by David Vann
You don’t know?
Just call me back now and invite me for a sleepover tomorrow. We won’t tell my mother I called first.
Okay, but your family is very strange.
Yes.
I hung up the phone then, quietly, and waited. I could hear my mother and Steve having sex. I wanted to know what it was like, what they were doing. I tried to imagine it and couldn’t imagine anything. They sounded so desperate. I could only remember the feel of Shalini’s skin, her heat and breath.
The phone rang and I jumped, startled.
You are cordially invited to the Anand residence, Shalini said, then laughed. We await the pleasure of your company.
Yes, I said, loud enough for my mother to hear. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.
You sound like a robot.
Yes, we remember where. Thank you.
You’re so weird. My mother says you can come after lunch again, but we have to sleep this time. I was so tired last time.
You’re not going to sleep, I whispered. Not even five minutes.
Shalini laughed.
I sat in the kitchen alone afterward, still waiting, and felt hot and jittery, as if Shalini were right here. I wanted her in my mouth, some instinct to devour. I would swallow her whole and keep her inside. My hands were tingling and my legs felt weak. I could hardly breathe.
The moaning had stopped from my mother’s room, and soon they reappeared, my mother wearing jeans this time, her shirt buttoned. I wanted to ask, What did you do?
Who was that on the phone? my mother asked.
Shalini. She invited me for a sleepover tomorrow. Can I go? Please?
My mother smiled. Sure. And I’m sorry about what I said, sweet pea. I’m sure she is important and that you will remember her.
I could never forget her.
My mother kissed me on the forehead and then sat on a kitchen stool next to Steve. She smelled like him.
Steve wasn’t dicing the last clams. He spread them out wet and glistening on the cutting board, then dipped in egg and rolled in bread crumbs. Clam fritters, he said. Horse ovaries, before the chowder.
Horse ovaries? I asked.
Fancy French term for appetizers. He winked at me. This is hot culture you’re getting here.
My mother laughed.
He melted butter in our largest frying pan and laid in the breaded clams. Then he returned to the chowder. He was cooking onions and garlic in butter at the bottom of our largest pot. There are three secrets in every restaurant, he said. Do you know what they are? He lifted his eyebrows at me.
I don’t know.
You’re not trying.
I know, my mother said. The higher the price, the less food you get.
True, Steve said. True. But three secrets for every restaurant, cheap or expensive.
The food is from yesterday? I asked.
Butter, Steve said. Butter is secret number one. Then salt and sugar. Anything you order will have butter, and you’ll think it’s rich and worth the money you’re paying. Salt makes you taste it and want more. Sugar makes you think it’s subtle, that there are other flavors here. But even cardboard would taste good in butter, salt, and sugar. The three food groups.
Well, my mother said. That’s my last time going to a restaurant.
As if we ever go to restaurants, I said.
Watch it. And why can’t we go to restaurants now? This is when the fairy tale begins. Remember?
Steve was ignoring us, tossing the diced clams into the pot, handful after handful.
Well? my mother asked. Don’t I get to go to restaurants now?
Yes, I said. He’ll take us to restaurants.
But you don’t know, do you? There’s not really any deal. We’re acting like there’s a deal, but nothing has been agreed.
He’ll say yes.
But yes to what? What’s the deal? Because if I’m going to quit my job and go back to school, all on trust, trusting someone who ran away last time, what guarantee do I have?
You could have a contract, Steve said.
Steve was stirring the clams now, and I knew he always meant well, but I had this terrible feeling that everything was falling apart again.
Yes, my mother said. A contract.
She was looking up, thinking. It will say we get to live at his house rent-free and he’ll pay for school and everything else.
You can probably register the contract against his house in some way, like a mortgage, so that if he breaks the terms, you get the house.
My mother brightened at that idea, and I thought of my grandfather, in his broken car, all the windows smashed, every panel dented, thinking that his house would be next, that he’d come home one day from work after he was supposed to be retired and find she’d taken it apart piece by piece or set it on fire. I could imagine her doing that, setting fire to his house just to watch it burn.
I want this contract tomorrow, my mother said. I don’t want to wait.
But you need a lawyer, Steve said.
No. I want the contract tomorrow, signed with a notary, just in simple terms easy to read. It’ll say we can live in his house rent-free and he’ll pay me $25,000 now and $2,500 each month, and if he doesn’t I get his house, and when he dies, I get everything, his house and anything else.
Mom, I said. Please don’t.
You wanted this, Caitlin. This is the fairy tale. This is how we know the prince will be good, because we have a contract like a knife at his back. In the real version of Cinderella, there must be knives we don’t see. I bet it’s a sexual harassment suit. The prince, a politician, fondles Cinderella at a dance and she threatens to expose all, so he has to bring her to the castle to keep her quiet, and they make up the glass slipper thing as a cover.
You should be a lawyer, Steve said. That’s some twisted shit.
Maybe I will be. Who knows. But first I need this contract. I need to know whether I’m still going to work on Monday.
