The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  But you can get your license yanked for failure to report, now, can’t you, Henry? If you interviewed me about the Queen and you changed my information for that Mr. Brady—

  I didn’t know you when I was working for Brady, and this matter of the Queen isn’t even—

  And then Brady gets sued or sues somebody and then you and I both get deposed on the witness stand, boom! Not only are you sued, you’re probably in front of a review board for providing bad information . . .

  Oh, for God’s sake.

  Okay, okay. I give in. It’ll never happen. The only thing that’ll happen is that John will find another steamy letter from Irene and beat your ass . . . You think you’re better than I am?

  As a matter of fact, I do. At least I don’t torture other people for the fun of it.

  No, you wreck lives because it’s expedient. Don’t you?

  Dan, he said, I’m worried about our Queen.

  Thank you very much. So am I. And I know something you don’t, even though I’ve told it to you hundreds of times: She’s doomed, too. We’re all doomed. It’s the prophecy, stupid. Do you suppose those Brady’s Boys are going to fade away before they’ve hurt somebody? Everybody loves them. America’s on their side. Everybody hates us.

  Yeah, I know, said Tyler, happy not to be attacked for one moment. Sometimes I search for hidden assets. Let’s say a divorced husband sets up a Caribbean bank account. He gets one shot at hiding it. We get fifty shots a year at finding it. Guess who wins? And yet I have to say that they haven’t found us yet; we could start over somewhere . . .

  What do you mean, us? You think you and I are good enough or brave enough to leave the world for our Queen? I don’t see you leaving that fine apartment of yours unless you get busted by Internal Revenue or Consumer Affairs. I know I don’t have the guts.

  But—

  But your point’s well taken. The Queen could disappear anytime. If she wants to. Does she want to? You’re the one dickin’ her. Why don’t you ask her?

  You know how she is.

  Don’t worry about her then, the pedophile said, and suddenly Tyler began to feel Smooth’s replies leading him on toward something, good or bad he couldn’t tell yet, like the long thick line of San Francisco lights in the foggy blue night as he came over the Golden Gate Bridge from Sausalito. Whatever you and I know, she knows better.

  So you’re not worried at all?

  Did your envious ears hear what I said or not? Everybody worries in his own way, Henry.

  Well, that’s a beautiful Hungarian proverb, but let me ask you something, said Tyler, swallowing hard and staring into Dan Smooth’s eyes, because in his profession he sometimes encountered what he called “dead-on reads,” meaning people who were absolutely unassailably lying: people whose eyes flicked away or people who blinked too often, or people who answered every single question when the questions dealt with fifteen seconds out of somebody’s day six months before. Smooth was lying about something, or at the very least withholding something. Tyler leaned forward, raised his voice, and said: Dan, is there anything about this whole situation that you know and the Queen doesn’t?

  Cross my heart, no, said Smooth, his eyes moving away.

  Is there anything you know about Domino that I ought to know?

  Sometimes people just don’t want to talk to you, now, do they, Henry? Smooth chuckled. It’s like pulling teeth, isn’t it?

  Don’t forget whom you’re talking to. I can check up on you. I can get your tax return for Christ’s sake.

  What are you going to do, Henry? Put me through the polygraph? Now there’s a guy down the street who does that. We cross paths. My understanding is you can pop a couple of valium and you can just cruise right through it.

  It’s something about Domino, isn’t it?

  That Domino, she’s a crack monster. She—

  Oh, fuck it, said Tyler.

  Henry, I’m sorry. Domino’s balling your brother.

  * * *

  •BOOK XXVI•

  * * *

  Celia

  •

  * * *

  You will be saved from the loose woman, from the adventuress with her smooth words . . . for her house sinks down to death, and her paths to the shades . . .

  PROVERBS 2.16–18

  * * *

  •

  | 384 |

  In the winter night they reached OAK HILLS, whose letters were tricked out in spurious gold on the wall. Steel gates slid apart. John eased the car down the glistening black circle studded with streetlamps whose Christmas lights had been formed into alien coil-springs of luminosity. This “gated community,” no community at all, but rather a monument to the rich’s justified fear of the poor, was actually, like the subatomic spaces between electrons, empty and cold. A manhole cover was shining. John drove slowly between grey houses whose black roofs loomed. Occasionally a string of lights blinked idiotically in some window (pathetically, I should say, pathetic as the mobile swinging in the upper window of the police station’s Juvenile Divison at Sixteenth and Mission. Can you believe what the mobile said? I swear that it said LOVE!), but most of the time John and Celia could see no electrons at all because the householders, rich, lonely old empty-nesters, had flown to Phoenix, Lubbock or Salem to inflict themselves on their children and bribe their grandchildren with presents.

