CHAPTER TWELVE
Greg lived with his mother in a powder-blue mini-mansion on the wrong end of a partially gated community whose developers had made the profound miscalculation of building in the backyard of the area’s busiest municipal airfield. For the most part, the only planes that came and went from the field were single-engine Cessnas, but the occasional corporate jet taxiing down the runway a mere three hundred yards from Greg’s bedroom window had probably contributed to the delusion that meeting a woman for drinks in Chicago was a perfectly normal thing to do. At least that’s what I told myself as I rang his doorbell a second time and waited for someone to answer. Otherwise, the only explanation was that Greg had completely lost touch with reality.
When someone finally answered the door, it was Greg’s mother.
“Is this about the lawn?” she asked, peering at me from behind a brass door chain. “Because if it’s about the lawn, we’ve already hired someone to take care of it.”
Behind me, the overgrown lawn lapped at the sidewalk, and the shrubs in front of Greg’s house grew wild and unkempt beneath dark, sealed windows.
“No,” I shouted as what was either a tiny airplane or a very large mosquito buzzed angrily somewhere behind Greg’s house. “I’m here for Greg. He called about a ride to the airport.”
“You must be Karen’s boyfriend,” the woman said, undoing the chain and letting me into her dim, stuffy house. “Greg’s told me so much about her.”
“Husband,” I said. “I’m Karen’s husband.”
“Husband, boyfriend.” The woman was plump and pale with tiny eyes and bleached blonde hair. “It’s not like the glue’s settled yet. Am I right? Greg’s in the Christmas room.”
I’d heard rumors of the Christmas room, but I never believed in it until Greg’s mother said the words aloud. According to Neil, it was Mrs. Packer’s refuge, an alternate dimension where it was always the most wonderful time of the year. It also doubled as what Greg referred to as his war room, and when his mother opened the door, he looked up from his computer with a scowl and instructed her to show me in.
“He’s a little anxious,” Greg’s mother whispered aloud as she left me alone with her son. “First date and all.”
“Mother, please!” Greg sighed.
So this was what Neil had to deal with on a fairly regular basis, I thought as Nat King Cole sang of chestnuts roasting on an open fire and Jack Frost nipping at my nose. No wonder he wanted to move to Maryland.
Meticulously decorated with crystal ornaments and shimmering tinsel, a Christmas tree stood guard over a king’s ransom in empty gift-wrapped packages. Next to the tree stood a three-quarter-scale manger scene complete with donkeys, shepherds, and wise men all carved out of pine. An electric train ran circles around the feet of the magi, and when I looked up, I saw that the ceiling was painted with a heavenly host of angels.
“So,” I said. “Which are the cherubim and which are the seraphim?”
“Before you jump to any conclusions, I should point out that those aren’t paintings. They’re merely decals that mother purchased at a crafts fair. The woman isn’t completely insane.”
“Of course not,” I said, eyeing a bookshelf lined with Santa Claus figurines. “Are you ready to go?”
“My bags are upstairs, if you’d be so kind.”
“Bags?” I said. “You’re meeting this woman for drinks.”
“But there’s no telling where the evening will take us. I’m sure you’ll agree that a man needs to be prepared.”
“Prepared, sure. But it’s not like you’re moving in with the girl.”
“One never knows,” Greg said.
Arguing with the guy was like drowning in quicksand, so I gave up on talking any sense into him and went upstairs to grab his suitcases.
Standing impatiently at the door in his rumpled blue blazer, Greg checked his watch as I struggled with the bags and his mother pinned a lime-green carnation to his lapel.
“Isn’t my son handsome?” Mrs. Packer asked, beaming with pride as Gene Autry sang “Frosty the Snowman” in the adjoining room.
“Sure thing,” I said, setting the bags down to catch my breath at the bottom of the stairs. “A real lady killer.”
“I’m sorry, Mother, but we’re in a bit of a hurry,” Greg said, gesturing for me to keep moving. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave.”
“Of course, darling,” Greg’s mother said, following us only as far as the front door, as if stepping into the daylight might reduce her to a pile of ash. “Don’t forget to smile. And remember to mention that you’re a lawyer. Women love lawyers.”
“You’re a lawyer?” I said, hefting Greg’s luggage into my Saturn.
“Technically, yes,” Greg said. “But only in New Jersey.”
WE WERE barely out of Greg’s cul-de-sac when he started adjusting my passenger seat and complaining about its lack of lumbar support. A sure sign of a quality automobile, he explained, punching the buttons on my radio and cranking up the air conditioner, was lumbar support. Neil’s car had good lumbar support, he said. And a better sound system, and a much more effective air conditioner.
“Well, we’re not in Neil’s car, are we?” I said.
“Clearly not,” Greg agreed. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“That depends,” I said. “How personal?”
“Does Karen ever ask about me?”
“Not really,” I said.
“Then what does she say when my name comes up in conversation?”
“It doesn’t,” I said.
“That’s very surprising,” Greg said. “I thought we had a connection. Your wife and I. Something profound and spiritual—as if we’re cut from the same cloth.”
“That’s a very disturbing thought, Greg.”
