“Why did you bring it here, Max?”
“I thought I’d see if Muller had any brownies left.”
“Not now, for chrissake.”
Muller comes out in a Mexican towel. “Everyone’s hiding behind the cabana, Sam,” he says.
“Why?”
“Someone saw a cop. Is that the wiener van?”
“Are there any more brownies, Muller?” Max says.
“I’ve got another pan in the oven.”
“Give me enough for Otis and Margot at least, Sam,” Max says.
“Then you’re clearing out, right?”
“No problem. We’ll be off in a jiffy.” Max and Zack follow Muller over to my place.
I return to the pool. Everyone’s slowly coming out from behind the cabana. Judy and Mary have disappeared. Riley’s on the pool steps with a margarita in each hand. “Where’s Mary and Judy?” I ask.
“Inside with Pam.”
I go inside, stepping over people, seeing a piñata open and disemboweled on the floor. Candies are everywhere. Someone’s already slipped, leaving skid marks across the linoleum. The living room’s full of women dancing in Mexican blankets. “Hey, Sam,” Pam waves, boobs bouncing.
“Where’s Mary and Judy?”
“They were here a minute ago. Check the bedrooms.”
I find them in in the master bedroom looking out the window. “There’s a giant wiener out there, Daddy.”
“Eso es un gran pedazo de carne,” Mary giggles.
“It’s the wiener van,” I say.
“That old thing,” Mary laughs. “I’ve seen better.”
“Mom! God, you’re blitzed. Look at your eyes.”
“Look at your eyes. Look at everybody’s eyes. Your father has beady little eyes. Beady, beady, beady.”
Judy looks at me. “They are beady.”
“That’s cause he’s a fibber.”
“I thought you said Flipper,” Judy laughs.
“You can’t lie to me, Sam.”
“I’m not trying to lie to you, Mary.”
“Make sure you don’t.”
“Absolutely,” Judy giggles
“Watch him,” Mary says. “I’m going for another drink.”
“We’re coming with you,” Judy says.
Out in the hall, Pam pulls us into a rumba chain. Blankets drop, feet stumble over toppled margarita glasses. Someone’s thrown down a sombrero and they’re dancing around it. I inch along the wall, checking the front window. People are banging on the side of the wiener van. “Damn you, Max,” I say.
Someone does a header into the fridge. Outside, the yard is complete pandemonium. Naked bodies wander around in a daze, Tiki lights wobble. Next to the pool, a line of people is spread-eagled against the fence. Zack’s patting down Riley. “Hey, Sam,” Riley says. “How’s it going?”
“He’s not a cop, you know,” I say.
“I don’t mind.”
Someone squeals and bumps into me. I feel myself going back, lanterns and red crepe streamers pass before my eyes, water rushes into my ears. A body lands on top of me with a familiar voice saying, “Urumph!”
When I open my eyes again, I’m lying next to the pool with people staring down at me. Then I see a pair of big lips surrounded by dripping black curls coming towards me. Muller’s giving me mouth to mouth.
Chapter 63
A green curtain surrounds me. The doctor looks at my chart. “We’ll keep him here until tomorrow just to be sure,” he says. Muller has tears in his eyes. The bastard took me out with a cannonball and gave me the breath of life. In some cultures, that would make me his bitch.
A nurse comes by later, takes my temperature, then leaves. I have no sense of time. Mary and Judy are fast asleep in chairs. Muller continues to weep over my sanitized sheets. I can still taste chlorine. “Sam,” Muller says, “Are you awake?”
“I can’t feel my hand.”
“Sorry,” Muller says. “I was sitting on it.”
Mary and Judy wake up. “How’s he doing?” Mary says.
“He can’t feel his hand,” Muller says.
Mary jumps up. “My, God, you’re paralyzed?”
“Relax,” I say. “Muller was sitting on it.”
“He certainly sounds okay,” Mary says.
“You still look a bit green, Daddy.”
“I cleaned the bottom of the pool with my face, sweetheart. Thanks to your husband.”
