by David Gates
“Quarter to eight,” says Howard.
“Quarter to eight. Sounds plausible,” says Jerry. “And then it’s on to what we’re told is the premier country-music nightspot, which is called the … Howard?”
“Crystal Chandelier,” says Howard.
“The Crystal Chandelier. Thank yuh thank yuh. Where we get to see some poofter in a cowboy hat. Gary Larry or Larry Gary or some such shit.”
“You know, it’s almost seven, Jer,” Howard says. “I should call the car place.”
“Well, hell, go to it, son. Got us a phone rot over thur by the pissy-warr.”
“Yeah, I know, Jer,” says Howard. “I just used it.”
Anita glances at Jean and raises her eyes ceilingward. Jean has both hands around her wineglass; she opens, then closes, her fingers; she hopes this will seem like the equivalent of a sympathetic shrug.
“Hell of a town,” says Jerry. “Jes’ so proud to be here.”
“I’ll be right back,” says Howard.
“Take your tom, son,” Jerry says, as Howard heads for the telephone. He takes another gulp of whiskey. “Poor bastard.”
Jean says nothing. Shamefully leaving it to Anita, who asks, “Why do you say that?”
Jerry winces. “Bruno,” he says. “Please tell me you’re just playing dumb. Look, this is a sweet man, you know what I’m saying? Basically a lovely man. They threw him down and raped him in New York. You think even in this godforsaken shithole they can’t smell it on him? I mean, with all due respect to Howard.” He shrugs. “I give it a year.”
“But doesn’t anybody know this?” says Anita.
“I know it; am I anybody?” Jerry says. “I guess not.”
This shuts Anita up.
“But he’s moving his family down,” Jean says.
“So let’s hope they like the area,” says Jerry.
“How can you do this to him?” Jean says.
Jerry shrugs. “He fuckin’ begged for it. What am I supposed to do? Out of New York, more relaxed way of life, nice public schools—plus his own little fiefdom away from all the big mean guys. Hey, and Art was only too happy to make it all come true. Because he sees a tax loss at the end of the tunnel and Howard out the door.” Howard’s heading back to the table; Jean smiles and nods at him to alert Jerry. “You think I’m scary, you should watch old Artie in action—if you can even see what he’s doing. Fucker’s the master of misdirection.”
“Who we talking about?” Howard says, climbing back onto his stool.
“You, babe,” says Jerry, who must have seen him coming after all. “So what’s the frequency, Kenneth?”
“I asked them to send a car around in about twenty minutes.”
“That’s the stuff,” says Jerry. “Shit, you’re going to be right in your element down here.”
“Well, I think it’s the right move for me. And we’ll make that location work, Jerry. I respect what you’re saying, but over the long haul?”
“There, see that?” Jerry says to Jean and Anita. “This is the man with the master plan.” He raises his glass. “Howie, you fuckin’ ace of trumps.” He drains the last of his drink. “Now, here’s the agenda. If you would escort Ms. Bruno out to the lobby and wait for us, Ms. Karnes and I have about five minutes’ worth of highly confidential shit to talk over.”
Anita looks at Jean, who turns up a palm.
“Sure,” says Howard. “We can do that. If the car shows up, I’ll just have him wait.”
“Excellent,” Jerry says. “Have him wait. That’s it. You’re in the zone, babe.”
Howard touches fingertips to Anita’s elbow, and Jerry watches them out of the room. Then he shoots his fingers behind the lenses of his glasses, pushing them up above his forehead, and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, twisting his head from side to side. He claws the glasses back down into place and says, “Help me, somebody. Jesus.” He looks up. “How’s your drink holding out?”
“I’m fine,” says Jean.
“Sure you are. So what’s this secret sorrow, Karnes? Let me guess. Prince Hamlet won’t take care of his homework. Have I ever told you you’re worth ten of this putz? In my opinion?”
“Yes. Repeatedly.”
“If you don’t mind my calling your husband a putz. How is the King of Rock and Roll?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know where he is. He was supposed to be back at work this week, and apparently he just, you know, took off. That or something’s happened to him. I have no idea what to do.”
