Requiem, Mass.

by John Dufresne

  Audrey wanted to stay. No one in Monroe made a stink about her boots or about her taste in music—it was their taste as well. You could hear Patsy Cline over the speakers at the A&P. And Audrey had her pal, the increasingly loquacious Drake. And she was certain that I would never leave her.

  Dad said, I want the best for you kids, and Stevie is the best. I couldn’t argue. She treated us better than Mom ever did, sane or loony. Stevie was sweet, loving, happy, interesting, and interested. I said, Stevie’s great, Dad, but she’s not Mom. You don’t get to pick your mother. I said maybe if we went home, we could coax the old Frances from the new and unimproved Frances. Dad told me I was living in fantasyland. I reminded him that I had school starting Monday.

  “There are schools in Monroe.”

  “I’m in my last term at St. Simeon’s. I graduate in June.”

  “Audrey’s happy here. You’re happy. I’m happy.”

  “What’s happiness got to do with it?”

  Monday came, and I didn’t go to school. Audrey did, and she came home all excited. She told me that the best part was there were no nuns. The teachers are normal people. They dress normal; they watch TV, go to the store, and tell jokes. They’re the people in your neighborhood. I was out in the yard with my faux-Winchester, shooting at the target and even hitting it once in a while. Audrey said, You can’t mope your life away, Johnny Boy. She put her hand on my shoulder. Number Eighteen: Be open to everything and attached to nothing. Then she told me she had homework to do. The New Math. Words and numbers together. Fabulous!

  When he got home, Dad came out to the yard. He said, “Squeeze the trigger; don’t pull it.” He tried to reason with me about school, about settling in Monroe, but I kept shooting the rifle like he wasn’t there. He said, “Johnny, put the rifle down and let’s talk man to man.”

  I told him I was pretending the target was him.

  “You want to shoot me?”

  “No, I want to pretend to shoot you.”

  He walked in front of the target. “Shoot me.”

  “Dad, I don’t want—”

  “Shoot me!”

  So I did. I didn’t aim. I just squeezed. Hit him in the left leg.

  “You shot me!”

  “You told me to.”

  “Jesus Christ!” He sat on the grass and grabbed at his leg.

  I put down the rifle. “Sorry.” I could see a little rip in his chinos over the knee. And a little blood.

  Stevie and the kids came running out, wanting to know what the ruckus was all about.

  I said, “This is what happens when you have guns around the house.”

  Stevie checked Dad’s leg. “You’ll live. Nothing, really.”

  “It hurts,” Dad said.

  She took Dad inside, fixed him up with iodine and Band-Aids. I apologized. Dad told me to get in the car. We’re going for a ride. Drake wanted to go, too. Audrey wondered where the bullet went. BB, I said. I went out front and waited. Dad limped out. I asked him where we were going. He didn’t answer. We went to the Mohawk Tavern on Louisville. We sat at a booth, let our eyes adjust to the dim light. Dad ordered a Jax and a Dr Pepper. I told him I wasn’t hungry. He ordered a bowl of gumbo and a slice of red velvet cake. Two forks, two spoons. All the customers were white, and all the staff were black. Thin, elderly gentlemen in black slacks and white jackets. Dad rubbed his knee, stretched his leg, sipped his beer. He told me he’d gone through Korea without getting shot. I apologized again.

  And then he apologized to me for my crummy childhood. He said, I didn’t plan on your mother losing her grip. Whenever Dad took me to a bar in order to ream my ass, he ended up talking about his own childhood. And the beer helped fuel the memories. The only time Dad didn’t lie (I think) was when he was drinking. Then he got sad and pensive. It was almost worth getting into trouble to get this time alone with him. All I’d need to do was mention a name of a childhood friend, and he’d chuckle and launch into a story. All of his childhood memories were sweet ones. He was a man in love with his youth and with the people who lived there. Tubba Henry, I’d say. Oh, Christ, he’d say, and he’d tell the story about the day he and Tubba and the Tomaiolo twins got caught stealing apples from Mr. Aiello’s apple orchard and chased by the old man himself. They battered him with his own apples until he went inside and called the cops. By the time the cops arrived, they were long gone. Maybe he thought I was the only person interested in his past. And I was because it was my past, too.

  He asked me his favorite question, what did I want to be when I grew up, and while I thought about the possibilities, he told me that when he was twelve, he wanted to be a pilot.

  “But you’re afraid of heights.”

  “That’s why I’m not a pilot.”

  On Harp Hill, in my experience, no one really chose to become this or that. Son followed father into whatever job of work the father did. A plumber’s son became a plumber, a cop’s son a cop, the bookie’s son the bookie, and like that. You’d have the occasional priest, of course, and a used-car dealer or two among the disaffected, but that was it. Women married and settled into homemaking or else they didn’t marry and worked in an office downtown, nursed, or entered the convent, God forbid. Doctors, lawyers, and other professionals came from other neighborhoods. I knew I didn’t want to drive a truck, but assumed I would. One day Dad would hand me the keys and a bill of lading and say he’d see me when he saw me. He’d park his ass on the La-Z-Boy, pop open a brewski. Be safe out there, Johnny. It’s like an H, remember. And someday I’d have a wife and children whether I wanted them or not. This was the natural order of things.

  I said, “I think I’d like to do a lot of things. I’d like to be a scientist, have my own lab out in the desert. Then maybe work on a ship or something.”

  “What are you best at in school?”

  “Reading and writing.”

  “And you’re proud of that?”

  “And I’d like to be a fireman and a scuba diver.”

  “You’re going to have to pick one.”

  “Why?”

  “One’s what they pay you for.” He wiped his napkin, signaled the waiter for another Jax.

  STEVIE SOLVED my problem. I don’t know what she said to Dad or what she promised him, but at breakfast the next morning, Dad told us to pack our stuff. We’re taking a road trip.

  Audrey said, “Where we going?”

  Dad said, “Stevie wants to see snow.”

  I said, “Home?”

  Audrey said, “What about school?”

  Stevie said, “We’re not going to let school get in the way of your education.”

  Drake said, “Snap, crackle, and pop.”

  I said, “What about Orbison?”

  Stevie had already taken care of that. Her hairstylist Rochelle at Ivy’s Chez Beauté would be moving in for as long as Stevie needed her. Rochelle’s manicurist roommates Tracy Goode and Darlene Killeen were driving her out of her mind with their constant bickering, filing, and spritzing, so she was looking forward to peace and quiet. We packed our bags and put everything into the truck. Deluxe rode with Dad in the rig. I rode up front with Stevie in her Falcon and kept an eye on the kids in back. I was like the social director. We aired up the tires, gassed up the tanks, and drove on out of Monroe at noon. Dad and I kept in touch on the CB radio. “Come in, Johnnycake; this is Rainy Day. What’s your twenty?” We played a dozen games of Botticelli, played License Plate Geography, Twenty Questions, Name That Cow, Inky-Stinky, and I See Something Red. We played Let’s See Who Can Stay Quiet the Longest. We called Rainy Day on the radio and asked to speak with Deluxe. We told scary stories about guys with hooks and halitosis. We must have sung “Eddie Koochie-kachakamma-toesinarra-toesinocha-samma-kamma-waukee Brown” thirty times. In three days we pulled into Requiem.

  You’ve Got the World on a String

  YOU’RE SITTING ON a rainbow. And from your perch, at long last, you can see how your book is going to end and in only five or six easy chapters,
and you picture yourself at the Dania Beach post office dropping the weighty manuscript into the mailbox and driving over to Discount Liquors for a celebratory bottle of the good stuff. You feel like you’ve just taken twenty milligrams of Endural, and you’re indestructible. It’s like you’re twelve again, and you just walked out of confession, knowing that nothing bad can happen to you now, and even if it does, so what, you’re going to heaven. And not only that, your cholesterolemia is responding to the new meds, hallelujah!, and the problem with the lawn sprinkler turned out to be a seventy-nine-cent washer, and you passed your kidney stone without too much squirming and screaming. It’s a wonderful life, mister. You’ve got that string on your finger. It’s there to remind you of something. You forget what. Maybe that all of this untrammeled prosperity is about to end.

