The Good Humor Man

by Andrew Fox

  “Why did you stay with MannaSantos? Why didn’t you quit?”

  She stares at me anew, contrition replaced by anger. “Don’t you dare accuse me, Louis! I won’t take it, not from you. Not from a man who befriended a gang of thugs, justified their bullying of hundreds of innocent people, and for twenty years basked in approbation you knew you didn’t deserve.”

  I deserve that slap. “I was running away from grief I couldn’t face. I made an accommodation, a bad one. I’m devoting the rest of my life to undoing the harm I’ve done.”

  “Good for you, Louis. Well, I ‘made an accommodation,’ too.” Her voice has lost some of its harshness, but she’s still trembling. “You think it would’ve been easy to quit MannaSantos in the middle of GD2? You think I could’ve found other work in my field at even a fifth of the salary they were paying? As it was, I took a monster pay cut when I transferred to public relations. But it was worth it to not have anything to do with Ted and his project anymore.”

  “The leaker who reported the cloning to the feds — was that you?”

  Her eyes grow cloudy. Tears leave wet tracks down her wrinkled cheeks. “I thought I was saving them. How could I have known — no, no, I should’ve known, I should’ve realized what Ted’s bosses would do after I backed them into a corner…”

  I reach for her, pull her into what I hope is a comforting embrace. She doesn’t pull away. “Oh Louis, I killed them! When I alerted the feds, I signed the clones’ death warrants. I might as well have dissected them myself…”

  “No, Harri. You did the best thing you could. What happened afterward wasn’t your fault.”

  “But it was! And the last clone. Joseph. The one no one knew Ted had spared. Would he have done what he did if his brothers hadn’t been killed? Does this whole Metaboloft disaster rest on my head, too?”

  “Of course not. No. No.” How much of this emotion is genuine, and how much is meant to manipulate my feelings? “We can’t see the ultimate results of what we do. An action undertaken with pure motives can result in terrible consequences. Or, like my father’s experience, what begins as a disaster can prove to be the salvation of the world.”

  She pulls free of my hold. “So what are you telling me? That I need to stop beating myself up and trust in some Higher Power? I’m an agnostic, Louis. I had my mother pull me out of Sunday school because it was just too damn silly —”

  The door opens. Margo walks in. She looks even worse than when she left the room a few minutes ago.

  “No need to come up with an answer for me, Louis,” Harri says, straightening her blouse. “Take care of your friend; she’s looking a little peaked.” She glances quickly at Margo before leaving. “And when you’re feeling better, honey, you take care of him, too.”

  All my anxieties fade into insignificance when I let myself absorb the fright in Margo’s lovely young face. “Margo, what’s wrong? You’ve been feeling poorly ever since we were in Pensacola. Has it gotten worse?”

  She stares at me with a stricken, forlorn look. “I — I don’t want to worry you, Louis. You’ve got so much weight on you already.”

  “Darling —” The word slips out before I can stop it, but it feels right, and she doesn’t look offended, thank God; “…darling, if you won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll crawl out of my skin. Come sit next to me and tell me.”

  She stumbles to the chair where Harri had been sitting. I take both of her hands in mine. They’re cold and damp. “I think,” she says, stammering, “I think there may be something seriously wrong with me. Oh, Louis, I don’t want to believe it has anything to do with what you did with your cannula — I’m so grateful, and even if something did go wrong, I don’t blame you —”

  Now my hands go clammy. “Have you swelled up where I did the liposuction? Are you bleeding?”

  “I —” She looks away from me. “Yes. I’m bleeding. I’ve been noticing spots of blood ever since I started cramping. Just earlier… Louis, my underpants were filled with blood.”

  I immediately hit the call button and yell for a doctor. A minute later, a nurse appears. I have Margo repeat what she just told me. The nurse pulls a curtain to cordon off the other side of the room and has Margo join her. She asks Margo to change into a robe. The fact that she doesn’t call for doctors to assist calms me. The empathic questions she poses to Margo get me thinking, then hoping.