“Well,” Jerry says, “in my religion we have some very moving prayers of thanksgiving.”
“Fuck you, Jerry. I don’t need jokes.”
“Now, that’s the little pepper-pot we know and love. Okay, so what have you tried so far? You called everybody, nobody knows shit, so you did what? Go to the police?”
“Yes, finally. And now—this morning?—they called and said they found his truck on Houston Street.”
“Yeah? And?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, so what the hell are you doing dicking around in Atlanta, Georgia?” says Jerry. “Why didn’t you tell me? Dragging you off on this bullshit.”
“I don’t know. I guess if anything, it was a relief to have something I had to do,” she says. “I think I’m sort of sleepwalking.”
“Yeah, I would say. Help me, somebody.” He raises his hand and windmills for the waitress. “So what did you do with the kids meanwhile? Put out food and water for them?”
“My sister’s there—”
“Right, right, I remember you said—”
“—but she has to go back to Seattle. I mean, she should have gone already.”
Jerry shuts his eyes, his whole face scrunching up. “If this wasn’t the ass end of the universe, Karnes, I’d stick you on a plane right now. Shit, there’s got to be something flying back to civilization tonight.” The waitress is coming their way; he mimics writing on his palm, and she swivels and makes for the cash register. “Okay, this is the plan. Wherever we can get you to, La Guardia, Newark, fuckin’ Philadelphia, we’ll have a car waiting—”
“Jerry, no. I can’t. I need some sleep. My sister’s taking care of the kids, they’ll be fine, and just this one night, you know, there’s that huge bed and it’s like it isn’t anywhere. It isn’t even in the world.”
“Will you be able to sleep?” he says. The waitress puts the check on the table; Jerry lays his credit card on it. “You want a Halcion?”
“God no,” says Jean. “What’s it like, though? I’ve never taken it.”
“It’s like you were never born,” he says. “Temporarily.”
“Could I really have one?”
“First one’s free, kid. So listen. I see absolutely no need for you to come along on the voyage of the Pequod tonight. Howard was probably counting on you to keep me busy, while he tortures himself with the beautified Miss Bruno. But with just the three of us, it’ll be all the more piquant.”
“Oh, come on,” says Jean.
“Don’t you start playing dumb.” Jerry taps his temple with a forefinger. “It’s my little private theater troupe, okay? Starring the beautified Miss Bruno. Another one of life’s winners. One-bedroom co-op in the Village that she can’t unload, and some putz hanging around who’s in film, for Christ’s sake. See, Bruno tells me everything. Which is more than I can say for you, Karnes. I think she read some fucking article about mentors.”
“At least it sounds like she has hope,” says Jean.
“Yeah, well, like I say. Piquant. So anyway, you go on up, you order room service, you get under the covers, you have two desserts, put on a dirty movie, pop a Halcion and goodbye cruel world.”
“This is really kind,” says Jean. “But I should at least come to dinner. I don’t want to spoil everybody’s evening.”
“Please-please-please, can we not talk stupidly? An evening? This is a fucking lunar expedition.”
“Well, so why are you doing it
?”
“That’s the question, all right,” he says. “You’ve nailed it.”
The waitress is back with the slip and credit card. Jerry looks at the slip, closes his eyes, then opens them and writes in the tip and total.
“Let me tell you one more thing,” he says, guiding her toward the lobby with a hand on her shoulder blade. “Since we’re talking turkey. Or the Wild Turkey’s talking turkey. This might appeal to your sick sense of humor. I am technically a faithful husband. And that is not a proposition, by the way.”
“I’m technically a faithful wife,” Jean says. It feels daring to leave out the rest. God, that one glass of wine.
——
She calls room service and orders a steak, which she never has, a baked potato and, for dessert, Chocolate Mud Pie. And a caffeine-free Diet Coke: she’s afraid to have another glass of wine because of the pill Jerry gave her, which she’s afraid to take anyway. She gets her shoes off, pulls the stiff synthetic bedspread over her and reads the part where Emma’s trying to figure out how she could have thought Mr. Elton was in love with Harriet. The food arrives, wheeled in by a fat, beaming black woman who’s either doing a good job of pretending she doesn’t hate waiting on rich white women, or who genuinely doesn’t because she’s a Christian.
