Big Brother

by Lionel Shriver

  I’d no idea what he was talking about. “To what do we owe the honor of this call? If you picked up the phone every time you were incensed by the TV listings, we’d hear from you every day.”

  “I’ve tripped across one of your belongings, which you misplaced,” said Travis, hamming it up. “Seems a little careless. I taught you to pick up your toys.”

  With Edison in the room, I was braver with my father. “That’s a pretty crappy way of referring to your own grandson.”

  “Step-grandson.” Everyone in my family availed themselves of this distancing prefix only when it suited them.

  “So he’s staying with you?”

  “The boy threw himself on the mercy of my hospitality, and I wasn’t going to toss him on the street, was I? Although I gotta say, for a homeless waif that’s one cocky kid. Don’t know what sort of fashionable parenting thing you got going, but he sure thinks right well of himself. One big Please, sir, can I have some more.”

  “I bet you took second helpings too, at his age. Is he all right?”

  “Still has his fingers and toes. Kid wants to apprentice himself, learn the tricks of the media trade. Trouble is, mentors with credits the scale of mine can pull in sky’s-the-limit fees, and my new houseguest expects a family discount.”

  I could see it: when Tanner first washed up on Travis’s doorstep—a handsome young man conveniently pre-plied with Appaloosa lore—my father was flattered, which is why he’d kept the young man’s whereabouts to himself for the last week. Miraculously, God had at last bequeathed to this underappreciated icon of groundbreaking television a proper flesh-and-blood fan. Unfortunately, the new live-in acolyte being a teenage male meant that he did not shop, pick up after himself, spring for the take-out bill, or launder his own clothes, although, a bit of an operator and enjoying access to no other free crash pad in California, Tanner was doubtless shoveling a measure of obsequious shit in his grandfather’s direction in lieu of rent.

  Talking to my father usually drove me to catatonia, but for once I was thinking on my feet. “Then make him sing for his supper. You’ve always wanted to write that memoir. Get him to sort out your papers. Find and assemble all your old fan mail—I know you didn’t throw any of it away. Get the scripts in order—since he claims he wants to write them. Tanner could polish up your website, add more hyperlinks.”

  “You may have an idea there . . .” The prospect of deriving any inspiration from his dull, undistinguished middle child was far-fetched. “But even if I do sic the kid on those boxes in the basement, I’m racking up expenses here. Up till now, the only beneficiaries of your stepson’s arrival have been Taco Bell and In-N-Out Burger. Now, I’m auctioning a trove of props on eBay, top-of-the-line memorabilia from JC, but so far collectors are low-balling me something scandalous.” (I surmised: he hadn’t sold a thing.) “Damn, if this economy is so soft that priceless items like Caleb Fields’s sheet music aren’t getting snapped up for top dollar, I’d be worrying about that doll-baby outfit of yours—”

  “I’ll send a check,” I interrupted. “For one favor in return: put my son on the phone.” If the long ensuing silence weren’t enough, Tanner’s surly “Yeah?” cleared up any ambiguity: he’d been forced to talk to me. “Listen,” I said. “I want you to really apply yourself out there. Grampa may be a little out of the loop, but he knows a fair bit about TV from the inside. He could teach you plenty. So don’t waste your time sleeping late and cruising the streets for glimpses of Tom Hanks. If you’re serious about this career, then act serious. Learn the ropes. Meet his contacts. Do what Grampa asks you to, okay? He needs a crackerjack researcher for his memoir, which will involve getting his files in order, maybe interviewing the producers and other actors about their memories of Joint Custody. Think of it as an internship. And interns work real hard, and long hours, for no money. You’re paid in experience. You copy?”

  “Uh—yeah, sure.” He sounded dazed. “Like, that’s what I had in mind anyway, whaddya think? . . . Still, what about Dad?”

  “His first instinct will be to hop in his truck to drag you back to New Holland. I’ll do what I can to hold him off. After all, you’d just pick up and leave again, wouldn’t you?”

  “Better believe it.” This much was said with conviction.

