“Uh oh.”
“Yeah, ya see where this here story is goin’, don’tchya?”
“I’m supposin’ so.”
“Well, Caish and Alex get to talkin’, and their loins get to burnin’, and b’fore you can say in-fi-del-i-ty they’re over there in Caish’s new house messin’ around.”
Rumor Rat would be doing her best to hide her excitement behind a look of disapproval, as if to say, “I can’t believe that such folks exist that would transgress God’s holy laws and engage in such vile, awful, and downright selfish behavior.”
“Well anyway, they’re messin’ around day after day, until without explanation, Alex stops goin’ over to Caish’s love nest.”
“Trouble in sinner’s paradise?”
“Indeed. Alex comes back a few weeks later and when Caish opens up the door, Alex refuses to enter. Somethin’ about, I’m just here to talk.”
“Uh oh. Alex was caught cheatin’? Came to end it?”
“If only.” Gossip Goblin would look around and lower his voice to a near whisper at this point. Scanning their surroundings to ensure a safe environment existed for the transfer of such highly-sensitive confidential surreptitious secrets. Rumor Rat would glance around the room to show that she too was aware of that they were dealing in clandestine information.
“Alex, sobbing, pulls Caish close and says,” Gossip Goblin again pauses for effect, then leans in and whispers, “I’ve got the AIDS.”
“No!” Rumor Rat would shout. “You’re pullin’ my leg.”
“Swear to God, Mable. I swear to our Lord Jesus Christ above, this is a true story.”
“The AIDS?” Rumor Rat would ask, feigning to not fully grasp the implications so as to draw it out. Squeezing the story dry for every drop of blood.
“The goddamn AIDS. And that ain’t even the worst part! It was Caish who gave Alex the AIDS.” Gossip Goblin would lean back, probably sip a drink with raised eyebrows and watch Rumor Rat work out what exactly that meant. But before Rumor Rat could speak, Gossip Goblin would jump back in with: “Caish was messin’ around with all sorts of them Southern California types, if ya know what I mean, and was injectin’ heroin with the same company. Then, when the money was dried out, Caish came crawlin’ back to Missoula to lick the wounds of foolishness.”
“So what’s Alex gonna do?”
“Well—and this is the real hum-dinger—after gettin’ it from Caish, Alex gave the AIDS to Peyton. They have a few kids and are expectin’ another. A bun in the oven as we speak.”
“No!” And with that, Gossip Goblin and Rumor Rat would go back through the story, pulling out particular anecdotes and dissecting them. Asking rhetorical questions like, “How could ya possibly spend through all that money?” and, “How could you be so reckless?” They’d be confounded. Dumbstruck. But not quite speechless. Gossip Goblin would make it seem like a high price was paid for the information by saying something like, “But you can’t tell anybody.” Such an admonition added to the drama of it all. Rumor Rat would agree, “Oh no, of course not,” with a face that said, “What? Do ya think I’m some sorta animal? ‘Course I ain’t gon’ tell nobody.” Rumor Rat would then tell the story to every person she knew, especially people she met at bars and parties, but with new and improved embellishments.
In a matter of days I was infamous. Everywhere I went people were looking over their shoulder and whispering to whoever they were with—who would then steal a glance and join in the whispering. Peyton and Alex’s mother paid me a visit at my house, threatening to do this and that to me if I, “ever get near Alex again.” That I should be ashamed of myself, and how could I live with myself. Shouting. Arms flailing. Leaning into my face. It was all quite a dramatic scene that I’m sure the Blacks ate right up. Not long after that, Peyton’s parents came by and did about the same. Blaming me for everything. Another case of a family’s failure to accept that their loved one, not me, was responsible for whatever harm they brought upon themselves.
It was Jackie and the Marquez family all over again. I bet if Alex contracted immortality from me they would say that Alex was responsible for that, and Alex alone. But since it was bad, they had to shift the blame. Not to mention, I’m still not convinced I had HIV before Alex and I hooked up. For all we know, Alex is the one who gave me HIV. But you don’t see me waging war against Alex. I’m not enlisting my family to drive Alex out of town.