We check out the following morning. Mary makes up a bed in the sunroom. Light reflects off my forehead, the lovebirds coo, Muller makes mulligatawny soup. Just before dinner, Riley and Pam drop by with confetti in their hair. They’re still tidying up the mess. “You gave us a hell of a scare, Sam,” Riley says.
I see the pool skimmer handle going back and forth across the yard. A sombrero sits on top. The kids must be helping out. “We’d better get back,” Pam says.
I eat soup and watch The Rec Room of Sound. Otis is crying for a woman whose son shot off his big toe. He was trying to take out a rat with a twelve gauge. “Your son’s toe is in a better place,” Otis cries.
Margot rolls her eyes while Ruby goes back and forth with laundry. “What did he do now?” she asks Margot.
“Just told a woman her son’s toe is in a better place.”
“His toe?”
“He shot it off with a twelve gauge.”
“Shut up,” Otis says. “I’m trying to comfort this woman.”
Margot comes over and pushes Otis out of his chair. “Look, ma’am,” Margot says. “The toe’s gone. Your son’s a twit. He’s obviously no match for a rat. Take the gun away from him before he shoots himself in the nuts.”
“And with that,” Otis says, “we end today’s show.”
“You’ve only been on an hour, Otis.”
“Oh . . . Here’s Booker T. and the MGs doing, ‘Time is Tight,’ which should give me time to use the little boy’s room. Be back soon, folks, with more Otis Cries for You. To our last caller,”—his hand goes to his mouth—“your son’s still got other toes, ma’am.”
I close my eyes, drifting off as the needle skips on Otis’s record. In my dreams, I see the wiener van, all shiny and new, leading children into Lake Michigan. Mary wakes me up, saying I’m talking in my sleep. “You were calling to Frank,” she says.
“What was I saying?”
“You wanted to know if hot dogs float.”
Judy and Muller are playing Scrabble. Muller’s tapping a tile against his lips, probably trying to spell, “cat.” Across the yard, Mexican blankets hang over the fence. Riley’s youngest, Lisa, is up on the diving board, hands above her head. A light breeze brings the smell of chlorine through the window. It reminds me of deodorizer pucks and Margot. She’s on the air, giving shit to some blogger with a foot fetish.
“How can you stick something like that in your mouth?” she says. “Honestly, I think you people say stuff just to bug me. Did you know you’re playing tonsil hockey with athlete’s foot? Not to mention Plantar Warts? You might as well be kissing a shower floor.”
It hurts to laugh. I cough and sputter and Mary brings me tissues. “Pam came by a little while ago.”
“Why?”
She holds up Zack’s security guard hat. “They found it in the shallow end.”
“I’ll let Max know.”
“He called earlier to see how you’re doing.”
“That’s nice.”
“Ruby says to get plenty of rest. Muller is going with them tomorrow. That’ll be his last day.”
“Why?”
“He can’t paint and cater, Sam. The phone’s been ringing all day.”
“Who’s calling?”
“People from the party. They love Muller’s cooking.”
“He and Judy are never going back to Seattle, are they?”
“Be happy for them. They’ve found something they can do together. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be hearing a baby soon.”
“This is supposed to make me feel better
?”
“You’ll be a grandfather.”
“Seattle’s ranked one of the best places to raise a kid.”
“Where did you read that? Is that true, Judy?”
“Just a sec, Mom. I think I’ve got a ten point word.”
“It isn’t aggravation, is it?”
“Stop being so obtuse, Sam.”
“That’s a word I haven’t heard in ages.”
Chapter 64
Mary called Iris this morning and Frank answered the phone. He’s back from Los Angeles for a few days. The media’s been calling wanting to know if the deal’s official. Frank can’t say anything because of some unexpected snags. He’s probably asking for more money. Frank loves to fuck around with contracts. I remember him asking a client for a contract of civility once. The client didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. So Frank sends over a simple explanation: “I agree not to piss the agency off, and vice versa.”
The client said it wasn’t legal. Frank sent it to them again, and again, they returned it with the same comments. Frank finally went over and said he wasn’t leaving until they signed it. The president finally signed, telling Frank he’d already broken the contract ten times over. “You’ve pissed me off that many times today alone.”