  “We both love you; we both understand it’s your life, to do with what you wish; and we both want you to be happy. We also want you to be successful at whatever you choose to do, even if you find that hard to believe right now. I’m mostly relieved that you’re safe. Remember you can always call here, if you have any questions or if you just feel like catching up. If you decide California’s not up your alley after all, there’s no embarrassment in coming home. But you’re not going to do that, are you?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now, give Grampa a hug for me, and get to work.”

  When I returned to my cold fish, both Edison and Cody were staring at me in disbelief. “You didn’t try to talk him into coming back,” said Cody.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “You didn’t give him a hard time about how all-fired important it is that he finishes high school,” she said. “None of that ‘but you’re joining the slave class,’ like Oliver said.”

  “Nope,” I said brightly. “Though that’s obviously what he expected.” I piled tapenade on a bite of cod. “Oh, Edison, get this: Travis has put Caleb Fields’s sheet music on eBay.”

  “Which that jive motherfucker Sinclair Vanpelt couldn’t even read,” said Edison.

  “Here’s what kills me,” I said. “After you left for New York, Travis converted your old room to a home theater, remember?”

  “And why would Travis want a home theater?” Edison quizzed Cody.

  She didn’t miss a beat. “For watching reruns of Joint Custody.”

  “To the head of the class,” said Edison.

  “So he crammed all your stuff in the trash,” I said. “Including the sheet music—of a real person who’s his son and could actually play the piano. The music of a fake son with fake talent he stores for thirty years. God, Edison, no wonder you’re screwed up.”

  “Au contraire, babe, under the circumstances I’m fucking well-adjusted.”

  I picked a hazelnut from the couscous. “At least you’re off the hook, Cody. Grampa told. All intergenerational relationships are inherently traitorous.”

  She thought about it. “Doesn’t that mean I can’t trust you, either?”

  “Yup.”

  “So why didn’t you badger Tan to come home?” Edison puzzled. “I thought the kid was a ‘young seventeen.’ Not ready for prime time.”

  “You’re the one warned me off of being ‘pre-disappointed’ for my children,” I said. “Besides, think about it: if Tanner starts digging in that basement, he’s going to exhume scripts that were barely up to the mark at the time and in hindsight are appalling. Any fan mail from the old days will be from eleven-year-old girls and written in crayon. And Tanner’s bound to trip over the residue of a dozen failed business ventures that postdate the show—like that goofy playhouse prototype that was supposed to re-create Emory Fields’s eco-friendly bungalow, which Travis never got anybody to market. Then there’s the videos and DVDs of all those awful three a.m. ads on Nick at Nite—for $9.99 electromagnetic dusters, ‘pop stoppers’ for aluminum cans, and ‘granny grabbers’ for when you’re too old and fat to pull up your own socks, with two free high-shelf grips thrown in, but only if you order now! Meanwhile, he’ll have to listen to Travis fume by the hour about how much he hates William Shatner. Talk about the ultimate in ‘cautionary tale’! No offense to your brother, Cody—but Tanner and Travis deserve each other.”

  chapter eight

  I was leery of another joust at Java Joint, so for a marital reunion at the beginning of June I suggested a bike ride instead. That way Fletcher could deliver those patronizing pointers
about bike repair, even if the sight of him tottering around pigeon-toed in clip-in cycling shoes wasn’t very sexy. I apologized up front that I’d be slow, hoping to head off any suggestion of competition.

  So what possessed me? Was I really that stupid?

  It was that eternal rock-and-a-hard-place, I suppose. The rain had been relentless all spring, and I hated leaving my brother alone on what was forecast to be, for the first time in weeks, a sunny, temperate Sunday. Protective of our hideaway and a little bereft when out of his jazz element, he never brought anyone home; his diet was antisocial. By then, too, Edison was approaching his six-month anniversary of Upchuck, and that had to be much too long to live daily on four envelopes of powder. Between exercise and no longer dragging his own deadweight like a cadaver, he’d seemed robust in early spring, but the renewed strength had ebbed. He’d grown shorter of breath. At the piano, his hands had developed a tremor. His concentration was so poor that at work he sometimes stitched seams with the finished side of the fabric facing out. When we cycled to Baby Monotonous, I had to tap my brakes to keep from getting ahead. So maybe I was hoping to demonstrate how any continuation of this debilitating all-liquid diet was out of the question. Oh, and doubtless I was also influenced by the usual sappy, middle-child, Maple Fields prime directive: why can’t we all get along?

