The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  Sure, Professsor. You were talking about your wife. So you wanna kind of like unzip, and then maybe we can relax? I’m real tight down there, you know what I mean?

  Listen, said the doctor. I changed my mind. I wanted somebody who could pretend a little better than you could.

  Oh, well, aren’t we hurt! sneered Domino. Just because I don’t understand all your mathematics shit, you can’t get hard! You have it in for me because I never had the opportunity you had? You have something against girls that never had the chance to get a good education, that never even got a decent pair of shoes?

  Those sneakers of yours look just fine to me, said the doctor. Or don’t they count?

  Domino reached into her purse and pulled out a razor-knife. —All right, don’t play games with me, she said. I want your wallet.

  | 167 |

  They call some people shot-callers, said the tall man. They’re the ones that call the shots. If you gotta get well and I wanna sell you some powder for a higher price and you say no, don’t mean no nevermind, ’cause you gotta have that powder, see. I call the shot.

  How many women shot-callers you know? said Domino.

  A few. And they be so cold.

  How about me?

  You certainly be cold enough. Might as well call you the Ice Bitch. But that’s not all there is to it. You got to show some sense. Why be mean when you can accomplish the same thing by coaxin’?

  I don’t give a fuck about coaxing, laughed Domino.

  That’s what I’m saying. Oh, what’s the use?

  Shit, if I was the Queen I’d get good for all the girls, get a nice escort service, hundred dollar dates for even the girls that didn’t deserve it, even the ugly girls, even the mean, stupid bitches, even the assholes that ripped me off and gaffled me and jacked me up, and they wouldn’t have to pay nothin’. Not a fuckin’ thing. Justin. I’d be so good to them they wouldn’t know what hit ’em. I was in an escort service for a number of years. Being the Queen is easier than you might ever dream. And I sure as hell wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . . what the fuck was I talking about? Jeez, my head hurts.

  It hurts from doing what you call thinking, said Justin. Now leave me in peace. I’m gonna roll myself some of this greenbud. Thank the Lord you’re allergic to that. Otherwise you’d be hitting me up and threatening . . .

  I wouldn’t make ’em stay in this dump, either, Domino muttered. I wouldn’t want ’em with me, anyhow. Better to get myself a nice big old house like I used to have before my mother lost her mind, and I want a kitty, a nice white kitty cat. And all the rest of you, I’d keep you at arm’s length, I tell you. You goddamned backstabbers . . .

  * * *

  •BOOK XII•

  * * *

  The False Irene

  •

  * * *

  For the wisdom of this world is folly with God.

  1 CORINTHIANS 3.19

  * * *

  •

  | 168 |

  Who’s that rose for? That rose for me?

  It’s for the Queen, said Tyler.

  For the Queen! Oh! You datin’ the Queen? said Kitty.

  I’m just bringing her a rose.

  Shit! Why didn’t you bring me one?

  Evening, Strawberry, Tyler said. Have you been crying?

  Justin and I broke up, the whore wept.

  I’m sorry to hear that, he said. What was the last thing you said to him?

  I told him he’d be well advised to use this time packing.

  And what did he say?

  Oh, he said something about me, involving fornicating female dogs. Oh, hell. Here he comes. Justin! Justin, I already told you! Keep away from me, I said! Justin!

  The tall man glared scarlet-eyed and slugged her in the mouth. Her lip split and blood dribbled down her chin.

  Come on home, she said to him steadily. Let’s forget this. When we get home I’ll go out and make money and get you another drink.

  He needs another drink like I need an airplane, Kitty muttered.

  The tall man punched Strawberry again. Kitty screamed.

  All right, Justin, said Tyler. You made your point.

  Strawberry turned on him, clawing and shrieking: Stay out of my business, you bastard! This is between Justin and me!

  I get it, said Tyler. Where’s the Queen?

  In there, said the tall man.

  All right, he said, walking around them. He heard the tall man punch Strawberry again, and felt sickened.