Frank always gets his way, usually by exhausting people. Surprisingly, it never seemed to hurt our business. The agency grew, we took on more people, we won major awards. Advertising Age called Frank the last of the Mad Men, a term coined on Madison Avenue in the forties.
Frank remembered a gang in Belfast called The Mad Men. He said they were the worst motherfuckers on the planet. “Now they’re calling me a Mad Man,” he laughed, and sent the article over to Ireland.
I got a note from him yesterday, saying things are good with Iris. His schedule is crazy, but he sees an end in sight. A few months more and he’ll be back home to stay. He also added something of interest, which, knowing Frank, was just weird enough for his taste.
Sam,
We had a little incident at the office over the weekend. Somebody stole the wiener van. We’re talking to the security guard now. He says he lost his hat giving chase. Little fucker’s involved, I can feel it. Crazy thing, they brought it back with the tank full and a new license plate. Still wondering what to do with the wiener van, Sam. Any ideas?
Frank
Knowing Max, he’ll probably steal it again. I write back to Frank, telling him he’s a lucky man: Iris is up and about, he’s rich. That’s got to make him happy. I’m sure he’s doting on her, ordering from some exclusive restaurants. Everything’s probably delivered on silver plates. Anyway, I end the note by telling him:
Again, glad to hear Iris is doing well. We’re very excited by the news. Hope we can get together soon (your schedule allowing) and drink to her good health. In terms of the wiener van, here’s my final thought. Have it gold-plated. Everyone should know that even you, the great man himself, failed occasionally.
Sam
Muller has a catering job coming up on the fifth. This one’s a French theme, so he’s making quiche. Judy loves to watch him work. He’s a bait-and-switch kind of cook, substituting one ingredient for another. I don’t know whether it’s inspired or he simply forgets the recipe. In any event, he’s whisking away, singing codas off key. Once the quiches are cooling on the counter, he launches into a chocolate mousse. The man sweats like a pig. We’ll have to cover him with cornstarch, or put him in an absorbent body stocking.
It’s only a matter of time before his hair ends up in something. The man’s an ape. Mary bought him a hairnet, but he says it irritates his forehead. Margot gave a girl a stern lecture the other day about pubic hair. The girl was complaining about getting them caught in her throat. “If you think that’s your claim to fame, young lady, I don’t feel sorry for you. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve polyps.”
That’s cold, Margot, even for you.
Chapter 65
Muller stopped wearing his frozen underwear, complaining of chaffing and dreams of polar expeditions. As for his crush on Ruby, it’s waned. There’s still the occasional puppyish look, but I think we’re past the goofy part. Ruby’s been so busy lately, I doubt she’s even noticed. Three new contracts came in last week. It’ll be tough getting them finished before the cold weather comes, but one of them is interior work, so that’s a blessing. In any event, Ruby’s been so stressed, she started sounding like Margot the other day. “Stick your finger in his eye or something,” she said. Otis was crying for a woman over in Kenosha. “She’s getting a small cyst removed,” Ruby said, “not her lung.”
Margot has one of those big foam fingers you get at baseball games. She stenciled Idiot across it. Whenever Ruby tells her to shut Otis up, she sticks it in his ear. Then she pushes him out of his chair. Bisquick loves the finger. He likes to peck at it. “Listen, honey,” Margot said to the woman, “it’s minor surgery. You’ll be home the same day. Don’t listen to Otis.”
Margot’s officially moved into the downstairs bedroom. I think she just wants the company, even if it does include Otis. The brownies keep everyone on a certain level of tolerance. We’ve been drying Riley’s plants on the garage roof, gathering the crisp leaves.
I got a shocker the other day. Mary came and asked for some grass brownies. “They’re for Iris,” she said. Iris has insomnia. Mary saw something on Dateline about marijuana helping cancer patients sleep. Now Iris sleeps like a log and laughs at everything Frank says. I’m feeling a lot better myself. Maybe the occasional near drowning does a body good.
