The Mt. Monadnock Blues

by Larry Duberstein

  “The land grab. I heard they are building a store near Jill’s house.”

  “Did you now? That is one slick operator, my brother-in-law—just a tadpole slow. Friendly Wal-Fart is going to build in Rindge, as it happens. But that’s all right.”

  “I’m serious, Earl. The house would be gone. Sold. The money would go in trust for Billy and Cindy.”

  “Whatever. Giddings will know about all that shit.”

  “Giddings, your liar.”

  “Exactimo. Your liar can talk to my liar, as they say. Let them work out what to call it. Trust fund, escrow, scholarship, old age. Beats shit out of us—right, Hammett?”

  “You really don’t care?”

  “What it’s called?”

  “About the kids. The house. The money.”

  “What is it with you, Timmy? I fight you and you don’t like it, then I agree to agree and you still don’t like it. What’s the story.”

  “I’m just amazed you can let go so easily.”

  “Like I say, there are tough ones and there are easy ones. Critical part is knowing the difference.”

  “You were dug in. To the death.”

  “I have nothing against this Al, and his boys. Sounds like an okay gig to me—like it could work, you know.”

  “Dug in against me.”

  “That is so. Hell, Timmy, you’re a nice enough guy, but still. You’re a homo, and I’m a homophobe. Isn’t that the word?”

  “You simpleminded asshole.”

  “That’s the spirit, I know you hate me too. Though, truth be told, I almost like you. Question my sensibilities on the matter. Can’t relax the military vigilance with a youngster’s life at stake.”

  “You asshole,” Tim repeated, emboldened, luxuriating in this new aggressive vulgarity. “I should bust both your knees with a two-by-four.”

  “And this would be by way of thanking me for my hospitality? Or for confessing that I like you?”

  “You don’t believe for one minute that I’d molest those kids. Even you can’t be that dumb.”

  “Easy now, Timbo, let’s don’t take a joke too far. I never said molest. You wouldn’t molest, willing to bet on you there. But there’s an example to be set. I can’t allow my wife’s own blood to be raised among Sodomites, can I?”

  “You are perfectly serious.”

  “Hell yes. I’m not speaking in philosophical detail regarding chapter and verse, but yes, I am telling you the gospel truth.”

  “As seen by Earl Sanderson.”

  “Earl Sanderson is who you asked, son.”

  Now Earl pulled two more cans of beer from the cooler and slid one across the table to Tim. Then he went inside and came back with a pistol, a big stripshooter with a bandolier of cone-tipped bullets set like penny candy on a backing.

  “Show-and-Tell hour. Something I’d like to share with you.”

  “If it’s quick,” said Tim, not entirely confident Earl was not about to fill him full of holes.

  “Quicker than wind. Quickness of it being the whole damned purpose, as you will see. That plus the raw ingenuity.”

  “Your own, I take it.”

  “It is my invention—the Sanderson .357 Magnum Chainsaw. Step this way for your free demonstration.”

  Earl raised the gun and started blasting away in the direction of the woods, shots that rippled like firecrackers. Then he blew a wisp of smoke off the tip of the barrel and grinned what he liked to call his Southern-fool grin. If he was potting squirrels, Tim had not spotted any of them, aloft or on the ground. Yet Earl was wearing a look of triumph, or at least goodnatured smugness.

  It soon emerged that he was shooting a maple tree. One substantial limb, twenty feet up, was nearly torn loose. “This is the key—no ladder required,” said Earl, as he casually squeezed off a last round which severed the tissue of bark hinging the limb. Shunting its way down through lower branches, it landed hard, then reverberated with a heavy rustle of leaves.

  “Once she’s down, of course, you bring in more conventional equipment to finish the job proper.”

  “I’m impressed. By your ingenuity and your accuracy.”

  “They say wood warms you twice. Me, it only warms once. Plus I never cared for heights.”

  “I never cared for noise, myself. Or waste. What was that, twenty dollars’ worth of ammunition?”

