"Jesus," we all said again, in unison. "Jesus Christ."
The Sportsman moved out toward the start of the upcoming baseball season, just before my father died. He left behind an NFL cigarette lighter, a sink full of dirty plastic dishes, three motel bath towels, countless newspapers and magazines, his unused broom and mop, and stickers: team stickers plastered to the windows, the refrigerator, the kitchen cabinets, even the bathtub! It took my mother and me hours with razor blades and lighter fluid to ease them off. The Sportsman left behind a real mess.
My father hadn’t planned on dying and left behind everything, including a small notebook hidden in the drawer of his desk at work. It is a child’s notebook, the cover decorated with satisfied cartoon bears presenting one another with bright balloons. Inside he stupidly recorded all of the women he had screwed with, their names, the color of their hair, a pathetic, juvenile assessment. In the notebook my mother is never referred to.
He died on a warm spring day when his company car was sideswiped by a Mayflower van. He looked over at the place where his arm used to be and literally died of shock. Many of the names in my father’s notebook are familiar. These are women we know from the stores we frequent, from the neighborhood we live in. He died of shock but look at us, carrying on!
My mother was vacuuming the carpet in the basement apartment when she discovered some pictures on the floor of the bed-room closet. She takes her glasses from her smock pocket and holds them before her eyes. "Oh, that Nick Papanides, I had him figured out right from the start. A Greek god on loan from Mount Olympus to the women of America."
I ask to see the pictures and she tells me I am too young.
"Greeks," she says, "Greeks are just Jews without money." Mom is down on the Jews since discovering my father had carried on with Sandy Ableman, a former best friend.
"Honest Ableman," she says, raising her voice over the noise of the vacuum cleaner. "She’d say 'Evelyne, who but your best friend can you rely on for the truth?' Then she’d say, 'And the truth is that you need to cut your hair. You’re too old to carry off that length. It might work for a teenager, but face it, Evelyne, you’re no teenager. Far from it.' So what did I do? I cut my hair! Then she got honest about my clothing and the shade of yellow I used on the front steps. So I stopped wearing bright colors and repainted the stairs that shit-brown color she recommended. I’d say, 'Oh, thank you, Sandy, thank you,' and all the while she was sneaking around with my husband. She’d say, 'The truth hurts, Evelyne.' The truth! Do you know what I’ll say the next time I see her?"
"We can grow your hair back, Mother."
"You know what I’ll say the next time I run into that lying whore?"
I know. She’ll say the exact same thing she said the last time we ran into Sandy Ableman. She’ll say, "Sandy, it’s so good to see you." Then Mrs. Ableman will take my mother’s hand and say, "Evelyne, I have been meaning to call you. How are you and Dale making out these days?" Then my mother will look at the ground and look at me and say, "We get along."
"You know what I’ll do the next time I see that flowering Judas?" My mother lifts the vacuum cleaner by the hose and gives it a violent jerk. It falls to its side, helpless and struggling. Something has been shaken loose, and she stands there, glaring down at the vacuum cleaner, both of them panting.
"Let’s take a little break," I say. We’ve brought a can of Pepsi and a thermos of coffee — a thermos, even though we live right upstairs. The thermos allows us to feel that we’ve gotten away. I pour her a cup of coffee and hand her a couple of Tums. My mother washes her hands and looks around the room in a panic.
"That Greek bastard, where’s the little TV I loaned him? Can you believe this? He stole the television set and I can’t even take it out of his security deposit because he never gave me a god-damned security deposit. He said, 'Next time, next time,' and I trusted him and he walked off with my TV set. It wasn’t much, but it worked. That lousy shit. 'You can’t trust anyone' I’m going to have that tattooed on my hand in capital letters."
She eats her Turns and they seem to have an immediate effect. "What the hell," she says, her lips chalky. "Why let ourselves get so worked up over a black-and-white TV set? The damned thing didn’t even have an antenna. Who cares? Let him choke on it. He was garbage just like all the rest of them. And speaking of trash, have you run into that Spacely woman at school lately, your father’s favorite brunette?"
