“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “Talk to your lawyer first.”
“What’s stupid? Asking a few direct questions?”
“It would be stupid—and counterproductive at this point, I might add—to go and assault him verbally.”
“Physically, I was thinking.”
“Oh were you.”
“What? What, Karl. You think I’m afraid of that sleazeball?”
So here it was, a fullblown Rex Attack. Karl drank some of his tea, to slow the pace. “No,” he lied, “but any confrontation would be the exact opposite of helpful. Helpful would be to call your damn lawyer right away.”
“It costs money to call my lawyer.”
“If you don’t call her, I’ll send you a bill.”
“Your bill I don’t have to pay.”
“I’ll have your damn bicycle attached. God, Tim, you can be so stubborn.”
With Karl gone, Tim decided to go through the actual bills stacked on Jill’s desk. He paid the ones that needed paying. Paid for electricity, and propane, and one hundred gallons of heating oil. Was it September or December closing in on him now? And what must it cost to heat an entire house over the course of a New Hampshire winter?
He paid Jill and Monty’s mortgage (which wiped out his checking account), then contemplated anew the leaky roof. What would that cost? His own credit card bill looked so scary that he closed the flap and went to make coffee.
He did call his lawyer, and outlined Karl’s theory about WalMart and the buildable lots Earl had accumulated. It was all a muddle to Tim, even more so in his retelling, yet he was somehow offended by her failure to be swayed. To find Earl guilty as charged, summarily.
“Maybe he’s onto something, but it’s not remotely provable—or illegal, for that matter. And you do see that Earl could as easily assign the same motive to you.”
“Jill assigned her children to me. That’s my bloody motive.”
“I understand that, Tim. All I’m telling you is that there’s no legal connect between your friend’s hypothesis and the case.”
“But it’s obvious. The law can’t think? The law has no brain?”
“Don’t go shooting the messenger,” said Barnes, taken aback by his vitriol. “Why are you so angry?”
“I’m not angry,” said Tim, straining to soften himself for consumption. Tim could not answer why, but he was angry, he did want to shoot the messengers—both of them. First Karl and now Barnes, a couple of liars after all. They were supposed to solve your problems, not make them worse.
He allowed his nerves might be on edge. The kids had moved out on him, leaving only their bodies, their “corporeal husks” behind. Wordless meals, wordless evenings. They spoke only during Jeopardy, spitting out their guesses. Someone had won the open water Pooh-Sticks that afternoon (the yellow boat, Cindy’s) but neither of them cared, or asked, what the prize was.
“When you called,” said Barnes, “I was hoping for news of the meeting in Taggart’s office. It was yesterday, no?”
“Yesterday, yes.”
Alien 3, this time a mere two hours of torture for Billy and Cindy, alone with Michele Taggart. But Tim had gleaned nothing about it, had nothing to report. He chose not to press them, and they chose not to volunteer a syllable. Really, they had been mum since Alien 2.
“So what was your sense of it? What did they say?”
“Say? The small wall of silence?”
“Still, huh. Those poor kids.”
After dinner, Tim took Billy along to the A. & P. with an eye to bridging the silence. At the very least, they would be choosing flavors together. But Billy ripped the shopping list in half (“It’s way more efficient, Unk”) and took off like a wild turkey through the corn. He came back into view long enough to flip two packages of raisin bread in the cart, then raced after the frozen waffles.
By the time Tim cornered him briefly at the dairy case, he knew he had better be direct. “I’m really glad you came with me,” he began, but Billy interrupted:
“You made me.”
“Yeah, I wanted your company. Because you’ve been off in your own little world so much lately and I have been worried.…”
Billy did not choose to fill in the blank Tim left him. Not even with a shrug.
“Well, so, how’s it going? In your little world.”
This time Billy looked up and seemed surprised to find Tim there. He laughed at the joke, but with his mouth closed. A snort. Tim had no next sentence until they were standing in the parking lot ten minutes later.
“You never answered my question. About how you’re doing.”
“Fine, Unk. I got three goals last night.”
“That much I know. I was there—remember?”
“We won the league.”
“And that’s how it is in your world? We’re Number One?”
“I know you came and watched, Unk. But it’s not like you care.”
“You little creep. I care tons.”
“About soccer, I mean.” Then, for Tim’s sake, he appended: “At least you know the rules. Uncle Earl doesn’t care, plus he’s ignorant.”
“I care about you, Billy. And so does your Aunt Erica.”
It was only human to omit Earl (downright virtuous to include Ric) and wise to overlook the boy’s rudeness. Although the word “ignorant,” which lately had worked its way to the forefront of Billy’s vocabulary, might just indicate some new trend in slang.
“I wanted Dad to know. It sounds dumb, but I really did.”
“Come here, you little creep. Come.”
Tim hugged him. Squashed him, really.
“I wanted them both to know, and there’s no way they’ll know anything about me ever again. I could win the Olympics, or anything, and there’ll never be a way to tell them.”
Tim guided them to the steep riverbank, which bordered the shopping center on one side. He craved the peaceful gurgle of the water, hoped its steady flow would soothe them. Above the mountain, the sky wore scarves of vivid color, fire and violet in woven strands.
