“Walter, there’s been a mistake,” Frederick said. “Please quit filming.” He held a hand before his face, the way movie stars often do with troublesome paparazzi.
“You’re both freakin’ crazy,” Robbie said now. At least Joyce’s sons spoke the same language. Frederick stood there helplessly. He wished he could undo the attack—Robbie hadn’t even fought back, for Christ’s sake—wished Chandra hadn’t been so devious. To let him feel all this pain for nothing! To let him be jealous of his own nephew. Of course he didn’t know Joyce’s sons. That would be like memorizing seals. But he would make a civil attempt to right things.
“Good to see you, Robbie,” Frederick said, offering his hand again.
“Fuck you, man,” said Robbie. Arms swinging, he walked over to a small black car sitting at the curb.
“What a good-looking young man,” said Walter Muller, just pulling up the rear. “Look at those arms. Have you ever seen such a nice-looking kid? I tell you, I wasn’t far from that physique myself, back in the college days. Football, you know. Yes sirree, that’s one fine-looking young buck.” Walterspeak.
Robbie’s car spun away from the curb in a blend of tires squealing and pebbles spraying. It roared off down the street. Frederick’s ankle sang with new pain. His hangover headache kicked into a higher gear, modulated. He turned slowly on his good heel. He would go inside, take a few Tylenol, and lie down. If he never woke up again, so be it. He limped off, his ankle sending out complaints at every footfall, until he heard Walter Muller shout his name. Frederick wished now that he had, indeed, leaned out the bathroom window and insulted Walter. He turned to look at his neighbor.
“I’ll make you a tape copy,” said Walter.
• • •
Frederick tried to nap, but images of Robbie’s face came to him when he closed his eyes. Joyce and Reginald’s son. His nephew by marriage. How much energy and thought had he wasted these past six weeks over Robbie? How could he ever get it back? He couldn’t. He was now almost thankful for his sore ankle. He needed to be reminded that he still felt things, was still in contact with the world, even if that contact was a stabbing throb. He needed to know that he was still alive, and his ankle seemed to be the only thing able to convince him. He phoned Herbert. Unlike Frederick, Herbert was having a slow and uneventful day.
“Dr. Brasher is handling things and I’m reading the newspaper,” Herbert confessed.
“I’m feeling a bit under the weather,” Frederick said.
“Listen to me, Freddy,” said Herbert. “Women will make you feel an inch tall if you let them. You gotta keep saying to yourself over and over again, ‘I’m not such a bad guy. I’m not such a bad guy.’ You need to tell yourself that every night before you fall asleep. No one’s gonna do it for you, buddy.”
“I didn’t ask for a lecture, Herbert,” Frederick said. “I just felt like talking to someone.”
“Tell you what,” said Herbert. “I was just getting ready to go to the dry cleaners. I’ll come by and get you.”
Frederick hobbled off the sofa and was waiting on the porch steps when Herbert pulled into the drive and tooted the horn.
“I’m coming,” Frederick said. He was halfway down the steps when Herbert tooted again. “Can’t you see me here limping? Hang on, dammit!” He limped on toward the car. Herbert tooted a third time.
Frederick opened the passenger door and glared in at his brother.
“Is there something wrong with you, Herb?” he asked.
“I was just trying to cheer you up,” Herbert said.
“May I remind you,” Frederick said as he slid into the passenger’s seat, “that my ankle is in this condition because of your honking?” He snapped on his safety belt. Gray wreaths of cigarette smoke hovered in the air. Frederick fanned in front of his face.
“Don’t start,” Herbert said. “You’re in my car.”
“I don’t think carcinogens care who owns the car,” Frederick said. He whirred his side window down as Herbert pulled out into the street and headed toward the dry cleaner’s.
“You’re not going to spoil my day,” Herbert said. “I’ve got an interesting date tonight, and I intend to stay happy in spite of you.”
“I suppose that July is too late for high school proms,” Frederick said. “So where will you be taking the young lady?” He stuck his head out the window, into the rushing summer air. The smoke in the car was stifling. He heard Herbert reply in sentences that became strings of words that were lost as wind rushed past the car. He wished that he could turn the sound down on everyone. He imagined mouths opening and closing, lips moving across teeth, followed by pure silence. Was he on the verge, as Joyce and Robbie suspected, flitting on the cusp of a nervous collapse?