"That’s Spakey, Mother, and no, I haven’t seen her. She’s a junior high teacher, and I’m at a different school now, remember?"
"Well, won’t she come to your school sooner or later for a PTA meeting or something?"
"She’ll have PTA at her own school."
"Well, won’t she have to visit your school for some kind of a conference or something?"
I know what she’s getting at, so I give up and say, "Yes, sooner or later I guess she will."
"And what are you going to say when you see her?"
This is one of my mother’s tests and I have no choice but to satisfy her with an appropriate answer. I take a sip of my Pepsi and stare out the window where I watch the Dinellos’ dog squat and void in our front yard. "I’ll say, 'Oh, Miss Spakey, that was very nice of you to give me an A in your class. My father only gave you a C.'
"You can do a lot better than that," my mother says, lifting the thermos cup to her mouth.
"All right, I’ll say, 'Miss Spakey, isn’t it ironic that while I was busy adding and subtracting you were dividing and trying to multiply.'" I know this is bad. My cheeks flame. My mother looks away, a kind gesture on her part. "OK, how’s this? I’ll say, 'By the way, Miss Spakey, are you still teaching math or did they transfer you over to home wreck?'
My mother laughs, my reward. "Oh, that’s rich," she says. "Home wreck, that’s very good."
I think it’s just OK. Given time, I’m sure I could think of something better but, unlike my mother, I lack the ability to dwell on these vengeful scripts. I do it for her but personally I just don’t work that way. I’m certain that, when and if I ever see Miss Spakey again, we will both look away. She was my seventh-grade math teacher. Seventh grade, that was two years ago. Did she sleep with my father while I was her student? Did their union affect my grades? Did she look at me any differently? I, personally, do not care one way or the other. I don’t wish her the worst, nor do I wish her the best. I don’t wish her period. Her very existence is a mistake, but it is not my mistake, so I’d rather not waste my time thinking about it. My mother, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about it. I can practically see the thoughts as they stomp about my mother’s skull. They are the size of a cigarette lighter, yet their feet are heavy and dangerous and they give her no peace.
"Have you given any more thought to that W.S.?" she asks.
W.S. was my father’s only initialed blond encounter. "W.S. Blond (today) Sack of Hammers!!!"
My mother went through his address book, his wallet, his file cabinet, and, finding nothing, resorted to the phone book. It’s the not knowing that kills her. Unlike the adulteresses she does know, my mother had taken to calling these W.S.’s. She calls and says, "I am the widow of Les Poppins." I listen in on the other phone as they say, "What? Who?" A few of them she has taker to calling very late at night, a dangerous thing to do if you’re going to give out your last name.
"I think I’ve got it narrowed down between Winnona Spears and Wendy Sidawell," she says. "That Spears gal has the nerve to say I’m harassing her — that’s a guilty conscience talking. She’s cagey that one. On the other hand, we’ve got Wendy Sidawell, an absolute moron. 'Huh?' she said the first time I called her, 'What is this, some kind of a contest? Are you with the radio? Am I winning something?' They don’t come much dumber than Wendy Sidawell. She’s just your father’s type. I asked her what color her hair is and she said 'The hair on my head?' When I asked Winnona Spears she threatened me with a lawsuit. The two of them are running neck and neck in my book. Which do you think it is?"
> I’m spraying the oven and the fumes are making me dizzy. I back away, frightened that I might tell the truth. W.S. Wife’s sister — Aunt Margery. Even if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes the "Sack of Hammers" would have given her away. "I still think it was Wanda Sparks," I say. Wanda Sparks was the one W.S. whose phone has been disconnected. "I think that after he died she packed up and left town. I think she’s probably living somewhere out west, somewhere in the desert. I think she’s maybe in a rehab center, trying to pick up the pieces."
I’d like for my mother to drop the whole thing, forget it, leave it alone. I try to lead her in another direction but I can’t stop thinking about Nick. Why would he have taken off with that TV set when he hardly ever watched it? I was always the one to turn it on. Then he would ask me to get up and change the channel, wanting, I guess, to watch me naked and bending over. Perhaps it was just a prop.