“It’s hard,” said Tim, with the heat of the boy’s tears burning right through his shirt. “It’s a very hard part of the hardest thing in the world. But—”
But what? Tim paused, groping for some tool that could mitigate despair. The pause caught Billy’s interest. He wanted to know What.
“When you’re older—soon, actually, way before the Olympics—you’re going to have a terrific girlfriend. And you’ll want to tell her everything, the same way.”
“Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll be gay, and have a boyfriend.”
“Not you, kiddo. Trust me on this. It’s not like magic, not something that happens to you all of a sudden.”
“Maybe it’s already happened. I’m related to you.”
At least they were communicating. Although they had changed the subject. Or had they? What was the subject? Not soccer.…
Despair. Despair was the subject.
“So are dozens of people, related to me and to you, buddy, and none of them are gay. Zero. It’s your best gal you’ll want to tell.”
Tim stopped himself from mentioning Joyce Arsenault by name (or gender) despite her clear value as circumstantial evidence. To push that might be an invasion, a form of outing.
“I only wanted to tell Mom and Dad.”
“So give it a shot. Who knows, maybe they can see us and hear us. Maybe they already know about the three goals, and about the three hundred totally wonderful things I’ve seen you do besides that.”
Here Tim jammed, unable to speak more or swallow. He did want desperately to tell Jill about these two great kids of hers and he wanted her to know what a good job he was doing too, or at least how hard he was trying.
“What, Unk?”
“Nothing,” Tim managed, pointing at his throat.
“You don’t believe that stuff? About Heaven?”
“Do you?”
“I asked you first.”
“I don’t believe it, but I coul
d be wrong. I hope I’m wrong.”
“Can we go now? The waffles are getting soggy.”
“Listen,” said Tim, keeping an arm around Billy’s shoulder. (And here was a lesson from Rex. Because Rex had never done it.)
“I’m listening,” said Billy, which he was, so long as Tim kept moving toward the car.
“Just this. Whatever you accomplish in life—goals and grades and all the stuff they give prizes for—you have to be doing it for yourself.”
Was this the What? If so, it was a complete dud. It was impossibly banal and came way too late in the conversation, but Tim forged ahead anyway, if only because his voice was working again.
“You want people to know, and you want them to care the way you care. And maybe they will. But you do a thing because it’s what you love to do.”
“Sure, Unk. That’s cool.”
A flat voice in the half-light of the A. & P. parking lot, uttering words which Tim took to be nothing more than a polite signal to shut up.
Tim was right about that. Billy feared if he made no verbal offering his uncle might keep up the pep talk all the way home. Or worse, stand around here while the waffles got soggier with every sentence.
In the car, Tim reached over to ruffle Billy’s hair. Billy twisted away as if a snake had flicked at him. The ruffling of hair had been outlawed, weeks ago.
“Sorry,” said Tim. “Old habits.”
He pulled the headlights on and they rolled forward, silence restored and the twilight blooming around them like fog.
VI
INDIAN HATBAND
It rained again and the kids stayed upstairs reading. Which was fine, except they were still up there at dinner time. Pélé (whose life story Billy was reading) had entered the twilight of his career, though he had been in his prime at lunch.
In the face of so much more silence, Tim had begun to flail on the minute-by-minute decisions. Cindy loved Rice Krispies; now she would neither eat them nor name an alternative breakfast. Instinct told Tim not to let her starve, yet instinct also counseled against force-feeding. So he patted her head (still an option with Cindy) and left the kitchen, praying she would consume some Krispies behind his back.
“You can’t assume they know what they want,” said Olivia Goldsmith. “They are just now understanding they can’t have what they want.”
“But they’ve been with friends. They had a blast at the school.”
“And that’s good. Underneath it all, however, a new school year uncovers the extent of change for them.”
“But why would they turn on me?”
Goldsmith was happy to issue rulings. She rarely played the sphinx. This time she did so, allowing a solid block of dead air before she spoke. “Do you see it?”
Tim saw it. Who else would they turn on? Who else did they trust that much?
“But don’t assume they have turned on you—or that they know what they are doing.”
“Of course not,” said Tim, in utter confusion.
“And don’t assume that they are a ‘they,’ an entity. Be sure you are seeing them each clearly, as individuals.”
That afternoon, Tim spotted Al McManus charging his way. Al appeared uncharacteristically purposeful, hellbent in fact, and Tim’s impulse was to flee. Flee Al’s judgment, or his advice, for surely one or the other was coming.
Trapped in the open, he could only brace for the advice. He told himself to be gracious and pretend to listen—a lesson this time from Billy Hergie!
“I was Jill’s age almost precisely,” said Al, gravely, without preliminaries. “We were born in the same week. And the four of us were such close friends. But I know you saw us, Alice and myself, as a boring bourgeois couple who would be prejudiced against you.”
It was a platform speech. Tim had no guess what the advice was going to be. “Al, I didn’t.”
“Well, the truth is we were prejudiced—in your favor. Because of everything Jill told us about you. She was so fond of you, Tim, and so admiring of your qualities. Concerned, though—”
“Al?”
“Give me a minute, I don’t want to lose the thread. She was worried sick about AIDS, of course, but her main worry was the emotional side. All the ways you could be injured by society and how that shut you off from the possibility of love.”
“Gays can’t love?”
“Jill’s words, not mine. She was afraid you could never settle down, never let yourself be comfortable. That you hid yourself in a small corner of society.”
“I have friends. I have business partners. I travel.”
“She felt you might have been—oh, not the President or anything ridiculous like that—but someone valuable to society.”
“That’s just my sis,” said Tim, noting that Al had used the word ‘society’ three times and he had never heard Jill use it. “Believe me, Al, none of my teachers saw any such potential in me.”
“My point. This incredible faith Jill had in you. She understood what a special person you are and because of her we knew it too.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, and I’m ready for the But clause. Because that’s next, right?”
“No. Just something for you to consider.”
“Let me have it,” said Tim, for Al’s demeanor seemed to presage some mighty heavy advice.
“Don’t you dare take this as criticism. It absolutely is not that. But Alice and I, and the twins I should add, since it was their idea, would be honored to have Bill and Cynthia in our household. If it helps. If it feels like a solution to this mess.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No. Definitely not kidding.”
“You mean adopt them.”
“We never got into technicalities. Who knows about that sort of thing.”
“Be the guardians. In loco parentis.”
“Honestly, Tim, we haven’t put a title to it. They would be Bill and Cynthia and we’d be us and see how it all worked out. It’s an alternative to you uprooting your entire life, or the kids getting tangled up with Earl Sanderson.”
“So this would be a favor to me.”
“Please don’t be angry. If it’s not an option, not a help, you can dismiss it out of hand.”
“I really have to do that. I’m Jill’s brother, I’m the guardian Jill wanted those kids to have. And even Erica is family.”
“Fine. I understand completely.”
“We’re Billy and Cindy’s family now. What’s left of it.”
“Not only do we know that, we know the children know it. Their loyalty and affection are very clear, and nothing will change that. But practically speaking—”
“They would feel rejected. Disowned. I wouldn’t do that to them.”
“That’s a valid concern and we could ask a professional—without doubt we ought to ask a professional. As I say, everyone would have to want this.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Fine. But let me finish my thought. We have the garage apartment. It’s small but comfortable. In-law quarters. And there’s a balcony off the bedroom—”
“You want to stick them over the garage?”
“Not them, you.”
“Oh, I see. Me and the in-laws.”
Tim’s laugh was bitter, an Oilcan Harry sneer. Al had anticipated a polite refusal, not this demonic cartoon. He had never glimpsed Tim at his snippiest, with feathers ruffled, and it took an effort to keep his composure and plough ahead.
“No one has used it in two years. Alice’s folks live in Idaho and mine are pushing eighty. They don’t visit anymore.”
“So the idea is I hang around the garage while you raise the children.…Which somehow keeps me from being uprooted?”
“I’m making a botch of this, Tim. The apartment would be yours so you could come and go easily. Every weekend, every other weekend, three weeks in October. Whatever worked for you, in terms of going on with your own life.”
“I honestly don’t believe things are that bad.”
/> “Neither do I. If anyone said things are bad, I disagree with him. Look at it another way. We’ve got these two kids, we’re stuck with them for the foreseeable future. That’s what we’ll be doing. So it would be no great sacrifice—”
“I don’t mind the sacrifice.”
“Fine. But it can be a long winter up here.”
“I like to ski.”
In truth, Tim hated to ski and struggled against hating friends who did ski. He struggled now against hating Al McManus with his outlandish Unk-in-a-bunk scheme, but at least he understood why he was so angry. He was angry because everyone was attacking him. He was doing his best, doing just fine, and they were all coming after him with sticks and brooms, like the spooked villagers chasing the Frankenstein monster.
“I hear you,” said Al. “Just so you know that for us it would not be a sacrifice. It would make our lives easier. That’s the selfish part, because Hugh and Henry are easier whenever your two are in the mix. There has always been this charmed connection—”
“Al?”
“I’ll stop now. And I’m sorry—”
“I’m sorry too. It’s a hell of a gesture, don’t get me wrong. Let’s just say thanks-but-no-thanks and leave it at that.”
“Fair enough, as long as you don’t punish us.”
“Of course not.”
“We only want to help, in any way you find useful. An errand, the car pool, whatever. Don’t punish us for offering more.”
“No. And don’t think I’m not grateful for all you have done.”
“Prove it,” said Al. “By coming to dinner tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“To prove there are no hard feelings,” said Al, perversely tightening the noose. He was perfectly aware that he was the one meting out punishment; that Tim would as soon spit at him.
“But it’s after five o’clock.”
“That’s right, and you aren’t cooking. But Alice is.”
“What are you having?” said Tim, rallying into a more sociable pose. “That’s what Billy would ask.”
Tuning it down, down. Yet why did he need to keep convincing the world he wasn’t angry? Wasn’t anger sometimes the correct response? Instead Tim surrendered in a blaze of phony bonhomie. Agreed to eat fried chicken, agreed to keep biting his tongue.
The Mt. Monadnock Blues Page 21
