Now, this was funny. Skyler laughed, and laughed.
HONEYMOON I
AS IN ADULT (SEXUAL/MARITAL) LIFE THERE ARE PROVERBIAL “HONEYMOONS”—interludes of peace, idyllic calm, the highest and most naive of romantic expectations—so, too, in the lives of families there are honeymoon interludes, precious (if heartrending!) in retrospect. I am thinking of those several weeks in December 1996 and early January 1997 when like an old-fashioned schooner blown by balmy winds into seemingly tranquil tropical waters, the Rampikes entered such a phase, when Daddy returned, vowing to be a “God-damned good” husband and father.
Where once Daddy had stayed late at work, or traveled much of the time, mysteriously, now Daddy was home for dinner with his family every weekday night, or nearly. Daddy was home most weekends. If Daddy was to be even a half-hour late, Daddy called! Eager Daddy hugged, and Daddy kissed, and Daddy brought home surprise presents from the mammoth VastValley Mall which was on Daddy’s commute home from Univers Bio-Tech—“Just ’cause Daddy loves you.” Grinning Daddy spent “quality time” with his family at every opportunity and planned to spend more: “How’s the lush tropical island of St. Bart’s sound, for winter break in February? The Rampikes are booked for a guesthouse on the water.” And: “Next July, it’s the Grand Tetons!” It was a season of Daddy-plans. For Bix Rampike was the most American of daddies, seething with plans like maggots in a festering corpse.
The most exciting of Daddy’s plans was for a new house!
“Even a terrific house like ours, in a terrific setting, can be outgrown. It’s the nature of Homo sapiens to move on.”
Briskly Daddy rubbed big-Daddy hands together. A sharp laser light came into Daddy’s soulful eyes at the prospect of moving on.
First weekend of Daddy’s return, following church services on Sunday Daddy spread out oversized sheets of architectural drawings on the dining room table, for his amazed family to admire. “The architect is none other than H.H. Stuart of New York City, who built the Steadley house out here. And I have the dream location for the Rampike Dream House: five acres of prime ‘verdant rolling hills’ in East Quaker Heights, New Jersey.”
Mummy stammered, “But Bix—you can’t be serious! You can’t want us to move from Fair Hills! Where we know such wonderful people, and have been made to feel so welcome! Quaker Heights must be twenty miles away, we wouldn’t know a soul. Oh!” Mummy winced as if she’d been struck to the heart.
During Sunday morning services at Trinity Episcopal, Mummy often became emotional, even tearful; Skyler was embarrassed of his dressy, glamorously made-up mother who listened so intently to Reverend Higley’s affable droning sermons and, when bidden, rose eagerly from the pew to “take communion” with an expression of joyous gratitude. Now Mummy was becoming so agitated, Daddy felt the need to wink at Skyler and Bliss to signal silly-Mummy isn’t she? but Daddy spoke respectfully to Mummy explaining that, yes, he was serious: “Might be, darlin’, I’ve made preliminary negotiations to buy the property. Quaker Heights is très upscale, Bets. If you’re worried about the neighbors. And don’t fret about not knowing anyone there, it’s because your enterprising hubby already knows certain key players in Quaker Heights, my new associates at Univers, who are strongly urging this move for us. Verstayeh?”
Even Skyler had heard of the Village of Quaker Heights. It was one of those “quaint”—“historic”—eighteenth-century New Jersey communities where General George Washington and his men had been “billeted” and which was now wholly owned and governed by wealthy Caucasians.
A sliver of unease pierced Skyler’s heart: new playdates? He would run away from home.
Mummy was trying to speak calmly, “Bix, I realize that Quaker Heights is a few miles closer to Univers headquarters than Fair Hills, but—think of our dear friends here! The wonderful clubs we belong to, our very special circle of Episcopal friends, how everyone here is aware of Bliss, and proud of her for bringing such renown to the community. And, Bix, you’re so popular! Every hostess in Fair Hills will be heartbroken if Bix Rampike moves away! I have worked so hard, Bix. I have worked like a dog, Bix. You can’t just destroy this again, Bix. You can’t revert me to zero again. And Bliss’s career is ‘going national’—soon!—and will consume even more of my time. You know what a trauma it was for me to move to Fair Hills, Bix. How no one liked me, how ‘existentially isolated’ I was, Dr. Stadtskruller thinks that my migraines are caused partly by ‘unassimilated trauma’ from that move when I’d just had a—a baby.” Mummy squinted at Skyler, and at Bliss, as if to determine which of them had been that troublesome baby. “And Skyler has his school, he’s devoted to! And Bliss has so many friends and well-wishers here! Why can’t we build a new house in Fair Hills, Bix? Lots are for sale in that new development off Woodsmoke Drive where the Frasses have just built a spectacular French Normandy house on at least four acres, and Glenna O’Stryker was telling me—”
Patiently Daddy said, “We can discuss the location another time, darlin’. When we are not so emotional.” A flicker of something like fury came into Daddy’s smiling face and faded almost too quickly to be detected.
