The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  Celia, on the other hand, had been sympathetic. During the first month she’d telephoned every day, more often even than his mother; she’d kept herself ready every night to come if he needed her, her overnight bag packed. He knew that each evening when she came home from work the first thing she did, after setting down her slender-strapped scarlet purse on the round table in the hall, and double-locking the door from the inside, was to sit down on her bed and study the answering machine light to see if he had called. (She was under instructions not to bother him at work except on special occasions.) How could he have called? Her telephone extension at work dangled readily from the synapses of his brain. He knew that she went home at five-fifteen, and so never telephoned her between five and six. But still, every day Celia paid him that absurd homage. Well, what if someone else had called? That must be the real reason that she checked her messages. Why wouldn’t she say so? Did she truly imagine him to be so thin-skinned or jealous that he had to believe she waited only for him? The improbable supposition that her motives might be exactly as she’d stated them very occasionally flashed like green numbers across his mental screen, but that made him shudder. He wouldn’t believe that; he couldn’t. How could a grownup professional woman be so desperate? And, if she were, how could he interpret such desperation except as an ominous warning of utter dependency, like a limp drowner dragging the rescuer down with her weight? Better, far better, to believe her capable of telling white lies! All in all, the matter perplexed John, and so he tried not to think about it, especially because it insinuated the parallel image of his brother entering that clammy apartment on Pacheco Street, then loudly and vulgarly pissing, the bathroom door wide open, while the answering machine, turned to maximum volume, blared out whatever propositions it contained. In Hank’s case, of course, the practice reflected merely professional desperation: Would there be a job, so that he could pay the rent? John had loaned his brother money more times than he could remember (which is to say, fewer than he believed; the grandeur of charity easily magnifies itself, if memory is not consulted). At least Celia had never asked John for anything except for his company. She saw him, he supposed, almost as his mother did: a handsome, vivacious boy of excellent prospects, a sweet boy, a practical boy, above all an honest and honorable boy, a success. Whatever John promised to do, he did. The rarity of his promises made them all the more valuable. Celia was clever enough never to extort his word from him, never even to gaze up at him with sadly begging dog-eyes if she could avoid it, for she feared John precisely as much as she loved him, and he was very easily annoyed. Needless to say, she resented feeling afraid, and hid that resentment so that she became his tenderest and most secret enemy. (Would life please bring me a man to love me? she prayed. Please? Please. So far, life only brings me you . . .) During John’s marriage she’d taken up evening paralegal classes to prevent herself from disturbing him too often. The fact that she was paying steeply in both time and money for these studies made her take them all the more seriously. She always got her A+, and the teacher praised her.

  Celia was also known as a conscientious list-keeper. Whenever he visited her, John would find beside her phone a pad of paper inscribed with such items as:

  fax badge names to Ellen

  taxes???

  reschedule hair appointment to weekend

  cancel Sandy’s access code

  deposit paycheck

  return address stickers

  call John

  present for John

  Something about him always appeared on every list. He began to suspect that she wanted him to notice her lists for just that reason. This added to his uneasiness.

  John had made inquiries (not through his brother) and learned that her bosses treasured her. Her personnel file contained the following encomiums: hard-working, loyal, dedicated, outgoing, pleasant, cheerful, well-dressed, friendly, warm—in short, the epitaph for a cadre, no leader of any vanguard. She was a resource, not a threat. Had his opinion been asked, John, who knew her even better than the personnel office, would not have changed a single line. Strange to say, however, now that Irene was dead he found himself almost unattracted to Celia. Could it have been anything to do with the fact that she’d dropped her paralegal studies and no longer worked late for the insurance company? She was worried about him, she said. He was too stoic. On the Monday night after the funeral he sat waiting for her with his face blue-lit by his laptop computer on which he was busily defragmenting the hard disk’s files; the closet door opened by itself, and he got up to shut it, only to be met by Irene’s dresses, which hung there so soft and colorful and helpless, pretty skins of Irene’s which Irene would never again use, shapes of Irene at which he could not get angry. The doorbell rang. He rose, and buzzed Celia in. When she came he was standing by the open door with his arms folded.

  I’m sorry it took me so long, she said. It was hard parking.

  John continued to regard her, saying nothing. He saw that her overnight bag was actually a very large suitcase. He saw that her face had been overlain by an oppressively determined expression. It was the first time that she had ever come to him uninvited. Furious, he sat down at the diamond-shaped table by the window where the computer had finished chirring; with half a dozen keystrokes he quit the defragmentation utility and powered down.

  Would you mind if I sat next to you? said Celia a little uncertainly.

  Fine, said John. Mom’s having chest pains again.

  You and your mother are very close, aren’t you? said Celia. Is she helping you, I mean now?

  Let’s leave her out of this.

  Celia lit a cigarette. —Whatever you say. You brought her up, not me. Would you mind if I sat down?

