The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  Oh, good grief, said Celia. See you.

  Goodbye, said John.

  John?

  What?

  Is something wrong?

  I’m so glad that everybody keeps asking me that, said John, hanging up, positively grinding the phone into its cradle like some accolyte of mortar and pestle . . .

  | 120 |

  Rapp’s already fifty-seven. I don’t know what he’s going to do when he retires. Me, I’m counting the days, Mr. Singer had said to John that afternoon, scratching his baldness. —Three hundred eighty-nine.

  I’m sorry, said John. Three hundred eighty-nine what?

  Days, John.

  John’s watch gleamed on his wrist at the edge of the white tablecloth. He raised his frosted mug of Sierra Nevada in a sort of toast and said: Well, Mr. Singer, we all have to reach that final deadline someday.

  Ever the sentimentalist, John. Tell me this: Do you enjoy these private lunches?

  Of course. By the way, the Brady contracts are almost ready for you to look at.

  What do you mean, almost ready?

  They’ll be ready on Thursday, unless Brady makes more changes.

  Good, good. Brady’s definitely a live one. I know you take him out often on our nickel. Roland lives for private lunches, by the way. At least so he tells me. Mondays, lunch with Roland. Thursdays, lunch with John. See? I have it all here, right in my palmtop. It’s got a built-in deadline alarm, too. Does Roland confide in you?

  I pretty much stick to my work, John replied. It’s no good getting confided in.

  Do you feel as if you’re somehow in competition with Roland, John?

  Well, you made me full partner. You didn’t make him full partner yet. I guess when you do, I’ll have to compete with him. For the time being, I ignore him.

  You know, John, I really like you. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you’re such an unreconstructed sonofabitch. You just don’t care. You’re a hard young man, and hard men get things done. Do you know who Heydrich was?

  World War II was before my time, said John. I’m a know-nothing.

  Come on, young John. Don’t let me down. What was Heydrich’s first name?

  Reinhard. Do you want me to back-burner the tobacco deal so we can wrap up Brady? I have to tell you that he may insist on more changes.

  What’s a meteope, John?

  A rectangular slab above the architrave of a Doric temple. Can I go now?

  Smiling a pink self-satisfed smile, leaning forward, Mr. Singer said: You know, Rapp and Singer have kept the same offices since ’67. That was when they still had cobalt at Walter Reed Hospital. I guess they mainly use electricity now. Sometimes cesium. I’m going through all that again with my sister. In ’67 it was my wife. You have a brother, don’t you, John? What would you do if your brother were in intensive care, waiting to die?

  Pull the plug, said John. And I’m going to back-burner those tobacco people.

  Mr. Singer had a trick—actually less than unique—of staring wide-eyed through his glasses into his interlocutor’s face and repeatedly addressing him by his first name, possibly because some book on business sincerity had advised it decades ago, or simply in order to retain the name in his memory. —Well, John, he’d say, it certainly was a tremendous disappointment about Reginald. He won’t be coming back. —I don’t suppose so, said John. —Mr. Singer leaned forward and took a deep breath, and John knew that the next word he would hear would be his own name.

  John, he inquired, what does your brother do?

  He’s a snoop.

  A lot of attorneys don’t want to say after the Nader stuff that they’re using private eyes. But you have to do it, of course. Can you recommend him, John? We’d use him on your say-so.

  My brother? Hell, I don’t know.

  You said you’d pull the plug on him—hee, hee! Oh, yes, now I remember that he let us down that warehouse job. I’d forgotten about that. Or was he sick? Didn’t you tell me he was sick? Say something, John.

  You were talking about cancer, Mr. Singer.

  Cesium is what they use these days. At least that’s what they tell me. You’ve never had cancer in your family, have you, John?

  Not yet, Mr. Singer. But there’s always a first time.

  In my case, it’ll be the third time, if we count my wife. Of course a wife is not a blood relative.

  John, of course, had no idea that just then Mr. Singer was remembering his young wife’s lonely moments before the mirror, searching for her first wrinkle, wanting not to find it, hoping that when it came her husband would say that it didn’t matter. Mr. Singer had caught her in front of the mirror almost every day when she was Irene’s age.

  So you were diagnosed? said John, squeezing his napkin in his lap. Well, I’m very sorry to hear that. And your parents?

  Auto accident. Are your parents still alive?

  Yes, said John, knowing that by the rules of discourse Mr. Singer, by virtue of his unsolicited confession, was now entitled to pick and poke through John’s private life as he pleased.

  You know, John, sometimes it helps to talk about these things. You understand why Rapp’s not here today?

  Doctor’s appointment, said John, who knew everything.

  When he heard my news, he got a scare. He went in for a checkup. They’re probably giving him the sigmoidoscope treatment even as we—

  Raspberry venison and spicy mussel salad, said the waiter. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen.

  He’s new, said Mr. Singer. John, is our waiter new?

  I don’t think so. His face looks very familiar.

  And how’s life, John?

  Fine.

  I know it’s a painful subject.

  Nothing compared to the sigmoidoscope treatment, said John, and Mr. Singer laughed and from the first steaming blue shell-tomb extracted with little silver pincers the occupant, which he dipped in butter and laid softly upon a bed of noodles.

  John, I’m going to ask Roland to help you with Brady.

  Is that a vote of no confidence?

  Not at all, not at all. But you and Roland need to learn to work together—

  Ah, thought John to himself. That means that he wants to make Roland full partner. Of course Rapp might not agree. I wonder if I should go along with this or make waves . . .

  Do you object?

  All right. I object.

  Then I won’t ask him. You see, I’m actually trying to help.

  Noted and appreciated, said John through his teeth.

  How are your in-laws coping?

  They’re not really on my wavelength. We don’t keep in contact.

  Ah. And how’s your mother?

  Fine. Better, actually . . .

  Why don’t you and your brother get on? Mr. Singer suddenly inquired.

  Well, do you remember when I came to work with my left hand in a bandage? He slammed a car door on my hand.

  And it wasn’t an accident?

  Nope. Hank doesn’t commit accidents; he commits crimes.

  Well, too bad we’re not in the personal injury business, said Mr. Singer with a wink, trying to be upbeat, although with John that was sometimes difficult.

  | 121 |

  It had been a hundred and seven degrees in Sacramento at noon on Monday when Tyler passed the sidewalk of unfriendly summer school kids who kept wiping their sweaty upper lips, and he turned into his mother’s driveway, whose hedges gave off the sour-bitter smell of malathion; his mother had been having problems with scale insects, so she went to Home Masters and purchased more of that poison sometimes used to commit murders, then went to work with her pump spray can. As soon as he got out of the car, his head began to ache, he wasn’t sure whether from the malathion or simply from the heat, to which he was no longer acclimated. His T-shirt stuck to his chest and shoulders. A truck went by, clothed with grafitti as so many of them were now. There was a sour-bitter taste in his throat. All auto doors locked, his duffel bag over his shoulder, Tyler approached the front door,
hating Sacramento, and rang the bell.

  The front door opened almost at once, offering him air-conditioned air with a sour-bitter odor. It was John.

  Has Mom been going crazy with the pesticides again? said Tyler, concealing his surprise at this apparition.

  Oh, so you can smell it, too? said John. Well, don’t just let the hot air in.

  Tyler stepped inside, and John closed the door, a bit too quickly, he thought, a bit too loudly. The two brothers went into the living room. John sat down on the sofa, staring down at a water glass a quarter full of Scotch. Tyler went to the kitchen and got a bottle of fizzy water from the fridge. He was still carrying his duffel bag. He walked back to the front hall and set it down behind the umbrella stand. Then he returned to the living room, where John sat holding the untasted glass.

  Where’s Mom? Tyler said.

  You mean you don’t even know where Mom is?

  No, I guess I don’t. How are you doing, John?

  Fine. Mom’s chest pains got pretty bad yesterday. I just drove her to the hospital. I would have waited there, but she insisted that I come back here to let you in. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t have left you a note . . .

  So that’s how it is, Tyler thought. He said aloud: Well, John, I’m here now, so should we go to the hospital?

  It doesn’t matter now, said John vaguely, waving his hand.

  Tyler inspected his brother closely. He said: John, are you drunk?

  Let’s leave me out of this.

  Leave you out of what? You always want to be left out, or have something left out, or—oh, forget it.

  I could punch you in the face right now, John said. The glass trembled in his hand.

  Tyler was so made—or had made himself—that any threat effectively depersonalized and professionalized him, lowering between himself and the world several thicknesses of bulletproof glass. He smiled mirthlessly at his brother and remained in place, watching for any indication of abrupt movement from this body which might possibly strike at him.

  Oh, you goddamn coward, said John after a while.

  Tyler continued to smile, saying nothing.

  Now John raised the glass to his lips and gulped it. He grimaced. His shoulders slumped. Tyler, with his not inconsiderable knowledge both of his brother and of violent people, was satisfied now that there would be no open battle. There had not been for a very long time. Because alcohol makes possible the realization of certain ugly wishes which fear (politely known as reason) usually keeps locked away in the lowest iron corridors of the cerebellum, Tyler had experienced for several instants a sickening surge of dread, far surpassing the anxiety he’d felt at the news of their mother’s condition—not that he didn’t love his mother; nor was he at all, as John had intimated, a coward; but there had been a number of occasions when as children they’d bloodied one another’s noses; the antipathy between them was now so old that its causes were as lost to his knowledge as the creation of the world; he did not want to see it come out. Once while scuba diving he’d discovered within inches of him an anemone wriggling its tendrils, like any rotten apple upon whose top live and labor maggot swarms; and the sight of that actually inoffensive creature sometimes came back to him in dreams; his skull was the apple, and he did not want to feel the maggots of anger and hatred burst out. That was what he dreaded. And now, of course, Irene lay dead between them. When you swim up toward the surface of the sea you see a dimpled mirror of great sacredness; this is the goal of life and art and reason, to break through this barrier and leave the anemones once more invisible in the blue darkness; but on the other side one finds mosquitoes and weary heat; one goes to work and gets older; the anemones are still there, but they cannot come out; neither (more’s the pity) can the beautiful corals beneath the sea, or the schools of yellow fishes raining down headfirst; that was one of the reasons why Tyler continued to pursue the Queen of the Whores, because he was convinced that the secret tremendousness in which she lived would be lovely like that; and anyhow anemones inside other people’s skulls didn’t bother him; it was only his own that he feared; John’s anemones of course were Tyler’s.

  Well, he said, should we call the hospital?

  Let’s just go, said John. What’s the point of sitting around here? I’m drunk. I’m worried about Mom. You’d better drive.

  | 122 |

  They went north on Highway 160, passing the Chinese restaurant where less than half a year ago Tyler, John, their mother and Irene had come for sizzling shrimp and cashew chicken. It had been a round table they sat at, Tyler flanked on either side by his blood relatives (although since the table accomodated five there was, naturally, an empty place between the two brothers). By some coincidence he found himself directly across from Irene, who smilingly enjoyed the food.

  You probably want another helping, don’t you? John said to her affectionately. You’d eat anything. You’re a vacuum cleaner. No wonder you’re getting fat.

  Irene lowered her huge almond eyes.

  John slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Across the table, Tyler, electrified with jealousy, gazed into Irene’s averted face.

  | 123 |

  It’s not serious, the doctor said to John, Tyler being the less well dressed of the two. Has she been following her diet?

  I’m sure she has, John replied. She takes very good care of herself. But I’ll have a talk with her. If Mom’s been naughty, I guess I’ll just have to lean on her a little.

