An Ocean Without a Shore

by Scott Spencer

  He was silent, either admonishing himself for making a joke about it or waiting for me to laugh.

  “And the other thing she brought with her was a three-by-five card with my name on it and the word son. No address, no phone number, nothing. Just son. The word. Not even my whole fucking name. The police were actually conscientious about it and looked for me. They tried a bunch of Kaufmans in Chicago, and at one point they even tried New York. They even went to Mom’s apartment to see if they could figure out who this mysterious son was and where he lived. It was insane. And you want to know how they finally found me? My parents—this sort of kills me—there was a videotape of Hostages propped up on the bookshelf, very prominently, apparently. As if it were a book and I was the featured author. Anyhow, it made one of the cops curious and she picked it up and read all the credits and saw my name and that was actually the first real lead. She called Fox but of course no one who was there when Hostages came out is still around. But they told the cop she could check with the Writers Guild, which she did, and of course I’m pretty much a dead letter at the guild, but it is a union, and therefore capable of human decency, so whoever took the call said they’d do a little poking around and they found Josh’s number, my old agent, who knew where I lived, and the rest, as they say, is show business history.”

  “So now what happens?” I asked.

  “I go to Chicago. And then I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. When Dad died, my mother handled everything. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I feel like asking around but it’s so embarrassing to ask Hey, what are you supposed to do when your mother dies? See to her cremation, I guess. And I suppose there’s a will. And the apartment. The store.”

  “Is everyone going with you?”

  “No, no. No. David’s in school, and Emma just had her appendix taken out, speaking of timing. Grace is staying with her.”

  “I’ll meet you in Chicago.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Thaddeus, come on. You’re not doing this alone.”

  Silence.

  “Really?” he said at last. “Are you sure? Do you have the time?”

  “Of course.”

  The line was silent again. And in that silence I was able somehow to think for a moment or two that he believed what I believed—which is that each of us, whether we know it or not, is allotted one person who loves us without question, without reason, without recourse, and with nothing to gain, and for him, for Thaddeus, for my poor broken-hearted friend, that person was me. “I knew this would happen,” he finally said, through tears. “I knew if I talked to you, it would all come busting loose.”

  * * *

  I left early the next morning. I wanted to be on the first plane out of SFO, but we had to wait on the tarmac for the early morning fog to burn off. These delays normally made me sick with impatience, but this day I was glad to have the extra time. I had brought my PhoneClad paperwork with me, and I was in the middle of composing a long memo to Ken about the company. I’d had a couple more meetings with Michael Tischler, and the sense of his arrogance and untruthfulness I’d gleaned during our initial breakfast had deepened. I thought he was basically a snake-oil salesman and I also was convinced that PhoneClad itself was fated for Chapter 11. Nevertheless, my dislike for the man and my skepticism about the durability of his business were offset by the knowledge that there was definite interest in acquiring PhoneClad, in which case there was real money to be pocketed. Ken was eager to make a decision.

  We had another variable to factor in: George Bush’s team had gotten their resolution before Congress, one that would give the president the right to bomb the hell out of Iraq and this was the day the resolution was coming up for a vote. Hans Blix and the U.N. inspectors were still looking around Iraq in search of evidence that Sadaam Hussein was hiding his weapons of mass destruction, but everyone knew it was just a matter of time before we went to war with or without the evidence.

  * * *

  I had offered to meet Thaddeus in Hyde Park at his parents’ apartment on Ellis Avenue, but he didn’t have the key. I suggested perhaps then we could meet at the bookshop but he didn’t have the key to Four Freedoms, either. Perhaps then his parents’ lawyer? He didn’t know the name of their lawyer, and wasn’t sure they had had one. He only had the phone numbers of a couple of survivors of Sam and Libby’s old circle of friends. Illness, death, Florida, bitter disagreements about social issues such as feminism, gay rights, and legalization of marijuana, as well as the ferocious quarrels about international issues like who to support in a border conflict between India and China, the role of violence in the struggle against apartheid, the end of communism in Russia, the bombing of Serbia, and the war in Afghanistan had all but obliterated the old bunch, and the few people Thaddeus was able to reach sounded surprised but not acutely distraught over the news of Libby’s death. Whichever way he turned, Thaddeus was met with indifference. It was as if his parents were strangers and their deaths were not really his business. As he was in life, so he remained in death: excluded.