"Make the thing stop talking now," he would say. "Only the picture if you want it there."
"The thing to do is to call them both and have you listen to their voices," my mother says. "We’ll give them a call later tonight, when their guards are down. You call them and say you’re Les Poppins’s son, then we’ll hear what they have to say. Use that little-boy voice of yours while I listen in on the other line. Tell them your father just died and we’ll flush them out, the bitches."
I’m bucking for a way out when my mother’s sister Margery pops in. That’s Margery’s word, "popped," as if she’s the cork in a bottle of champagne, the symbol of fun Margery has just re-turned from an AA meeting. She goes twice a week as a show of strength for her third husband, Chet Wallace, an alcoholic real estate broker. Margery opens the door, "Yoohoo!" and she says to me, "Dale, run upstairs and bring your tired old aunt a beer. After three hours of hearing those people whining about it, I need a drink." She removes her coat and shakes it as though she were provoking a bull. "Goddamn, those alcoholics can smoke — quit drinking so they can turn around and die from cancer. I leave those meetings with my clothes stinking like they’re woven from cigarette butts." She takes a seat on my mother’s folding chair, spreading the coat over herself like a bib. "Are you people cold or is it just me? Jesus, it’s cold in here. No wonder you can’t keep a tenant. Dale, did I ask you for a beer or did I not?" I love to make her ask me at least twice as it always makes the request sound more desperate: booze, booze, booze, booze. The longest I’ve held out is five times.
"Dale, go on now, get your aunt a beer," my mother says.
I give Margery my "I have seen you naked" look, but, as always, it has no effect. She studies her coat for lint and says, "Did you hear your mother?" Margery is under the impression that I was set upon this earth to act as her personal slave. This time though, I don’t mind.
On my way out the door I grab my mother’s smock off the kitchen counter. I wait until I’m in the upstairs bathroom and then I remove the pictures from the pocket. There are three of them, Polaroids. One is a picture of Nick standing proud and naked against a paneled wall. His stomach catches the light. It is pale, covered with thick black hair and it stands out, like some-thing held before him. He’s got a drink in one hand and is using the other to point at his flaccid penis, as if it were not a part of himself but some rare, exotic creature briefly resting between his legs. In another picture I see his short, ringed fingers petting a woman’s breast. In the third I find a washed-out, horrified woman sitting naked upon an orange bedspread, waving her arms and trying to stop this from happening. The picture is blurred but I identify the woman as Elaine Petrakis, the hostess over at The Golden Key, the restaurant where Nick worked as a cook. I fan the pictures before my face and cast them into the sink, pretending to care. It’s a bit like trying to force yourself to vomit. I look up into the mirror and wail, "Nick, Nick how could you?" My face looks best when it is screwed into an expression of turmoil — in repose my features tend to come across as flat, like a face painted upon a plate. I examine my tortured self in the mirror and I like what I see — a guy who hurts, who really cares. "Nicky, how could you do this to me? Especially with Elaine Petrakis, the hostess, that same hostess who smiled my way every time I snuck into the restaurant to see you. Nick, you son of a goddamned bitch, don’t you know that I love you?"
I force myself to cry and admire the tears upon my cheeks. I watch in the mirror as my hand moves, broadcasting the sorrow across my face. "I loved you. Sweet Jesus, I loved you so much. Hold me. Just hold me."
The perfect moment suddenly turns sour and I find myself embarrassed at the sight of myself. I didn’t love him. I do not feel betrayed by the photographs. Rather, I find myself thinking of that squirrel in his freezer, of squirrels baking away in that oven of his, and I say, "Nick, how could you? Why didn’t any-body tell me?" To eat squirrels that the cat dragged in that’s sick. And to think I ever even thought about kissing him! I mean, I might allow Popeye to lick my face every now and then, but that’s different. Popeye only caught the squirrels, he never ate them.