  All those years of high-calorie meals at Lansky’s… maybe they finally overcame her genetic predisposition to remain physically stuck in pre-adolescence. Maybe her eating the Carnival treats I brought from New Orleans pushed her body past the tipping point, into womanhood. The nurse’s gentle explanation to Margo confirms what I want so much to hear. Twenty-nine years old, and it’s her first period.

  Despite feeling steady as a wet dish rag, I walk around the curtain. Margo sits on the bed, her robe bunched between her legs, her mouth forming an “O” the size of a ripe strawberry. She looks at me, eyes brightening. Slowly, deliciously, she begins to laugh.

  All the ice inside me thaws in an instant. My arms are around her, and my fingers become Magellans, circumnavigating the incipient curves of the woman she’s becoming. I’m laughing, too.

  “Oh, Margo, darling, you aren’t dying. Not at all. You’re living.”

  EPILOGUE: CALORIE 3501

  Today is my seventieth birthday. According to Jewish tradition, now that I’ve reached this age, the full span of a man’s life, my odometer rolls over and I begin again; I can celebrate a second bar mitzvah thirteen years from now.

  My first service of the day is scheduled to start in twelve minutes, and I still need to make sure my father is ready. I stand in front of the mirror and finish tying my tie, a collage of Elvis’s record covers, then take one last gander at myself. For a newborn, I don’t look too bad; even though my cousins insist the eye patch makes me look like Lafitte the Pirate. Pinching the thin skin surrounding my waist, I remind myself I’ve done well to maintain eighty-five percent of my weight this past year. Margo’s done better than merely maintain, thank God.

  Moving down to San Diego was a fine idea. Dinners at Cindy’s are a never-ending pleasure, especially now that she’s free to indulge her inner chef, and Will and Blair have made a habit of attending services now and then. It’s been good for my father, too. Cindy is always a familiar face for him. Consuela has been a blessing; without her daily help, I couldn’t maintain my father outside of a nursing home. Dad’s never alone now. Consuela’s always there, hovering over him like a Jewish mother, nudging him to eat, eat.

  It’s not a long walk to my father’s bedroom. For the beginning of a new life, this modest home is perfect. I’m living like my great-grandfather lived, in a two-bedroom walk-up apartment above my storefront business. In his case, a butcher shop; in my case, a church. I poke my head into my father’s bedroom. Consuela’s dressed him in his brown suit, and she’s helping him tie his shoes. The thirty-year-old suit billows around him as if he’s made of twigs and wire. It could be a lot worse, though. “Consuela, how’s Dad doing this morning?”

  She looks up and smiles. “Oh, very good, Dr. Shmalzberg. Your father, he is a pleasure, a pleasure.”

  I give him a hug. It’s so wonderful to touch him, to smell the same drugstore aftershave he’s used for at least seventy years. He stares at my aqua and pink robe with habitual surprise. “Why are you dressed up?” he says. “Are we going to a parade?”

  At least he’s finally stopped asking me about the eye patch. I shake my head, give him my almost ritual answer. “No, Dad, we’re going downstairs to services.”

  Confusion. “Do — do I have to bring my tallis? I can never remember where I put the darn thing —”

  “That’s all right, Dad. It’s not that kind of service. You look just fine.”

  Consuela smoothes his jacket across his shoulders. “Yes. Very handsome.”

  He gestures for me to lean down so he can whisper in my ear. “That pretty young girl who comes around — is s
he going to join us? I like her.”

  “She likes you, too.” Even though Margo isn’t a face from long ago, still he remembers her, even if he can’t recall her name. “Margo had a business meeting this morning, Dad. But she’ll join us later.”

  Margo has displayed a talent for commerce that I think surprised even her. Oretha set her up as the company’s Southern California sales rep, which certainly has proven to be no act of charity. Margo’s commissions have made everything possible — getting the church started, maintaining my father at home, paying for my travels to dozens of state capitols to testify against the Good Humor Men.

  “Okay, Dad. Take it nice and slow.” Consuela and I guide him down the stairs. Step by step… not all steps have been without pain. Mitch hasn’t spoken to me since I testified before the California State Senate. That’s been a hurtful rupture. We reach the ground floor without a stumble. I’ll have to make sure our next home has an elevator, or occupies a first floor. Already, the church has begun outgrowing its storefront rooms. The meals we serve may have something to do with that… I’ve heard more than one congregant refer to us as “the food church.” But I’d like to think our growing popularity is based upon more than just physical nourishment.

