Mr. Bones

by Paul Theroux

  English Friends

  My English friend Jane—very proper—gave me the name of this woman in London who would be glad to put me up for a few days until I got my InterRail paperwork sorted out. I just knew her as Victoria. When I called her from the airport, she said the best thing would be for me to meet her at her office in Westminster. I was totally impressed. She was a British civil servant, some kind of undersecretary in the Ministry of Health. These are the people who keep the British government running: the politicians and cabinet ministers come and go; these people stay. They brief the ministers on parliamentary bills and MPs’ questions in the House of Commons. All this Victoria told me as she tidied her office before we left. She was drearily dressed and had greasy hair and was wearing a white shirt and necktie, like a school uniform. She saw I was reading a framed certificate.

  “That’s my MBE,” she said. It meant Member of the British Empire, a title. “I say it means My Bloody Efforts.”

  She then explained that she couldn’t take any of the papers home, because they were secret.

  “Lucky you,” I said. “You can make an explicit division between work stuff and home stuff.”

  “Bang on!” she said, and she laughed harder than I would have expected.

  We went to her house by tube. Her husband answered the door. He was Jamaican, named Wallace. He wore a wool hat in the house. He was a carpenter, he said. He said very little else. I tried not to look surprised. While Victoria made dinner, Wallace offered me a drink and showed me to my room. The room looked lived in, and I wondered where, in this small house, Wallace and Victoria slept.

  After dinner, Wallace rolled a big fat joint and passed it to Victoria. She puffed and passed it to me. I didn’t inhale much. I looked at her and saw the civil servant who had shown me her secret papers and her MBE certificate in Westminster.

  “I’m tired,” I said, but when I went into the bedroom they followed me. They looked pretty interested. I said, “I can’t do this.”

  My English friend Jane said I really missed something.

  The Uniform Business

  I am pretty conservative on the whole and have a sales-and-marketing degree, which my parents urged me to get so that I could help them with their business. They are also conservative, you might even say puritanical. That is one of the reasons they chose this business, which is school uniforms.

  Mainly it is girls’ uniforms, skirts and blouses, knee socks and blazers. What is thought of as an old-fashioned line of clothes is actually very up-to-date, since many schools these days are switching over to uniforms, not just Catholic schools but all sorts. My parents chose this business because they believed it was virtuous and fair, that they were promoting modesty. Uniforms are made to order, in batches: a certain plaid for the pleated skirt, a certain blouse and blazer. A lot of the sewing is outsourced to factories in the Dominican Republic and Guatemala.

  When I graduated, I was put in charge of mail orders, generally orders from clients who found our website, or from schools or individuals we had not been in touch with before—random orders.

  Many of these came from Japan, some from Great Britain and Germany, and quite a number from the United States. In most cases they were single orders, apparently unconnected to any school. I knew this from the patterns that were chosen. An individual would get in touch, specify colors and fabrics and sizes, enclosing the payment.

  By tracking these orders, I found out some interesting things. The sizes were usually large, as though for a school for big and tall girls, adult-sized, and these made up at least twenty percent of our total orders. Some of the skirts were huge. The measurements did not make sense. Yet the customers were satisfied, and I found out that they were, most of them, repeat customers.

  Where were these schools? Of course, there were no schools. A fifth of our school uniform sales were to prostitutes and fetishists—men around the world involved with sexual role-playing, dominatrixes, sadists, transvestites, and closet pedophiles. I did not tell my puritanical parents my conclusions, or they would probably have shut down the business, and where would we be then?

  My Brother’s Mask

  My father became wealthy importing timber from Southeast Asia, mainly teak but other hardwoods too. He was one of the first to farm it, which meant that when he died the company still prospered. My brother, Hank, and I inherited everything, the big company and a considerable income.

