“She attractive?”
“You’re not funny, Krupsky.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. Your heart’s going like a conga. This son-in-law—”
“—Muller.”
“Has he made advances?”
“No, he just gives her goo-goo eyes.”
“So he makes goo-goo eyes,” Krupsky shrugs, looking like Edward G. Robinson. “It’s not the end of the world. Why get so upset?”
“He’s married to my daughter, for chrissake. She wants a baby.”
“Isn’t that for them to work out, Sam? Your son-in-law—Muller—is probably having anxieties of his own. Babies are a big step. Maybe Ruby is a way of avoiding the issue.”
“So what should I do?”
“Let him goo-goo eye the woman. He’ll get it out of his system. Stop thinking you have to solve everything, Sam. It’s not healthy. Why do you think you have panic attacks? What are you doing for exercise?”
“I pull people out of Lake Michigan.”
“On a regular basis?”
“Just the one time.”
“Well, Sam, I don’t see anything wrong with you other than those panic attacks. You try the yoga?”
“My legs fell asleep.”
“Are you getting out, other than on the lake?”
“Daily.”
“So it’s just Muller you’re worried about? What does your daughter think of his infatuation?”
“She doesn’t know, for chrissake.”
“It’s not a criminal act, Sam. It’s a crush.”
“How many daughters do you have, Krupsky?”
“None. You’re saying I can’t offer advice?”
“Are we done?
“I am if you are.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Go with God then.”
I don’t know what it is about Krupsky. Every time I see him, I leave there either more upset or more confused. Getting in my car, I look up and see him standing there at his window. It’s one of those full-length jobs. He waves and I feel like giving him the finger. The man irritates the hell out of me. All this ‘live and let live’ ‘try a little yoga’ and ‘go with God’. Believe me, if there was a God, he would have cleaned up Lake Michigan years ago.
I drive home and check the mailbox. There’s a letter from Frank. I take it inside, smelling something on the stove. Muller and Judy are out back lying on a towel. Judy makes swirls in Muller’s chest hair with sun tan lotion while Meek and Beek doze in the shade. Mary’s in the sunroom. I sit across from her and open Frank’s letter.
“Sam,” she says, “Put that down a minute. I want to know again what happened the other night.”
“When we fell in the lake?” I say. “Muller slipped and I went down with him.”
“Muller told Judy you pulled him to shore.”
“The place isn’t exactly teeming with life guards.”
“Well, he’s very grateful. What did Krupsky say, by the way?”
“I’m fine physically.”
“Did you tell him you’ve had more panic attacks?”
“I didn’t want another lecture on tantric sex.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. He gets on a roll.”
“Who’s the letter from?”
“Frank.”
“I still think there’s something fishy going on, Sam. Are you listening to me?”
“There’s nothing fishy except Lake Michigan.”
“Sam?”
“Let me read Frank’s letter.” I put on my glasses.
Sam,
I’m back here on some unrelated matter. Kitty showed me what you did to the partition. Nice touch. I also hear a security guard’s gone missing. Listen, Sam, Iris brought this up, so don’t blame me. She thinks you might need some counseling. If you want a shrink, she has a good one. Call the house. She’d love to hear from you. Thanks for the whiskey, by the way.
Frank
P.S. Kitty hopes you get better. I asked her what she thought of your ass. Can’t get a straight answer out of her. Next time, move your shirttail out of the way.
I fold the letter and rub my eyes. So now everyone wants me to see a psychiatrist. Mary’s still giving me the skunk eye. “What?” I say, and she asks what Frank has to say. “He’s back in town on some ‘unrelated matter.’ No idea what that means.” I keep thinking about Frank telling Iris about me and his partition. I’ve always liked Iris. Funny and sarcastic. Now she’s wondering if I’m a headcase. I don’t know whether to feel offended or mildly grateful. Knowing Iris, she probably laughed her ass off. Put a pressed ham on your partition, Frankie. That’s a hoot. It wasn’t much of a mark, to be honest. As Frank would say, “I’m surprised his skinny ass made any mark.” In Frank’s world, you either make a splash or you keep your pants up.