  My cousin lived here for two years, and she stayed with us, Celia said vaguely.

  All right, said John. Where do we park? The friggin’ driveway’s full.

  John?

  What?

  Did you hear what I said?

  Oh, so it’s going to be one of those nights. What’s your brother’s name again? I like to know a name when I see a face.

  Donald. And my sister is Leslie, but she won’t be there. I’ve told you about Donald so many times . . .

  Yeah, that’s right. Lock the back door on your side.

  Do you even care about my cousin?

  What’s her name?

  Ashley.

  Point her out when we go in.

  John, weren’t you listening? I told you that Ashley wasn’t going to be here.

  Well, then it isn’t relevant information, Ceel. You forgot the bottle of wine. It’s right there on the back seat.

  They still own me for another three years, Celia’s father was saying. I’m expecting that they’ll kick me out right before they’d be obligated to honor my pension, but then at least they’ll have to give me some kind of retirement package because it’s an involuntary separation.

  Oh, don’t worry, Dad, said Celia, longhaired, in white slacks. I’m sure you’re going to go the full distance.

  How much vacation did you say you had? John asked Celia’s brother.

  Six weeks.

  Interesting.

  Are you interested? the brother said challengingly.

  Very interested, said John. I have four weeks, but I never get to take it.

  I heard that Sis completely arranges her vacation time around you, and that’s why we hardly ever get to see her. Is that true?

  Why don’t you ask her? was John’s curt reply.

  John, this wine looks extremely expensive, Celia’s mother said. Are you sure we’re worth it?

  Positive, said John.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen this brand. Where does it come from? Is it French?

  Well, there’s the label. Do you see it? It’s in French, so—

  John, don’t!

  Don’t what, Ceel? Your mother asked me a question, and I not only answered her, I proved my case. What’s wrong with that? Are you going to tell me I was patronizing?

  John, there’s something I’ve always wondered, interposed Celia’s mother. People talk about good wine and bad wine. But I’ve always wondered how you can tell the difference, if you don’t go by price alone.

  Two things to look for, John explained. First of all, the wine needs to taste like fruit. It can taste dry or even bitter, but that fruit taste has to be th
ere.

  He’s kind of a know-it-all, Donald said into his father’s ear.

  And secondly, it has to have a steady aftertaste that stays on your palate.

  He kind of talks like a fruity television commercial.

  Oh, I see, said Mrs. Keane. Well, I always wondered, and now I know.

  Tell John about your new TV, Donald, said Celia.

  What? Why should I?

  Because he’s interested, silly.

  Is he really?

  Very interested, said John.

  A little shyly, Donald said: Well, John, I have direct TV at my place.

  How big is your screen? asked John.

  Fifty-four inches, said Donald. The screen here is only forty-eight inches. But watch this.

  He squeezed a button on his parents’ remote control, and an action movie appeared on the screen, with a winking blinking menu embedded in the protagonist’s head. A person was hurting another person until blood came.

  If you scroll down, Donald explained, you can hear the special effects on the ceiling speakers—but no one is being quiet, he concluded with a sudden glare.

  And what do you do with your six weeks of vacation? John asked.

  What do you mean, what do I do with it? It’s my vacation. I don’t have to do anything. And by the way, about your and Celia’s vacation, I just wanted to know. I was actually just trying to make conversation, John. No need to get huffy.

  John’s not huffy, Celia interposed. That’s just how he is.

  Correct, said John, crossing his legs. That’s just my nature.

  You think they’re going to terminate me? said Celia’s father anxiously.

  Oh, Daddy, sighed Celia.

  The back office prides itself on being a separate company. And they hold all the aces. If they terminated me, you think your legal eagle boyfriend could help me sue?

  Sure, said John cheerfully. Pro bono.

  How many people have you sued?

  Thousands. They’re all dead now.