  Beatrice was playing with a blue tiger which she had made out of papier mâché when Tyler came down the steps into the tunnel, giving her game surcease. She likewise hated the tall man’s violence, even though she could understand very well that he might become exasperated because Strawberry was a born thief and even from her own sisters she would steal. Once Beatrice had caught her trying to sell Domino’s silver shoes. She begged her not to do that, but the other girl wouldn’t listen. But whenever the tall man beat her, ay! Poor Strawberry! How Beatrice pitied her!

  Afternoon, Bea, he said drily.

  Oh, Henry, why is Justin so fierce? I’m afraid now even to see his face! And Strawberry, she’s so patient, may the saints protect her . . . When he goes away I can give to her this tiger, and may she find joy in it.

  I figure you and I should go out dancing sometime, he said to cheer her. —Maj tells me you used to dance professionally . . .

  With a bitter grimace she replied: On the Day of the Dead they only know to dance their own way.

  What’s that got to do with anything? You thinking of dying anytime soon?

  From behind, they heard Strawberry’s shrill, sharp screams. But the darkness ahead where the Queen was was silent.

  I dislike it, she said. Ay, how I dislike it.

  Never mind, Bea. In your home town how do they dance?

  They dance different. It’s like the same music, but nobody show them.

  You still like to dance?

  She trembled. —No, she said. No more. Now I doan like.

  All right, he said.

  He could not unhear Strawberry’s screams and Kitty’s screams.

  The Queen was in the darkness muttering: I’m fixin’ to go buy some groceries.

  Is Strawberry going to be okay? he said.

  Justin slapping her around again, huh? said the Queen. I seen that almost every month.

  Yeah.

  Oh, he’s a wild one, said the Queen, resigned.

  What if he kills her?

  He won’t.

  I don’t get it. Don’t you run things here? Are you trying to tell me she wants it?

  Hush up, Henry. She done him wrong this time. She flushed all his china white down the toilet an’ then told him she done it. It’s always this way. She’ll be sick a couple of days . . .

  It makes me anxious, he said. I hate to see her allowing that to happen.

  Nobody sayin’ you don’t have a good heart. But maybe you don’t understand. It’s not always wrong when a man hits a woman. Most of the time, yes. But not all the time.

  I don’t know.

  You’d never do it. But maybe she needs it.

  How could anyone need it?

  Strawberry! called the Queen. Strawberry, c’mere!

  The whore came in torn clothes, bleeding from the mouth, one eye swollen shut. Justin was stamping and roaring outside as his victim whispered: This is how the world is. Oh, Jesus! Someone’s gonna get compensated, but it’s still horrendous. I still hope someday we’ll all laugh about it, but oh well.

  Strawberry! Strawberry!

  What? she sobbed. Maj, he’s so violent. Can’t you —

  Strawberry, this gentleman told me he’s worryin’ about you.

  Tell Henry to keep the fuck out of my business.

  All right, baby, you can go. Now, Henry, do you believe?

  I believe in her pride, that’s all.

  You want me to take your pain away? I could make you drink something so you’d forget Irene forever. Yo
u wouldn’t wake up cryin’ no more. You want me to do that?

  No.

  Why not?

  I don’t know, he said wearily. Can we talk about something else?

  In other words, keep the fuck out of my business.

  No, Maj. I’d never say that.

  Well?

  Irene’s so precious to me.

  You see? You’re like some wolf that keeps lickin’ the razor-blade; he drinks his own blood an’ bleeds to death, ’cause he likes the taste. You an’ Strawberry, oh me oh my . . .

  The screams had begun again. He sighed and said: Here’s a rose for you.

  The Queen accepted the flower, stood up on tiptoe and kissed his face.

  | 169 |

  Did she touch you? Smooth wanted to know when he had recounted this much.

  Yep.

  No, Henry, I suspect your ignorant and envious ears mistook my meaning. I meant, did she touch you? I meant, did she leave marks?

  That’s between her and me.

