The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  That’s right, said Tyler, gently swishing the ice cubes in his glass.

  Where did you say you’re going?

  I didn’t, but I’m going to L.A.

  Business? pursued his mother.

  Something like that.

  You know, his mother said with gentle determination, John tells me that you very often make the drive all the way down to Los Angeles to lay flowers on Irene’s grave.

  Tyler didn’t say anything.

  You loved Irene very much, Henry, didn’t you? I know you did.

  Tyler cleared his throat. —Yes, he said hoarsely. Yes, I did.

  And you’re going to visit her again this weekend, his mother continued.

  Maybe we can talk about something else, Mom. We’ve had this chat before . . .

  Henry, I think it’s important that we discuss this subject a little further. I know it’s painful to you, but I’m concerned. I don’t think it’s good for you to dwell on Irene so much.

  I’m sorry you think so, Mom, said Tyler, squeezing his glass. Far away, he heard a freight train.

  There’s a certain question I asked you once before, and you refused to answer. Don’t worry, she said in a hard voice. I’ll never ask you again.

  Fine.

  May I be frank on a related subject? said his mother. I’m not sure that those trips of yours to L.A. are very beneficial to your relationship with John. It makes him feel odd.

  So John’s been complaining about me again, said Tyler, squeezing the glass.

  No, not complaining exactly, his mother lied, and Tyler, knowing that she lied, seeing and reading the lie and comprehending exactly what it implied, squeezed the glass and then put it down because he knew that if he squeezed any harder it would shatter in his hand; he was grateful that he’d realized that. John had once broken a glass that way, he remembered. (He thought of Brady jeering over and over: Are you emotionally compromised?)

  Where’s Mugsy? he said.

  I imagine she’s sleeping under the blackberry bush. That’s her little hangout.

  Do you want me to take her for a walk?

  That’s just what Irene used to say. Do you remember? Irene was so good to Mugsy.

  Mom, I think I’ll go lie down, he said. Can I make you some more lemonade before I turn in? Oh, I see the pitcher’s still almost full. Should I bring the sugar inside?

  Ascending the stairs to his old room with the battleship-green microscope, a birthday present, still on the bureau in which if he opened it he’d doubtless find many of his T-shirts from tenth grade, history kept at bay by mothballs, he undressed, admitting that his mother was right. He would stop visiting Irene. At least he would make this weekend the last time. Early the next morning he took his mother out for breakfast and then drove her home, promised to call her soon, promised to call John, promised to look for a girlfriend, waved goodbye, took I-80 West to the interchange and cloverleaved widely round to meet I-5 South. The day was already miserably hot. No traffic detained him in the Central Valley, and by the time he’d passed three hours he was already far past Coalinga; he wondered whether he ought to visit the Tule Elk Reserve sometime; that was a place he had always imagined going with Irene. At Pumpkin Center there was an accident, and then an overheated car blocked one lane near Grapevine, but he made good time still, and at the seven-hour mark was nearly in sight of the Korean florist’s shop near the Tropicana.

  How’s business? he said.

  Very slow, said the florist. Ever since after big riot here is no good. Black people no good. Make everybody afraid.

  I’d like a dozen red roses, please.

  Yes, sir. You is always same same. Your wife is so lucky. She is Caucasian like you?

  She did look pretty pale in that open coffin, he said. Thank you.

  The stones at the cemetery went on and on, but he knew how to find her very easily now; he sat down on the grass early on a hot dry endless Long Angeles evening of idiotic cloudlessness and meaningless freedom; up the green from him, some Koreans were singing hymns. Her stone was clean and polished. There were flabby, stinking, horribly rotten flowers in the metal holder—maybe his. He replaced them with the red roses. He looked around to make sure that no one saw or cared. Then, stretching himself out full length on the grass, he laid his head upon the stone. He stayed like that for a long time. Finally he turned his head slowly to touch with his lips that deep, cool, V-stroked letter “I.”

  * * *

  •BOOK IV•

  * * *

  Billable Hours

  •

  * * *

  The consumption of sulfuric acid is an index to the state of civilization and prosperity of a country.