  Celia’s mother, whose nervousness had already been aroused by the exchanges between John and Donald, tried to think of something to say and finally blurted: Are you still in your mourning period, John? I always thought it was good manners if the mourning period lasted a year.

  Well, let’s see now, he said, raising his eyebrows. How long has it been since my wife killed herself? That’s what you’re asking me, right? I mean, why put too fine a point on it?

  Please, John, whispered Celia, her eyes watering. Mama didn’t mean any harm.

  Oh, well, forget it, John began, and if someone had rushed to dilute the silence he might have truly been able to let the topic pass, but since Donald was so evidently distempered by his bluntness, and since Celia’s parents, their countenances well sculpted but slightly timeworn, like the Elgin Marbles, hung on his words like vampires, he knew that if he did not speak he would choke with sadness, humiliation and rage, so he burst out, staring them all down: June twenty-seventh. Is that what you were all fishing for?

  John, I’m so sorry. I—

  She was a great gal, you know, terrific gal. But I’ll tell you something, Mrs. Keane (and here a horrid smile crossed his lips. Celia was tongue-tied with dread.). She couldn’t keep house as well as Celia here. Would you believe that?

  John—

  Your daughter sure knows how to clean. I’ll say that much for her. She knows what’s important to me. I’ll give you an example. She was the one who hit on that Blue Wave cleanser. That took the stains right off. Well, most of the stains. I still had to get the bathtub refinished. They say blood and protein’s the worst. And today is December twenty-first. So that makes a hundred and seventy-seven days, or six months, depending on how you count—how do you count a month, Mrs. Keane? Do you use the lunar month of twenty-eight days or the variable calendar month? Since June has thirty days and July has thirty-one days, was July twenty-seventh the one month anniversary of her death or not? Donald, my man, a penny for your friggin’ thoughts.

  John, I’m so sorry, said Celia’s mother.

  Now, what we need to determine, he went on, raising his voice, is whether Emily Post and the other mavens of etiquette actually permit me to be here whooping it up with you fine people on this—should we call it a fine evening? —or whether it would be more befitting for me to sit in a bar somewhere in the Tenderloin, the way my grungy brother would—

  That’s a district of San Francisco, Celia explained brightly, clenching her fists.

  The Tenderloin? said Celia’s father. Doesn’t he mean the bad area?

  . . . Drinking myself into a stupor until next June twenty-seventh, or would June twenty-sixth be good enough? If there’s no leap year I guess then we could wrap it up. The mourning period, I mean, John shouted.

  (Celia would not forget the sight in that bathtub, not ever. Nor would she forget the refinishing man who’d arrived two days later and lounged in the doorway saying to John: That bathtub’s gonna be as smooth as a baby’s ass, Mr. Tyler. Don’t you worry about that. I take pride in my work.

  (All right, fine, said John. Just make sure you mask it off. I’m a clean freak.

  (What happened in this bathtub, anyway? said the refinishing man. It don’t really look so bad.

  (My wife died in it, said John. Just make sure you mask it off, all right?)

  Donald said: For Christ’s sake, John, we get the picture.

  Oh, you do? Good. Then let’s talk about something more pleasant. Mutual funds, for instance. Do you have a Keough IRA, Donald?

  I don’t even know what I have. When I started working for the company last year they told me something about stock options, but . . .

  Wrong answer, said John. I want you to tell me yes or no.

  Celia laid a hand on his shoulder, but he shook her off. He went on and on. He talked about stocks and bonds. Only Celia’s father was interested, but Celia’s father was extremely interested.

  | 385 |

  Easy to put John in a bad light, to perceive in him a desire to torment! But, if we set aside his undeniable territorialism regarding his inner life, his mastiff’s instinct of self-defense even to growling and barking, we’re left with a sincere, almost ingenuous enthusiast of market forces, an almost convivial do-gooder, who enjoyed shepherding his fellow creatures towards security and riches. (Come tax time, Donald’s life is not going to be pretty, he said.) Mr. Keane’s anxiety about the future might have been tiresome to the family; to John, it was natural, prudent, appropriate. John would help him if he could. Passionate believer in self-help and mutual aid, unsurpassed justifier of insurance, accumulation and other end goals, he remained in his own peculiar way as kind to human beings as he was to his mother’s dog. It was natural that in due course he would advise Domino, who always wondered where the money was in her life. (He easily withstands comparison with his fraternal antipode, one Henry Tyler, whose twenty-thousand-dollar investigative access bond with the Department of Motor Vehicles John had paid half of, out of duty to that same Henry Tyler who when walking down Jones Street, enjoying in equal measure clouds over Ellis Street and fire escape shadows on that classy watering hole the Cinnabar, was approached by a man who said: Yo, brother, can I bum a quarter? I ain’t gonna lie to you. It’s for a beer. —You can smoke crack with it for all I care, said Tyler, fishing for a promise-keeper. Sure I’ll give you a quarter.) John wanted the best for everyone, even for the impudent Donald. Did his pity contain contempt? To be sure, John loved dignity. But his hardness was less a means of intimidation, or even of expression of any sort, than an inescapable constituent of his being.