Herbert pulled into the parking lot of Portland Cleaners and cut the engine. He reached into the backseat and retrieved a necktie, a sports jacket, and a shirt. On the necktie, a pale Mona Lisa stared out at the twentieth century. What could she be thinking after a long evening at the China Boat, and around Herbert Stone’s neck? And they call me enigmatic? Frederick stared in disapproval as Herbert wrapped the tie about the neck of his coat hanger. Mona Lisa’s features had to be crunched as it was, in order to accommodate the slender body of the tie. Now the face of La Gioconda looked disturbingly like a cucumber.
“Where do you get those abominable ties you wear?” asked Frederick.
“I’ll tell you something, Freddy,” Herbert said. He had one leg out his door. “If Leonardo da Vinci were alive today, he’d be doing neckties.” His clothing in a ball under one arm, Herbert slammed the car door and disappeared through the entrance to Portland Cleaners. A tinkling noise followed as the door closed behind him and then all was quiet. Frederick sat with his window down and waited. With a medium that now offered so much freedom, maybe Leonardo would be putting his artwork wherever the common man could see it, in supermarkets, on underpasses, at airports, even on T-shirts. Maybe that’s what it should be about, after all, reaching as many humans as possible. Frederick babied his ankle into a more comfortable position. He eased Herbert’s overflowing ashtray shut, crunching dead butts in the process. Warm July air filtered in through his window. He was fanning his face when Herbert reappeared with empty arms. Mona Lisa would soon be doused with naphtha, or gasoline, or carbon tetrachloride.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Frederick as Herbert slipped back into the driver’s seat. “Maybe art should be aimed at the common man.” Herbert lit a cigarette and then drew a long puff from it. He exhaled.
“I’ll tell you something, Freddy,” Herbert said, and cleared his throat. He was going to wax philosophical and Frederick knew it. He also knew that Herbert Stone didn’t just wax. He buffed and polished. “Common men don’t have personal accountants. Therefore, Freddy, you don’t even know any common men.” He waited. Frederick suspected that his brother was anticipating a rebuttal, but how could Frederick Stone rebut? He didn’t even know his own nephews. “Folks like you rarely speak to the common man,” Herbert continued. Frederick considered walking home, and would have, were it not for his ankle. “But me? I see the common man every day. I know millionaires who ask me to put a dog down because it has a simple broken bone. But I know more millworkers who would sell the only automobile they own to keep a dog alive on the operating table.” Frederick sighed. Why had he thought a quick ride with his older brother would cheer him up? A ride with Herbert Stone was like going on an Iditarod. Or bungee jumping without any rope.
“Could we leave now?” he asked. Herbert looked at his watch.
“Another fifty-five minutes,” he said. He pulled the ashtray open again. Butts flew out and scattered about on the floor.
“What?”
“Another fifty-five minutes.”
“Why are we waiting another fifty-five minutes?” Frederick felt a small stream of perspiration tickling his upper lip.
; “Because I need that stuff for my date tonight,” said Herbert. “One-hour cleaning.” He pointed at the sign that announced such a service.
“Are you telling me that we’re going to have to sit here for an hour?” Frederick could feel his eyes enlarging. He tried to remain calm. Chandra Kimball-Stone had often made mention of what she called his frog eyes. He would look like the Mona Lisa on Herbert’s tie—the poor, poor girl—before this was over.
“Hey,” said Herbert. “You wanted to come. You called me, remember?”
“You said we were only going to the dry cleaners,” Frederick said. The stream of sweat above his lip trickled down. He wiped it away with his hand.
“We are only going to the dry cleaners,” Herbert reminded him.
“But,” Frederick said, “we’re going to be here for a fucking hour! What a waste of time!” He could feel his blood pressure rising. Hanging out with Herbert Stone was a health hazard.
“You’ve read too much of that ‘Can I part my hair, should I eat this peach?’ shit while you were in college, Freddy.”