My mother was pacing. She was on fire. Everything sounded like anger, like nothing had changed.
I’ll write it down tonight, she said. And we’ll make him sign tomorrow. Will he be at the aquarium?
I don’t know, I said. It was only school days.
He’ll be there. He wants to see you, so he’ll be there. He wants to play family, so we’ll give him the weight of a family.
But I’m going to Shalini’s.
Not now. You want your grandfather, right?
Dread. I went to sleep with it and woke with it. My mother had found a new way to separate me from my grandfather. He would refuse to sign, and then everything would be his fault.
Steve helping her. They worked late into the night and again until noon.
We have to call Shalini, I said.
Quiet, my mother said. We’re almost finished. She and Steve huddled together at the kitchen table around his laptop screen, proofreading.
I think it’s good, he said, sitting back with his hands folded on top of his head. It’s a new life. It changes everything for you.
Sorry, she said. Let me just finish reading. She was bent close to the screen, as if searching for something, her mouth open. Okay, she finally said. I think that’s it. She turned to kiss Steve. Thank you.
We have to call Shalini, I said.
Okay, okay. I’ll call and then we’ll go print out, then the aquarium, then a notary.
And just tell him there will be a new contract, Steve said, revised after a lawyer takes a look. But I think this one is good.
I stood less than five feet from my mother and Steve, but I didn’t exist. Steve didn’t care that we weren’t calling Shalini, didn’t care what my grandfather would have to sign away, didn’t care that I might lose him. Shalini, I said.
Fucking eh, my mother said. I’m calling now. She went to
the phone and looked up Shalini’s number. When someone answered, she explained too quickly. Something’s come up, she said.
Let me talk with Shalini, I said, but my mother gestured for me to back off and then hung up.
Don’t look so sour, my mother said. You’re getting everything you wanted.
Then we were in Steve’s pickup, a red Nissan 4x4. I crammed into one of the jump seats in the king cab, sitting sideways, my feet up on box speakers, the music loud and grinding, some sort of hard rock. Black hole sun, won’t you come, and wash away the rain . . .
When we passed the exit for the shipping port, my mother gave it the finger. Fuck you, she yelled, and Steve grinned.
We passed the exit for Gatzert, too, and the aquarium, and not long afterward turned off and parked and the music ended and my ears were ringing. This’ll be quick, Steve said. I’ll just run in and print.
Is this where you live? I asked.
Yep.
I want to see.
Steve grinned. Well, it is a kind of palace, so I guess it shouldn’t be missed.
Inside was like a garage, all gear everywhere. Skis and fishing poles, buckets, hip waders, bikes, helmets, ropes. A bench press taking up most of the tiny living room, a stereo with huge speakers. Groceries on the counters, not put away in the cupboards. A printer on the small kitchen table, stacks of papers, and he sat there with his laptop, my mother standing behind him.
His apartment smelled like the sea, like saltwater and seaweed and rot. A big crab pot the smelliest thing. Other nets and floats beside it.
Have you been here before? I asked my mother.
Yeah. Of course.
When?
I don’t know when. A few times.
She wasn’t looking at me. I went into his bedroom and turned on the light and it was more of the same, piles of stuff everywhere, including a big pile of dirty clothing, most of it black. Bed unmade, and the sheets felt damp in the cold, the heat not on. Smell of sweat and deodorant. My mother had been in here, and when was that? While I waited after school? And the day I was at Shalini’s. And now she’d be able to visit whenever she wanted.
Vamos, Steve said. Bandidos. Un stagecoach waits con mucho gold. Mucho dinero.
Ai yai yai yai yai, my mother said.
They were excited, Steve waving the papers in the air.
We drove through snow and slush to the aquarium, the stereo blasting, and I hoped my grandfather would not be there. I wanted to save him from the bank robbers.
Let me go in first, I said when we had parked in the lot across the street.
We’re all going in, my mother said.
Please. Let me talk with him first. Don’t go in. Wait here and we’ll come out. And I’ll show him the contract.
Maybe we should just kill him after he signs, my mother said. That way we have the house and money and he doesn’t get anything.
Sheri, Steve said.
Okay, fine. He lives. But he’s still getting the best part of this deal. There’s nothing we can do to make the terms bad enough.
I think it’s a good idea to have Caitlin go in alone, Steve said.
Fine. I’m not dying to see him ever again anyway.
That’s the Christmas spirit, Steve said.
That’s what pisses me off most, that he really is getting everything just in time for Christmas.
But you also don’t want to go to work on Monday.
True.
I took the contract from my mother and stepped out into the snow. No sign of his car, but of course it wasn’t something he could drive now anyway.
I hurried inside, where the staff looked surprised to see me. I was never here on a weekend.
I found him kneeling at a tank, his forehead against the glass, eye to eye with a hairy blenny, some sort of communion. Thin covering of hairs on the blenny’s head, same as on an old man.
You’ll never win a staring match with that fish, I said.
