I take Muller aside later and tell him we can’t come home stoned anymore. “Mary suspects something,” I say. He gives me his typical woe-is-me expression. He looks forward to getting stoned with Ruby and Max. He doesn’t say anything. I think that high wire act off the roof did something to his head. He takes naps on the basement floor. Ruby’s being sympathetic, but not the way he’d hoped. She pets him like a dog. “I wish she’d give me a back massage,” he says, driving home. “My back hurts more now than it ever did.”
“Shut up about your back, Muller. Mary’s on my case about this baby business. Have you talked to Judy?”
“I’m not sure I can, Sam.”
“You took a header off a roof. What’s the worst she can do to you?”
“I can’t think straight these days.”
“You know what Krupsky says? He says this crush on Ruby is avoidance. You’re scared of having a baby so you fall for someone else.”
“You talked to him about Ruby?”
“I’m looking for logical reasons not to kill you.”
“I wish I could talk to Ruby.”
“Forget Ruby.”
“Maybe I should write her a letter.”
“I’m telling you she’s not interested.”
“You missed the turn off.”
Mary and Judy are waiting on the front porch when we get home. Everything is out of the boxes, the trophies, the awards, the bottles of whiskey. They’re lined up on the railing like a shooting gallery. Mary has her arms crossed as we come up the steps. “So,” she says, “look what we found cleaning up. Have you been drinking the whole time?” She gives me a long cold, stare. Most women tend to soften with age. It wouldn’t hurt her to sag a bit. “I’m waiting, Sam.”
Judy takes Muller inside but Mary blocks my way. “Another thing,” she says, pulling something out of her apron pocket. “I found this in your shirt this morning. Honestly, at your age I thought you’d know better.” It was one of the grass brownies. “What am I going to do with you?” she says. “You’re drinking on the sly, eating brownies between meals. Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”
“That’s about it.”
“Are you sure?”
Well, Margot asked me to grab her ass.
Chapter 33
Two in the morning, I’m wide awake. Muller’s crush on Ruby is driving me crazy. Margot’s probably right, I should talk to Ruby. I roll over and get a poke in the ribs from Mary. “Go to sleep,” she says. I drop off and have another weird dream. I’m back in that coffin again. Frank comes up and says, “Not a bad job. A little too much blush.” Then Iris is standing there going, “Do you want me to sock Frankie?”
Ruby’s bringing paint cans out to the truck when we arrive this morning. We get everything loaded, then drive over to Webster. Ruby and Max work inside, Muller’s down in the basement, I’m finishing the soffits. Ruby comes out for a cigarette, but I’m way up in the far corner. Then Max comes out and goes off behind the garage. I decide to fill him in on Muller’s crush. “Muller has the hots for Ruby?” he says. “He does kinda get weird around her. What’s the problem?”
“You don’t see a problem?”
“Does Ruby know about this?”
“No, Max. That’s why I’m talking to you. I don’t know what to say to her. She’s your mother. How would you approach it?”
“Just talk to her,” Max shrugs. “Ruby’s cool. I wouldn’t let Otis know. He’s got a jealous streak.”
“He slept with your girlfriend, for chrissake.”
“What can I say? He’s Otis.”
Ruby comes outside, shaking her bandana over the railing. She sees us talking and comes over. “I hit a cobweb the size of a circus tent in there,” she says. “What’re you two talking about?”
“Muller wants your body, Ruby,” Max laughs.
“That’s not what I said, Max,” I say. “I thought you were going to let me handle this.”
“Tell me something I didn’t know,” Ruby says.
“You know?” I say.
“Have you seen him after a massage, Sam? He’s got a package the size of a corn dog.” Max doubles over on the grass. “You want me to talk to him?” she says.
“I’d appreciate it. He says he can’t help himself.” Max and Ruby are both laughing now. “It’s not funny,” I say. “I dragged him out of the lake last week.”
“The big lug,” she says. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“By the way,” I say. “I’ve gotta watch the brownies. Mary found one in my shirt pocket yesterday.”
“What did she say?”
“I shouldn’t eat between meals.”
“Okay, Sam, I’ll check your pockets before you go home and I’ll talk to Muller. How are things out here? Can you have the windows done today? The family’s home Friday.”
“They should be ready.”
“Max, get the other ladder from the truck and start the bedrooms. I’ll see how Muller’s making out in the basement.” Ruby goes inside and Max gets the ladder.
Muller comes out while I’m back behind the garage. “Did you finish the basement?” I ask him.
“I’m waiting for the second coat to dry.”
“Can you help me out here?”
“Ruby says she can’t give me massages anymore.”
“I know, Muller. I asked her to talk to you.”
“She says I should get Judy to massage me.”
“That’s exactly what you should do.”
“I need to talk to Ruby again.”
“Why?”
“I need to tell her how I really feel.”
“She knows how you really feel. She’s telling you to bugger off.”
“I need to explain.”
“You’re on the wrong expressway.”
He goes back inside and I climb up the ladder. Next thing I know, Ruby’s pulling Muller out on the porch. She’s got two fingers down his throat. “I turned my back and he started chugging,” she says.
