You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive)

by Robert Bruce Cormack

“In a pig’s ear.”

  “You’re lucky he got you up here at all,” Iris says.

  “I know that Iris, but—”

  “What would a chartered plane have cost you?”

  “Iris—”

  “Four grand?”

  “Don’t go giving that little snipe any ideas.”

  “Two grand’s fine,” Max says.

  “Over my dead father’s arse.”

  “You dragged him out on a weekend, Frankie.”

  “Bloody hell, Iris . . .”

  “He got you up here, didn’t he?”

  “He almost killed us doing it.”

  “You wanted me to pull out all the stops,” Max says.

  “Pull them out, not hit them.”

  “Watch your blood pressure, Frankie.”

  “Christ, I’ve still got a judge wandering around out there—”

  “He’ll be fine. Have some breakfast. Then you can write everyone a nice big check.”

  Muller brings out the eggs, roasted potatoes, prosciutto and garden salad. People gather around the table. Coffee is served with cinnamon toast on the side. The investors emerge from their rooms just as Mustafa brings in a bowl of fruit, grinning away. “What are you smiling about, you fat bastard?” Frank says. “Tried to drown me last night, didn’t ya?”

  The investors gorge. Someone comes out of the garden shed. He looks around, then walks inside. His right eye is swollen. “What happened to you?” Frank says.

  “I wanted a hot dog. That guy hit me.”

  “You hit me first,” Max says.

  “You struck my lawyer, you little fucker?” Frank says.

  “I told him I didn’t have any hot dogs.”

  “It’s a hot dog van, isn’t it?” the lawyer says.

  “I have to get going,” Max says. “Ruby wants me back for dinner. Are you paying me or what?”

  “I’ll get his check book,” Iris says. She goes to the den and comes back laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Frank says.

  “There’s a love connection going on in there.”

  “On my couch? Tell them to get the fuck out of there!”

  “You tell them, Frank. They’re your friends.”

  “Bloody hell! What do I owe you again, you little bastard?”

  “Two thousand.”

  “I’ll give you five hundred.”

  “One thousand.”

  “Eight, and not a penny more.”

  “Sold.”

  “Fucking weasel.”

  “Frank,” Iris says.

  “Don’t Frank me. The little bastard’s killing me.”

  “What do you want done with the wiener van?” Max asks.

  “I don’t care. Burn it. Fuck it up the tailpipe.”

  “Language, Frankie,” Iris says.

  “I’ll figure something out,” Max says.

  “Take your money and go, you bloodthirsty little prick.”

  “You forgot to sign it.”

  “Give it here. Eight hundred dollars for a ride in my own vehicle. Remind me never to hire outside help again, Iris.”

  “Be thankful you got any help at all.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Write Mary a check, too.”

  “We could have gone to Spain on this.”

  “Write it and stop bitching.”

  Frank writes Mary a check. “Anybody else?” Frank says.

  “You covering dry cleaning?” his lawyer says.

  “Go fuck yourself, Desmond.”

  Max puts some scrambled eggs between two pieces of cinnamon toast. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sam.”

  “Okay, Max.”

  “We should get moving, too,” Mary says.

  “Let me get dressed.”

  The wiener van backfires while I’m putting on my clothes. A woman screams and something goes thump in the den. When I come downstairs, two people emerge, moving along the wall to the door. “We’re not bad people,” the woman says. They go outside and disappear down the driveway. We load everything in the cars and head out. Down by the gate, we see limos parked at odd angles.

  When we get home, Margot’s on the air, giving somebody shit about their student debt. “You bought a car, for God’s sake? No, it’s not okay. No, student loans aren’t forgivable. Who told you that?”

  In a few months, she’ll be a reviewer’s dream. Frank’s going to promote the hell out of her book. “Just write down what she says,” he told me, which is a problem in itself. Margot works off the cuff. I’ll probably have to sit with Margot, recording everything. The language might have to be toned down. Margot gets pretty ripe when she’s on a roll. On the other hand, Frank likes ripe.