The only person that didn’t send me scowls was Kevin, my friendly westward neighbor. He kept waving and smiling like always. The only difference these days was that he was looking up and waving from his lawn mower instead of his snow blower. He was either interested in me or was one of those religious types that are just waiting for an opportunity to invite you to their church. Which is probably one of those hip churches with electric guitars and lesbian preachers that wear shorts and sandals. I waved back and smiled, but closed my garage as soon as I pulled in and never walked over to talk. If I spent any time outside I’m sure he’d spring on me like a fox on a mouse. Facing the danger of Kevin talking to me, I mowed half my lawn once, then realized it was too big to mow myself and called a landscaping service. My house became my refuge.
Until my family learned my address.
The first to knock on my door was Caleb, who said that he was talking to a friend of Ms. Black’s (which means that he was getting the dirt) and learned that I lived next to her. He said he was just coming over to make sure I was holding up alright and to see if I needed help with anything. It was a kind gesture, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Caleb was just looking for a way into the heart of the drama. Just looking for more information so that next time Caleb was drinking with the rumor rats and gossip goblins he could sell the information for the only currency it was worth: increased status.
Caleb stayed for lunch. I ordered pizza, then Caleb insisted on paying the delivery boy. Again, a kind gesture, but a clear statement that he knew I was running low on money and that he was higher than me because paying for something like pizza was easier for him than me. A way for him to say (without actually saying), “Look Caish, you once had millions and thought you were ruler of the world, and now even me, Caleb, is in a better position to buy pizza.”
Other than that the visit was relatively pleasant. Besides delivery drivers, cashiers, waiters, Kevin, and Jennifer Trunchbull, I didn’t interact with other people. Having Caleb around brightened my mood. He seemed interested in my life. He asked about my place in Malibu, and I told him about my place in Spanish Hills. We talked cars for a couple hours (it was Caleb’s 1969 Camaro that we credit as having given me the car bug). Caleb was the oldest of the four kids in the family, and had been working on cars for as long as I can remember. Cormac, the next oldest, liked tinkering with things, but was more drawn to construction than cars. Catherine was born six years after Cormac and did not have interest in anything mechanical. As a toddler and young child she only played kitchen. Always taking your order, returning to her plastic kitchen, and returning to you with a tray full of plastic food. Then she’d watch you act like you were eating the plastic food. If you didn’t spend at least five minutes eating the plastic food, she’d get offended and go back to her kitchen and pout because you didn’t like her cooking. I was born two years after Catherine and spent the better part of my toddlerhood pretending to enjoy Catherine’s plastic hamburgers, drumsticks, french fries, potatoes, veggies, and weird orange roll-looking thing.
When I showed an interest in Caleb and Cormac’s projects, like lawn mower rebuilding, fort building, box car racing, and rocket flying, Catherine did her best to learn to like those things too, lest she be left alone in her plastic kitchen for the rest of her life. The four of us were close, probably closer than most siblings due to our mother’s laissez-faire parenting policy. Our father did one better by leaving the family a few weeks after I was born. He came back later to impregnate my mom with another, but she had an abortion. They didn’t remarry and we hardly saw him. Our entire relationshi
p with our mom was built on her telling us to clean the house and eat what was on the table. Occasionally she’d scorn us for not being grateful enough, or for being lazy, but for the most part she was out with her friends and we were left to live as we pleased. Caleb helped us with our homework, taught us the basics of how to tie our shoes, ride our bikes, and heat canned ravioli. When Catherine or I got sad, Caleb cheered us up. (Cormac seemed to never be either sad or happy, always just quiet and steady.)
I must have gotten caught up in sentimentality because I accepted an invitation to dinner at Caleb’s house the next day. He said he’d invite Cormac and Catherine. I asked him not to, but he insisted.
“Caish, they really want to see you. We all miss you, and they really just want to reconnect.”
“Did I ever tell you the story of when Catherine threw a plate through a window at Red Lobster?” I asked.