  He reserved adjoining rooms at the Palmer House, the hotel where Grace was clerking when he first met her in 1976. She had sneaked them into an unoccupied room, and it had been Thaddeus’s first time in a fancy hotel. It had seemed like a palace of unsurpassable grandeur—the Moorish lobby, the uniformed bellmen, the Egyptian cotton sheets, the deveined shrimp, the place was his undoing. He remembered that afternoon the way an addict recalls that first inner warmth, the sweet syrupy pleasure. The passion of being with Grace melded with the spacious bed, the immense towels, the inlay, the gold leaf, the sconces.

  I had over the years heard so much from him about this hotel, which continued to exist in Thaddeus’s mind as the pinnacle of luxury, despite his having stayed in far pricier places during his years working in the movie business. Perhaps the place had fallen on hard times, but it seemed ordinary and just a little shabby to me—the carpets worn, no bellmen in sight, people in shirtsleeves and cargo shorts milling around the lobby, the check-in desk understaffed, a smell of disinfectant in the air, a coffee urn stuck in a corner next to a tower of disposable cups, and the announcement board welcoming the Great Lakes Payday Loan Association.

  Thaddeus had paid for my room and was waiting for me by the elevators when I reached the fifteenth floor. He looked the way you look when you have flown eight hundred miles a few hours after learning your mother has died from a deliberate overdose of sleeping pills—frightened, disheveled, maybe a bit drunk. He had the eyes of a spooked horse, and he needed a shave.

  He took my carry-on from me and reached for my briefcase, too, but I held on to it.

  “Top secret?” he asked.

  “Work,” I said. “Boring. Look, you don’t have to be strong or anything. This is a total nightmare. I know Clinton ruined this forever, but I actually do feel your pain.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s not.” I stood in the doorway of my unlit room. “It’s not okay at all.”

  “Are you ever moving back to New York?” he asked.

  “I guess. Not sure exactly when. Soon, I suppose.”

  “Some people are afraid of New York now. Prices have gone way up in Windsor County, so many people wanting to leave the city.”

  “I like California. But I miss New York.” I thought I might say I miss you, but I let it pass.

  “I almost wished I was there when it happened,” Thaddeus said. “Stupid, I know. But just to be a part of something. Something to sink my teeth into. Maybe do some good. Save someone, or help someone. Give blood. Sweep up the mess. Just for a while to be part of something bigger.”

  “Well, it was big all right.”

  “Those men used the Hudson River to navigate their way from Boston to the Twin Towers and they flew right past Orkney.” He looked wistful, like a child fantasizing some gaudy act of heroism. It seemed ridiculous to me. Who would want to be close to that catastrophe? He quickly changed the subject. “Hey, you probabl
y want to freshen up, as my mother used to say. And I’m going to call home and see how Emma’s doing. Poor Emma. She was pretty wiped out but she really wanted to come here with me. She’s completely bedridden and in pain but she was so worried about me.”

  “She’s a great kid.”

  “The best. So kind, so good, such a beautiful soul. Hey, did I even remember to thank you for being here, Kip? You’re true blue, man. Friend seems like such a meager word. And so does grateful. Where would I be without you, Kip? Where in the fuck would I be?”