  No it isn’t, Smooth replied with logic as tight as the pussy of the skeletal whore whose face had been destroyed in an automobile accident. You couldn’t have met her without me, boyo. What’s more, you —

  Talk about envious ears, my God!

  Come on down to the basement, said Smooth. I just got me a Hi-Standard twenty-two I wanted to break in. They say it takes five hundred rounds to loosen her up. Salesman I bought it from has one of his own; that’s how he sold me on it, you see. He said it was fun. Now, he did warn me that during the break-in period it jammed once or twice with every magazine, which didn’t turn me on. He got so he wanted to throw it against the ever-lovin’ wall, he said. But he’s had it for twenty years since then, and never a problem. Now he’s addicted.

  I’ve got to go.

  No you don’t.

  I don’t mind obeying her. But I kind of dislike it when you push me around . . .

  Why so belligerent, Henry? Grin and bear it, now. Maybe you—

  I get so bored and so tired sometimes—

  Well, what’s your favorite subject? Irene? That’ll perk you right up. Henry, baby, you want to talk about Irene? I’m all attention.

  Please cut it out, said Tyler, rubbing his chin.

  No, that’s what I was going to say to you. I’m lonely, you see.

  Well, I—

  And maybe I can give you some advice about how to proceed with our Queen.

  What do you mean, proceed?

  Don’t you want to take it to the next level, Henry? Don’t you want to learn the secret of life? You can’t always predict what she’ll teach you, but whatever she imparts, well, zowie! Get that Mark of Cain working for you, son! Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and—

  Cut the corny crap. I give up. So you’ve got a shooting range downstairs?

  Well, you could call it that.

  Smooth opened the basement door and clicked a switch connected to a wan bulb. They went down.

  Not so many basements in Sacramento, Tyler said.

  Flood plain. This house was built two big floods ago. There was no flood insurance requirement back then, and the state was having a drought, so nobody believed in floods. Just like you, Henry boy—you were getting discouraged about the Queen before you met me, hey? Well, that flood came, and the basement filled up, and the family that lived here moved out and sold it to me. Basement filled up again when the last flood came, and I guess it will do it when the next flood comes. I still don’t pay flood insurance. Why?

  Why what?

  Why did you ask?

  I don’t care, to be honest. Just making conversation.

  No. I won’t accept that. Meaningless conversation is not allowed in my house. What’s your point?

  I’ve given up looking for points.

  I’d given it up long before you were born, son. And you know what? We’re both liars. We both want all the answers. How old are you, anyway?

  Forty-four, said Tyler.

  Well, I was going to say that you were only twenty-four, but you’d lived a hard life. Another of my jokes, see.

  Ha ha.

  A train whistled, long and slow. The two men stood on a dark green carpet which smelled like disinfectant and cigarette smoke which drifted down, as limp as Domino on heroin at the Wonderbar with her head on the counter and her long hair trailing in her drink. A foam rubber mattress with three pillows on it lay in the corner beside an electrical outlet. On the walls were taped illustrations of Boy Scouts and other adventurous young males, scissored out of the pages of Boy’s Life and similar publications. In the face of Tyler’s silence, Smooth said: I may be jealous, son, but I’m still the ordained debriefer and father confessor. Do you trust me?

  I do not, you pompous old shit.

  I never asked if you liked me. I asked if you trusted me.

  Why should I trust you? You just want to get under my skin. You sort of pry into my business and—

  Oh, heavens. I’ve got more to do than that. Getting under your skin is just my little recreation. Think nothing of it. Now, do you trust me?

  I can’t honestly say I do.

  All right. Do you trust my devotion to the Queen?

  Tyler hesitated. —Yes, he said.

  All right. And what about yourself, buddy? Are you devoted, too?

  I guess I’ve signed on.

  So you trust our coincidence of interests?

  What’s the difference, Smooth? I’m so tired of talking about this. Motives don’t count worth a damn anyway. Only actions are valid. I—

  You’d like to pretend that was the case, wouldn’t you? But I’d bet a hundred dollars that whenever you fuck up, you excuse yourself for good intentions. In fact . . .