  Last night I met my friend David for supper at the Universe Café. I parked where I always park, in the empty Bank of America lot on Tyler Street. We order drinks and the walnut, honey, and Parmesan appetizer. We like sitting under the mimosas, watching the folks walk by on the boulevard, and talking about books. Last tourist season, all of the waitresses at the Universe were from Montevideo. This year they’re all from St. Petersburg, where David and I have, coincidentally, spent many a white night, drinking Russian Standard at cafés along Nevsky Prospect, watching the folks stagger by, and talking about books. Lena brings the martinis and reads us the specials. We tell her about our writing classes at the Summer Literary Seminars. She wants to know if we’re from the “University of I-over.” We decide to split the chicken satay and the calamari.

  David tells me he got a call last night from an old flame, the exquisite stepdaughter of a famous British author of spy novels. Daddy had more money than God when he died, and left all of it to a niece and a nephew. He left the breathtaking stepdaughter a gold typewriter and a signed first edition of his second novel. I’ve brought along a book I picked up at Hittel’s used book store, and I read the author’s greeting aloud: “‘These pieces of moral prose have been written, dear Reader, by a large Carnivorous Mammal, belonging to the suborder of the Animal Kingdom, which includes also the Orang-outang, the tusked gorilla, the Baboon with his bright blue and scarlet bottom, and the gentle Chimpanzee.’” David says, Oh, yes, Logan Pearsall Smith. Born in Philadelphia, but settled in England. His sister married Bertrand Russell. And then he tells me which character Smith is in Anthony Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time.

  After the meal, David and I wave so long to Lena, who’s trying to make sense of the French-Canadians at the next table. Poutine? she says. Vladimir Putin? Nyet? What this poutine is? Spasiba, Lena! Da svidaniya! We get to the parking lot, and my car is gone. The lot is empty. What the…? David says, No, that can’t be. I stand in the parking space and turn in a circle. Nothing. I do that thing that incredulous cartoon characters often do. I squeeze my eyes shut and rattle my head. When I do, I hear cowbells. But when I open my eyes, the car is still not there. I borrow David’s cell phone (got to get me one of those) and call the number on the heretofore ignored DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT PARKING HERE ’CAUSE WE’LL TOW YOUR SORRY ASS IN A HOLLYWOOD MINUTE sign and tell the woman who answers that I think she may have my car.

  She says, “Does it look like a lunch box?”

  “That’s it.”

  “A hundred bucks.”

  So I take a hundred out of the Bank of America ATM, and they take their $2.50 fee, the unneighborly scoundrels. I grab the cash and the receipt, and David drives me down Gasoline Alley to Pembroke Road, a neighborhood of convenience stores, broken glass, used car dealerships with razor wire atop their chain-link fences, and our grail, the impoundment lot. We go in, and I put my mouth up to the hole in the security window and say I just called about the lunch box.

  “The maroon one?”

  “Salsa, actually.”

  Her name is Chantal. I ask her if she has to work through the night. She does. And when the Chinese takeout next door closes, it can get pretty eerie, let me tell you. She’s got a canister of pepper spray and a handgun, a 9mm Smith & Wesson police trade-in, in her desk drawer. She’s used the pepper spray. Most nights she gets to nap a bit. Or she’ll turn on the TV. She’s dating a BSO deputy, and he’ll swing by when he’s on duty, which I figure he is doing tonight because Chantal is wearing a pleated black sleeveless V-neck dress with strands of silver and turquoise, and I know she’s not trying to impress scofflaws like me. Bobby is the deputy’s name, and he’s sweet as Bajan rum, she says, but he’s married. Chantal counts out my twenties and checks my driver’s license. I ask her if she sees herself working here in ten years. She puts a hand on her hip, cocks her head, raises an eyebrow, and stares at me. My bad. David tells her she looks like a young Diahann Carroll. She says, Who’s this, now?