  There’s no point worrying about it at this point. Margot hasn’t even agreed, and you never know with her. She may tell Frank to go shove it. Then again, she might think it’s a hoot. Margot gets a kick out of Frank sometimes. She used to laugh like crazy when he’d come into the office with a new idea. You’d hear her cackle, and Frank would bang on the wall saying, “Shut up, Margot, it’s a good idea.”

  Anyway, I’m just the writer here. My job is to get Margot’s words down on paper, put them in logical order, then let Frank take over. And wait for the feminists and lawsuits.

  Chapter 83

  Money keeps rolling in from the grammar books. Frank’s no fool when it comes to percentages. Even after distribution and taxes, he’s about to make a good profit. It’s got all the trades and tabloids talking. They say Frank’s on a new kick, lambasting kids over their texts and blogging. One reporter wrote: “It’s about time someone nipped this texting thing in the bud.”

  Frank’s still wants to take the books on the road. God help us if anybody asks Frank a grammar question. The man couldn’t tell a split infinitive from a split pea. They’re already asking about his next project, which he says is a book about social conduct, served up by a woman who doesn’t stand on ceremony. “She has her own online show,” he says. “Her name’s Margot Simmons and she doesn’t take guff from anybody. You got a problem with your kid, talk to Margot. She’ll straighten the little bugger out. I have her on exclusive contract.”

  Margot hasn’t signed the contract yet. Knowing Margot, she plans to fleece Frank but good. “The woman’s a fucking menace,” Frank said after their last meeting. “She’s taking me to the cleaners.” Margot thinks it’s funny as hell. She doesn’t need his money. She’s got a new account called Bendex condoms. They’re multicolored and look like old barbershop signs. Affiliated marketing is definitely working for her. She gets five cents for every hit. The money’s rolling in and, with her new publishing contract, she could rake in plenty.

  Otis has something going, too. A pharmaceutical company figured Otis Cries for You must attract a lot of depressed people. They want him to help advertise a new happy pill. Knowing Otis, he’ll probably take more than he sells.

  Muller and Judy have catering parties booked right through the winter. They sold their house in Seattle put the money towards an industrial kitchen and they should be up and running soon. As far as living arrangements go, they’re happy staying here. Judy found out she’s pregnant. She’s expecting next June. Mary’s turning the den into a nursery.

  Max enrolled in night school last month. He’s taking a marketing course for young entrepreneurs. Now he plans to expand, putting Zack in charge of the gardening. He calls it the Total House Manicure and plugs it on both Otis’s and Margot’s shows. Margot’s handling the business side. She’s incorporated everybody under the same umbrella, calling it Margomax. We’re all listed as officers—even Otis, who got his nuts in the wringer for not paying royalties on his songs. Margot’s taken care of that, everyone’s paid off, or they think they are, anyway. Margot’s as sneaky as Frank, which is pretty sneaky.

  Ruby and I are finishing the house with those crazy dogs. The outside is done, just a door or two left to paint. The dogs wait for us to arrive, looking like junkies. Max is cuttin
g back on the brownies, but those dogs are demanding brutes. Around three o’clock, they snap their heads up, get the munchies, and then it’s bedlam. “They never used to be like this,” the woman keeps saying. She sits on the grass, patting their tummies with Gilbert getting an erection the size of a paint roller. “Give mommy a big kiss,” she says.

  You’ll get more than that in a second.

  Chapter 84

  Margot’s decided to lease vans for everybody: names will be painted on the sides, logos designed, and the Margomax insignia on the back doors. Something tells me Frank has his finger in this. They have secret meetings in her bedroom and Frank emerges, screaming away, saying she’s fleecing him. Sometimes this plays out while Otis is on the air. Frank appears behind Otis, retreating upstairs. Margot comes out snickering away. “Everything okay, Margot?” Otis says.

  “Right as rain,” Margot says.

  Frank’s on the phone to me later. He wants Margot’s quotes by late November. If everything goes according to plan, her book should make the bookshelves by Christmas. I wait until Margot’s show ends and we sit at the kitchen table. I’m recording everything on a little tape recorder. “What do you think of child psychiatrists?” I ask.