But Jean can’t eat until she knows what’s going on in Chesterton. She keeps the round metal covers on the food, hangs the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob, then gets into her nightgown and under the covers to make the call.
Mel answers the phone. “Oh. I thought you were Erin.”
“Just me,” Jean says. “How’s it going? I miss you.”
Mel says nothing.
“You get my message?”
“Yeah,” Mel says. “Roger got in trouble again.”
“What now?”
“He scratched a Nazi sign on Aunt Carol’s truck, and she can’t get it out.”
“Oh crap,” says Jean. “Is she there? Could I talk to her?”
“She and Roger are out in the garage.”
“Then would you go get her, please?”
A long wait. Jean gets out of bed and brings the phone over to the serving table. She lifts the cover and looks at this slab of brown meat with black stripes on it, lying by its lonesome on the too-large white plate. It’s shaped like Mississippi or something.
“Hi,” says Carol. “So I guess you heard.”
“Oh, Carol, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe this. What exactly happened?”
“Well, I went to get a tape out of my truck, and there was Roger with one of those big screw hooks you have? And he was scratching this, you know, swastika on the door of the truck. The driver’s side. I think he’s sorry, but it’s sort of hard to tell with him.”
“Oh my God. Why would he do a thing like that?”
“Beats me,” Carol says. “The most Nazi thing I think I did was telling him he couldn’t have any more Halloween candy before dinner.”
“I better talk with him. Is there anything you can do about your truck?”
“I don’t know. I thought about using your sander, but that would just make it like a fat swastika. I guess for now I’ll just put something over it to cover it up. Maybe if I could find a big piece of cardboard.”
“Oh shit,” Jean says. “Well, look, whatever it costs to fix it, you know? Obviously. But I’m so sorry. I feel terrible about this.”
“It was real weird seeing it,” says Carol. “He’s still out there, by the way. I brought one of your lawn chairs out and had him just sit and look at it so he could start to process what he did. Was that okay?”
“I guess. I don’t know. Something like this I’m completely lost. Can I speak to him?”
“I’ll go get him.”
Another long wait. Jean lies back down on the bed and pulls the bedspread over her again. She tries to read the stuff on the back of Emma. Finally she hears noises, and Roger says, “What?”
“You know what,” she says. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know, I just did it.”
“That’s not an answer. You’re old enough to take responsibility for the things you do. Were you angry at something?”
“I just wanted to see what it would look like.”
“Didn’t you know it was wrong?” He says nothing.
“I’m very disappointed,” she says, “because we’ve talked about this before. If you’re angry about something, or you feel bad about something, you talk about it to somebody. You don’t go and do something that hurts someone else.”
“She can get it fixed,” says Roger.
“That’s not the point. But since you mention it, yes, she is going to have to get it fixed, and it’s probably going to be very expensive. And you’re going to have to help pay for it.” Which is stupid, because she has no idea how to follow through. Should she give him chores at some imaginary wage? He’ll forget what the point had ever been, unless she harps on it every day. Like a harpy.
Roger says nothing.
“I’m coming home tomorrow,” she says. “Between now and then I want you to be thinking about this and be ready to give me a better explanation. Do you understand? This is a really upsetting time for all of us, with Daddy gone, but being upset doesn’t mean you’re not responsible for what you do.” And if this sounds right wing, too bad. “So you and I have a date tomorrow night. Okay? I’m not going to yell at you, but I am going to expect you to talk to me about what you’re feeling. If you’re angry or sad or upset—whatever’s going on. So I want you to think. Would you promise me?”
Roger says nothing. Which is about what’s going to happen tomorrow night. And then what’s her move? Send him to a real psychiatrist instead of that completely ineffectual woman at Mary M. Watson?