  A. CLARK METCALFE, JOHN E. WILLIAMS, JOSEPH F. CASTKA, Modern Chemistry (1970)

  * * *

  •

  | 76 |

  You know what I like the best? said old Dan Smooth. It’s those rape cases, when you get to collect pieces of the pillow slip for yourself, and pieces of the bedsheet. If I find a likely stain, I just cut around it with my pocket knife. I have quite a collection at home. You should see ’em under the fluorescent light.

  Tyler sighed. —Have another Bushmill’s, Dan.

  Why, Henry, you’re the next best thing to . . . even if your manner may not be so attractive . . . Say, can I ask you something?

  What?

  Well, I’m probably being an asshole, but I always wanted to know. I like thinking up questions like this. It’s kind of my reason for being. What I wanted to know is, did you ever screw that sister-in-law-of yours?

  Tyler was silent.

  You know, the one that killed herself, said Dan Smooth eagerly, watching Tyler with a malicious smile.

  I thought all I’d have to do to get some information out of you was buy you a few drinks, said Tyler. I didn’t know I was going to have to put up with your bullshit, too. You know what, Dan? It’s not worth it to me to get that information. And you know what else? I’m going to walk out of here right now and leave you with the tab for these drinks, and what are you going to do about it?

  Aw, Henry, I told you I’m an asshole sometimes. I can’t help it. Listen, did I tell you I’m trying to get a whole new specialty created for me?

  What’s that, Dan? said Tyler impassively.

  Pediatric forensics, the other said proudly. It’s the up and coming thing. Little dead boys and girls. Marks, bruises, evidence. Sodomy holes are like snowflakes, no two alike. Get the picture?

  You ought to be castrated, Dan.

  Hee, hee, hee! Coming from you that’s quite a compliment, you old sis—

  Don’t say it. I’m carrying, and you’re starting to really piss me off.

  Oh, he’s carrying, he says! Pissed off, he says! Cocked and locked! And no luck with the Queen, either! Don’t think I don’t know all your woes, Henry Tyler! I’m the master of stains.

  I do enjoy your company, Dan, but will you tell me where the Queen is or not? I know you know everything.

  Even the answer to the question I asked you? Hee, hee, hee!

  You’re not just sick, you’re boring.

  And if I also ask you, ye will not answer me, nor let me go. That’s Luke 22 something, or maybe 23. I could tell you a lot of things about Luke.

  Get another hobby, like skinning rats. Here’s twenty for the drinks. I’ll come visit you in jail sometime.

  Visit the sewers, whispered Smooth theatrically. That’s where her piss goes.

  Lots of sewers in San Francisco, said Tyler, unimpressed. Lots of piss, too. Can you narrow it down for me a little bit?

  Sure I can, Henry. You got a pen? I’ll draw you a map; I’ll write out a regular urinalysis. Hey, but didn’t that Brady take you off the case?

  As a matter of fact, Dan, he did.

  So what are you getting out of this?

  Oh, let’s just say it keeps my mind off things, and you know which things, and the fact that you know ought to make you pretty gleeful, you sleazy old sonofabitch. Now, let
me ask you something. Is there a Queen of the Whores and do you know where she is?

  Yes to both, Tyler. Just call me the yes man. You see, she’s got her fingers in a lot of sex crimes. Got her fingers in all the holes. Here’s a photo of her. Full length, you see. An old photo. It was Halloween, so for a joke she dressed like a slut. With her that’s not usual. Likes to wear that baseball cap, but sometimes she wears a wool hat. And I’ll tell you something else. She uses so much perfume she stinks like a cathouse. Well, what could be more appropriate, eh? So buy me one more Bushmill’s before you go, and take this home with you and think about how you’re going to make it worth my while, and then give me a call up at the Sacramento number Saturday morning after ten —

  No, not then, said Tyler. I’ve got to go to L.A. then for some business.

  | 77 |

  He sat with his feet on the bed looking at Dan Smooth’s photo and working up his details description sheet.

  SEX Female

  RACE African-American

  AGE Approx. 45

  HEIGHT Approx. 5’ 5’’

  WEIGHT Approx. 120 lbs

  COMPLEXION Dark

  Well, that doesn’t help much, he muttered.

  HAIR Color black; long, kinky.