"Nick Papanides," I say, spitting into the sink. "Let me tell you a little something, Mister. You can rot in Hell for all I care. You can. . ." I watch my saliva clinging to the rim of the basin and wonder where the bubbles come from. Is that air or are we all naturally carbonated? If Nick were to appear before me right this moment I might ask him that question but find myself bored with his answer. That’s the kind of guy he was. I wouldn’t even have thought of asking my father that question as the answer would have been both dull and uninformed, a double whammy of tedium. That was his claim to fame, we all knew it. My mother though, she seems to cling to an idea of this man. She never seemed to want him alive, but dead he assumes a potential for change. His corpse is something to be claimed and fought over while his life, like Nick’s, is transparent to a fault. You’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to know what you’re getting yourself into, so if there’s blame, blame yourself.
It suddenly becomes clear that a cat has more sense than Nick Papanides. I slip the pictures back into my mother’s smock pocket and go down to the kitchen where I take Margery’s beer out of the refrigerator. I open the can, take a deep swallow, but spit it back into the can. I don’t get it, beer —it’s nasty tasting. I follow it up with a tug of Pepsi and close the refrigerator, the door of which is decorated with inspirational messages provided by Aunt Margery. There is a bumper sticker reading "Keep It Simple," and a sympathy card reading "You are not alone!" But she is alone, my mother. She just doesn’t know it. It’s like falling asleep in your bedroom believing that someone else is quietly sitting in the living room. You feel their presence when actually they’re not home at all, they’re down the block, living it up. But if the false idea of your company helps them to sleep then why tell them otherwise? It’s pitiful. You might look upon a child or a simpleton with pity, no problem, but it’s ugly work to see your mother that way. It’s much more tiring than cleaning an empty apartment or attending a football game. Like seeing my naked father, clumsy, the words pouring out of him like brown water — I never wanted to see him like that. These thoughts become my job and I clock in and out, every day of my life.
I laughed when I heard the news that my father had died. I celebrate his death every time his name is spoken. In my opinion, the driver of the Mayflower van deserves the keys to the city. The hero responsible for Margery’s eventual death should have a national holiday named in his or her honor. They should have their head placed on stamps.
I return to the basement apartment and, entering the kitchen, I pretend to trip. My aunt covers her hair with one hand and her coat with the other — unconcerned for my safety but frightened that I might shower her with the stinking beer.
"I swear," she says, recovering herself. "I shouldn’t but I do." She settles back into her chair and takes a greedy sip. A golden stream dribbles out of her mouth and falls upon her coat. Margery removes a Kleenex from her purse and, frowning, mops at the stain. "My coat," she whispers.
"You’re looking very pret
ty tonight," my mother says. Margery has spruced herself up since marrying Chet Wallace. She has stopped bleaching her hair and currently wears it cut short and heavily gelled, brushed toward her face. She’s wearing heavy red blush, which, combined with her hairstyle, makes her look as though she has just come up for a quick breath while bobbing for apples. She studies her reflection in the dark window and then looks down into her beer.
"So, how is my big old baby sister doing today?" she asks. "I worry about you here all by yourself."
"I’ve got Dale," my mother says. "He’s with me."
Margery pulls her coat close to her neck and says, "I worry about you, I can’t help myself. Chet wanted me to go with him to the Angus Barn for dinner, him and his sponsor and a few other people, marvelous people, but I said, 'No, thank you, I’ve got to check in on that baby sister of mine because I worry about her.' " She takes another sip of her beer and beams.
This is standard Margery, to tell my mother stories of all the sacrifices she’s made to be here.
"They all said, 'Margery, come on! Come out and have some fun for a change.' They said, 'What is it with this sister of yours?' Then Chet’s sponsor, Bobby, said, 'Sister, hell, I believe she’s got a man tucked away somewhere on the sly,' and everyone laughed. They simply would not leave me alone." Margery paused, shaking her head at the thought of them. "Those people, bless their hearts. They’ve saved my husband’s life and I love them for it, but still I worry about you and that’s why I’m here."
Barrel Fever Page 5