In a few weeks, I’ll be up at Oshkosh, fishing with Dewey and Nick. Dewey’s bought into his brother’s framing business. Nick’s been renting hockey arenas in small towns, putting on craft shows. This could be our last fishing trip for a while. Judy still wants me to take Muller along. The catering jobs are spread out, so she doesn’t see a problem. I keep thinking of excuses, but Judy wants us to bond. “We bond every day,” I tell her. She’s got this image of us out in a boat, Muller with hooks in his hat. I tell her they’re flies. “Fishing flies,” I say, but she keeps calling them hooks. It took her years to stop calling any button or dial a thingy.
Max has a new sideline business. One day, a few weeks ago, he got this idea. People were coming home to a new painted house, but a lot of mess as well. He figured he could start up a cleaning service. Three of our customers have signed up so far. You have to hand it to Max. He’s come a long way from being fodder for muggers. When I think about it—and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately—I’m the only one without a business. In a sense, I’m flapping away in everyone else’s jet streams. We’re between jobs at the moment so I decide to give Margot a call. We haven’t really talked since she started her show. I call and suggest breakfast. “Why not?” she says. “Otis is giving me cramps.”
Muller, Judy and Mary are carrying platters to the car. They hop over the boxwoods like cartoon characters. Mary comes back for her keys. “Sam,” she calls out. “I’ve left you a list. Muller needs chick peas, pimentos, and a few other things.”
I drive to the supermarket on my way to meet Margot. The place is teeming with families. Little kids race down the aisles, nailing old ladies in the legs. I pick up everything and go to the cash. My heart starts pounding. I feel dizzy. “Could you hurry?” I say to the cashier.
I pay for the groceries, grab the bags and go outside. It’s hot in the parking lot, heat rising, people walking around in a daze. I put the groceries in a cooler behind the seat. Next, I drive over to pick up Margot. “I hope you’ve got a credit card,” she says when she gets in the car. “My invoices are piling up with no payments.” We drive to a local pub over on Winchester. “You look pale,” she says. “Drowning doesn’t agree with you.”
“No kidding.”
“What are you having? I could eat a horse.” She puts on her bifocals and flips through the menu.
“Coffee’s fine,” I say.
“You’re not eating? What’s got
ten into you?”
“I just about collapsed at the supermarket.”
“Try home delivery.”
“I mean it, Margot. It scared the crap out of me.”
“What does your doctor say?”
“I should dance” I look out the window. Down the street, a dog’s running around a lamppost on a leash. I feel like I’m on a similar trajectory. “I was thinking about Don Conroy the other night,” I say.
“What made you think of him?”
“I don’t want to end up like that.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“You know what I mean.”
“What brought this on?”
“I don’t know. I’m feeling useless. Everyone’s making something of themselves. You, Ruby, Max, Otis—even Muller.”
“That’s what’s bugging you? We took a shot, Sam. No big deal. What does Mary say?”
“I haven’t talked to her.”
The waitress brings our coffees. “I’ll have the all-day breakfast,” Margot says, “an extra order of toast and a Caesar salad on the side.”
“I’m fine with my coffee,” I say.
“So you’re saying it’s us? We’re having all the fun?”
“Something like that.”
“Want my show? Take it, Sam. Those idiots would schtup a bus.”
“I don’t want your show.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”
The waitress brings the food and Margot starts wolfing. “I’m only good where there’s a clear case of stupidity,” she says, licking jam off her fingers. “Listen, Sam, you’re doing better than most of us. You’ve got a wife, a kid, a son-in-law, hopefully, grandkids. My closest relative is a cousin who bottles tap water.”
“Have you ever had a panic attack?”
“Can’t say I have, Sam. Why?”
“I’m wondering why it’s happening to me.”
“How should I know? Stop thinking so much. It’s a headache waiting to happen. Look on the bright side, Sam. You’re not dead. Wasn’t Conroy in his mid-fifties? You smoked and drank more than he did. Be thankful you’re just dizzy. You could be a wormy corpse. Want some of my salad?”
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