  “Buck-fifty, and think what it saves on the back. Lower back? But here’s the crux of it, Timbo. You are a hypocrite. Nobel Prize quality hypocrite. You’re so damn sure I’m a howling cheese, maybe one jump up from the amoeba? In taste. In breeding.”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “It’s just some truth,” said Earl, stepping outside the Earl persona. He was shooting absolutely straight with Tim now. “You hate people who disapprove of you, of who you are, but you don’t mind disapproving of who they are. Who I am, por ejemplo. What’s harmless fun to me is ignorance and waste to you, and no two ways about it.”

  “Is that what this little demo was about?” said Tim, not as forcefully as he intended. The gun had not scared him, but he was shaken by this new intellectually dangerous Earl.

  “Outing you. I am outing you as a hypocrite—hard kernel of truth, Timmy. Are you man enough to admit it?”

  Tim and Al were standing in the very spot they had stood when Al came forward with his proposal. Their four shoes might even be filling the same imprints in the grass. But the mood was substantially altered.

  “Where did you say Alice’s parent live?”

  “Idaho. Someone has to, I always tell them. Not that it isn’t the most gorgeous place on earth.”

  “And they come east infrequently.”

  “Never. Which is pretty damned infrequent.”

  “I would have to pay some kind of rent.”

  “Nah.”

  “Something nominal, at least. To help out.”

  “Alice will kill you if you try that. Seriously, the place is just sitting there, crying out to be used.”

  “It crossed my mind to look for a place up this way. Something small and cheap, maybe on a pond.”

  “You wouldn’t be getting back together with Karl, by any chance?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, the house hunting. And you look right for each other. Jill always said you were right.”

  “I keep trying to tell you, Jilly liked to overlook my many shortcomings.”

  “She told us you’ve never lived with anyone else.”

  “That’s one of my many shortcomings. I can’t handle the feeling I’m being invaded.”

  “Except with Karl.”

  “Even with him. All my fault. Karl is perfect; I am not nearly.”

  “He seems awfully sweet.”

  “He’s the best. But he was always there.”

  “Isn’t that the point, Tim?”

  “I’d come home and there he’d be, every damn night. It got to be a terrible weight, just knowing he’d be somewhere in that apartment. I remember walking in one night and being sure the place was empty. It felt so empty and quiet and I felt a rush of relief—honestly, it was a thrill. Then I found him reading in the bathroom.”

  Al raised an eyebrow.

  “See? I’m way weirder than you thought.”

  “No, I take your point. Marriage is not for everyone.”

  “No point, actually. Unless the point is that I’ve figured out the best I can do for Jill’s kids is to be their Uncle Tim. I believe that’s what they want me to be. But I can’t say I’m completely comfortable with this arrangement.”

  “I’m pretty sure it will work out. We’ll make a nice family, the seven of us.”

  Al was in earnest. He and Alice agreed that including Tim gave them a way of keeping a piece of Jill in their lives, not merely of keeping faith with her. Al was comfortable with the arrangement. He even looked forward, perhaps too optimistically, to further revelations of Tim’s hidden facets.

  And Tim’s discomfort was limit
ed for a reason that felt mildly shameful to him. His many advisors had been so quick to approve the “arrangement” that Tim simply let go of any protest or hesitation. He did not decide, he let others decide for him. But then he realized he had pulled a fast one.

  Shameful, perhaps, yet quite acceptable in light of the very real possibility he could lose the kids flat out on Monday. And it was accidental, if that was an excuse; it was not premeditated. Nevertheless, he had outmaneuvered Earl, had arranged him right out of the equation. The court as well: the judge, the liars, even The Alien. The kids were his.

  Yes, Alice would make the lunches—at least for now. Tim would be the one in charge. There was no way the Macs would try to usurp his authority. The decision to rent out Jill’s house rather than sell it, for example, had been his entirely. He had done the math, he had made the call. And the realtor, who sounded so bouncy on the telephone, might keep an eye out for his cottage.

  He would indeed be around on weekends. He could also talk to the kids every night if he wanted, show up on a Wednesday in November for the big game against ConVal, maybe move north within the year. Why not? His ties to Billy and Cindy were real, as he had argued from the start. Argued correctly! Relationships trump contracts.