“She and I should spend more time together,” Greg said, ignoring my comment. “Especially now that Neil’s moving. As you know, I’ve come to rely very heavily upon him for advice, conversation, moral support, and other services too numerous to mention, both tangible and intangible. While these are certainly appropriate demands to place upon a friend of his caliber, Neil’s pending move has forced me to reevaluate where he stands in my life. To put it as bluntly as possible, I need a new best friend, and I’m hoping that Karen might be interested in the job.”
“I’ll mention it to her,” I said. “But you might want to keep your options open.”
“While your advice on the topic is certainly appreciated, I believe the matter is best left up to the principals in question, namely myself and Karen.”
“Absolutely,” I said, and Greg suggested we stop at a gas station to stock up on provisions.
WATCHING ME wander through a maze of snack chips, dog treats, air fresheners, and cans of motor oil in the allseeing curvature of a security mirror, Greg leaned against a shaky Coca-Cola display and told me what to pick up. Breath mints for close conversation, he shouted—and perhaps deep kissing if it should come to that. Beef jerky for stamina. People magazine for small talk, and Maxim for all the latest sexual techniques.
“I’m a little rusty when it comes to activity between the sheets,” he confessed to me, the cashier, and an elderly woman whose only crime was stopping at the local gas-n-go for a gallon of milk on a Saturday morning. “In fact, I’d be much obliged if you could offer me a few pointers before my flight leaves.”
Making a show of poring over the magazine rack, I looked up at the security mirror and shrugged my shoulders. There was no Maxim, I shouted, hoping the cashier wouldn’t call my bluff. The last thing I wanted was for Greg to attempt any of the TEN SECRETS FOR DRIVING HER WILD advertised on the cover. When he suggested that Cosmo would do just as well so long as he remembered to follow all of the instructions in reverse, I shrugged my shoulders again and said there were no sex magazines at all. The best I could offer him was a copy of Guns and Ammo, which, after giving the matter due consideration, he decided was better than nothing.
&
nbsp; “I want you to know something,” Greg said as he handed the cashier his mother’s credit card. “If anything should ever happen to you, I swear on my mother’s life that I’ll spend the rest of eternity watching over Karen.”
“You’re not planning to kill me, are you, Greg?”
I was only half-joking, but I told the cashier not to bother with a bag on the off chance that Greg might try to suffocate me with it the next time I turned my head to check for oncoming traffic.
“Of course I’m not planning to kill you,” Greg said. “As you know, I’m fiercely loyal. All I’m saying is that accidents can happen. Look at Billy Chin, for example.”
“That wasn’t an accident,” I said. “Billy killed himself.”
“The evidence would suggest otherwise.”
“What evidence?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
“That he went to the Academy, of course. Donkeys don’t do that kind of thing.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“My solemn belief is that Billy’s death was an accident,” Greg said as we walked back to my car. “The alternative is too mind-boggling to comprehend. I have constructed for myself a perfectly balanced model of the universe based upon principles you and I both learned at the feet of our mentors when we walked the hallowed halls of our alma mater. To date, this model has never failed me. Indeed, it has guided me through college, law school, and numerous confrontations with my mother. I have utilized this model of the universe to analyze and understand the behavior of my fellow man, the ebb and flow of geopolitical power relations the world over, the statistical likelihood of the existence of God, the outcomes of three Super Bowls, and what I consider the final frontier of all human knowledge: the fleeting, hidden and often contradictory desires which motivate that most mysterious and fickle of species. I am referring, of course, to woman. If Billy Chin killed himself, then all of my other conclusions must be called into question. I’m sure you understand that on the eve of my latest campaign, such a proposition cannot even be considered. Now, about those pointers we were discussing. Is Karen into anything kinky?”
THE HOSPITAL smelled of ammonia and body odor, and I couldn’t decide whether that was better or worse than the musky aroma that had gradually overtaken my car since Greg settled into the passenger seat earlier that morning. The issue, however, was rendered moot when a tall, skinny man in a turquoise windbreaker skidded to a halt in front of the admitting desk and said that his wife was in labor. She was in the parking lot, he said, and she needed a wheelchair.
“Better make that two,” I said, sidling up next to him.
“First time?” the man asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“Not especially,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really invested in any of this.”
Two orderlies arrived, and we led them to our respective cars. As luck would have it, the man in the windbreaker had parked right next to my Saturn, and Greg was offering the mother-to-be advice on nutrition, early education, and disease prevention.
“There are a million things that can go wrong before the child is even born,” Greg said as he sank into his wheelchair. “The mere fact that you’ve brought this baby to term is, needless to say, a minor miracle in and of itself, but now you have to worry about such childhood diseases as mumps, measles, chickenpox, polio, and rubella, as well as the adverse effects of the so-called inoculations against the same. Though I don’t have the exact numbers, I understand that while infant mortality rates have declined significantly in modern times, there remains the statistical reality that the first three years of life are the most hazardous to any child.”
“Jesus,” the man in the windbreaker said as the orderlies pushed Greg and the pregnant woman toward the hospital at an even pace. “Sweet, sweet Jesus.”