“Yes, you did. And I know we have all said things in greed that we didn’t mean, but I think reconnecting will help us put that behind us and start fresh.”
Caleb convinced me, gave me his address, and left with a hug and a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t let the Missoula get you down, Caish. You know how great these folks are, they raised us. They mean well. They’re just excited that something happened to this place for the first time since the gold rush.” I smiled, nodded, and saw him to his car—some depressing Volvo with plastic hubcaps.
The small people of Missoula were not getting me down. Honestly, I cared about as much for the people of Missoula as I cared about the ants in my backyard. Losing my money was getting me down. HIV was getting me down. Loneliness was getting me down. Hopelessness was getting me down. The list was long. Absent from the list were the tiny worthless citizens of Missoula.
Caleb’s house was a 1970s two-story split-entry monstrosity. About as much curb appeal as the crumbling curb itself. Missoula was full of these slipshod dwellings. Whoever designed these houses should be shot, or at least forced to live in one of them. It had a rectangle facade with lopsided windows and faded brown plastic siding. The driveway sloped down toward a garage door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. The driveway’s slant had a steeper pitch than the house’s roof, which wasn’t flat enough to look mid-century modern, but wasn’t steep enough to be respectable. A fifth wheel with cracked tires took up half the driveway. Caleb’s sorry Volvo took up the other half. The lawn was splotchy and a grab bag of trees were planted randomly throughout the yard. The cement steps leading up to the house’s front door were cracked and leaning. There was no porch, landing, or awning, just cracked cement stairs right up to the door. The front door, which was the best looking part of the whole mess, was a run-of-the-mill Home Depot door.
I knocked (a sticky note taped over the doorbell read “doorbell’s fried, please knock”), and surveyed the other cars on the road that had arrived before me. Corvette, late-model Cadillac, and a G Wagon. Clearly the others had done better than Caleb at hanging on to the money I gave them. Caleb swung open the front door.
“Caish!” Caleb said, sounding surprised, “just in time!”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? I was right on time. The house smelled like cooking. A smell that hadn’t filled my nostrils in years. Rolls baking on a cookie sheet; 375 degrees for twenty minutes. A roast in a crock pot, probably set to low and cooked since earlier this morning. Mashed potatoes, but not actual potatoes, dehydrated potato flakes with several cups of water, stirred regularly, no chives. Canned green beans poured into a bowl and microwaved. Caleb led me up the half-story flight of stairs and onto a landing where a black lab was beside itself in excitement.
Caleb patted the dog on the side, “This is Bobo, he loves people.” Bobo was having a hard time keeping his front paws on the ground and was moving his head back and forth with almost as much pep as he was wagging his tail. Bobo was whining with excitement and jumped up to lick my face. “Bobo, down,” Caleb said. Smiling to me, “Loves new people.”
When we got to the top of the landing (which was carpeted in a God-awful ‘70s flower carpet that hadn’t been vacuumed in months), the room opened up to the left and was crowded with people. Or at least it felt crowded. It was a small room full of mismatched cloth-covered furniture occupied by people. An outdated TV was playing in the corner. The walls were a bad beige and were filled with framed family photos and shelves installed to hold gimcrack trinkets. The ceiling was only eight feet high, and the room was dimly lit.
The person seated closest to me stood up, “Caish! Jeez it’s been too long,” and gave me a hug. It was Cormac. Fit as ever, but with less hair and more wrinkles. He looked great. His smile was one of the best I’d seen. Cormac’s face should be in commercials. The others stood up as well and greeted me similarly. Catherine, then Catherine’s husband, then Caleb’s wife, then... dammit. Mom. She stood up and gave me a hug. Not with the same warmth as the others, but didn’t say anything spiteful, so maybe things would be alright. Caleb didn’t mention that she would be here. He’d say it was for the same reason that he didn’t mention his wife would be there, he figured it was a given. But the real reason was that he knew I wouldn’t have come. I should have known. That Cadillac was probably hers. This whole thing is probably just a set up to get the last of my money out of my bank account and into hers.