  And then this morning Spot wakes me up with a paw to my face and lets me know that we’re out of Snausages. All right, I say, we’ll go to Publix. He runs and gets his leash and when he gets back, he’s a little irritated that I’m still in bed. He barks and drops the leash. He picks it up and woofs out the side of his muzzle. Okay, I’m up, but you got to let me pee first. He follows me to the bathroom and sits. I ask him nicely not to watch, and he pretends to look at the ceiling. I kiss Annick goodbye, and she tells me to pick up some Advil Liqui-Gels. Will do. Anything else? Kashi GoLean, the crunch not the cereal.

  I’m in the Express Lane with my Ten Items or Fewer behind a sunburned woman with a buggy full of groceries and a handful of coupons. I look at the woman. I look at the sign. I look at the cashier, Dulcie. I silently count the woman’s items. (Does anyone need five bottles of green ketchup?) I roll my eyes. The woman wants to pay with a traveler’s check, and it’s clear that Dulcie has never seen one before. The manager is summoned; the confusion is sorted out, and the woman waddles (that’s not nice!) away. I’m about to tell Dulcie my idea for an Express Lane checkout that would stop automatically at the eleventh item when I realize I don’t have my credit card. I apologize and go through the wallet one more time. Dulcie mumbles something about this not being her day. Spot, who’s waiting for me outside Ice Cream Cohen’s, is not at all happy. He won’t move. I explain how I left the card in my other pants—we’ll scoot home, get it, and hustle back. He woofs. What don’t you understand, Spot? No money, no Snausages. I tug the leash. He goes limp.

  But the credit card is not in my pants pocket. You guessed that already. It’s in the ATM, of course. Or was. I ask Annick what to do. We’re screwed, I say, but she reminds me about the PIN number. Right! Annick says all her muscles ache; she couldn’t sleep, and she feels like shit. I need to call someone about this, I tell her. Annick says call the number on the back of the card, and for a few seconds that even makes sense. I imagine the woman who has my card now and wonder if she’s a medium or something and can divine the PIN number just by feeling the card. That would be just my luck. Maybe she can sense my interest in the History Plays. But even if she can, would she know the date of the Battle of Agincourt? I’m not making any sense, of course. Anyway, I get the card canceled. I grab $20 from Annick’s purse and head back to Publix. I see that the garbage has been picked up, but our garbage bin is not in the driveway. I check behind the oleander, check with the neighbors. Someone stole our garbage bin. Jesus! What kind of people…And ours is cracked, banged up, and lopsided. Theft-proof, you would think. But it is also the only bin in the neighborhood without the address spray-painted on it because that’s too white-trashy for Annick, which is also why I can’t leave bread on top of the fridge or dish soap on the rim of the sink. Cream needs to be in a creamer, butter in a dish. And there’ll be no Pop-Tarts in this house. Annick says my characters can eat and drink whatever they want, Go-Tarts!, Kool-Aid Jammers, Blinks, Tang, Lunchables, or Uncrustables, but we’re not going to.

  I go back in the house and tell Annick about the bin, and I’m a little loopy at this point. I’m slamming things down and raving about common human decency, and I call Waste Management, and Javier says they�
�ll get me a new one for $50 and I’ll have it in ten days, the same day my new credit card arrives. Annick tries to get up, but she can’t walk. I tell her I’ll call Dr. Khani and make an appointment. She doesn’t need one, she says. You know this could be the flu, I tell her. Annick gets her medical advice and her homeopathic remedies from her friend Ellie who’s a chiropractor. And then she takes my prescription meds when she needs them to sleep or decongest or whatever. She lies on the couch and turns on the TV. She calls Ellie, leaves a message. Spot curls up at her feet. Bob the Builder is teaching children about divergent thinking.

  This afternoon I decide to pressure-clean the deck. I want to surprise Annick. But the pressure cleaner, which I’ve used like five times, doesn’t work, or I’ve forgotten how it works. Annick’s the mechanic in this house. So I get on the phone, and I call the 800 customer-service number, and I’m put on hold several times, and I get a beep on the call-waiting service, and I answer it, and it’s Audrey. I ask her what she knows about pressure cleaners.

  She says, “I need money.”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Did you hear me, Johnny Boy?”

  “Daxson out of work again?”

  “He does the Lord’s work.”

  “How much?”

  “I’m sorry. I am. You’re the only one.”