  “Assholes.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re in la-la land, Sam. They still think babies come from storks. Nothing but meatheads, the lot of them.”

  “Care to expand on that, Margot?”

  “You know what ADD stands for, Sam?”

  “Attention Deficit Disorder.”

  “No, it means A Dickhead Delinquent. These kids don’t need pills. They need a swift kick in the pants. Everything’s got some underlying cause with these child psychiatrists. Kids need discipline.”

  “What if the kid really has ADD?”

  “They all do, for God’s sake. Who doesn’t at that age?”

  Bisquick swoops in on Otis for a nipple grab. “Frickin’ bird.”

  “Give him a grape,” Margot says.

  “I tried giving him a grape. He doesn’t give a shit about grapes anymore. Get him away from me.”

  Margot picks up the foam finger and Bisquick goes for it. “There, you big sissy,” she says to Otis.

  “He’s not grabbing your nipple. Why can’t we tape his beak?”

  “For the same reason we don’t tape yours.”

  Otis goes to the fridge. “What’s the story on the brownies, Sam?”

  “Muller’s too busy, Otis. Riley’s pot is all used up, anyway. Max’s looking around for another source.”

  “Where’s Max now?”

  “Your guess is as good as ours.”

  “We’re trying to work here, Otis,” Margot says. “Go fix the tap in the laundry room. I can’t sleep with that thing dripping away. It gives my bladder ideas. Where were we, Sam?”

  “Something about dickhead delinquents.”

  Chapter 85

  Twelve hours of tape, eighty quotes of mixed quality. Within five weeks, we’ll be looking at a book ready to ship. Margot holds the manuscript like it’s a used diaper. “If this sells, I’m a bigger dope than they are,” she says. Frank keeps calling her a “bloodsucker” and she calls him a “bog trotter.” It plays out in the basement with Ruby doing the laundry. Margot had a heavy duty washing machine and dryer put in last week. She’s writing it off as a laundry mat.

  Meanwhile, I’m getting our driveway resurfaced and buying paint for the nursery. The bill to resurface is over a grand. Margot says she’ll bill it under sundry items. Everything we spend seems to be written off, even Muller’s catering expenses. Mary works on his schedules using a new program. The jobs have timers scheduled to go off a day before the event. She turns everything into a pie chart at the end of the month.

  We’ve made a good start on the nursery today. I’m getting to the point where I don’t use tape anymore. Mary’s impressed with my steady hand. “You’re quite the pro,” she says, following me around the room with a roller. We get the first coat on the walls before we have to get ready for our dance lessons tonight.

  Krupsky and Emma are at the dance studio when we arrive. He’s dressed in a suit with a pink carnation, kissing every woman’s hand. Mary thinks it’s charming as hell. “How are you, Sam,” Krupsky says when we go over. “I thought I told you to wear a hat? Your skin looks like a breeding ground for carcinoma.”

  “I wear a hat, Krupsky.”

  “Get something bigger. Maybe a sombrero.”

  “I saw you twisting.”

  “Where?”

  “In your office.”

  “No law against it, is there?”

  Silvio claps his hands. All the dancers take their positions. “Today we’ll concentrate on our ochos,” he says. “Begin with your promenade holds. A little higher, Sam.”

  The music starts and we move about the floor. Krupsky and Emma dance closest to Silvio. Muller and Judy are on the other side. I nip the corner of Mary’s toe and get a snarl. After three songs, the floor is open. Some couples stay together, others exchange partners. Krupsky asks Mary to dance. Emma stands with me. We’ve danced before. She’s excellent, but you can tell she wants to watch her husband guide Mary around the room. They go floating by, doing a caminando, before he starts showing off his cazas and baldosas, a foot going in and out between Mary’s legs, tapping her ankles. I wish Silvio would put him in the senior’s class or ban him altogether. Everyone loves the little prick, especially Carmen. When the music stops, Krupsky leads Mary over to our corner by the hand. “She’s as graceful as she is beautiful,” he says to me. “You’re a lucky man, Sam. All the more reason to wear a hat before you lose your nose.”