  Her suitcase was in the middle of the long narrow hallway between the living room and the bedroom. Impatiently he carried it into the bedroom and set it down beside the rumpled bed, which embarrassed him. He could not remember when he’d changed the sheets. Irene used to do that. He closed the bedroom door on bed and suitcase, shot a glance at Celia, who’d remained standing, put a pot of decaf on to warm, and seated himself upon the sofa. She came next to him and almost touched his hand.

  Ashtray’s over there, he said.

  I feel so . . . I don’t know . . .

  You’re up to two packs a day now, aren’t you?

  Do you think she—did she know about us? she said.

  Who? My wife? replied John in a loud, aggrieved tone.

  Yes.

  I’ll never get rid of her now, he said. After what she did, she has a hold on me like some kind of parasite. Well, you were here, so you know. When you see the face of somebody who died by violence and she was somebody that you—knew . . .

  I understand. Remember when you had to—

  Yeah. I don’t know how Hank does it.

  I never met him. Well, just that one time when we were . . .

  Maybe he gets his kicks from going to the morgue. What do you think, Ceel? There must be perverts like that. Of course he’s not a real detective, just a private eye. Maybe he doesn’t see that many dead people. But her face—I—

  For a while he was silent. Then the phone rang. He picked it up. —No, he said. I’m not interested. I said I’m not interested. No, I’m satisfied with my long distance company. No, thank you. No, don’t call back at another time. No. Thank you anyway. Sonofabitch.

  He slammed the phone down, red in the face.

  Can I get you anything? Celia said.

  Whatever’s worth getting I’m out of, John said shortly.

  You want me to go to the store? I can get you some groceries . . .

  Thank you, Celia. No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you anyway.

  Well, she said, looking at the floor, how’s everything at work?

  Oh, they tried to overturn the fraud conviction, but we got it reinstated on appeal. And Rapp . . .

  Again he was silent for a while. —No, I don’t think she knew, he said. And if she knows now, I think she understands. />
  You think she sees us right now? said Celia almost inaudibly. I feel so—

  Well, I certainly see her face. If she wants me to do something, I won’t refuse. Should I call to her? he asked, observing Celia with a cruel smile.

  No—please don’t—

  Irene! he cried out. Irene!

  Don’t—

  Irene, did you know about Celia? Is that why you did it? Irene, did I make you that unhappy?

  He turned to Celia. —Nobody can say I didn’t mean well, he said.

  No, John. Nobody can say that.

  Irene won’t answer, he laughed. She’s taking the Fifth Amendment.

  Stop it, stop it!

  I’m going to drive her stuff down to her parents on Saturday, he said. It’s time to clean this apartment out.

  If you want I could—

  Maybe Hank told her. Hey, Irene! Wake up! Did Hank tell you about Celia? He saw us that time. Friggin’ Hank . . . They said they want all her clothes and crap. I don’t know what they’ll do with it. Maybe they can donate it through their church . . .

  How are they doing?

  Oh, fine. Did I tell you that her charge card bills keep coming in? She’s going to send me to the poorhouse yet.

  Oh, said Celia, lighting another cigarette.

  That’s quite a suitcase you brought over here.

  You know what? Celia said. I feel as if you don’t care whether I stay or not.

  No, no, no! laughed John, holding up his hands. You’re always welcome. Can I pour you a glass of wine? And there’s coffee on . . . You gave me that coffee grinder. I use it all the time. I even recommended it to Hank! I told Irene to recommend it to him but she . . .

  Celia’s mouth had tightened, and she said: Do you want me to stay or not?

  I said come over, didn’t I?

  I thought maybe you changed your mind. John, I—

  Let me get you that wine, John said. Did you say white or red?

  What are you having?

  Oh, don’t play that game. That’s manipulative. It’s just the kind of thing Irene used to—

  White, thanks. John, you know I care for you so much. I just wanted to—

  Don’t think I don’t appreciate your being here, he said to her, leaning forward to squeeze her hand. His rage had vanished as suddenly as it had come; he didn’t know why. Gingerly he explored the place within him where it had been, and found only hollowness. He said: I guess I feel pretty lonely at times. And I know you care for me. We can talk about all that tomorrow.

  John—

  Do you want coffee in your wine? Guess you don’t, so I’ll turn the coffee off.

  I’ll get it.

  No, you’re the guest. Can’t you see I’m . . . Oh, balls.

  I love you, John. Your sadness breaks my heart.

  Well, if you love me, just sit there and . . . I’m not so sad actually. What time is it? Let me check my messages at the office. You go ahead and get ready for bed, okay?

  So you want me to stay?

  I hope you brought your own toothpaste, John said. I remember you don’t like the toothpaste that I use.

  | 66 |

  The next morning, John’s friend, his desk phone’s amber button, winked at him most mirthfully. —What is it now, Joy? he said.

  Mr. Singer would like to see you as soon as possible, said Joy’s voice.

  OK. Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.

  What about your two o’clock with Mr. Brady?

  How long does Singer need me for?

  He didn’t say. Probably some quickie kind of thing.

  Fine, Joy. Where am I meeting Brady?