  Though he had his contract too. If Tim felt a trickle of guilt run through him (Al so sincere with his family of seven) he also felt a flood of justification. It was the correct outcome that he be in charge of those children. Were it otherwise, he would owe real guilt and not to Al McManus. Jill had drafted the only contract that mattered and Tim would live up to its terms.

  “There is one potential deal-breaker,” he said now, without a trace of the ambivalence churning inside him. He had put on the happyface, was talking the happytalk. “The kids will need a dog. It’s their only non-negotiable demand.”

  “Alice already thought of it. No one is about to replace their parents, but we could take a shot at replacing Gus.”

  “And you don’t even have to replace me.”

  “No. Here you are.”

  “So it’s agreed. A dog.”

  “Make and color to be specified. And Tim? If it makes you feel any better, we’ll let you buy the Alpo.”

  Finally it was September. The day was summer-warm and windless, yet with altered light, pale and soft on the old bricks. On Route 124, alongside the Gridley River water meadows, the red maples had already gone to yellow.

  Waiting on the COURT HOUSE steps, Tim experienced a strange nostalgia for the day he had come here nervously girded for battle with The System. Nostalgia too for the subsequent days of summer vacation in the pristine hills. Winter was a different proposition, Al was right about that, but winter did not worry him.

  Indeed, he and Billy had already discussed going up Mt. Monadnock on New Year’s Eve—maybe this year, maybe next year when Cindy was older—as a band of hardy locals did each winter. New Year’s was always a downer, the blues in spades. Tim would start out psyched and end up depressed. By the big par-tee; by himself in costume; by growing old.

  Better something new on New Year’s and Monadnock would be new to them. They saw it constantly—it was a veritable polestar—but because it was rocky and a thousand feet higher than the other peaks in the area, they had deferred hiking it. Now it was on Camp White Sneaker’s short list.

  So much would be new, and Tim aimed to discover it day by day, to unwrap it week by week, like gifts. This was the luxury the Macs afforded. They could see to the normalcy thing, while Tim sorted out the future. This morning he had circled October 14 on his calendar; he would be there for the Parent-Teacher Pizza Night.

  Something in Tim had changed over the past months, a deep chemical change that lodged the children at the core of his consciousness. They occupied his heart not just in the old way, but in what must be a parental way: when they stumbled, you fell. Yes he would be there for them, but he would be there for his own sake just as much.

  Maybe this was inevitable, with Jill and Monty gone. And maybe Jill knew it would happen when it needed to. Her faith in him. But just as Dee Barnes had brought Jill with her to the courthouse the last time, Tim was the one who brought her today.

  The judge looked ten years younger. He possessed the clarity of eye, the light bouncing stride of a man who either has just finished a perfect cup of coffee, a perfect bowel movement, or both. He welcomed the “parties” to his chambers, where he sat them around an oval conference table. “If Attorney Barnes needs to perambulate,” he announced, “there is a fair amount of space over by the windows.” Lighter, leaner, downright merry was the judge.

  Tim was the one who gravitated to the windows. These deliberations required very little of him, and he found it distasteful dealing with the state over family matters. He gazed down at a green and white awning, two café tables under Campari umbrellas. A young woman wheeling a stroller stopped to read the menu. When Michele Taggart testified that she had seen “no dramatically disqualifying factors in either household,” Tim turned and for a bemused conspiratorial instant locked eyes with Earl. What households was she looking at?

  Taggart was quickly dismissed (her observations irrelevant now, the judge hearing her report so she would not feel unappreciated?) and the discussion narrowed to a virtual tête-a-tête between Enneguess and Barnes. Tim tried to monitor their every word (joint custodians, primary custodian, the liquid assets, the real estate), then decided Earl was right: let the liars decide what to call it.

  Besides, Enneguess and Barnes huddled close as though these recondite matters concerned only the two of them. In the end, even Enneguess gave way and merely nodded approval as Barnes, with quiet charisma and inexorable good sense, simply dictated whole paragraphs of an agreement to Mr. Giddings. Giddings transcribed at a furious pace. “Most expensive secretary in the U.S. of A.,” said Earl, who was paying him.