  Well said, well said! I can see that Mrs. Tyler’s in very good hands. Now, you’ll want to keep the air conditioning going while this heat wave lasts. That will make it easier on her heart.

  He turned to Tyler. —And you are . . . ?

  The other son, Tyler said.

  Oh, said the doctor, turning back to John. I can see she’s in good hands.

  | 124 |

  They passed the Chinese restaurant.

  How are you feeling, Mom? said Tyler.

  Not very well, honey. I want to lie down.

  Nobody said anything. John looked gloomy and anxious. They got home and John insisted that their mother lean on his shoulder while he helped her into the house.

  Can you make it upstairs, Mom? Tyler heard him saying.

  Tyler poured himself a drink out of John’s bottle. Then, slowly, he went upstairs.

  Can we go to the store and get you something, Mom? he said.

  That’s already taken care of, said John sharply. Don’t tire her out.

  Tyler leaned against the dresser, smiling sarcastically. Their mother was lying in bed looking at them both as if she wanted to say something.

  You just lie there and rest, Mom, John was saying. We’ll take care of everything.

  Have a good rest, Mom, said Tyler, a lump in his throat.

  He went downstairs to wait for his brother. He finished his drink, which was very smooth and good; John of course bought nothing but the best. Again he wondered how much Irene’s coffin had cost.

  John was still upstairs with their mother. Tyler stood up. He went to the kitchen to wash his glass. There was a saucer in the sink with bread crumbs on it, and he washed that, too, remembering a night a year or so previous when he and John and Irene had all been here for dinner and Irene had gone out to the kitchen to do the dishes. John was telling their mother some story about work. Had their mother been telling John a story, Tyler never would have chanced it, but since John had no greater listener than himself, and their mother came in a close second in that department, hanging, as always, on John’s every word, Tyler got up quietly and passed through the swinging double doors to the kitchen where Irene stood over the sink with her hands in detergent lather, and he slipped his arms around her from behind. He had meant only to embrace her about the waist, and it shocked him to find his palms had opened and were grasping her firm little breasts. Her nipples were hard against his hands. Irene continued to wash the dishes, not pulling away, not saying anything. He stood there like that with her for a moment, and then he let her go
. She went on washing the dishes.

  Leaning up against the refrigerator, Tyler had said: I wish I could have married you.

  You’re so sweet, said Irene.

  I wonder what that means, Tyler thought to himself.

  He got a bottle of fizzy water for his mother, and one for John, and went back into the dining room where John’s story was still going on. When it had finished, John pushed the bottle away from him and said: And how was Irene, Henry?

  Later, when John was in the bathroom, Irene came to him and laid her head down on his shoulder, and he stroked her hair.

  He finished rinsing the glass and saucer. He thought to himself: After Mom dies, I don’t want to come back to this house ever again. It hurts too much.

  He heard John’s footsteps, quick and sure, coming down the stairs. The booze must have worn off. He heard the steps in the living room, then he heard them come toward him.

  How is she? he said.

  You’re not thinking about Mom, said John, unsmiling. You never think about her. I know who you’re thinking about.

  Should we go buy her some groceries?

  All right, said John, slugging down a glass of cold water from the sink. I’ll drive.

  Where are you parked?

  Down by Mrs. Antoniou’s house. I left the driveway for you. There’s not enough room for both of us.

  Tyler waved at Mrs. Antoniou, whom he saw peering at them from behind her tiny window in the front door. Her lawn was as unhealthily dry as always, and marred by crab grass. The Rosens next door always complained, worrying, perhaps, that crabgrass was as catching as crabs. Domino had had crabs. They got in the car, and John inserted the key. Something chimed, and their shoulder belts slowly whirred down. John fastened his lap belt, but Tyler didn’t. John frowned but didn’t say anything. Resting his chin lovingly upon his own left shoulder, John backed out of the driveway and swung the car’s hindquarters west. Then he shifted and let out the clutch.

  How’s work? said Tyler.