  Outside, I find a familiar figure waiting. “Consuela,” I say, “why don’t you walk Dad over to the entrance. I’ll be with you shortly.” I turn to my unexpected visitor. “Hello, Ravi.”

  Muthukrishnan allows himself a smile. “I am pleased we are on a first name basis, Louis. Your speech is much improved. Our investment in your therapy was not wasted.”

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  “I wished to offer my congratulations on your recent success with the California legislature. Convincing them to withdraw legal sanction from Good Humor squads, simultaneously decriminalizing the sale and consumption of high-calorie foodstuffs and granting amnesty to food offenders — that was a great victory.”

  That’s gracious of him. “I wish the victories would come faster. Public attitudes about eating have years of inertia behind them. People actually welcomed signs of the wasting plague at first. Until thousands of their aged parents and grandparents began dying. Has your department had anything to do with containing the food riots?”

  His smile fades. “That has been mainly the work of the National Guard. Institution of martial law in many urban jurisdictions has been a most regrettable necessity. My department’s activities have been limited to distribution of nutritional supplements and combating harmful rumors. The drip-drip of leaks to the media, leading to massive unrest… this has been most disturbing to us. Disturbing to me, Louis.” He glances at the crowd waiting by the doors of my church. “All that you have built here — it is most impressive. But indiscretion on your part could make it vanish overnight.”

  I knew he wasn’t here for a mere social call. “I’ve had nothing to do with any leaks. All my testimony has focused solely on the Good Humor movement’s abuses of power. I haven’t mentioned Metaboloft once. I’ve held up my end of our agreement, and I’ll continue to do so.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” He stares again at the growing crowd. “I have been most fascinated by what I’ve heard of your church. If you would not mind, I would like very much to stay for the service.”

  “Please join us.” Freedom of religion still holds in America. Muthukrishnan may not be happy with certain elements of my service, but I’ve cloaked them in enough metaphor to uphold the letter of our agreement. Any action he might take against my church would land him in federal court, where the entire story would come out under oath — a consequence he’s eager to avoid.

  I do a quick head count while unlocking the church’s front doors. Right around a hundred; not bad for a Saturday morning. I like to think our fellowship looks like America. Faces of all hues; Spanish and Vietnamese phrases intermingle with English. Elvis would approve. A clump of older Hispanic women gathers around my father and kvell and fuss over him. He’s become a figure of no small reverence among the congregants. These people know the truth, even if I’ve swaddled it in a protective wrap of mythology.

  I spot Mr. Lee at the edge of the crowd, pushing his mother in a wheelchair. He looks pinched and frail, but positively robust compared with his parent; the Metaboloft effect has burned away whatever reserves she once had. Only her eyes are fully alive, darting from face to face. I kneel down and embrace her. Her skin, so terribly thin, burns with heat. She smiles at me with cracked lips. “You hang in there a while longer, Mrs. Lee,” I tell her. “Salvation is coming soon.” How wonderful to say that, and to truly believe it.

  I find her and her son a good spot near the front. Our stage is a simple riser made of aluminum and plywood, our tabernacle a wooden box much more modest than the one the Israelites carted through the desert for forty years. Consuela turns on our welcoming hymn, Elvis singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

  I see my cousins Will and Blair enter. “Louis!” Will says. “I’m glad we made it in time. I think I saw Margo coming up the road behind us.”

  “I thought you two were going camping this weekend. Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see you…”

  “Oh, we’re still going,” Will says. “But we wanted to catch your service first. And we certainly didn’t want to forget your birthday.”

  “This is a big one,” Blair says, giving me an especially warm hug. “Happy seventieth.” She steps back and grasps my hands, an excited smile brightening her face. “We’ve got something special to share with you. It’s a gift… for us as much as for you. More for us, actually. We’ve, uh, we’ve decided to go natural.”