  My visits to the plantations got me interested in Asian antiques, and when I began to sell them, I was so busy that I needed Hank to help me out. Soon I saw that he was taking trips to Asia purely to buy drugs. Like Dad, he was an innovator—an early smuggler of heroin inside little Buddhas and carved temple finials in small, hard-to-detect amounts, for his own use. His wealth ensured he’d never have to resort to dealing or relying on dealers in the States. He injected: his arm, his foot, his neck. He said, “I have it under control,” meaning that he could afford it.

  But over time the heroin ate up most of his money, and he borrowed from me for a while. A very expensive habit, and destructive too, or so I thought. I made him a promise. I said, “If you give up the heroin, I will hand over half my own inheritance.” I had doubled my money with my antiques business anyway. Hank said, “Leave me alone. I’m like a person with an illness. Just leave me to my illness. A lot of people are in worse shape than me.”

  But I begged him. Finally he agreed. Here is the weird part. As soon as he gave up heroin, after a long, painful process of rehab and treatment, he became very weak. As an addict, he had been full of life; as a clean straight guy, he was pale, feeble, prone to colds, and sometimes could not get out of bed. This went on for a few months. Very worried, I brought him to a specialist, who diagnosed cancer.

  He said, “Your brother has had cancer for years, but his heroin use has masked it. If he had still been using it, he would have had a happy death—sudden anyway. Heroin has been keeping him out of pain.”

  The next weeks were awful. He died horribly a month later.

  Stern Man

  A stern man is the helper fellow on a lobster boat, and he is at my dooryard at four-thirty every morning except Sunday, ready to go, and if he’s not there, I’ll go without him. He does lots of things—hauls traps, baits them, hoses rockweed off the deck, boxes the bugs, gets handy with the Clorox. When you haul in winter your stern man might say he’s cold, and you say, “Goddamn, if you’re cold, you’re not working hard enough.” The stern man gets fifteen percent of the profit on the catch.

  I have had them all, the drug addicts, the numb ones, the stealers, and one was crazy as a shithouse rat. A Christless little son of a whore from Belfast went off with my punt. Another one phoned me with death threats when I fired him, and he also talked about cutting the lines on my pots. It is a hell of a business.

  But Alvin was the best stern man I ever had. Never late, not a talker, a good worker. God knows where he came from. I’d ask him where he came from, and he’d go all friggin’ numb or else change the subject. Also, he went quiet when I talked about women. Mention a piece of tail or a fellow’s teapot or a pair of bloomers, and Alvin just began scrubbing the deck or hosing rockweed.

  I was talking about Vietnam one day. He was the right age. My son was there, one tour. But Alvin said, “I didn’t join up.”

  “Why not?”

  “Couldn’t.”

  “Nothing wrong with you,” I nagged him a bit.

  “Warner, I was in prison,” Alvin said after a while. First time he ever used my name, but all this time he never looked me in the eye.

  “How long for?”

  “Bunch of years.”

  “‘Bunch of years’! So what’d you go and do?”

  “I killed my wife.”

  “She probably deserved it,” I said.

  I knew I was right, because he didn’t say anything else, though he left me a month later. Damn, I never found a better stern man.

  My Wife Cheyenne

  Everyone has always l
iked us. “Here come Mort and Irma.” They’d see us holding hands. We are small of stature—Irma’s barely five feet—like a couple of kids. We had no kids ourselves, so we never had to grow up. We considered ourselves good mixers and had lots of friends. But we went kaput, and here’s how.

  As I’m in restaurant supplies, I travel quite a bit, and it’s no fun, those cheap hotels you have to stay in to keep the profit margin up and the overhead down. Many of my accounts are in Florida, so we relocated to West Palm. But Florida is a huge state, and I still had to deal with the hotels and lots of nights away.

  Irma got a little blue on her own and talked of buying a dog, and she didn’t even like dogs. One Friday I returned home from the road, assuming we were going out to dinner, as we usually did. But:

  “Can’t. I’ve got my group,” Irma said.