  EYES Brown, slightly bloodshot

  FOREHEAD Vertical

  EYEBROWS Bushy, same color as hair

  NOSE Medium; nostrils small

  CHEEKS Full, cheekbones not prominent

  MOUTH Upturned at corners

  LIPS Red, upper thin, lower puffy

  TEETH Unknown

  CHIN Curved

  JAW Wide

  EARS Oval, pierced (?)

  NECK Medium, straight, no Adam’s apple

  SHOULDERS Narrow

  HANDS Long, rough

  FINGERS Slim, tapered

  FINGERNAILS Long, painted red, dirt under nails

  CLOTHING Seen in red miniskirt or black low-cut dress; high heels, one heel broken

  JEWELRY Large hoop earrings, bangles on left wrist

  PECULIARITIES Round scar on right calf (bullet wound?), abscess marks on arms, tattoo of skull on left wrist, mole on left cheek, strong smell of perfume

  ALIASES Queen, Maj, Africa Johnston

  CONFEDERATES Domino [AKA Sylvia Fine], Strawberry [AKA ???], Kitty, unnamed mentally unstable prostitute, Sapphire, Chocolate [AKA Brenda Wiley], others to be determined

  | 78 |

  He was late with his rent. Jumpy, maybe from coffee—a not unpleasant jumpiness, his fingers not quite twitching, like baby birds almost ready to fly across Valencia Street—he drove over to his landlord’s place in Menlo Park to deliver the check in person. When he rang the buzzer, nobody answered, which relieved him. He slipped the check under the door. For a moment he wanted to call Judy from RoboGraphix, but that passed, leaving him guilty and stained. He drove back home to the Outer Sunset where it was foggy again, and someone’s purple light was flashing in the apartment next door. There were no messages on his machine. But then the phone rang. First he thought that it might be business; then he decided that it was his landlord. When he put the receiver to his ear, a cheery male voice said: Hello! I’m a telecommunications computer specially selected to . . . —He hung up. An hour later, the computer called back. He hung up again.

  That night he couldn’t sleep knowing that he’d be crying in his dreams, and listlessly opened the yellow pages, hoping that advertisements for fencing tools and chiropractors would swizzle him down into some murky sea of drowse, but those strange spiders of his called hands had their own ideas: ENTERTAINMENT . . . ESCORT . . . MASSAGE was what they sought out. It sounded blessed. But he didn’t feel up to driving anywhere, and he didn’t care to pay an escort girl to drop by. The next afternoon business was dead, as usual, so he got in the car, drove to the gas station, drove to the supermarket, and then drove to the Tenderloin, where he parked across the street from the Oriental Spa, vaguely supposing that one of the girls might look like Irene. Then he decided to try Jasmine’s Exotic Massage instead. The Mama-san, almost as wide as she was short, stood on tiptoe to view him through the chest-high window before she let him in.

  Hi, she said.

  Afternoon, said Tyler. How much for a massage?

  Forty dollars for forty minutes.

  All right, he said. He was pretty sure that she was Korean.

  She took him down the hall to a small dark room with a single bed and a radio playing country songs. Then she left him.

  The woman who came in next was definitely Korean. Her trick name was Patricia, and she told him to undress. For a moment he thought of the Vietnamese woman who liked wars. He had to give up the forty dollars first, of course, and the woman took that and went out while he stripped to his underpants. She was surprised that he kept those on. She said that she was divorced and that her son was nine years old. —That’s my child with Irene, he thought to himself.

  The Korean woman knelt down on the bed and began to squeeze his back.

  Your back is so big there must be a million dollars inside! she laughed.

  Help yourself, said Tyler. If you can dig out any small change, though, I’ll keep that to buy myself a sandwich.

  Pretty soon she was cracking his fingers and toes. She told him that he had nice skin, which wasn’t true, and that he looked young. He put his hand on her generous ass through her tights and she smiled at him. She asked whether he were married. Suddenly his arms were around her and his face was against the strange slick fabric of her dress just below her breasts and he began to feel happy and eased. He stayed like that with her for a long time. He needed comfort so much. What was he but a greyhaired old child? He slid his hand between her thighs and she made a mock-startled expression and shook her head, but she didn’t seem to be angry, so he did it again.