  Will slips his arms around his wife’s middle. “Honey, don’t be so shy. Make that past tense. We’ve gone natural. Planting season’s over and done with. Harvest is, oh, about seven months from now.”

  My smile must stick out three feet from the sides of my face. “Oh, you two… my dears… I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.” I pull them both to me. “What did Cindy’s face look like when you told her? She’s been waiting for a grandchild for so long! I can’t wait for you to tell Margo. Can you join us for the brunch?”

  “Of course,” Blair says, eyes shining. “We wouldn’t want to go hiking on an empty stomach.”

  They find seats near the back, and I climb to the stage. Mounting the pulpit terrified me when I first began this. But a year and a half of talking to law makers and my growing congregation has done wonders for my speech and confidence both. The brain is a miraculous creation, routing its pathways around the broken places when called upon to do so with enough persistence. And faith.

  “My friends, today’s reading from Scripture comes from Exodus: God’s provision of manna and quail to the Israelites in the desert of Sinai. As a symbol of our faith that God will provide us, too, with the manna which we require in our time, I invite Brother Chung Mow Lee and Sister Imelda Sanchez to open the tabernacle.”

  And there it is. The Elvis. Not all the substance my father removed from the belly of the great singer. Just the portion I placed in a separate vacuum jar in Pensacola, a hedge against the chance that my trip to MannaSantos would prove disastrous. Enough for us. Because even a tiny portion of Elvis will feed multitudes.

  Just as I’m about to begin reading, Margo slips inside. She spots an empty seat not far from Will and Blair and tries to squeeze unobtrusively into the row. It’s not an easy trick. She’s not as lithe and limber as she was six months ago.

  I think I’ll save her the trouble of squeezing into that row. Blair and Will have me feeling inspired. A little improvisation is called for. “I’d like to invite my fiancee to join me at the pulpit.”

  She’s surprised, but not displeased. I help her up the steps to the stage. She wears a hesitant smile, not sure what I’m up to. Two months from now, when she’s eight months pregnant, she will be a bride few guests will soon forget.

  We stand in front of the open tabernacle. I drop to my knees, causing the older ladies
to gasp, and caress Margo’s taut belly, swollen with burgeoning life. I kiss it, letting my lips linger, welcoming the future on this day my life begins anew.

  Thank you, Elvis.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Although the writing of this book predated the Hurricane Katrina disaster which struck New Orleans and the Gulf Coast in August 2005, I would be horribly remiss if I failed to acknowledge the dozens of instances of assistance, both large and small, which sustained my family and me during those harrowing months of potential homelessness. Such kindness and generosity can most likely never be repaid in kind. I only hope that, when I have the opportunity to step up to the plate myself, I will prove to be as giving. And I will do my damndest to teach my boys to practice the sorts of compassion and thoughtfulness which were shared with us.

  When the temporary housing Dara’s mother, Phyllis Levinson, attempted to secure for us fell through (unbeknownst to her, her condo in Hallandale, Florida, had become infested with mold due to a leak from the upstairs apartment), Larry Leibowitz and his family lent us the use of a condo in Surfside for September and October, probably saving me from going out of my mind. The unit we stayed in ended up being in the same building where Isaac Bashevis Singer had written many of his novels. My parents and my in-laws, the Hirschfeld family, put us up in hotels until Larry was able to settle us into the condo. My sister, brother, and sister-in-law collected enough clothes, toys, and essential personal items from their neighbors and coworkers in Tampa to fill an entire Dodge Durango, and Ric and Robyn drove this treasure trove to us across Alligator Alley. Old Miami friends whom I hadn’t seen in years — Robert and Lori Haydu, Stanley and Mia Wong, and Jeff Jackson and his family — reunited with me, met my family, and gathered so much baby equipment for us that we ended up redonating half of it to other families displaced by Katrina. My dear cousins, May and Joe Miller, babysat my two boys and let me use their Internet connection for hours on end. Phyllis also helped Dara and me buy a van to replace our cars, feared lost. Family friend and handyman Butch Martin rescued our eight housecats, trapped for three weeks with little food or water; and Clyde Faust kindly housed them, free of charge, at his small animal shelter until we could return home.