  I recall the afternoon at the office when Mr. Singer grinned, sneered and shrugged at the same time, back-tilting his massive bald head. —You’re certainly all business, John, he said. If it weren’t for the fact that the clients seem to like you so much, I’d have to consider you—well, almost abrasive—

  If they like me, it must be because I’m all business, replied John. After all, we bill them fo
r my time. They don’t want to pay me to talk baseball. I had a lawyer once who—

  But, you know, sometimes talking a little baseball puts a person at ease. Sometimes you can get them to open up . . .

  You mean, like a girl on the first date, said John.

  Now, you see, said Mr. Singer with a tiresomely professorial air, you can say that to me, and it’s really quite funny. But if I were to say that to Joy, or, God forbid, to Ellen, why I could be sued for sexual harassment. Creating an unsuitable working environment, they’d call it. I’m sure you know what not to say to the client . . .

  That’s why I keep it all business.

  Maybe you’re right, John. Maybe you’re right. God knows, it’s easier to get castrated than you think.

  And if John had failed to keep it all business that night at Celia’s house, it was because that very day an untoward discovery had caught him up. Celia’s allergies to mold had impelled him to have his carpet steam-cleaned. It was one of those half-rare Saturdays when he did not need to be reading briefs or visiting the tall, windowed huddle of downtown, so while Celia, who was an excellent cook, went home and made peach ice cream, meanwhile adding to her latest list the following items:

  call Jeffrey

  return video

  draft exclusion to Merino policy

  call John—dinner on Monday or not?

  delete Sandy from system

  create agenda document

  database A-2

  John began moving furniture up against the wall, rather enjoying the work. The bed was on casters. When John rolled it aside, he discovered among the inevitable accruement of dust, lint, a penny, and several of Irene and Celia’s hairs, black and brown together, mixed together in the dirt, a sheet of Irene’s blue notepaper, which he recognized as instantaneously as he did the handwriting of Irene’s which rippled so evenly across it. Longing then to rid himself of all such memory-capabilities fluttering like voracious moths amidst the already moth-eaten curtains of self which hung inside his airless skull, John sat down on the bed with a dully submissive look upon his face, weakened by the immensity of his anger and anguish. His first impulse was to tear up the letter without reading it, but he mastered this desire, believing (though he could not have said so) that communications from the dead are sacred, that they must be accepted with trembling awe. He was afraid. But he also hoped. His wife’s suicide would never, could never, be entirely explicable to him, but he understood it well enough to interpret it as a reproach. Had Irene been less desperate on her last day, or perhaps less vindictive, she could have left him with an explanation or a few lines of tactful self-blame, so that John could try more successfully to persuade himself of his own righteousness in the matter. After all, what had she to gain by torturing him after her death—unless, indeed, that motive was the wellspring of her act? This question haunted John. And there had been no message whatsoever. The two policemen who came to take his statement told him that in San Francisco only about one out of every four people who killed themselves left a note; he musn’t feel bad about that aspect of the case, they said. But of course he wondered whether he’d been too lenient with her, or not lenient enough, or simply negligent; and if his hostility later fastened upon his brother, one reason was that Irene had herself been negligent in allowing that hostility no proven act or assertion of hers to cling to. Work, time, Celia, self-discipline, and above all the logic of hopelessness had combined to dull the ache. Now it throbbed so fearfully that for a moment he could almost believe—he had to believe—that she who would never rise again now stood before him, calming him and helping him. She would speak to him. She would explain. Sitting there on the stripped bed, he brushed the dust off that blue page and began to read—only to cry out when he saw that it was not addresed to him: