by Ian Williams
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Does Dad send you any money?
No.
I thought you said he was rich.
He is.
If he’s rich, then why doesn’t he give you any money?
It’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven.
Did you ask him for money?
No.
Mom, come on. How do you expect to get money if you don’t ask?
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Mom, I need to know where Dad came from.
I thought you tell me you over him.
I am. It’s for school. Family tree.
I don’t know how far back I can go on his side.
You don’t have to do all that. Just his background and I can make up the names.
You will not make up your family.
Why not? It’ll sound real. I was going to give him a sister and two brothers. One died in the war—
Which war?
I don’t know. The big one. He left behind a pregnant wife.
He has a brother.
It’s all the same.
No, you’re going to do this right.
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Okay, so a brother.
He married a European lady—that was his second marriage—and had two children. They must be divorced by now.
I’ll need names.
Give me a minute. Let me get the whole picture out.
You’re killing me.
I tell you about Mutter. German lady. She died the same year you born.
Hurry up.
She was the last one on her side. She had an older sister and a brother who died young. I’ll tell you her name just now. And the father died just maybe five years before you born.
That’s it?
No. When’s this due?
Tomorrow.
And it’s only now you’re asking me?
I told you I could just make it up.
What about my side?
I did that already.
Let me see.
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Mom, really, just let me make the rest up.
No, we’re going to sit here and do this so you don’t bring home another C.
You could be making all this up right now.
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I would have got an A but she said I didn’t use the right format.
What’s the right format?
I don’t know. Something.
You weren’t paying attention.
What?
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Mom, remember when you used to tell me that Dad was a pilot?
You kept asking.
I used to wave at every airplane. Just in case.
Well, every minute his company was putting him on a plane.
It’s not the same as being a pilot. You lied.
Watch your mouth. I never tell no lie.
Because I believed it. It’s not a lie to the person who believes it.
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Mom, what’s going to happen to all Dad’s money?
He’ll leave it for his brother.
I thought they didn’t get along. And he’s older. He’ll be dead too.
His brother’s kids then.
And you’re just going to let that happen?
He might donate it to some charity.
Charity. Mom, tell me you’re joking.
I don’t want your father’s money.
What about me?
You want his money?
Well, it’s kind of mine.
It’s not yours. It’s his. You will not touch a dime of that man’s money. You hear me?
Why are you being so selfish?
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Mom, do you think I could go and live with Dad for a summer?
Boy, are you trying to kill me?
No disrespect.
You don’t know where he is.
I could find out.
Then why haven’t you?
It’s not the right time. But I was thinking that he might be looking for me. You know, to pass on his legacy.
His money.
His legacy. I’ll take over his business.
His business is selling useless goods to stranded people.
Don’t you want me to be successful?
Right now, I want you to eat. What are you going to eat?
He cooks.
Now. What are you going to eat now? And, wrong, your father never cooked a day in his life. If you want to eat canned soup and bagels for your life then go ahead.
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Mom, I need to get my licence.
You’re thirteen.
I need to start practicing now so I can get it right when I turn sixteen.
You can wait.
I think Dad’s in New York.
So?
So, you’ve known this?
I don’t know anything about your father’s whereabouts.
I think he is. Yeah, I have a feeling. Wall Street. He’s working for a multinational.
You think you’re driving to New York by yourself when you’re sixteen?
You can come along.
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Mom, I want to get a job. Part-time.
You’re already behind in school.
I’m not behind. I’m average.
You’re behind half the class.
Only in stupid subjects that don’t matter.
You’re not getting a job.
Fine, I’ll just ask Dad for some money.
You’re trying to make me mad.
No, if you don’t want me to work, and he’s got all this money, then what am I supposed to do?
Finish school, go to university, and get a career, not a part-time job.
Or you’ll just have to support me for the rest of your life. If that’s what you want.
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Mom, is Dad dead yet?
When you turn so callous?
It’s just a question. Don’t act like you love him.
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Mom, let’s say Dad died.
Boy.
Just let’s say. Would his estate know how to get in touch with you?
You don’t have a dime to get from that man.
Right, but let’s say I went to the funeral and introduced myself to that side—
Why on earth would you do that?
Just to pay respects. Honour thy father and mother, you know. And if they didn’t believe me, what legal proof would I have that I’m his son?
They know.
Right, but let’s say, I don’t know, it went to court and I had to prove it.
All they have to do is look at you.
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Mom, do you think Dad looks like me?
You look like him.
Do you think people will recognize me?
Rich white men in a certain circle, yes.