Mary keeps staring at me. I wonder how we’ll make out, two empty-nesters, getting under each other’s feet. We’ve never spent a lot of time together. Work kept me at arm’s length. We’d meet over coffee and mortgage payments. I know we’re on the same page now, imagining life in the sunroom, daily comments on obituary notices and new sugar substitutes. Having Muller and Judy here is a bit of respite. We’re distracted and therefore civil. Once they’re back in Seattle, given time, one of us will probably go for the carving knife.
“I don’t know what you’re saying to Muller, Sam,” she says. “He looks worse every time you take him somewhere. What exactly are you doing over at Ruby’s house?”
“Technically it’s Otis’s. Max pointed that out.”
“You’re being evasive.” I fold Frank’s letter and put it in my pocket. “What else did Frank have to say?” Mary asks.
“Iris thinks I should see her psychiatrist.”
“Why does she think that? I mean, you probably do, but what makes her think so?”
“There were a few complaints at the office.”
“What sort of complaints?”
“I may have acted out near the end. Frank likes to be informed of anything untoward.”
“How exactly did you out?”
“My pants fell down as I was leaving. I was carrying two big boxes. I might have rubbed up again Frank’s partition.”
“You dropped your pants?”
“Accidently.”
“Just like you did with our front window?”
“Very likely.”
“You said you weren’t sure before.”
“Max confirmed it. Anyway, Frank told Iris about the partition business and now she thinks I need counseling.”
“Maybe you do. You’ve been acting immature lately.”
“I’m doing my best given the circumstances.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“According to Krupsky, I overreact.”
“Well, that’s very possible, Sam. Muller isn’t getting any better. Maybe he should see Iris’s psychiatrist, too.”
“I’ll ask about a family discount.”
“I’m being serious, Sam. You make a quip about everything. That’s what I mean by being immature. I hope you’re not regressing.”
“Krupsky hasn’t mentioned it.”
“Seriously, Sam.”
“I’ll talk to Iris’s psychiatrist. What more do you want?”
“Ask if he can see you and Muller together.”
“I don’t want to see a psychiatrist with Muller. The man’s got problems up the ying yang. He’ll take hours.”
“More quips.”
“So I quip. Krupsky says I overreact, you say I quip. I don’t know if I’m coming or going with you two.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I’m not feeling sorry for myself,” I say, going to the kitchen window with a little pouty look on my face. Judy’s massaging Muller’s back. I’m sure he’s telling her to give him a knuckle. “How does he do it?” I say. “Everyone wants to rub his back.”
“Judy says he’s big and cuddly.”
“He’s a
lso frying like an onion.”
Chapter 24
I’ve been taking naps lately, usually in the early afternoon when Mary and Judy go out for something. Maybe my body’s adjusting to being unemployed, or I’m just trying to get away from Muller. He takes naps, too. He’s downstairs now, hooked up to that oxygen tank. Judy’s always saying, “I don’t know how they do it, Mom. Can you sleep in the afternoon? I can’t.” They came home about ten minutes ago with bags rustling. Judy barely packed anything for this trip. Every day, Mary tells her, “That looks pretty worn out, Judy. Let’s go over to Target and get you a new one.” Personally, I think it’s all planned. Judy and Muller are on a shoestring budget. This is a chance to spruce up the wardrobe. Judy is always coming back with a new t-shirt for Muller, or some socks. “Mom’s treat,” she’ll say.
I get up and find Judy in the sunroom, the computer on her lap.
“Daddy, Bisquick’s on TV again,” Judy says.
“So, birdie,” I hear Otis say. “Got any plans for the holidays?” Margot is standing behind him with her arms crossed. “Why isn’t he answering?” Otis says.
“What do you want, a travelogue?”
“That was Bisquick, folks,” Otis says, “the talking Mynah birdie. If you’re tuning in for first time, Bisquick will be back periodically with his own brand of birdie wisdom. We’re coming up to the top of the hour with a special edition of Otis Cries for You.”