The front room opened up to the dining area. “Opened up to” may not be the right way to put it. It just sort of turned into the dining area, which consisted of a small table surrounded by an assortment of chairs. Next to the dining area, but separated from the front room, was the kitchen. Each area on this floor could have been expanded by three times and still felt too small.
Caleb took my jacket down the hall, then returned and announced dinner was ready. We squeezed in around the table and sat shoulder to shoulder. I sat between Cormac and Caleb’s wife. The table was packed tight with plates, glasses, serving bowls full of vegetables, trays of meat, condiments, pitchers, and a bottle of Budweiser at each plate.
When we were all situated, Caleb, sitting at the head of the table, said, “Well, thank y’all for comin’ out tonight. This is the first time we’ve all been together since we visited Caish in California about six years ago. I think I speak for all of us when I say we are truly overjoyed to have ya back, Caish. Tonight is particularly — “
“Caleb, let’s say grace and catch up while we eat,” Mom cut in.
“Great idea,” Caleb said with a smile. Caleb lowered his head and closed his eyes. So did the rest of us. “Oh Lord, we thank thee for bringin’ us all together on this beautiful spring evenin’ to share one another’s company and enjoy such a bountiful feast. We thank thee for...”
I heard the flick of a lighter and looked over to see Cormac lighting a cigarette.
“...and please bless that we can all travel home safely at the end of the evenin’. In the Lord Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”
“Amen” we all repeated. Except Cormac. Cormac just reached for the rolls, grabbed two, and put butter in them. Seeing that I was watching him, he turned to me and asked, “Want me to grab you a couple? You gotta get the butter in there before they cool off.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Here ya go.”
“Thanks.”
“So, how you been, Caish? Seems like we haven’t talked in years.” In fact, it had been years. Six and a half. The rest of the table was still recovering from their amens and hadn’t thought of anything to say, so they listened in on our conversation while dishing up food. Everybody scooped up whatever grub was in front of them, then passed to the left.
“I’ve been great. Some of the best years of my life. How about you?”
Cormac took his cigarette out to take a swig of his Budweiser. “Ya know, I’ve had some good years m’self. Here’s the spuds. Ya mind passin’ the gravy after you’ve had it? Thanks. But yeah I’ve been good. Ya know me and Bev split up?”
“Oh?” I said, not sure whether that was good news or bad. Beverly was a
narcissistic asshole, but I think Cormac was into that kind of thing. Not that he himself was an asshole, but he seemed to like a bit of spice to whomever he was with. But marrying Beverly was one of the worst decisions anybody in this family had ever made.
“Yup. Just got the divorce finalized b’fore ya came back to town. Hey Caleb, can we feed Bobo?”
“Umm.” Caleb’s hesitation meant, “No, and please just volunteer not to feed him.” But Cormac just kept looking at Caleb waiting for an answer. “We’re trying to train him not to eat people food.”
“Uh-huh. Can his trainin’ take a break t’night? Kind of a special occasion and all, and he’s just over here lookin’ at me like a starvin’ Ethiopian.”
Caleb’s wife said, “Maybe not right now.”
Cormac let it rest and fed Bobo in secret. The noises of utensils sliding across plates and people chewing and swigging increased until Catherine’s husband (whose name I could not remember) said, “Well anyway, welcome back, Caish. When was the last time you were in town?”
“It’s been... I guess just over ten years. Maybe eleven.”
“Have you seen the new fire station yet?”
“Not that I know of, is it nice?”
“Oh yeah, quite nice. And they got this new fire engine that is massive. One of those that has a hinge behind the main engine and the whole back ladder portion has a separate driver on the back of the truck, and that. Can ya picture it?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said. Catherine’s husband smiled, nodded, and shoveled potatoes into his mouth. “What else is new in town?”
The family shrugged and continued eating. Then Caleb said, “Oh, well, ya know the Jacobs that used to live over on Russell Street?”
“Hmm...”
“Ya know, Albert Jacobs was Cormac’s age. His dad had, like, big frizzy hair. Called him Einstein sometimes.”
“Oh, yeah yeah. The Jacobs.”
Malibu Motel Page 23