  In fact you revel in the real or imaginary weaknesses of others, Tyler replied, raising his voice. You’re like a dog that loves to roll in shit! I admit that my shit stinks as much as yours, but I don’t go out of my way to smell it—

  Interesting analogy! said Smooth brightly. Because to really serve the Queen, you know, you’ll need to develop an intimacy with many kinds of body products.

  Dan, you used to disgust me, but now you just bore me.

  Ah. Well, are you ready to shoot?

  Right now I’m pissed off at you, so don’t put a gun in my hand.

  Here you go. The famous Hi-Standard.

  All right, asshole, Tyler said. My brother used to have one of those. What are we shooting at?

  Hang your target on that clothesline there, over by the sandbags. You aren’t so incompetent you’ll miss the sandbags, are you?

  Oh, I wouldn’t exactly say that.

  Good. But aren’t you carrying today?

  No, Dan. I don’t need a pistol to visit my mother.

  But you’re visiting me.

  They loaded up and shot for an hour or two, the sounds of the shots muffled and sad through their ear protectors like hammer-blows in some mineshaft far away. —You’re a pretty good shot, said Tyler with surprise and respect. —But the Hi-Standard jammed every five or six shots. Smooth said that the old manufacturing dies had nearly worn out, which was why a used Hi-Standard from the 1950s sold for as much as a new one from 1995. Tyler listened glumly, holding the gun with the muzzle safely sandbag-pointed. In truth, it was not so much Smooth who repulsed him, as his own life, whose fundamental meaninglessness he confessed in a series of skull-muffled shouts. How could he retain any faith in the Queen, when she squatted like a spider in the darkness while the tall man beat Strawberry? What was she even good for? Maybe he should humble himself, apologize to John and ask for another loan. He’d go to night school. He’d become a . . .

  But he could not think what he desired to become.

  As a matter of fact, I used to shoot competition, the pedophile was saying. Here lay his vanity, Tyler thought. And he did his best not to smile as Smooth babbled on: Gave that up about ten years ago now, when some fellows who’d heard about me started calling me names right there on the firing line. But I still get o
ut to the range from time to time.

  You’re a good shot, Tyler repeated weakly, longing for a drink.

  Oh, not very. I could blow your head off at fifty yards. But if I could shoot through your left eyeball eight out of ten times at fifty yards, now, that would be good shooting.

  I guess that’s a compliment. That’s what my eyeball guesses.

  Oh, I don’t shoot my three fifty-seven much. I usually go out with my Ruger, which I load way under specs for target. But this Hi-Standard is . . . Well. I guess you’re driving back before long?

  Yeah.

  And Irene is still on your mind?

  Yeah.

  What time is it?

  Going on three.

  You fixing to see Maj tonight?

  You need to report back to her?

  Maybe.

  On me?

  Sure.

  All right. What hoops do I have to jump through now?

  All of ’em, Henry. I wouldn’t take less.

  And what does she say about me?

  She might be able to get some good use out of you before you crack.

  I know she gets good use out of you.

  Now, Henry, there’s your envy speaking again.

  But what’s it all about? Tyler almost shouted.

  Nothing, brother. Everything’s about nothing. You know that, but you prefer to pretend otherwise. We both do.

  You know, Smooth, I kind of figure your job isn’t really to get information on me. I’d also say the Queen tends to make up her own mind no matter what you tell her . . .

  Correct. Now, Henry, do you love her?

  I beg your pardon?

  Do you love our Queen?

  How about you? Tyler said, swallowing nervously.

  I’d die for her.

  All right, fine. I love her. I don’t know whether I’d die for her or not.

  But you’re not actually about love in this case, are you? You’re like one of those lepers in a medieval morality play crying out: Heal me! That’s what you want the Queen for. And you’re still holding a torch for Whatchamahoosis. Christine.