Skyler glared at Mummy. Did she want Daddy to leave them again?
Quickly Skyler said, “This house looks really cool, Daddy. Must be a ‘McMansion.’”
But this was a goosh thing to say, Skyler realized. For Daddy laughed sharply and corrected him: “This is not a ‘McMansion,’ son. The architectural firm I have engaged does not commit ‘McMansions.’ This will be a custom-made wholly original split-level ‘Chesterfield contemporary’ not one of those cookie-cutter boxes the size of a Wal-Mart. This is Bix Rampike’s ‘dream house’—Daddy’s gift to his family.”
Mummy said uncertainly, “This is certainly a—a wonderful—surprise—but, Bix—don’t you think that you should have consulted me? I mean—maybe I could have discussed these plans with you, and with the architect?”
“You’ll be ‘discussing’ plenty with the architect, Betsey. And with his assistants, there’s a platoon of assistants at H.H. Stuart. Only just beware: architects bill by the hour. So when one of the team calls you, says ‘hello’ and asks how you are, remember he’s on the clock and if you gab away, you pay.” Daddy chuckled deep in his throat, but there was a warning edge to his voice.
“And can we afford a house this size, Bix? And so much land, in Quaker Heights? I realize that you are making more money at Univers than you’d been at Scor, but—”
“‘More money’? Darlin’, you have to be kidding.”
“But—why? I thought—”
“Of course I’m making ‘more money’ at Univers, Betsey. Why the hell d’you think I left Scor, where I had a fantastic deal, for a salary cut? The bottom line is, and Skyler needs to hear this, too, for future information, ‘salary’ is just a fraction of corporate income. The deal Bix Rampike has at Univers, I wouldn’t need a salary. It’s the bonuses, stock options, restricted stock and ‘benefits’ that are the big draw, and I mean B-I-G. And with tax-deferred investments in a cutting edge field like bio-tech, we are not talking S-M-A-L-L. As the youngest member of the Univers executive team, Bix Rampike is, like, the most popular jock in the school, and while I am not claiming to merit such esteem, I intend to fulfill the expectations of my elders, and more. Damn more! ‘My family comes first with me’ is what I made clear when I was being considered for the job, and ‘Homo homin lupus’—my father’s wisdom—Greek for: ‘Man is friend to wolf.’ Meaning a man must be ‘man enough’ to acknowledge the wolf-blood in his soul, and to harness it. Harness that blood! And let me tell you, they were impressed. Now look here.” Daddy shuffled about the large, elaborate drawings, that covered sheet after sheet of tissue-fine paper; only on one sheet were actual drawings of a house, and an enormous house it appeared to be, producing in the viewer that frisson of vertigo you feel staring into the labyrinthine drawings of M. C. Escher.* As Mummy peered nervously at the house plans, and Bliss stared with a finger stuck in her mou
th, and Skyler leaned close beside Daddy to see where Daddy was pointing with his big-Daddy forefinger, Daddy said proudly, “—custom-design seventy-five hundred square feet, six bedrooms plus a ‘guest suite’ with private sauna. And the ‘master suite’—that’s Mummy and Daddy, kids!—with a private entrance and short-cut corridor to the swimming pool that is indoor/outdoor—state-of-the-art. We are not talking S-M-A-L-L. We are not talking F-R-U-G-A-L. We are talking ‘Olympian’—‘epic.’ Forty-foot ‘sunken’ living room. Two dining rooms: formal, informal. Plus ‘breakfast nook’ overlooking the terrace. Here’s the family room: our ‘entertainment center.’ State-of-the-art TV, CD and DVD and whatever the hell gets invented in the New Millennium. Next door is the ‘family fitness center’ where Daddy can beef up his pecs and Mummy can sweat out this spongey-crepey stuff”—playfully pinching Mummy’s thigh, as Mummy laughed/winced—“and if Skyler feels the urge to revamp his gymnast leanings, at a more mature age, that would be fantastic. And, not least”—drawing Bliss into a crook of an arm, brushing his lips against the delicate blue vein at Bliss’s temple—“for Daddy’s bestest-best li’l gal: an ice rink.”