  You want to stay with me? she whispered.

  Now, how much would that cost? said Tyler.

  Maybe too much for you. I’m sorry. One-twenty. I’m sorry so much.

  Will you be able to get well paid out of that? I won’t be able to give you a tip then.

  Thank you. It’ll be okay.

  If you’d rather, I can just give you a fifty dollar tip and go now. The Mama-san doesn’t have to know.

  If you can stay, I’m happy, she said. You’re so warm.

  Where are you from?

  Seoul.

  Ann-yeong ha sim nee ka, he said, which means hello. Irene had taught him that.

  She clapped her hands and kissed him.

  He gave her the money and she went out and came back with no tights on. He took her underwear off and she took his off. —Oh, you not shy there! she laughed. She dimmed the light and lay beside him.

  He put his hand gently but firmly on her cunt and began to suck her nipples. —Oh, I like that! the Korean woman sighed. After a while she was screaming with pleasure. Her hips slammed again and again against the bed, so hard that it almost broke, and love-juice drooled out upon his hand. That was no act, he thought, immeasurably grateful that he could please somebody. When her eyeballs rolled up and she ground her head against the wall, he began to need her urgently, and cunt-sucked, then mounted her, coming quickly and pleasantly, though not as ecstatically as she had.

  Thank you, they said to one another at the same time.

  You want to come see me sometime? he said.

  I work very long hours, the Korean woman said glibly. I can’t get out much.

  Never mind, he said. But I’m going to give you my P.O. box. If you ever need help or want to see me, write me.

  Thank you, she said.

  He was out of business cards, so he tore a scrap off one of the surveillance report forms in his briefcase and wrote the information down.

  Well, he said, I guess I’ll never see you again then.

  In another month I’ll be gone, she agreed flatly. I’ll probably be in Saint Louis.

  How long have you been here? he said.

  Oh, about one month.

  D
o you live with your kid?

  No. He’s with my husband.

  On the way out, she said: If I write to you and you ever see me again, don’t tell anyone we did this.

  Okay, he said. Her words gave him hope that maybe she’d get in touch with him.

  Don’t forget me, she whispered.

  | 79 |

  He could have deepened the case against himself, had he been of a self-torturing mind, by reminding himself that moments after he’d climaxed in her arms she was holding out his underwear and then (embarrassingly) putting his unclean socks onto his feet for him, and then before he knew it she was handing him his coat; his money, in short, had been spent; and yet, although he was far from young enough for his sadness to have been entirely alleviated by the sexual act, the generosity with which she’d given herself to him, the happiness and gladness of her body both in and out of sex (she said that she was always happy), the genuine tenderness and care he felt she’d given him as one human being to another suffused him with an even more fundamental kind of hope than that of seeing her again, which he now understood didn’t matter. If he could but trust and believe, not so much, or so carelessly, that the world could hurt him, but enough to open his soul to people like her, then maybe someday he too could be happy. There had been some sort of flavored gel inside her pussy; maybe he’d imagined that orgasm of hers; but whether that was true or not, the important thing was that she had tried to bring him joy.

  How long will you stay here? she had asked him after explaining that she couldn’t see him.

  I’m leaving town, he lied absurdly.

  That didn’t matter, either. She had helped him. She had loved him, inasmuch as one stranger can love another. If there were a heaven, she would undoubtedly go there.

  Two or three nights afterward, he dreamed about Irene. They were alone with each other in a valley which was very hot just like the cemetery in L.A., but they followed a creek upstream, and the creek kept foaming green and white with the shadowy reflections of alder branches bending like kelp, whirling deliciously cold breezes at them; and they found a bank of snow-white gravel on which to sit with the white rock faces reflecting starriness and sunniness down upon them. She sat upon his knee. Now it was almost evening, and the cliffs, crevice-speckled with trees, became as white as silver ore, as white as the beaches of glacier lakes. He slipped his arm around her waist. She leaned back against him, her head against his neck; he stroked her hair, which was as smooth and cool as a waterfall. He felt that she would be with him always. He awoke in a state almost of rapture. By mid-morning he had begun to wonder whether he would ever dream about her again.