“Chugging what?” I say.
“Paint.”
I get the garden hose and stick it in his mouth. He laps at it like a dog. Then he coughs and sputters out green paint. “Stick your finger down his throat again,” I say, and turn the hose nozzle to a hard spray. I let him have it in the face and Muller starts spewing green all over the porch. “How much did he drink?” I say, and Ruby takes off her bandana. “I don’t know,” she says. “He’s got an appetite.”
I shove the garden hose right in his mouth. He gags and heaves, drooling strands of green saliva. “I think that’s it,” Ruby says.
“What do we do with him?” Max says.
“Leave him in the sun,” I say.
“Don’t be hard on him, Sam,” Ruby says. “Come on, big fella. Let’s get you inside. Max, fetch that loaf of bread out of the truck. Maybe we can sop up his insides with it.”
I push Muller through the sliding doors. “Sit down, Muller,” I say, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs. He coughs and drools more green paint. At the sink, Ruby soaks a dishcloth and brings it over, pressing it against his forehead. The zinc oxide is running down his face. Max appears with the loaf of bread. Ruby starts shoving slices in Muller’s mouth.
“Just keep eating, honey,” She says. “You don’t want that paint hardening. Chew, chew, chew.” She works his jaw up and down. “That’s a good boy.”
“Is the bread helping at all?” Ruby asks, “Do you want warm tea? I’ve got some in my thermos.” Muller shakes his head and Ruby keeps dabbing his forehead. “Maybe we should take him to Emergency.”
“I’m sorry, Ruby.”
“Enough of that.”
“I just wanted you to know how I feel.”
She sits down and takes his hands. “Look, Muller, I know how you feel. I’m flattered, really. But I’m married to Otis. One goofball is all I can handle.”
“I didn’t mean any harm. I just feel good around you, that’s all.”
“I feel good
around you, too, big fella. Why the paint, though?”
“Dunno.”
“Drinking paint ain’t doing it for me.”
“Drinking paint’s pretty desperate, you gotta admit,” Max says.
“I’m not feeling so good,” Muller says. He goes to the sink and all the bread comes out green.
“Give me the phone,” I say.
“Why don’t we just take him over to the hospital?” Max says.
“I’ve had enough of Emergency rooms.” I call Krupsky and give him a short version of events.
“How much paint did he drink?” Krupsky asks
“It’s hard to say. We got most of it out, I think.”
“He’s conscious?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a good sign.”
“He’s not going to start having seizures, is he?”
“I treat symptoms, Sam; I don’t predict them. Bring him over now and I’ll have a look. How far away are you?”
“About ten minutes.”
“I’ll be here. I’m having a sandwich.”
“His name’s Muller, by the way.”
“I know. You told me.”
“I wasn’t sure I had.”
“So bring him over. Let me eat my sandwich. And stop worrying so much, Sam. You’ll give yourself a coronary.”
“The man’s horking green, Krupsky.”
“At least he’s horking.”
“That’s a good thing?”
“I’ll know better when I see him, Sam.”
“We’ll be right over.”
“I’ll be waiting with baited breath.”
“What’s he saying, Sam?” Ruby asks.
“He’s waiting with baited breath.”
Man, he’s a sarcastic prick.
Chapter 34
Muller sits on the examining table with his shirt open. Flecks of green paint dapple his chest hair. Krupsky listens to his heart, taps his back, and then sticks a penlight in his ear. “How are you feeling these days, Sam?” he says. “Meditation helping?”
“I’m okay,” I say. “How’s he look?”
“Not bad. Can’t say the same for you. Ever think about taking a vacation? Argentina is nice this time of year. Great beaches. You and Mary should try it. Might be just the thing.”
“I’m fine, Krupsky. I’ll handle stress my own way, thank you.”
“You need to relax, Sam,” Muller says. “Stress kills.”
“Where would I get stress from? You just drank paint, for chrissake. That give you any clues?”
“Muller’s right,” Krupsky says. “You need to relax. Take up dancing. It works wonders.”
“Stick to Muller, will you?”
“He seems okay,” Krupsky says. He taps Muller’s back. “Some old bruising down here. Any falls lately, Muller?”
“He dove off a roof,” I say.
“How high?”
“Two-storey.”
“That’s quite a drop.”
“Not enough of one, obviously.”
“No internal injuries?”
“Nothing. His heart beats like a tribal drum.”
Krupsky takes his glasses off. “I’m going to say three things to you, Muller”—holding three fingers—“Drinking paint is dumb. Diving off two-storey buildings is dumb. Going out in the sun without a hat is dumb. Find yourself a vocation that doesn’t involve those three. You’ll thank me on your sixty-fifth birthday.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“What do you want me to say?”
“You could tell him he’s crazy.”
“You a psychiatrist?”
“No.”
“Neither am I. That’s why I didn’t touch it.”
Down in the parking lot, I kick Muller in the pants. “You’re giving me advice? Who the hell drinks paint?” I push him around to the passenger door. “Get in, for chrissake.”
“Can we stop somewhere for food, Sam?”
“We’ll take burgers back for Max and Ruby.”
Muller stares down at the ground. “I forgot about her for a minute.”
“Forget about her completely, Muller.”
“You think we should go back to Seattle?”
“I want you to go back. Leave my daughter here.”
“That would break Judy’s heart.”
“What do you think you’re doing now?”
“I’m just trying to be honest.”
“Honest?”—I start hitting him with my ball cap— “I’ll give you honest, you dumb bastard!” The ginger ale can goes off in my head and I sink to the pavement. Muller kneels next to me. He takes a folded paper bag from his back pocket, shakes it out, and puts it over my mouth. “Just breathe, Sam,” he says. I try pushing it away, but Muller keeps putting it back over my mouth. As I breathe in and out, Krupsky appears in the window above. He’s munching away on his sandwich. Then he points at me and starts doing the twist.
Chapter 35
Krupsky should be reported to the American Medical Association. The man’s a fucking menace. He didn’t even ask Muller why he drank paint. He was more interested in my stress levels. Of course I’m stressed. Who wouldn’t be stressed? Muller’s suicidal, Judy’s oblivious, and Mary thinks I’m an alcoholic. I admit, Bulgarian whiskey does have a hint of desperation to it. I’m getting stress from all sides, Muller all day, Mary all evening. Between the two of them—and Krupsky—it’s a wonder I haven’t had more attacks. “You’re a piece of work,” I say to Muller on the way home. We pick up corn and steaks at the supermarket. The new barbecue was delivered this morning. When we get to the house, Mary and Judy have nuts and bolts everywhere. Muller starts reading the instructions, lining all the pieces up according to a diagram. The girls husk the corn while I stand there feeling dizzy. “I’ll go get charcoal,” I say. Mary tells me it’s propane. “Then I’ll get propane,” I say.
I jump in the car and drive around, going down by the lakeshore, watching the beach where Muller tried to drown himself. I smoke a cigarette. The wind blows ashes back on my lap. I start thinking back to this incident years ago when we were doing a presentation to Jack Baines, the worst client in the industry. Jack was a former World War II fighter pilot. He lost a leg during training exercises. Every time he came into meetings, he’d throw his artificial leg out in front of him. Jack liked to rattle people, and this particular time, just the way he was sitting, you knew he was up to something. Don Conroy and I were starting to present when Jack suddenly said, “Any of you remember a copywriter named George Burton? Worked in our business years ago.” None of us could recall the name. “Maybe he was at Young and Rubican,” he says. “Anyway, he killed himself the other night. Did it in a hotel room with his belt. Left a wife and two kids.”
I didn’t sleep for a week after that. Don was the same way. The only person it didn’t affect was Frank. I remember him coming by my office one day saying, “Who the fuck’s George Burton? Did I fire him?” I told him the guy never worked for us. “Didn’t think so,” he said. “Frigging hotel room,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s one way of doing it, I guess. At least you’ve got a mini bar close by.” He went off down the hall, whistling away, making some joke to Margot. She had to get up and push him out the door.
I finish my cigarette, pick up some propane at Walgreens, and drive home. Everything’s ready to go when I get back: steaks, corn on the cob, a big tossed salad. Mary and Judy are sitting at the picnic table, going through books on children’s nurseries. I hook up the propane tank and everything starts okay. I leave Muller to the cooking and go inside, taking some gin out of the liquor cabinet. Judy comes in and stares at me. “Are you okay, Daddy?” she says. “You’re starting to worry us. Mom thinks it’s a sugar spike from Muller’s brownies.”
She puts her arm around my waist. Judy’s a sweet girl. It makes me want to brain Muller even more. “Are you okay?” Judy asks. “Muller says you had another attack. What did Dr. Krupsky say?”
“He thinks I should t
ake up dancing.”
“What’s wrong with that? Muller loves to dance.”
“Good for him.”
“We used to dance together all the time. Muller’s a terrific dancer. We went three times a week at one point.”
“Where did you and Muller dance?”
“At a dance studio.”
I swirl the ice around in my glass, imagining Muller doing a fox trot. “Do you have to be any good?” I ask. “What if you’re terrible?”
“Everyone’s terrible starting out, Daddy. I couldn’t even do a simple waltz. You pick it up pretty quick.”
“Do they grade you and stuff?”
“They have different levels. You move up from beginner to intermediate to senior.”
“What if you really suck?”
“Everyone’s real supportive, Daddy. You should try it.”
“Maybe I should.”
“I can find a dance studio near here,” she says. She’s already at the computer on the kitchen counter. “There’s probably one close by. They’re all over the place.”
“Okay, sweetheart. If you find something, book us all in there. I think it’s a foursome kind of thing, don’t you?”
“We’d love to,” Judy says. “I know Muller would.”
I pour another drink and take it outside. “We’re taking dance lessons,” I say to Mary and Muller. “The four of us. It’ll be a good family exercise.” Mary looks at me over her glasses.
“I didn’t know you liked to dance, Sam,” Muller says.
“You seriously want to dance?” Mary says.
“Sure, why not?”
“You’ve never danced in your life.”
“So I’ll start now.”
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