  Chapter 31

  Naked Lunch

  So far, Thaddeus’s planning had not extended beyond coming to Chicago and booking two rooms at a hotel. Without a key to his parents’ apartment—as he had lacked since the night Sam and Libby came home to find sixteen-year-old Thaddeus playing host to about thirty friends from Hyde Park High—and without the keys to Four Freedoms—which he wasn’t given even when he worked there—his only access to his mother’s life was the name of the cremation society. In truth, there were few things I enjoyed as much as making myself useful to Thaddeus, and after I took a quick shower I found the phone number for the cremation society, as well as their address, and learned they were open until 7 P.M. From the cremators, I was also able to get the name and address of Libby’s attorney.

  Jill Zolitor answered her own phone, in a sour voice, as if she were getting a lot of crank calls and hang-ups. I explained to her that I was calling about Libby Kaufman and I was in town with her son. “Her son?” she said, a sine wave of incredulity in her tone. “Well, let’s see now, let us see, let us see,” she went on, in that familiar way so many lawyers have of never saying in three words what can be expressed in twenty. “All right. Here we go. If you can . . . You say you’re close by. Oh, this heat, this heat, this crazy October heat. Let me see. Let me . . . Okay. If you can be here at four thirty. Please bring proper ID. You understand, of course. I have a copy of your mother’s will—”

  I was being driven to such distraction by her prattling on that I didn’t even bother to remind her that we weren’t talking about my mother.

  “. . . and I have other things you will want, I mean that you will be, um, um, interested in. Specifically, here we are talking about keys to the apartment on Ellis Avenue and a set of keys to, uh, uh, the bookstore. And we also have here a copy of your mother’s will, which I . . . which you know, but it bears repeating . . . Um, can you wait, can you hold on for a moment, there’s someone at the door. . . .”

  Armed with the information I had collected in a mere five minutes, I knocked on Thaddeus’s door. “It’s unlocked,” he called out. “I’m just getting out of the shower.”

  I let myself in. His suitcase was open on the bed. A little can of peanuts and an open beer were on the bedside table. Lemon-scented steam wafted through the open bathroom door. I sat in the room’s only chair as Thaddeus emerged from his shower, naked, towel-drying his hair. Turkish slippers of inky hair under his arms, a bit of eczema on one of his elbows. There was no place on earth I would have rather been than in that room.

  “Are you okay?” Thaddeus asked me, continuing to vigorously dry his hair. His flesh jiggled slightly. His genitals pitched left and right. His dick—hello!—was broad and sturdy, a kind of proletarian genital, the glans a hard hat, the nut sack a lunch pail. He cupped his balls, flipped them up, and let them drop, as if they were comatose and he needed to revive them.

  Why was he doing this to me? I remembered Morris’s cautionary words: He will destroy you, Kip. He will. He might not want to. But he will. He will destroy you.

  And yet. I was not a child, I was not a boy, I was a man, a grown unhappy man, and I thought: fuck this. If he wants to put on a little show, I will be a very willing audience. I considered putting my hands on him. For all I knew, he was inviting me to do so. He might have—must have—sensed my interest. He looked down at himself.

  “Maybe if I had a much bigger dick I wouldn’t have ever needed such a big house,” he said.

  “You’re fine,” I said. “Happy medium and all that.”

  “Based on? Oh right, all those afternoons in the Downtown Athletic Club locker room, with all the other masters of the universe changing into their squash shorts.”

  I was tempted. Certain phrases presented themselves, such as I’ve seen more dicks than I’ve seen sitcoms. I had built a penitentiary made brick by brick and bar by bar of pure unadulterated silence and I knew how to keep order in it, but suddenly a bit of truth escaped and I blurted out, “Let’s not forget that that thing has been in my mouth.”

  Oh! The leap, the terrifying sensation of everything familiar suddenly gone. I grinned and wagged my finger at Thaddeus, but it might have been—must have been—too late. He was giving me one of those what have we here? looks.

  But then, his gaze was not quite so inquisitive. His eyes softened. “Ah,” he said, “so you remember that.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

  “I was really all over the map those days, wasn’t I?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d even remember it.”

  He laughed. “These things do blur, that’s true.”

  “I guess you wanted everyone to love you,” I said.

  “Yeah. I suppose.”

