What a fucking night. Threatened by the scum of the earth. I ordered one for the road, one to help me sleep. The guy standing next to me at the bar was flipping through yesterday’s Post, studying the pictures of the dead Kennedy. He turned to me and smiled. It was the blow-job stripper in his street clothes, denim shorts and a white button-down with the sleeves cut away. The wire-rim glasses threw me off. Now that he wasn’t squinting, he looked like a puppy, relaxed and friendly. No one ever sees a stripper wearing glasses. Maybe because they have to fly blind to do what they do. When I spoke he said I sounded like home. He was from a town not far from Fayetteville. I saw his whole story in his face. A boy from a tobacco farm down east. He never expected to end up here when he enlisted in the Navy. He wanted to buy me a beer. I told him I’d never make it home. Don’t worry about that, he said, I’ll get you home. I apologized for not having any money left, not even enough for a cab. He said he had a pocket full of small bills. They smelt like his balls, he laughed, but they were still legal tender. In the cab, he stroked my knee as the driver stared at us in the rearview mirror, disgusted, the black eyes of Islam uncomprehending. The boy didn’t care I was too drunk to perform. He was homesick and wanted someone to lie beside in bed, a man to kiss and snuggle with, someone who didn’t laugh when he shared his dream of saving enough tips to buy a convenience store back in Carolina. He bought me a coffee in the morning and stood with me as I waited for a cab to the airport.
Whew! Who opened a can of peas and spiked it with vinegar? That sharp cider smell can’t be my armpits, can it? Is it my feet? My crotch? It was either shower or make my flight this morning, and I must be a little ripe. My pants are dirty and my shirt belongs in the laundry pile. All I want is to scald myself in the shower and crawl into bed for thirty-six hours. I’ll be lucky to steal a few hours’ sleep; my mother’s expecting a nice evening tonight. A hair of the dog will help. There’s one last swig left in the flask in the glove compartment. It tears a hole in my throat when I swallow it.
Clete from Oklahoma City is unmoved by the Legacy of Camelot. He doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about. Just another kid born with a silver spoon in his mouth. The country has lost its mind, weeping and wailing over this spoiled brat because of his last name. The talk show host is indignant, cutting off the naysayer, enraged by his heresy. The caller from Oklahoma has created a firestorm. Patty from Pittsburgh is leading the lynch mob. The Kennedys have given us so much, she insists. They’ve earned our respect. Tom from Tioga challenges the apostate to a fist fight. Even Merrill from Provo, Utah, a militant Republican, is calling for the blasphemer’s head.
Distracted by the funeral choir, I nearly rear-end a BMW sedan parked in the driveway of the Monument to Heat and Air. How much are we paying these private-duty nurses that they can afford to indulge their appetite for luxury imports? The car is a beauty, right off the showroom floor, probably less than three thousand miles on the odometer. There’s a Princeton decal in the rear window. What a racket, I swear as I grab my bag from the trunk of my sorry little Toyota compact. I’m subsidizing the German auto industry and paying Ivy League tuition. I take the long march to the back door. The overgrown lawn is a rebuke to my commitment to my domestic duties. I’ll call a lawn maintenance company tomorrow, conceding that assuming any responsibility for the upkeep of our house is beyond my capabilities. I’ll hire a painter and a contractor to replace the gutters while I’m at it. The Monument to Heat and Air is starting to look like the residence of the Addams Family.
“I’m home, Ma,” I shout, praying for no response, hoping she’s in her bedroom, resting, exhausted by the chemical cocktails racing through her bloodstream. But she calls out immediately, not answering me, but announcing my arrival.
“He’s home! You’re not going to miss him!”
And as I step in the kitchen, a familiar figure rises to greet me.
Ambushed! I’m in shock, denial. This can’t be happening. I must be further gone than I think since the only possible explanation for this hallucination is end-stage delirium tremens. My soon-to-be-ex-wife, the woman I haven’t seen since I was kicked out on my ass, is rising from her chair. Our one brief telephone conversation was deceptively easy. This unexpected face-to-face encounter is awkward, worse than awkward, painful. Alice could never play poker: it’s obvious, to me at least, she’d called ahead, knew I was out of town. Running late this morning, she didn’t want to disappoint my mother by canceling; she’s been sitting anxiously, too polite to cut the visit short, trying not to be distracted by her watch and dreading the possibility of this uncomfortable moment. How do you greet a woman you’ve lived with for nearly twenty years, who vowed to stay with you through better or worse unless the worst meant being rescued from a police station, no toothbrush or mouthwash available and the smell of cock still on your breath? A handshake is too formal; even a chaste kiss on the cheek is too intimate.
“Please, please, sit down,” I say.
“Barry’s family is from Charlotte. They’re down visiting his folks for the weekend,” my mother says, as if this reunion is as casual and relaxed as an old chamois shirt.
“Who’s Barry?” I ask.
The uncomfortable look they exchange answers the question. Barry is obviously the individual responsible for this insult to Alice ’s once robust and healthy body. She’s the exception to the old adage that all pregnant women glow. She looks exhausted, with an unhealthy pallor, and the pouches under her eyes are as dark as mine. Her feet and ankles are swollen. Most shocking of all are the gray roots of her still stylishly cut hair. How long had she been coloring it before her obstetrician banned tints and rinses for the duration? Had she kept it a secret from me or had I simply not noticed?
“I really have lost track of the time,” she says to my mother with forced cheerfulness. “It’s good to see you,” she tells me. “Call when you can.”
Why? So we can chat about Barry?
“I’m so glad you came by,” my mother says as she and Alice embrace. I can see Alice is shaken. By me? By my mother’s condition? “I just know you’re going to have a beautiful baby,” she promises.
My mother has defected to the other side! She’s a pom-pom girl for Alice and her wonderful new life with beautiful, perfect Barry who would never be caught dead showing up like me, scruffy, rumpled, not quite clean, Jack Daniel’s on his breath. Beautiful Perfect Barry wakes up clean-shaven, rinsed, gargled, armpits shellacked, hair stylishly spiked. Beautiful Perfect Barry, the Princeton Man, has accomplished in record time the achievement my feeble sperm were incapable of producing. Alice must have pulled his photo out of her wallet so they could coo over this paragon of manhood with the piercing eyes and the Clark Kent cleft in his chin, her ultimate triumph, her reward for the years of humiliation and perseverance.
See, Ruth, this is my Beautiful Perfect Barry, my vindication, proof at last I wasn’t to blame for the failure of my marriage, none of it was my fault.
“I’ll be in touch,” she says to my mother. “We’ll be back in Charlotte planning the…” Her voice trails off, avoiding mentioning the sacred ceremony.
“I can’t wait to see the baby,” my mother says.
I’ve stumbled upon a conspiracy of estrogen! Why don’t we plan a big Sunday dinner together? My mother, Alice, Barry, the baby. How about inviting Barry’s parents? I bet they’re lovely people. While we’re at it we should ask Curtis to join us. Time heals all wounds. The two of us can bury the hatchet.
“I need to move the car,” I say, impatient for her to leave. “I’m blocking you.”