An ice rink! Bliss stared, and blinked.
Since returning home, Daddy had been unusually aware of Bliss, as if taking notice of her for the first time. Murmuring now in Bliss’s ear, as if Mummy and Skyler were not present, “It came to me in a brainstorm the other night, sweetie, when I saw my daughter—my daughter!—skating like a demon on TV and being applauded by all those strangers, and winning big: Little Miss Ice Jersey. Had to be like a vision, tears just ran from my eyes, God damn I was so moved. Right away—first thing—I called my architect and left a message to add an ice rink to the Rampike home plan. And so he has done. Looks good, eh?”
Skyler, peering over his sister’s shoulder, feeling his mother close beside him, registered the faintest glimmer of a secret thought passing in an instant between Mummy and Bliss though neither so much as glanced at the other The rink is too small! Too small for Bliss Rampike! A silly little-kid ice rink, for Bliss Rampike! Yet after a pause Bliss said in a whisper, “Thank you, Daddy!” and beaming Daddy hugged his little girl and kissed her with a fierce hot Daddy-kiss.
“Thought you’d like it, honey.”
SKYLER WENT AWAY LIMPING, SICK WITH JEALOUSY. AS SKYLER HAD NEVER—well, rarely—been jealous of his little sister before.
Afterward thinking calmly Because of Bliss he will stay with us longer. He will love us all more.
“SMILE PLEASE.”
Smile smile smile please.
En famille the Rampikes are being photographed seated on a sofa in front of their ten-foot gorgeously decorated Christmas tree: Daddy, Mummy, Bliss, and Skyler. It is Christmas 1996 and it will be the Rampikes’ final family Christmas photo, to be used on their Christmas card as on promotional materials distributed by Bliss Rampike, Inc. Except that this photo of my family is the one replicated ad nauseam, like certain video clips of Bliss Rampike skating, being crowned a winner, smiling into dazzling lights with that sweet little-girl smile to break the heart, the most “downloaded” of all Rampike family photographs, you can bet that I would avoid it altogether, for the miserable memory of this photo session, stretching beyond ninety minutes, and endured by poor Skyler in itchy trousers and Fair Hills blazer, sappy clip-on school tie, is as pleasant to recall as an attack of diarrhea. (Yes, which Skyler suffered from, too, after such stressful sessions as the photo-shoot, but never mind.)
This is the photograph in which both Rampike parents have managed to clasp little blond Bliss in the crooks of their arms, like awkwardly conjoined Siamese twins with a large stiff doll-child wedged between; with seeming casualness, Daddy has cupped his big left hand beneath Bliss’s small right foot in her gleaming-black patent leather shoe.
Gravely it has been noted that all photographs are posthumous.*
Gravely it has been noted that we who have been photographed will be outlived one day by our “photograph-selves.”
The special horror of this 1996 Christmas photo of my family is that it is the final Christmas photo and that no one of us could have guessed it at the time.
Even scowling Skyler at the edge of the cozy family unit could not have guessed. Fidgety little brat clasped and grasped by neither parent. And now a decade later recalling with—is it nostalgia?*—that most asinine of emotions!—the wonderful smell of the pine needles, the beauty of the freshly cut tree and the exciting ritual (yes it was exciting, and yes sulky Skyler did participate) of trimming the tree; how, as the photographer and his assistant were preparing for the shoot there came Mummy looking very glamorous but anxious as well, hairbrush in hand to run through Skyler’s matted hair, deftly Mummy’s fingers adjusted the crooked clip-on tie and Mummy stooped to peer into Skyler’s evasive eyes and out of earshot of the others pleaded, “Skyler, please darling for Mummy’s sake try not to twitch and make those awful faces! Try to look happy for Mummy’s sake, though Bliss is the family ‘star’ remember always, Mummy loves you best, for Mummy loved her little man first; this is our happiest Christmas yet for Daddy is back with us and we want the world to see how proud we are of Bliss and what an exacting trainer, she wasn’t scheduled to skate again, in public, in competition, until the Hershey’s Kisses Girls’ Ice-Skating Festival on January 11, 1997, in Hershey, Pennsylvania. For in America this season is decreed family season. (Eat your hearts out, you pitiable loners who don’t have families! Melancholy as Thanksgiving is, the Christmas–New Year’s season is far worse and lasts far longer, providing a rich fund of opportunities for self-medicating, mental collapse, suicide and public mayhem with firearms. In fact it might be argued that the Christmas–New Year’s season which begins abruptly after Thanksgiving is now the core-season of American life itself, the meaning of American life, the brute existential point of it. How you without families must envy us who bask in parental love, in the glow of yule-logs burning in fireplaces stoked by our daddies’ robust pokers, we who are stuffed to bursting with our mummies’ frantic holiday cooking; how you wish you could be us, pampered/protected kids tearing expensive foil wrappings off too many packages to count, gathered about the Christmas tree on Christmas morning as Mummy gently chided: “Skyler! Bliss! Show Daddy and Mummy what you’ve just opened, please! And save the little cards, so you know who gave such nice things to you.”)
It was a season of Daddy-arranged outings: family brunches at the Fair Hills Golf and Country Club, the Pebble Hill Tennis Club, the Sylvan Glen Golf Club, and the Charity Hill Club (which the elder Rampikes were recently invited to join); family trips to New York City to stay in family-sized suites at the Carlyle, the Four Seasons, and the New York Palace and to see such lavish entertainments as the Radio City Christmas Pageant, block-buster Broadway shows so aggressively loud and cheery both Rampike children fell asleep in their seats like soldiers in the trenches of World War I, and the lavish spectacular Stars on Ice Capades 1996 at Madison Square Garden at which, for two full hours, Mummy and Bliss stared mesmerized. (Teary-eyed Mummy: “One day, Bliss Rampike will be up there with that troupe! On that ice! Those very ‘stars,’ Bliss Rampike will be among them.”)
MUMMY I’M AFRAID I AM SO AFRAID SOMETIMES
Yes but it is a good fear Bliss God has singled us out for our destiny not fear but His fiery love is what we feel
* Yes, Skyler knows who M. C. Escher is, having gone through a phase of Escher in middle school as he’d gone through a phase of R. Crumb. Smart-ass readers/editors who doubt Skyler’s wide knowledge are hereby refuted.
* Tout les photographies sont posthumous. Quotation attributed to the esteemed French philosopher Jacques Lacan in some quarters much revered and in others, in New Jersey, little-known and/or dismissed as a bullshit artist.
* Nostalgia: homesickness. You can die of it.
HONEYMOON II: “GUY STUFF”
“JUST YOU AND ME, SON. SEEMS LIKE WE’VE BEEN OUT OF TOUCH, EH? NON-COMMUNICADO? Time for some serious guy stuff.”
For even in January the Daddy-honeymoon continued, like a tidal wave that has passed its crest but is still frothy, furious, lethal. Though Daddy had returned to work—“Sixty hours minimum per week, it’s the least Bix Rampike can do for the company”—and Skyler had returned (reluctantly? relieved?) to the inflexible rigors of Fair Hills Day School, yet Daddy made an effort to spend “quality time” with his son, mostly on weekends and mostly in Daddy’s new-model ’97 Road Warrior S.U.V., driving. For Mummy and Bliss were often away at the Halcyon rink, or driving to and from Bliss’s numerous appointments, preparing for the upcoming Hershey’s Kisses Girls’ Ice-Skating Festival: “Bliss’s most challenging competition yet.”
Which left the two Rampike guys free to see guy-movies at the CineMax, or to check out the latest in what Daddy admiringly called “electronic gizmos” at the Cross Tree Best Bargain, the VastValley Whiz, Crazy Andy’s on Route 33. In the tank-like Rogue Warrior Daddy so exulted in driving, handling the mega-ton vehicle with the zest of a seasoned rodeo rider grappling the horns of a bucking steer, Skyler felt a wave of wary happiness wash over him. Natural to think Someday, me too!
“As I’ve said, son, we need to talk. Damn I’d been hoping that over the holidays you and me could, y’know, hang out more together, but your mummy had ‘events’ planned non-stop, which were terrific, don’t misunderstand me, and what families need to do at Christmas, but, Sky-boy, kind of fucks up opportunities for father-son raport. Now your mummy and me, we’ve been re-opening the lines of communication that’d become kind of encrusted with disuse, and I am feeling good about that. Your mother is a damn fine woman.” Daddy paused as if expecting Skyler to concur but, buckled into the passenger’s seat beside Daddy, as the S.U.V. plunged into Saturday-morning traffic on Cross Tree Road, Skyler could think of no appropriate reply. Was Mummy a damn fine woman?
My Sister, My Love Page 28