Caitlin. He put his arms around me, head against my stomach. Ah, Caitlin. I didn’t think I’d see you today, and I waited yesterday but I guess you couldn’t come.
I didn’t go to school. We stayed home.
He stood up then and held my shoulders and looked at me. I’m so lucky to see you again. I thought I might not. He pulled me close and I put my arms around him.
What are those papers you have? he asked. He sounded afraid.
A contract. My mother said we can come live with you, and she’ll go to school, but she wants money.
Well let’s take a look. He guided me to a bench and we sat and he took the papers.
I’m sorry about your car.
It’s only a car.
But you said it was the engine that would take you to the end.
It’s okay. I can’t read in this light, though. I have to get closer to one of the tanks. Find a bright one.
I took him to a brightly lit tank of triggers. They looked like art projects, colored with blue chalk.
The Bahamas, he said. I wouldn’t mind living there. A place on the beach and go swimming with the fish.
The triggers can eat sea urchins, I said. They blow water to flip them over, then attack the underside.
When we go snorkeling, we’ll have to have some sort of walkie-talkies so you can tell me about the fish.
My grandfather read the contract then, and I could see the two of us in a tropical paradise with palm trees and white sand, swimming through bright blue water with our walkie-talkies. Purple sea fans and giant green brain coral, sea anemones orange and white and triggers chalked blue. Parrot fish patterned in turquoise or red. Nurse sharks sleeping in piles on the bottom. Everything peaceful and warm and easy, the two of us just floating along.
Well, he said. I’ll have no security anymore. I’ll have to go back to work, which means I won’t be here after school. Although maybe I can get an early shift to get out in time. They might give me that. We parted well enough.
I’m sorry, I said. She’s mean.
No, no. Caitlin. I’m the one who failed. Your mother has done nothing wrong. And I’m lucky to have this chance. The contract is only money, and money is worth nothing, it turns out. All my life I was ruled by it, and finally I get comfortable enough and find out it’s nothing. What matters is the chance to be with you and also to get to know your mother again. I would sign something a hundred times worse to have that chance.
So you’ll sign?
Yes, of course.
I started jumping up and down. I couldn’t help it. He laughed and said, That’s worth three houses right there.
The wind had come up while we were inside, and the snow was blown now in gusts, clouds of it blocking all view and then clearing again. It swirled around the posts of streetlamps and signs, dust devils in white. My grandfather kept the papers safe in his coat, and he walked hunched over with his chin ducked.
My mother opened the passenger door of the pickup and looked down at us. The engine on and heat blasting.
Thank you, Sheri, my grandfather said. I’m happy to sign the papers. Thank you for this chance.
You have to sign with a notary today. And we’ll have a new contract from a lawyer, and you have to sign that, too.
I’m happy to sign.
You fuck. I bet you are happy. Getting everything you want.
Sheri, Steve said.
Fine. But I’ll never forget what you did. I’ll never forget who you are.
I won’t either, my grandfather said. Believe me. I know how worthless I am. Nobody knows it better.
I know it better.
I know I can’t make it up to you, Sheri, but I’m going to try anyway. The house will go in your name now, and all the money I have will go to you and Caitlin. You’ll have everything from me now, all that I am and all that I have. I can’t offer more than th
at.
My grandfather in the snow and wind, his arms wide, offering up to a god.
Well it’s not enough, she said. It will never be enough. Then she stepped down and he backed away. Get in, Caitlin, she said, folding her seat forward.
I climbed into the back.
Follow us, she told him, and hopped back in and closed the door. The side window was fogged and I couldn’t see him.
That was harsh, Steve said.
Shut the fuck up, my mother said.
I could see Steve’s jaw clenching. He put the truck in gear and drove slowly to the parking lot exit, looking in his rearview. That must be him, he said. A small rental.
Then let’s go, my mother said.
I have limits too, Steve said.
My mother said nothing. Steve drove only a few blocks and parked outside a Mail Boxes Etc. Then we all went inside and my grandfather joined us.
My bank is closed now, he said. But Monday we can go and I’ll transfer the house into your name. You’re already listed on my retirement and life insurance accounts.
And when did this happen? my mother asked.
Years ago.
You’ve been here for years, living right in Seattle. Why now?
Sheri, I can’t explain really.
Have you always been here?
No, I went back to Louisiana and lived there eleven years.
But you’ve been back here for eight?
Yeah. I’m sorry. I meant to be in touch with you right away, but I knew how angry you’d be.
Eight years.
Sorry to interrupt, folks, the notary said. She was clearly getting impatient. I need you to sign now if we’re going to do this. Ten dollars per signature.
My grandfather signed the contract and the notary’s logbook, then my mother signed. Then we waited.
You can come to the house now if you like, my grandfather said. And you can move in anytime.
Did you have another family?
No other children, no. But I did remarry in Louisiana.
And what happened to her? Did she catch a cold and you ran back here?
Sheri, Steve said.