Margot looks over his shoulder. “Why’s it special?” she says, putting on her bifocals. “All you’re doing is reading a bunch of sob stories.”
“This is Margot, folks, Bisquick’s owner. Somehow I’ve inherited the two of them. They’ll be around, so stay tuned.”
“I’m helping Ruby with the laundry, then I’m going.”
“I need that bird, Margot. He’s a prop. Go upstairs and have a ham sandwich or something. Or maybe we could take a minute—interview like—and talk about your living arrangements with Bisquick.”
“It’s a bird, Otis. He’s got a cage. You’ve seen the cage.”
“Are there times when you and Bisquick cadoodle? Hop around the room like The Jungle Book? Maybe sing a song?”
“You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“Who’s an idiot?” Ruby says on the stairs. “Otis? What else is new?”
“Hear that, folks?” Otis says. “My own wife’s turned against me. You’re supposed to defend your man, Ruby—which, I might add”—winking at Margot—“happens to be the subject of Otis Cries for You today. Abandoned love, folks: who’s turned against you, let you down or said you had a small willie. Send in your stories, at this address”—holds up a card—“and we’ll get to them right after I grab a sandwich. Here’s Otis Redding, Live in Paris, with ‘Can’t Turn You Loose’ and whatever follows. Enjoy.”
He shoos Bisquick off the turntable. Bisquick flies back and forth, throwing out the occasional invective, landing on his head again.
“Craphound,” Bisquick says.
“Get off me,” Otis says. “Bird’s giving me a mountain of a headache.” He disappears from frame with Bisquick following. Ruby brings a load of laundry to the couch and Margot and her start folding, swaying away to the music. As the song ends, Ruby goes in the back bedroom and comes out with a record. She puts it on the other turntable. “Here’s a slight format change, folks,” she says. “Something by Lesley Gore called ‘Maybe I Know.’”
The song starts with Lesley complaining about her boyfriend, saying she’s pretty sure he’s cheating—well, she says, maybe, but she sounds pretty sure—and that opens up a can of worms, because all her friends are really sure, and that’s really got her back up.
There’s a thump on the stairs and Otis comes tumbling down. “Dammit, Ruby,” he says. “I won’t having you sullying my show with Lesley Gore.” Ruby and Margot grab his loose suspenders. “Let go. Let go of me, dammit!”
It’s pretty funny watching Margot and Rub swing Otis around, his big gut hanging out. Judy’s all giggles. Muller comes upstairs covered in red patches where Judy missed with the sun tan lotion. “Ruby and Auntie Margot are dancing,” she says, and Muller looks at the screen. He smells like a big coconut. “Why doesn’t Otis like Ruby’s music?” Judy says. “It’s a good song.”
“He doesn’t like format changes, sweetie,” I say. “Tends to drive away the purists. All thirty-two of them.”
“He’s got over two thousand views, Sam,” Muller says.
“What? Where?”
“Says at the bottom there. Two thousand and twelve, actually.”
“Son of a bitch,” I say. “People really watch that asshole?”
“We’re watching,” Muller says.
“I know we are. I didn’t think anyone else was.”
“Two thousand and fifteen.”
“Good Lord.”
“It’s pretty funny, Daddy.”
“It’s two women swinging a fat slob around.”
“Two thousand and twenty, Sam.”
I push the computer away. “Listen, you two—where’s your mother?”
“She went to the store.”
“Okay, look, we’re a little worried about you two. Mary’s talking to you, Judy. I’m talking to Muller. Thing is, are you really communicating with each other?”
“We talk all the time,” Judy says.
“Do you ask each other what you want?”
She tilts her head like a cocker spaniel. “What do you mean, Daddy?”
“Okay, I guess what I’m saying here—and please don’t take this the wrong way—you have to get past the lovey dovey stuff and ask hard questions. Do you know what each of you wants? Are you even sure you’re right for each other?”
“Daddy!”
“I’m not saying you’re not, sweetheart. I’m just saying, it’s good to ask the question. Even your mother and I have doubts . . .”