“Then, of course, you have to consider any number of threats originating outside the home as well. Kidnapping, for example. Murder. Drugs. Indeed, any number of crimes too heinous to mention in mixed company.”
A pair of glass doors slid open in front of us, and the pregnant couple took the lead.
“A bit of advice,” Greg called out as they disappeared around a corner. “Demand the epidural. It’s the only way to fly.”
Greg’s orderly wheeled him into an elevator, and the door slid shut behind them. Over the next hour, pregnant women continued to roll into the hospital with men in various stages of panic trailing close behind. Taking a seat in a row of plastic bleachers, I overheard a man with silver hair and a hot appendix dictating his last will and testament to a teenage girl in candy stripes and braces. On the television overhead, the members of a high school basketball team were trying to convince their star forward to give up smoking.
Dropping some coins into a snack machine, I bought a bag of miniature hard pretzels and thought about slipping quickly and quietly out of the hospital. Not only for myself, of course, but for the woman who was waiting for Greg in Chicago. If anything happened to her, I’d have to live with the guilt for the rest of my life. And if by some obscene miracle she and Greg got together, then the world would have me to blame for whatever fate befell humanity as a result of their unholy union. Besides, I couldn’t shake the thought, irrational as it was, that Greg might really be planning to kill me in a misguided bid to win Karen’s affection. By the time I decided to run, however, it was too late. The procedure was finished, and Greg was rolling toward me with a wide grin plastered across his face.
“The omens are clear, my friend,” he said as a new orderly wheeled him out to the parking lot. “The procedure was a success, and I’m a new man. Clearly the gods have smiled upon us. Now onward to the airport, then forward to Chicago for victory.”
Accounting for traffic, I guessed I had about forty-five minutes to convince Greg that the trip was a bad idea. Greg, however, had only one thing on his mind, and as soon as he was buckled into his seat, he started badgering me about the mechanics of what he insisted on referring to as sexual congress. Was it true, he wanted to know, that the likelihood of bringing a woman to orgasm could be increased via the strategic placement of pillows?
“I realize that discussing the issue in relation to Karen is off the table,” he added. “So feel free to speak in the most general of terms. In your opinion, what’s the most efficient way to pleasure a woman?”
“I’m not sure you should be so worried about efficiency,” I said. “Let’s focus on staying out of jail.”
“Jail?” Greg said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“If she calls it a night, let her go. If she says she’s having fun, don’t assume it means anything. Even if she invites you back to her place—”
“No means no. I understand completely.”
“Do you?” I asked.
“Yes, and while I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, I must point out that I do have a law degree and am therefore particularly attuned to the legalities of courtship. In addition to stocking up on breath mints and beef jerky, I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a contract outlining our pre- and post-coital duties to each other. While this contract exists primarily to protect myself and the rights of any offspring our lovemaking might generate, it serves as a de facto guarantee of her rights as well. To put it bluntly, she doesn’t get any of this until she signs on the dotted line.”
Greg pointed at his crotch, and we drove the rest of the way in silence.
WHEN I dumped Greg off at the airport, he pressed a wrinkled dollar bill into the palm of my hand and said that although future generations might never know the part I played in keeping the Packer line alive, he, for one, would never forget. Disturbing as this thought may have been, I pocketed his dollar, and started to make a mental list of all the things that separated me from Greg. Number one was the fact that I was married. Number two was my gainful employment, but then I remembered what I did for a living and that in my whole history of working I’d never done anything
especially gainful. This left me with the fact that I didn’t live with my mother, but the loophole there was that in Greg’s twisted view of the world, a mother and a wife served roughly the same purpose. Though I preferred to assume that the purpose he had in mind had more to do with housekeeping than his quest for an heir, it was impossible to deny the Bates Motel vibe emanating from their home—unless, of course, you were either Greg or his mother, in which case, everything seemed perfectly normal. Which, oddly enough, I saw as my salvation. While Greg had no idea that his life was so screwed up, I was acutely and obsessively aware of what a mess I tended to make of things on a fairly regular basis. Whether or not this heightened level of awareness made me any better or worse than Greg was beside the point. What mattered most, I told myself again and again, was that I was different.
When I got home, Karen asked how my date with Greg had gone. She’d finished scrubbing three of the four dining room walls, and though the filmy layer of sweat and grime that covered her skin had grown thicker in my absence, her question made me feel as if I were the one who needed a long, hot shower.
“Don’t ask,” I said.
“It was that bad?”
“He wants to be your best friend.”
“Don’t even joke about it.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “But don’t worry. If things work out with this woman in Chicago, I’m sure he’ll forget all about you.”
“That’s comforting,” Karen said.
“You don’t think I’m like him, do you?” I asked.
“You? Like Greg Packer?” She wrinkled her nose and put her arms around my waist. “I don’t think so, Charley.”
“What I mean is, do you think Neil gets home and has this same conversation with Madeline about how crazy I am? About how I’m a huge pain in the ass?”
“Are you kidding? He’d do anything for you.”
“Just like he’d do anything for Greg.”
The Grievers Page 10