Those are my peeps.
And what about your black mother who killing sheself for you?
Joke, Mom. Don’t go all Rosa Parks.
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Tell me something I don’t know about Dad.
There’s not much to know. He worked. He came home.
Come on, Mom.
Okay, okay. He wrote poems here and there.
Wait. Poems?
Like if he was waiting in line, he’d get a sudden burst of inspiration.
Who would’ve thought?
He used to collect people’s business cards too. A card for every occasion.
Contacts. Okay.
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Tell me something I don’t know about Dad.
He worked a lot but leave it to him and he would sail the Mediterranean in a yacht with a tumbler of scotch in his han
d. He was that kind of man.
So he drank?
And he smoked.
I knew that.
From the time he was fourteen.
Hey, that’s cool. I need to look into that.
And I don’t want you doing either.
Did he have a brand or anything? Du Maurier? Camel? Marlboro?
Ever.
Mom, I’m almost fifteen. I can make this decision on my own.
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You owe me.
He called his mother—
My grandmother.
his mother, Mutter.
Like moot. I know.
M-u-t-t-e-r.
Mutter. Ima start callin’ you that.
And I’ll start calling you Ghostface.
Oh, can you!
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Mom, Dad’s my dad, right?
Yes. Are you feeling okay?
You’re sure?
You don’t look so good.
You’re absolutely sure?
Here, lie down.
It’s not just a story?
Hush. Lie down a minute.
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Mom?
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Mom?
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Mom?
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Mom?
MID-NINETIES
Felicia
Exercise
Felicia had a thought the size of a grapefruit in her head that she needed to lie down and peel or slice or squeeze or otherwise process: Edgar was getting divorced. It was in the papers. Edgar was being divorced.
But first she needed to get into the anthill that had become her driveway. She honked. Two teenagers on bicycles looked at her, looked straight into her car, through the windshield and into her eyes, as if they wanted to know what she wanted. She wanted to get into her driveway and squeeze the pulp of this news. That’s what.
She honked again.
Army bounded up the driveway right into her headlights, backlit by a spotlight. Where did he get— Was that her good bedroom lamp? He had plugged in every lamp he could find, using extension cords and had turned a few outward, like footlights, so the garage was glowing faintly from street level. The driveway raked downward into the garage so teenagers could sit on the sidewalk and stare down into Army’s barbershop like an auditorium, like a show.
Army directed her to park on the street, pointing with one arm and winding a circle from the elbow with the other.
No, Army, get those children out of my house now.
Give me an hour, he said. He leaned on the rubber seal of her window.
Now.
All right, fifteen minutes. Just fifteen minutes until I cut this last guy’s hair. Felicia heard the screen door slam before she saw Oliver, her landlord, approaching her car with his thick chest and tiny legs, like a bison. Here he came with his little bandana, looking like a washed-up rocker.
The teenagers tittered. Oliver ignored them.
Felicia expected him to be angry, like the last time Army had people crawling over his (not hers, Felicia would have to concede; she only rented the basement and part of the main floor) house. That was last month, when they first moved in, and Army had a housewarming of sorts, kids coming out of the backyard, kids going up Oliver’s stairs, ringing his bell—so many teenagers, in fact, that they seemed to descend from phantom trees in ninja masks. To avoid future landlord irritation, Army put up a sign near the garage—Army with an arrow pointing downstairs—which clearly made little difference in controlling the pest population because Oliver was being teased (Wuh-oh-oh-oh, sweet child of mine) with the entitled condescension of teenagers on his own property at 9:30 at night, though somehow he didn’t seem half as angry as the night of the housewarming.
Oliver met Felicia at the driver’s door. He seemed calm. He leaned in close as if he had something important to tell her.
The days are long, he said and sighed. She couldn’t tell if he was being passive-aggressive or if tonight he was like a dog that wanted its belly rubbed.
They are, she said. Then turned to look ahead, down into the garage. Army blinked fifteen minutes with his fingers. Felicia held up one finger. The engine was still on. Her foot was still on the brake.
Oliver sighed again. You see what’s going on down there?
He’s almost done. I’m sorry.
Oliver was a test to the limits of Felicia’s politeness. Holding her smile during his monologues was a feat of muscular endurance, but such was the power of a man who could evict a woman and her child.
It’s been like this all day.
Fifteen more minutes, he told me.
He’s been saying fifteen minutes since this afternoon.
I’ll make sure this time, she said. She put the car in park. Oliver reached in and turned off the ignition. She didn’t appreciate that.
Your gas, he said.
My money, she should have said.
Nope, she didn’t appreciate that one bit.
She tried to open the car door. He sighed. She pushed the door again and only then did Oliver step back and allow her out. She collected two bags of groceries from the backseat, her handbag, her work bag, and her night-course tote bag.
Oliver said, I don’t mind a little activity now and again. He’s a kid, right? I know I used to be a little hellraiser.
You? she said. She pictured him knuckling his eyes, tugging the skirt of his teacher and pointing at who hit him.
But, Oliver continued, half these kids I’ve never seen before. I have a daughter to think about.
Interesting that he didn’t mention—
And a son.
The son, Hendrix, was under a tree, playing with his ants. He was avoiding a little girl, the sister of one of Army’s barbershop clients. She was younger than Hendrix. She had a doll. She had eyed Hendrix before approaching. Hendrix ignored her. She approached with her doll. He didn’t look up from his ants.
Were you going for your walk? Felicia said. The bag with the milk was starting to cut into her palm. She jostled. Landlord or not, what kind of man wouldn’t offer to take a bag from a lady?
I mean, really, he have a bad back or something? she said to Army later.
I’ll leave you now, Oliver said.
Enjoy your walk. Nice evening for—
You know, my ex-wife, Oliver began and Felicia’s shoulders fell. My ex-wife, she never used to exercise at all. Just sit around all day, eating chocolate almonds, saying she was tired. Oh, she’s tired. Tired from what? Never worked a day in her life after Hendrix. Maybe I told you this. Never lost the baby weight. I mean, come on. How hard could it be? But, oh, she’s tired.
Felicia pursed her lips and tilted her head in polite commiseration.
Between you and me, it wasn’t baby weight. My cousin has baby weight. I know baby weight when I see baby weight. She just let herself go and couldn’t handle the truth. Truth hurts, baby.
It can, Felicia said. Should she tell him the truth right now about himself?
Not that I’m Dolph Lundgren but I’m trying. You know. Being with someone like her, you just get worse and worse until one day you can’t even recognize yourself. I used to be fit.
You used to be a contender, Felicia said. She assumed Dolph Lundgren was the one in Rocky.
I told you me and my cousin Francis almost got a scholarship to play football in Massachusetts?
How many cousins does this man have? Felicia wondered. But she asked, as Army had taught her, Football or soccer?
Soccer. Oliver looked away. I used to be good.
Some new guys were approaching the garage.
Party’s over, Oliver shouted. Keep it moving.
Tomorrow, Army shouted up as a correction. Come through tomorrow.
Army, Felicia called. She heaved the bags to signal for help.
Army sent a couple of boys in his place. She recognized them as Olive
r’s nephews. They shuffled up the driveway in slide sandals. They took the bags, her purse, and yes they were entering her portion of the house, the basement through the garage door. She was about to follow them inside. Her purse. But Oliver was looking at her over his shoulder, waiting.
I thought you were coming.
Boys, she heard Army call out, Last call for alcohol. I’m going to do Chris and the rest of you come back in the morning.
She had no reason not to (her purse) though truthfully she would prefer to kneel with her arms in the air for an hour than to go for an extended walk with Oliver. But she agreed to go to the bend in the street and turn back.
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The news of Edgar’s divorce had been building up for a couple of weeks.
Felicia first noticed on her break. She was across the street from her office, waiting on her spicy fries to sizzle, glancing through the Entertainment section of the paper, and her eye fell on a photograph of an actress in a teal backless gown, looking over her shoulder. Her partner, an actor in a tuxedo, was looking in the opposite direction. Felicia didn’t know much about celebrities. She disapproved of the dress but she paid attention when she saw the woman’s name: Sophie Fortin. Reports were saying that Timothy Francis called off the relationship after discovering that Sophie Fortin was married. When asked why she hadn’t disclosed her marriage, Sophie Fortin said that she’d forgotten.
A few days later, there was another photo of Sophie Fortin in the Celebrity Briefs section—just a head shot, chin lowered, eyes sultry, eyebrows nicely done. The caption said, Fortin files for divorce from secret husband. She was quoted as saying, Some men are forgettable when they get off, hinting at her ex and Timothy Francis, who had broken off the relationship, in one sweep. From then on, Felicia was a fan.
Like a good publicity generator or a desperate, aging actress, Sophie Fortin continued to court controversy.
Entertainment Tonight replayed clips from a semi-dignified sit-down interview where Fortin was asked, How do you forget you’re married? Don’t you do your taxes?