“Okay, you know what you have to do,” Jean says. “Could I talk to Aunt Carol, please? Listen, I love you very much. Even when you do things that are wrong. Will you remember that too?” Which he’ll probably interpret to mean that in the long run he’ll get away with it.
“Hi,” says Carol. “Well, he looks sorry.”
“I’m sure,” Jean says. “So as usual I’m not even there.”
“It’s not your fault. Listen, did you ever think this whole area around here, like the Hudson River, has sort of a weird vibe?”
“No,” says Jean. “I mean, I wish.”
After hanging up, she takes the cover off the steak again and nudges it with the fork. It leaves a smear of brown-red juice, complete with fat globules. She should make herself eat a piece just as punishment for being stupid enough to order it. She tries a little of the baked potato, but it has that bad taste from being reheated too many times. Which leaves this pointless Chocolate Mud Pie: food for pleasure. God, right now the thought of any pleasure ever again.
She cuts the pill Jerry gave her with the steak knife and swallows half. Something she’s never done, taking some strange pill: well, now she’s in for it. She wants this food out of here. She wheels the serving table into the hall.
It’s eight o’clock. If she could only sleep right through until eight in the morning, twelve good solid lost hours. But there’s that stupid breakfast. She calls the front desk and asks for a wake-up call at six, then gets into bed and finds her place in Emma; it’s working up to where Emma finally has to tell Harriet that Mr. Elton isn’t in love with her, but Jean doesn’t even get that far before the pill kicks in. Oh God, it’s delicious: she’s melting, she’s melting, like the Wicked Witch.
——
The next thing she knows, she’s sitting up in bed wide awake and the clock says 4:04 and she remembers Willis is gone. So this is the down side of taking a sleeping pill, which even an idiot would have known. She reaches for the light, squeezes her eyes shut and turns it on, then sneaks her eyes open. She’s a thousand miles from where she needs to be.
She gets out of bed and drops to her knees in the thick carpeting and says, out loud, “Dear God, please help me. I’m just asking you to hold me up s
o I can get through this and try to help Mel and Roger get through, because we’re all in so much trouble. Please. Amen.” She can’t remember praying since she was a good little girl, in Methodist Sunday school. Well, except back when she and Willis experimented for a week or so with saying grace before meals. Not that they believed; just to leave themselves open. One of those things only she and Willis know about.
She remains on her knees, forehead touching the mattress, and tries not to actually want peace and strength to come flooding in, because that would be a sure way not to get it. Though that’s stupid because God (if any) either intends to give you peace and strength or he doesn’t; you can’t maneuver him into it. Eventually she gets to her feet. So this is her big spiritual experience, which is exactly what she deserves for neglecting anything spiritual for all these years.
She takes a shower and puts on the clothes she brought for tomorrow. It is tomorrow. While on hold with Delta, she dumps everything out of her wallet, looking for her MasterCard. Crap. She’s going to have to use Amex, which actually is just as well since she’s already got a couple of thousand on her MasterCard. She finally gets a person—a woman, sounding strangely wide awake—who tells her there’s a five-thirty on American that gets into La Guardia at eight and that they can work something out with her ticket. In a way this is so stupid: what’s she going to do in New York at eight in the morning? Except get caught in rush hour. But at least she can get to her office and start calling people, as she should’ve done days ago.
She finds stationery in the desk drawer and writes a note:
Dear Jerry,
Thanks for all your help. Thinking back on our conversation, I decided to take the earliest plane I could get and start dealing with every thing. I’m terribly sorry about the breakfast, but you didn’t sound like you needed me there. Naturally I’ll pay the difference in the price of thetickets.
Anyway, thanks again, Jerry.
Be well,
Jean
She calls the desk to say she’s checking out and could they have a taxi waiting. She puts the note in an envelope, seals it, writes Jerry Starger on it, takes her bag and closes the door behind her. Her serving table has been taken away. She walks toward where she thinks the elevators were last night. She’s the only human in the carpeted corridors, and in this harsh artificial light, which seems to be coming from everywhere, she casts no shadow.