  At Spoletto’s, reservation in your name.

  And that’s at two o’clock?

  Let me see. Oh, John, can you hold one second? There’s a call on the other —

  OK. Thank you, Joy, he said, hanging up. He made a note on his memo pad: Call

  Mom tonight.—

  He added: Flowers for Celia.—

  . . . and crossed it out.

  | 67 |

  Celia had returned home. (Post Street was closed off, the San Francisco coroner’s white van parked among the police cars.) She dreamed that John was searching to buy Chinese figurines for a girl he knew. She woke up knowing that this meant Irene. She went to Grace Cathedral during her lunch hour and lit a candle for Irene, praying that the dead woman and John would be together in Heaven. She wept when she did it. That night when she lay down in her bed, she dreamed of the smell of fresh-baked bread.

  | 68 |

  The Vietnamese woman led Tyler into a room with a mattress, a chair, and a bathtub. She said: Thirty-five dollars is only for shower and back rub, okay? You want tea or coffee?

  Tea.

  Okay. Get undressed. I come back.

  Tyler took off his shoes and lay down on the mattress. When she came in with the tea, she stopped dead, covered her gaping mouth with one hand, and cried: Why you not undress? What you want?

  I just want to talk.

  Your friend wait for you in lobby! she cried scornfully. Why you no talk with him?

  I want to talk with you.

  She squatted down beside the mattress, staring at him. Then she laughed bitterly and went out. He heard her yelling in Vietnamese with the other ladies.

  After a while another woman came in. —What you want? she said.

  To talk to you.

  Why?

  I’m lonely. I want to be next to a woman, just talking.

  Thirty-five dollah not enough for talk, she sneered.

  Okay. How much more do you need?

  Twenty dollah.

  And then you’ll sit next to me?

  Okay.

  He gave her twenty dollars more and she sat down on the edge of the bed with her legs open so he slid his hand in and felt the paper menstrual shield through her panties. He caressed the insides of her thighs for the half-hour she gave him, while she tapped her foot boredly. This reach of his had been the right card to play. As soon as he’d touched her, the suspicion on her face drained away, leaving a hard residue of contempt and weariness. He was safe now.

  What do you want to know? she said.

  I don’t want to know anything. Just talk to me.

  What’s your job?

  I travel.

  You rich?

  Sometimes. No.

  At that, she lost interest. Better and better.

  Have you seen much war? he said.

  Much much.

  What do you think about it?

  She shrugged. —I think war is very good. Because many fight, many suffer, but then one side get what they want.

  Do you have brothers and sisters?

  I don’t want to think about them. I don’t even want to think about myself.

  Are you married? he said.

  Two times. Not now.

  You lonely?

  Sometimes. Everybody wants love. —She regarded him piercingly. We were all born naked. Why not get naked when we want?

  He understood her pefectly, but figured that would have cost him another twenty or thirty at least. Brady had given him one last wad for expenses. In his business, of course, one could not always present receipts. Some of the quittances which Brady had seen him counting he’d filled out and signed himself. That was normal. And if he kept this money now instead of giving it to people such as the Vietnamese woman, Brady would never know. Or, more likely, Brady would understand, even approve; probably Brady had factored in a little graft as part of Tyler’s wages, or let’s say a bonus to which he had every right as long as he did the job. He felt sorry for this girl. Just as a freshly shaved pudendum, to which the stubble has just begun to return, resembles in texture a squid’s most delicately suction-studded tentacles, so his own thoughts, yearnings and veriest gratitudes, shaved by expediencey though they were, had begun to grow out upon his soul in a boneless sea-creaturely fashion bereft of the laws which two-legged dignity must worship. Sure, he was sorry. But he felt sorr
y for everybody. He never let that get in the way of his work. (A Sicilian lawyer he’d met had three briefcases, one for twelve-hour jobs, one for twenty-four-hour jobs, and one for thirty-six-hour jobs. This man’s best pleasure was reading Il Sicilio, then wiping his glasses and crying: The Italian government is very unfair! —After that he smiled, ate a doughnut, and forgot about the unfairness. Tyler was like that with his sadness.)

  I already got naked with the Queen, he said, watching her.

  I don’t know any queen. Are you a cop?

  I did her in the parking garage around the corner. She took it up the ass.

  Why what for you think I care about parking garage? she shouted. You think I have money to drive? You think I park my big big car in parking garage of the Queen? You stupid little cop! I’m gonna tell madame on you.

  What’s the Queen’s first name? I want to buy her a birthday present.

  That Africa who cares for her first name all just bad African people those goddamned Negroes always try to hurt me in the street . . .

  Tyler gave up. He rose and said goodbye, tipping her five, then strolled around the corner to a phony Chinese restuarant he knew which had just translated itself into a barbeque place. He wasn’t hungry, and the sauce didn’t smell very good. The place was empty. The manager of the former Chinese place recognized Tyler right away and came running up to him and said to the new manager: Hey, you gotta meet Henry Tyler! He’s a character!