). Meanwhile it was important not to upset their mother unnecessarily. John had already decided that after she lay beyond harm he would, if his brother’s demeanor continued to be evasive, make the break. It wasn’t as if refraining from executing this sentence would assuage his loneliness, Hank never having been good for much; nor (by the same logic) would proceeding so render John any more alone.