  In sum, idiotically, I asked Edison if he wanted to come on the bike ride, too. He jumped at the chance—oiling our chains, pumping our tires, and teeming off to Hy-Vee to buy ingredients for a picnic. Had I forewarned Fletcher that I’d have my brother in tow, my husband might have said no, in which case I’d have to uninvite Edison, a worse outcome than never having asked him in the first place . . . At least simply showing up with you-know-who was a fait accompli.

  That morning, Edison weighed in at 228.7—only two-tenths of a pound less than the day before. He’d enough experience with uneven progress to deal with these small, temporary disappointments. But this time he blew up. “Fuck this, man! I am not digging this, man, not one bit!”

  I pointed at the family photo from my birthday, taped beside the scale to provide an image of his baseline. “The difference is staggering. Stop sweating the little daily crap.”

  Getting ready, Edison changed three times. At last he emerged in khaki cargo shorts, a rayon short-sleeve, and blazing-white Nikes, all topped off with razzle-dazzle shades. I saw him daily in a ratty kimono stolen years ago from a Tokyo hotel, so he was not dressing up for me.

  “You’re going for a bike ride,” I said, “not getting married. Pack up the panniers, or we’ll be late.”

  Sure enough, Fletcher was propped against the fence when we rolled up.

  Fletcher hadn’t seen Edison Appaloosa since our giddy farewell on Solomon Drive—when we’d merrily gunned off on our unlikely quest as if planning to conquer the South Pole in windbreakers and straw hats. I’d provided my husband regular updates on my brother’s shrinkage, but numbers are abstract, and he probably thought I exaggerated. At 228, Edison was a substantial guy, but at cafés no one scrambled for an extra-wide chair. In modern American terms, he was handsome—which suddenly struck me as unfortunate.

  Edison extended a hand over his handlebars. “Yo, long time.”

  Fletcher shook perfunctorily. “So it’s a threesome, is it?”

  “Such a nice day,” I said. “I thought we could all use some fresh air.”

  Fletcher shot me a look. “What kind of mileage you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know . . . twenty?” I said.

  “I do twenty in less than an hour. I thought you wanted to make a day of it.”

  “We’re not in your league,” I said. “Twenty-five to thirty, then? At the turnaround point, we can break for lunch. Edison packed us a picnic.”

  “Swell,” Fletcher snarled. “Ready, then? Anyone need to pee?”

  He pushed off while I was taking a slug of water, and once I caught up I was huffing. While the pace was surely slower than his solo speed, I had to bear down to stay within hailing distance of his back tire. This hyperventilating slog contrasted with the whimsical putter I’d pictured beforehand: pedaling lazily three abreast, trading anecdotes. We’d take breaks, watching ducks, skipping stones, catching some rays . . . But Fletcher was on a ride, and when Fletcher went on a ride he didn’t stop.

  Fletcher’s narrow back tire drew further in front. By the time I shouted, “Hey! Wait up!” I doubt he heard me. That’s when I looked over my shoulder, and Edison was nowhere in sight. I turned around. I found him with his bike propped against a tree about two miles back, smoking.

  He squinted down the path. “So where’s Feltch?”

  “Somewhere over the rainbow,” I said.

  “What’s he got to prove? Besides being a dick? I knew that already.”

  “Oh, he might have waited for just me. Another guy . . . He has to show off. You still up for this?”

  “Sure. Long as you’re ready to hang.”

  “I promise,” I said, “I’ll hang.”

  We saddled up, proceeding side by side. “I sat down with a calculator the other day,” I said, steering idly down the middle white line, “and crunched that monthly weight-loss tally of yours. I know you’ve memorized it, too: ‘thirty-nine, thirty-three, twenty-six, nineteen, sixteen.’ ”

  “Sixteen point four.”