  “I remember it,” I said.

  “It’s not as if I forgot all about it,” he said.

  I went to the window and gazed out over Grant Park. The unseasonable heat hadn’t tempted anyone out to enjoy the greenery and the lake view except for one lone bicyclist pedaling through on a silver racing bike, looking like a medieval knight with his long hair flowing from the back and sides of his safety helmet. He had a rainbow flag fixed to the back of his seat. How could he be so free of fear and shame? It made me frightened for him. What if he were set upon by teenagers who needed to prove their masculinity by kicking the shit out of a fag? What if his boss saw him, or his neighbor, or his sister, or his father? I kept my back to Thaddeus. I heard the minibar open, and the tinkle of all the miniature bottles of booze inside. The bicyclist pedaled out of sight. The sky was lowering and the choppy gray and white waves made Lake Michigan look like the runway in a cluster-bombed airport. I finally dared to turn around. Thaddeus had put on his pants. He was still barefoot and without a shirt. He looked like a middle-aged man who ate what he wanted and exercised when he damn well felt like it. For this I had thrown away half of my life? For this? For him? For Thaddeus Kaufman?

  Short answer: yes, if it pleases the Court. Further elucidation, Your Honor: I’d do it all again.

  “I need to call home,” he announced, as if I required more proof that I had wasted my life.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and dialed out on the landline. I pointed to myself and then gestured toward the door, raising my eyebrows to indicate my willingness to leave and give him some privacy, but he shook his head no, and made a face that meant Don’t be ridiculous.

  And here is what I heard.

  “Ah, so you’re home. (Pause.) No, I wasn’t. I’m just saying you’re home. (Pause.) I realize that. It’s not as if I wish I were here. (Pause.) Yes, well, my understanding was that they kind of waive visiting hours for parents when it’s a sick kid. (Long pause.) Okay, fine. It’s fine. Just—how is she? (Pause.) Seriously? She just had her appendix yanked out of her and you’re talking about her weight? (Pause.) What I’m trying to say—(Pause.) No you don’t, you don’t know what I’m trying to say. (Pause.) Fine, fruits and vegetables are good for everyone. But high fiber doesn’t prevent appendicitis. (Pause.) But where did you read it? (Pause.) Prevention magazine is not a reliable source. It’s one of those cider-vinegar-and-organic-honey-cures-cancer magazines. This is our daughter, for crying out loud. And she’s just been through hell. I’m not going to let some nut bar from the Rodale Press advise us on what’s best for her. (Pause.) Anyhow, she’s recuperating so that’s good. So can we let her eat whatever she wants? At least for now? And we can worry about her weight some other time. Or
, preferably, stop worrying about her weight starting now? (Pause.) Okay, sure. See who it is.”

  He stood up, moved the phone away from his reddened ear, and paced. He glanced at me apologetically a couple of times, until it became clear that whether or not someone had called in on Grace’s other line or was or was not knocking on Orkney’s door, Grace had no intention of continuing talking to Thaddeus. “Oh come on,” he muttered, and very carefully placed the receiver back in its cradle.

  “Everything okay?” I asked. I had to say something.

  “I don’t know,” he said, glancing at me and then looking away. I could feel his embarrassment; his wife had for all intents and purposes hung up on him. He was back to the minibar, this time pulling out two little bottles of Smirnoff. “A voice inside me tells me this is what I must do to get through today.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  “Thank you, my brother. Vodka okay?”

  “Whatever. Maybe a whiskey?”

  He crouched before the minibar, pulled out a little squared-off bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He handed it to me, we clinked bottles, guzzled.

  “Tell me something,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. Get my mind off of . . . all this shit.”

  “You’re a good person,” I said. “Better than you think.”

  He nodded, as if I’d said, Hey, do you think it might rain? “Back at you, Kip,” he casually said. He opened his second Smirnoff.

  “We should go,” I said. “I found Libby’s lawyer and her office is just a couple of blocks from here. She said she would see us right away.”