Frederick sat, Zenlike, in the heat of the car and imagined large white numbers changing before his eyes: 130/85, 125/83, 120/80. His blood pressure going down.
“Can you at least turn on the air conditioner, please?” Frederick asked.
“If you put your window up,” Herbert said. “I get poor enough gas mileage as it is.”
“I’ll put up my window if you’ll put out your cigarette,” said Frederick. He fanned the air with a Horse World magazine that was lying on the front seat. Maybe he should try sending some of his poetry to these folks. She trots in beauty, like the night.
“I don’t find it warm in here,” said Herbert. Smoke rose happily from his cigarette.
“Don’t you have other clothes?” Frederick asked. “Why does it have to be this jacket, this shirt, this necktie?”
“Because it’s my favorite outfit,” Herbert said. “And I happen to think that Christine would like the Mona Lisa tie. We met through ties. I wore one with that big red sunrise by Manet and she went wild over it.”
“Monet,” said Frederick.
“Manet, Monet,” Herbert said. “What’s the difference?” Frederick stared into the next parking space, where two sparrows were tugging at a potato chip. Even Zen, for all its peaceful attributes, for all its introspection and intuition, had abandoned him there at Portland Cleaners. A kind of anti-Zen panic overtook him. He could now imagine the numbers climbing, rising higher with his blood pressure: 140/90, 150/95, 180/110! Frederick Stone had managed all his life to keep the wings from flying off airplanes by simply not thinking about them. Now he was quite sure that if he didn’t soon take his mind off his heart, it would explode, splatter about the Chrysler like a rotten apple. They would be at the cleaners all day having heart stains removed from Herbert’s clothing.
“What happened to Susie?” he asked.
“Too kinky,” Herbert said. “She wanted me to wear a garter belt.” Frederick tried very hard not to think about this, or to picture Herbert dressed in anything but his favorite outfit. A garter belt? And here Frederick was, about to be thrust back into the world of dating. Numbers blinked before his eyes: 190/120, 210/150!
“Christine’s a knockout,” Herbert rattled on. Frederick sensed more streams of sweat forming now above his eyebrows, trickling down into the hairs. The wavering heat rising from the concrete lot swept at him through the open window. He stared at the ONE-HOUR CLEANING sign. “Granted, she’s a couch potato,” Herbert added, “but her looks make up for it. And I’ll admit I wasn’t thrilled to learn that she’s got two children. Two little couch tater tots.”
“How much longer?” asked Frederick. Herbert looked at his watch.
“Forty-two minutes.” Hearing this, Frederick sighed.
“I’ll put up my window if you’ll at least close the ashtray,” he offered. The smell of dead cigarettes was far worse than living ones.
“If I close the ashtray, I’ll have to open the window to flick my cigarette,” Herbert said. “Sounds like the old rock and the hard place, don’t it, Freddy?”
“How can you waste an hour of your life like this?” Frederick asked. He couldn’t hide his annoyance. Herbert shrugged.
“I do this often,” he said. “It’s usually quite peaceful because I’m usually alone.” Frederick ignored the remark. “And I find that it’s the best time to work on my writing.” This last statement had come, had settled, and was almost gone in a wisp of cigarette smoke before its meaning registered in Frederick’s brain. Herbert’s writing?
“What writing?” he asked.
“Oh, a little book I finally finished,” Herbert said.
“A little book?” Frederick smiled. The smell of Vanity Press permeated the air in the car. He’d seen it all when it came to folks writing books. Vanity Press could just as easily be called Merde Press. People should know their limitations. Not everyone is a poet. Yet idiots and egos were a dime a dozen when it came to writing. But Herbert Stone?
“I finished it this spring,” said Herbert. “I’d have asked you for feedback, but I figured you’d be too critical. And besides, if I had wanted to give you a winning lottery ticket back then I would have had to send it to you registered mail. Before Chandra left I was lucky to get you to come to the phone.” Frederick thought of those antebellum days of his life, those sweet plantation days before the war, of Sunday mornings in bed with Chandra, and fresh coffee, and a thriving little home business. Soon, Stone Accounting would become Merde Accounting, sister to the famous book publishing conglomerate.