  They went downstairs as a group, stepped out into the sweet autumn sunlight as a group. Then, as the judge pointed himself toward his frugal smoke-free luncheon at home, Tim who had not spoken a word in two hours, stopped him. Detained him—literally at first, by the sleeve. “Your Honor? Excuse me, sir?”

  Mr. Giddings let his mouth fall open. Ric was frowning her what-shit-is-this? frown. Attorney Dee Barnes placed a hand lightly on Tim’s forearm as if to tell him, Better not, whatever this is.

  “Mr. Bannon?” said Enneguess.

  “I am going to spend the rest of my life wondering and you are the only one who can tell me. So I thought I’d ask.”

  “Ask,” said Enneguess.

  “What did you decide? What would have happened here if the McManuses hadn’t stepped in?”

  Enneguess stroked his chin. From close by, in the silence, Tim could hear the sandpaper rasp of his stubble.

  “Isn’t that like folding your cards at the poker table and then asking for a peek at the winning hand?”

  “Is it? I don’t play poker. I guess I was hoping it wasn’t a secret. Is it a secret?”

  “It might very well be, Mr. Bannon, but the truth is I don’t know. That’s what we were gathering to determine. There was to be a process, reports and arguments to hear.”

  “You are saying you didn’t know.”

  Inside Enneguess’ blithe denial Tim heard a more strident, expansive statement: we are not bumpkins here. On the wall of the judge’s chambers, Tim had noticed his diplomas, Dartmouth College and Harvard Law.

  “The name of that game,” said Mr. Giddings, “is Indian Hatband. It’s a form of poker where you see everyone’s hand except your own. Hell of a game for bluffers.”

  “Mr. Giddings,” said Enneguess, “I’ll just remind you that I am not dealt a hand in this particular game. Now again, good day to all and good luck to the children. Attorney Barnes, I hope we will someday see you grace our chambers again.”

  “I will welcome the opportunity, your Honor.”

  Tim had to gag a bit as the charade played out. Why do away with waistcoats and periwigs if they were all so eager to pratt
le and prance about? Barnes he could pardon. She was advocating for him, after all, not for herself. Moreover, he needed a friend at this very moment and Barnes was the only candidate. At her car, he dared to put an arm around her shoulder. Impulsively, of course.

  Had she flinched? Had she ever got past her disapproval (no, say it, her disgust) at his proclivities? Bypassing this issue, doggedly affable, he told her, “Don’t worry, it’s purely avuncular.”

  “You aren’t converting?”

  “No, but I’m glad that our impartial judge converted for you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “He lusted in his heart, I saw him. But you can read him better than I can. Was that an honest answer he gave me?”

  “No. I’m sure he had made his decision.”

  “And?”

  “That I can’t tell you, but he must have decided. He had seen the players, heard the arguments, read the reports.”

  What was “Dee” short for? Not DeeDee, hopefully! Tim had a classmate at Chapel Hill who was actually named DeeDee. But what were the possibilities? Delia. Deirdre. Delilah. How could he not have debriefed her on this?

  “You know,” he said, “maybe it wouldn’t have mattered so much. Maybe it would have been okay either way.”

  “Whoa now. Do I hear you saying Earl wouldn’t have shot the children after all?”

  “You don’t have to make fun of me. I just meant that I might be as fucked up as he is. I probably am as fucked up.”

  “Don’t do that, Tim. I hate guilt, and I really hate phony guilt. If we want to stay friends.”

  “Are you allowed to be my friend? Do you want to?”

  Barnes smiled indulgently. She had not expected such an eager or literal interpretation of her throwaway remark. Remain on friendly terms, was more what she had in mind. Not that she ever fell out with clients.

  “Because if you do want to, you can be the first one invited to my party.”

  “And the first to politely decline. Thank you, Tim, but I also hate parties. And Leon hates them even more.”

  “Just drop in, then. A twenty minute cameo. You’ll get a boatload of new customers out of it.”