  Just like that, a women’s group. She had joined it while I was away; some neighbor introduced her. It made her happy. Good. My turn to stay home alone.

  The next week, same thing but a little worse. I say, “Hon, how about a juicy steak instead of the group.”

  “I’m a vegan.” Just like that. “We decided.”

  They had all turned vegetarian, the group. It was wives of working guys and some divorcées, kind of a support group. I told her I’m all for it, and I am. Traveling and sales is no picnic, but if this made her happier while I was away, hey, great. Then the name issue came up.

  “Irma,” I says one Friday, and she stops me, makes a face.

  “Don’t call me that. I’m Cheyenne.”

  “And I’m Tonto.”

  I had to sleep on the couch. This was no damn joke. And that wasn’t the end of it. How could I be so insensitive? She was Cheyenne. They were all something. She had new stationery printed. She says she can take or leave the holidays. Imagine that. I’m still traveling, but when I come home these days, I don’t know this woman.

  Rock Happy

  I had been married for twenty-two years, living on the windward side of Oahu in Hawaii. No children. Originally I had come to Hawaii, as a young salesman, to advise people on how to set up Jiffy Lube franchises, but when my consultancy work was done, I decided to stay. I got myself a franchise, realized this was where I wanted to live, and sent for Diana, my high school sweetheart. She had a lot of complaints about living in Hawaii—the rats, the cockroaches, the way people talked English like it was another language, the lousy food, the terrible traffic, and many more, which is maybe the point of this story.

  I was happy. I would have done anything to make Diana happy. I hardly noticed her criticisms of me, although our whole being in Hawaii was my doing, as she said. I was in kind of a daze, but so what? I never got rock fever, like they say. I was rock happy.

  We were driving one wet afternoon over the Pali, and just beyond the tunnel there was one of these speed traps. Cop flags me down. I drive onto the shoulder and get out my license and registration.

  The cop was a big moke, six-something, way over two hundred pounds, hands like pieces of meat. But he was very polite, very professional. It was true, I had probably been speeding. I laughed and agreed with him while he wrote out the citation.

  A horrible choking honk like an animal’s sudden fury made him stop writing. But it was a familiar sound to me.

  “Billy! You tell him we’re going to court! You hear me, Billy!”

  The cop took a step back and looked into the car, at Diana’s pudgy purple face, the veins standing out on her neck, the spit on her lips.

  “Is that your wife?” He said it in a disgusted and pitying voice.

  I said yes, and I almost added, What’s the problem?

  He tore up the ticket. “I ain’t giving you this. You got enough problems, bruddah.”

  After a few months we separated, and within a year were divorced. Diana’s back on the mainland now.

  The Bus Driver

  It was at the three-day wedding event for my eldest daughter, who was marrying a very nice man, Brian, a successful contractor in Oregon. Taylor said, “I want a huge bash. You only get married once.” I kept my big mouth shut.

  The bash was held at a resort in Hawaii and involved all the guests being shuttled to lunches, rehearsals, dinners, activities, and so forth, getting in and out of vans and minibuses, and doing lots of socializing. We were sent a three-page itinerary. Movable feast!

  I went with Tim, my second husband. On the first afternoon there was an important cocktail party at a function room on the property. The van was parked where it should have been, near the porte-cochère, but there was no sign of the bus driver. I walked up and down looking for him.

  A gruff-looking man approached the van and waited at the front passenger door.

  I was annoyed that he was late and not even apologetic. I said, “Are you the bus driver?”

  He said, “No,” and a second later seemed to change his mind about getting aboard. This really annoyed me, because I was sure he was the bus driver, and I muttered something, which I wish I could remember now. He walked away. I waited awhile, and then it hit me.

  That man, the gruff stranger I had spoken to, was my ex-husband, Taylor’s father, to whom I had been happily married for sixteen years, until he went off with a much younger woman, who I heard had dumped him, couldn’t stand his drinking. I looked back and did not see him. Later, we said hello but not much else. We never discussed my gaffe, which I think says a lot.