“What’s the book about?” He hoped Herbert wouldn’t see him smirking, there in the July heat, there before the sign that announced ONE-HOUR CLEANING. Or was it ONE-HOUR PUBLISHING?
“Well,” Herbert began, “it’s semiautobiographical.” Frederick raised a brotherly hand to stop him.
“Herbert, everything is semiautobiographical,” said Frederick. “The flier this week at JCPenney’s had to be written by some unfortunate bastard and it, too, is most likely semiautobiographical. An Oedipus complex could have caused him to dwell too long on women’s lingerie.” He wiped his moist palms. He was destined, it seemed, to explain the obvious to the oblivious.
“Well, it’s all about the adventures of Kenny Perkins,” Herbert said. “Kenny is a Vietnam vet who is now a veterinarian.”
Frederick considered this. “He’s a vet vet?”
Herbert nodded, proud. “That’s his nickname at the clinic,” he said. “And get this. He drives a Corvette!”
“Really?” said Frederick.
“The book is a collection of Kenny Perkins stories,” Herbert said. “You know, like James Herriot, the English vet? Except mine has a twist. Kenny is a vet who’s been to war, so each time there’s a pet emergency, he suffers a flashback from Nam.” Poor Herbert. Frederick tried hard not to listen. It was bad enough that he himself had had his share of rejection slips in his lifetime, even ones from little magazines with a subscription smaller than the number of nightly customers at the China Boat. He hated to see Herbert go through it. Sure, Herbert Stone had been to Vietnam, but he didn’t stand a sniper’s chance in book publishing. Frederick would be there to console him when the time came. This was something he knew things about, after all, this Hades of book editors, agents, and publishers.
“Kenny Perkins?” he asked, edging the conversation forward until he could gently explain to Herbert how high the odds were stacked against him. Why is it, would someone please tell Frederick Stone, that people who are too boring to talk to at a cocktail party decide to write books about their lives?
“Try to imagine Ernest Hemingway as an animal-rights activist,” Herbert said now, “and you’ve pretty much nailed Kenny Perkins, DVM.”
“Herbert, it’s a rough business you’re trying to break into,” Frederick began. He would
start by noting the oceans of manuscripts mailed daily to New York by would-be writers. Of the massive difficulties in securing the indispensable literary agent.
“I know it is,” said Herbert. “That’s why I need your advice.” He pulled an envelope out of his glove compartment and pecked Frederick’s arm with it. “I sent the manuscript to an agent in New York who liked it. She sent it to an editor who liked it. But what’s troubling me, Freddy, is that the editor wants a two-book deal and I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Here’s the contract. What do you think?”
Frederick said nothing for a time. He watched people with dirty laundry go into Portland Cleaners and leave it, give it to someone else to clean for them. He watched people who had already left their dirty laundry with these strangers come back and fetch it, clean again. People were strange. Life was stranger.
“How much longer?” he finally asked Herbert.
“Twenty-eight minutes,” said Herbert.
“Take me home now,” Frederick said.
“But we’ve only got twenty-eight minutes left,” Herbert told him.
“Take me home now, Herbert,” said Frederick, “or I’m going to throw myself across that blasted horn which seems to both fascinate and titillate you.”
“Ouch,” said Herbert, starting up the car. “I smell lame duck cooked in sour grape sauce.” They pulled out of the parking lot and sped toward Ellsboro Street.
“I’m not such a bad guy,” Frederick whispered as the wind whipped against his face. “I’m not such a bad guy.”
Frederick was limping up his walk, vowing to never again trust Herbert Stone as potential good company, when Walter Muller appeared out of the bushes. Could the man simply materialize at will? Was Scotty somewhere up above Ellsboro Street in the Enterprise, beaming Walter up and down?
“I have a favor to ask,” Walter said. “Mrs. Muller can’t stop laughing at the fight I taped. Did you know that boy wasn’t even fighting back? Is it okay, Frederick, if we sent it to America’s Funniest Home Videos? Mind you, if we win, we’ll split the ten thousand dollars with you.”
A Marriage Made at Woodstock Page 18