  “But this month you’ll barely make fourteen. The drop-off can’t only be explained by your burning less energy because you’re lighter. Your metabolism is slowing to a crawl. Ostensibly you burn fifteen calories for every pound you weigh. But I can only get those outputs by cranking that number down, to fourteen, thirteen, twelve . . . Right now you’ve plateaued around ten.”

  “Body thinks it’s starving,” said Edison.

  “It’s figured out that five hundred and eighty calories in little envelopes is all it’s going to get. We’ll have to shake the organism up. So start getting your head around a return to solid food.”

  “Upchucks may not work well as they used to, but they’re still working, babe.”

  “It’s not safe,” I said mildly.

  This was merely laying the groundwork for the coming showdown, and our tones were pleasant. We ranged to other matters: like how Edison was convinced that Oliver was “totally hung up” on me—a conviction he relished—and my admission that if my best friend were ever to marry I’d be indecently jealous. How Edison pictured Tanner coming up from Travis’s basement something like that kid in Sweeney Todd emerging from the innards of Mrs. Lovett’s pie-baking factory, his hair turned fright-white. I laughed. This was the convivial, freewheeling wend along the river that I’d hoped for, with the small exception of the personnel.

  “If we ever see Fletcher again,” I advised, “don’t bring up the prodigal son. I may think Travis is the best possible inoculation against a life of California dreamin’, but as far as Fletcher’s concerned Tanner’s been abducted by aliens. I’ve talked him out of kidnapping the boy back, but it’s touchy.”

  The path veered from the river, and it is not true that Iowa is completely flat. Climbing a killer hill, we got off and walked. Which mustn’t have made us look intrepid to Fletcher, who was inscribing tight circles at the crest.

  “I was going to ask what took you so long,” said Fletcher, “but now it’s obvious.”

  “We’re not in a hurry,” I said casually. “Think you could unhook from those pedals? This is a pretty spot, and I could use a rest.”

  Fletcher turned one foot smartly and dismounted. No embrace, no peck on the cheek. He hadn’t touched me all day.

  “So what’s the mileage, man?” Edison’s eyes glinted. “Must have gone at least forty.”

  “My cyclometer says seventeen,” said Fletcher disdainfully. Edison knew perfectly well we hadn’t gone forty miles.

  I unfurled a bedspread under a tree while Edison smoked. The cigarette woul
d have excited Fletcher’s disgust, but my husband couldn’t fault the content of our plastic containers: shrimp dressed with low-fat yogurt, lemon juice, and chives. Cherry tomatoes with mint and only a drizzle of oil that Edison had slow-baked on low heat. Seaweed salad, with hijiki and sesame seeds. For dessert, seasonal blueberries bursting with antioxidants. Our groaning board adhered to the letter to Fletcher’s own dietary catechism, in response to which my husband tore off vengeful bites of his apricot jerky. Edison railed about Fletcher being a tyrant. But sometimes the most enraging thing you can do with tyrants is to comply.

  “I’m not especially hungry,” said Fletcher.

  “What a shock,” said Edison.

  “Well, I’m starved,” I intervened, weighing down napkins with paper plates. “Oh, and Edison, Upchuck now comes in a new flavor! Cherry-chocolate. Like Cherry Garcia.” Edison accepted the thermos, swirling the shake like fine wine. “Hold it! I remembered your favorite glass.” I unwrapped the faceted, soda fountain–style glass, and polished it with the dishtowel.

  “You packed a glass for a bike trip,” said Fletcher, standing on the sidelines.

  Edison poured a measure and toasted. “Presentation, dig?” He slipped a CD into our portable player, and Fletcher’s face twitched. My husband wouldn’t have heard jazz for half a year now, but he didn’t seem to have missed it.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said, averting my face from the CD cover. “ . . . Sonny?”

  “Yeah, but that’s too easy,” said Edison. “Who’s on drums?”

  I frowned. “Philly Joe? No, wait! Max Roach.”

  “Not bad, kid. Now what tune’s Sonny riffing on?” Helping me out, Edison hummed the notes at the beginning of each four-bar phrase.

  “ ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’!”