  Black Runs

  I was unhappily married and living in Connecticut, your typical bored housewife. Then I took a course: radiology. X-rays, CAT scans, MRIs. Two years. I got my diploma and left my husband and came here to Maine. There’s a lot of work in radiology, and the hours aren’t too bad. I chose Maine because of the winters.

  I spend the whole winter skiing, except last winter, when I had some medical procedures. I have five screws in my shoulder and a permanently damaged rotator cuff that screams in damp weather. I’ve broken both arms, my collarbone, and my left ankle. I need to have my knees replaced. That’ll be fun. Basically, they make lateral incisions, sever your legs, put in metal, and give you some kind of ID so you can go through a metal detector in an airport.

  The ankle was something else. I read my own CAT scan and opted for ankle replacement. Basically, they got me an ankle from a cadaver, and they removed my bad ankle and fitted me with this donor ankle. But it’s too small. I’m getting pain. They might have to redo it.

  I hate cross-country skiing. My ex was huge on it. I hated hearing him say, “Oh, look at that yellow spruce,” or “Oh, look, a rose-breasted grosbeak,” or “Oh, gosh, let’s sit on that log and have a bagel.” Cross-country is for, I want to say, fairies.

  He didn’t understand that pain is pleasure, if properly applied. What I want is black runs, all-day black runs. I want to ski straight down on black runs with my legs banging and the tears streaming out of my eyes and freezing on my face. And snot pouring out of my nose and streaking on my cheek, and my whole face burning from the cold. I am hardly able to breathe on a black run, which no man I have ever known can understand, which is also why I fired my husband, I’ve fired every boyfriend I’ve ever had, and basically it’s just me and my dog.

  A Real Break

  Mother and Grace—let’s just say they weren’t best buddies. So as the elder daughter, and single, I began to look after Mother when she began to fail. And she was a wreck. Got confused in stores, left the oven on, real muddled about time. I made her stop driving, so of course I had to take the wheel. God, the hills. I wrote Grace that I was moving in with Mother. The big Polk Street house had been in Mother’s family for years; Mother was lost in it. Grace understood completely and said she was relieved. She had been in a Minnesota convent since taking her vows, though she sometimes spent extended periods in Nevada and Florida as a hospital worker, “and doing spiritual triage too,” on Indian reservations. We seldom heard from her, but Mother sent her money now and then. Because of the strictness of her religious order, she was never able
to visit us in San Francisco. “And just as well,” Mother said.

  It got so that Mother could only manage with my assistance. I resigned from my secretarial job, lost my retirement and my medical plan, and became Mother’s full-time caregiver. I updated Grace on Mother’s condition and mentioned the various challenges we faced. Grace wrote saying that she was praying for us, and she asked detailed questions because these infirmities were to be specified in the prayers, or intercessions, as she called them.

  About three years into my caregiving, Grace called. She said, “Why not take a few months off? My Superior has given me special dispensation to look after Mom for a while. It’ll be a break for me. And you can have a real break. Maybe go to Europe.”

  Mother wasn’t overjoyed, but she could see that I was exhausted. Grace flew in. It was an emotional reunion. I hardly recognized her—not because she had gotten older, though she had. But she was dressed so well and in such good health. She even mentioned how I looked stressed and obviously could do with some time off.

  I went on one of those special British Airways fares, a See Scotland package. It was just the break I needed, or so I thought.

  Long story short, when I got back to San Francisco, the Polk Street house was being repainted by people who said they were the new owners. Everything I possessed was gone. Mother was in a charity hospice. She had been left late one night at the emergency room of St. Francis Hospital. There was no money in Mother’s bank account. Everything she had owned had been sold. I saw Mother’s lawyer. He found a number for Grace—the 702 area code, a cell phone. Nevada.