  “I got plenty of hats,” I say, which is true since Riley’s been tossing sombreros over the hedge. He’s heating the pool for New Year’s. At the stroke of midnight, we’re all invited over. Judy and Mary aren’t keen on the cold, but Muller’s game. I have to admit, he’s been acting a lot more serious lately. It’s a bit of a relief and slightly unnerving at the same time.

  Silvio and Carmen have the studio decorated for New Year’s Eve. Streamers cross the ceiling, the punchbowl is full. Silvio stands in the middle of the floor. “As this year ends,” he says, “we should reflect on what we have in our lives”—he takes Carmen’s hand—“including our loved ones, food to eat, and, most of all, our health. That gives us the greatest gift of all. Please, everybody, join my wife and I and let’s dance. Let’s celebrate this time together.”

  Krupsky blows his nose and wipes his eyes. Emma puts her hand on his shoulder. I don’t know what’s wrong with the guy. He starts blubbering away. “The poor man,” Mary says to me. “Say something, Sam.”

  “What do you want me to say?” She gives me a shove and I go over. “You okay, Krupsky?”

  “Emma and I,” he says, blowing his nose again, “we arrived in Buenos Aires this day fifty years ago. They kept us in Israel for two years waiting for visas.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Krupsky.”

  “Practically children, Sam. That’s all we were. Without any family left. We had each other. Otherwise, bupkis.”

  “Can I get you some punch?”

  “I think we’ll dance now, Sam. Thanks for the offer.”

  He takes Emma out on the floor and they dance. They hold each other close, foreheads touching. “Invite them over after this,” Mary says to me. “Go over and ask. Don’t give me that long face, either.”

  “Fine, I’ll go over and ask.”

  “And smile.”

  “He’s not smiling.”

  “That’s why I want you to smile.”

  “If I keep doing that, I won’t be Cranky Face anymore.”

  “Just go over there.”

  Chapter 86

  We all sit together in the sunroom, Krupsky rubbing Judy’s stomach, a smile on his face as big as the moon outside. It’ll soon be New Years. Looking at my daughter now, I think back to the day she was born. The agency was pitching a new account and Frank kept
coming down the hall, yelling, “What’s taking you bastards so long?” I was in the art director’s office, getting the last of the layouts together, when our receptionist came over the intercom: “Sam, Mary’s in labor.” I dropped everything, grabbed my coat, and headed out the door. “Where are you going?” Frank said, and I told him Mary was about to give birth. “Go on then,” he said. “You probably want to take a few pictures. Go on then, you git. Hand out your cigars.”

  That afternoon, Judy came into the world, seven pounds, six ounces. The rest happened in a blink of an eye: nappies turning into underwear, t-shirts turning into bras, a graduation and then she was gone, off to Seattle to meet the man of her dreams. She looks up at me now and smiles, the dimples growing. Krupsky pats her hand and stands up. “You should be very happy, Sam,” he says.

  “I am, Krupsky. I’m tickled.” The lights are on around the pool. Steam floats through the trees, disappearing into the blue-black sky.

  “Imagine that,” Krupsky says. “Swimming on New Year’s Eve.”

  We go outside for a cigar. “Any plans for the New Year?” I ask. “Resolutions?”

  “At my age, Sam? What do I have to resolve?

  “Probably right.”

  “What about you?”

  “I still get dizzy spells.”

  “So, sit down when it happens.”

  “Mary thinks I need medication.”

  “Do you think you need medication?”

  “I don’t know what I need.”

  “Look out there, Sam,” he says, pointing up with his cigar. “Lots of stars. Thousands—millions. We’ve seen a few galaxies beyond Pluto. After that, bupkis, Sam, bupkis.”

  “What are you saying, Krupsky?”

  “We’re specks in the universe, Sam. Most of our decisions are made for us. It’s called the earth’s rotation. The world spins around, we spin around with it.”

  “Not very encouraging.”

  “So it’s not very encouraging,” he shrugs. “You know what I’d like to do, Sam?” More than anything else? I’d like to swim.”

  “If that’s what you want. I’ll find you some trunks.”

  “I thought this was a naked deal?”