“Are you and Mom getting a divorce?”
“Of course not. I’m just saying—”
“O, my God,” Judy wails. “Does Mom know?”
“We’re not getting a divorce—”
“You just said you’re having doubts.”
“I just mean—”
Judy goes running off down the hall. Muller just stands there like a big dummy. “Don’t be afraid to weigh in here,” I say to him, just as Mary comes through the door with the groceries.
She hears Judy crying. “Sam, what’s wrong with Judy?” She goes down to Judy’s room, then she’s back giving me the skunk eye. “So you want a divorce, do you, Sam?”
“No, I don’t want a divorce,” I say. “I was just trying to get Muller and Judy on the same page.”
“Your daughter’s crying. How’s that on the same page? Go talk to her before she jumps out the window.”
The house is a ranch style, but there’s no point telling Mary that. She’s pissed and when she’s pissed, you don’t bring up the fact that Judy’s window is only five feet off the ground.
I go and tell Judy that everything’s okay.
“Then why did you say it?” she says.
“I was trying to make a point.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s talk in the kitchen.” I take Judy out and sit her at the table. “First of all,” I say, “I don’t want a divorce, okay? I was just saying you have to ask hard questions. Right, Mary?”
“Keep going. I’m still thinking of braining you.”
“For instance, are you giving each other what you need?”
“I think we are,” Judy says. “Aren’t we, Muller?”
“I just want to make you happy, Jude.”
“I know you do. I want to make you happy, too.” They lock lips like they’re sharing a carrot. “Let’s go snuggle,” Judy says. She takes Muller by the hand and they go off to the bedroom.
Mary’s giving me the skunk eye again. “What exactly was that all about?” she says.
“I have no idea. They confuse the hell out of me.”
Behind us, Otis lets out a loud wail on Otis Cries for You. “I feel your pain, ma’am,” he’s saying. “Maybe your cat got in a tussle with a big dog. You know who wins in those situations. Might be time to hit the pound and get a faster cat. Anyway, here’s another big cry from ol’ Otis”—he takes out a handkerchief and dabs his eye—“We’re pulling for you. Just like we’re pulling for all you cat owners out there. Watch your cats, folks. The slow ones particularly.”
I look at the bottom of the screen. Two thousand fifty views.
Chapter 25
I go to McDonald’s and get served by a man in his sixties. We look at each other like this is a bad joke. “Four Big Mac’s,” I say and he says, “Will that be for here or to go?” He’s looking at Muller’s big gut.
“To go,” I say, and then the ginger ale can goes off in my head. I tell Muller I have to go outside, making for the door, tripping over strollers. Muller comes out with our burgers and stands next to me by the car. I’m smoking a cigarette with shaking fingers.
Muller suffered panic attacks a few years ago. I remember Mary telling me about it after our last visit to Krupsky’s office. Judy took Muller to specialists. They told him it was stress. His video department was made redundant, and since most video departments were redundant, Muller joined the unemployed. The attacks kept coming. Then he collapsed in a mall. An ambulance brought him to emergency, tests were done, and no major arterial plaque was found. Muller’s heart, as one doctor described it, “beat like a tribal drum.” A week later, he dropped like a stone in a Taco Bell.
He got over it somehow, and I guess I have to do the same. I still can’t understand what sent me over the edge. Getting fired, sure, but I knew it was coming. Why weren’t Nick, Dewey, or Margot having panic attacks? Then I thought of Iris. Why would she need a psychiatrist? She’s the sanest individual I’ve ever known. She and Frank grew up dirt poor in Belfast. The thing about Iris, rich as she is, she still listens with the ear of a local barkeep. If she’s seeing a psychiatrist, it’s probably doing him more good than her.
After dinner, I give Iris a call. We haven’t talked in a couple of years. I take the phone out on the back deck, stepping on a bottle of Muller’s sun tan lotion. Iris answers on the third ring. “You poor man,” she says with her cooing Irish accent. “All those years of loyalty. Do you want me to sock Frankie for you?”
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