The Rich Man's Table

by Scott Spencer

  “He’s not on your back, Billy. He won’t even say he’s your father.”

  “That’s the weight.”

  Grandpa sadly shook his head. “What a treat that guy is. I hope you know that when I knocked him around with my cane, I was giving him hell for a lot more than Sergei Karpanov. One knock on the head was for Katarina, and then for Mommy, and another was for you, and then I gave him a good one for being such a goddamned Pied Piper and leading all those good young people away from progressive politics and into that fantasy land of electric guitars and drugs. Those songs he used to write—many of them he got the idea for at my table, from my books—were filled with meaning, songs of common people struggling for their dignity, the right to raise their families, to eat, to vote, to live without fear, and then he falls in with a new crowd and It’s bye-bye Esther, bye-bye Freedom Riders, bye- bye immigrants, bye-bye Ban the Bomb. And for what? A music-business sharpie with fingers like knockwurst, smelling like a whorehouse, who tells Luke: You’re wasting your time with these people. Come with me and get rich! Steinberg! Ach, that man, with his promises and schemes, so greedy he’d sell his own mother’s shadow.”

  “He’s ruined now, Grandpa. All his money has been spent on breach-of-contract suits against Luke. He hangs around Times Square in a dirty raincoat, unshaved, unwashed. He’s mentally ill.”

  “It’s small consolation, Billy.” He yawned again and then abruptly stood. “Where do I sleep?”

  “Sleep in Mom’s room. I’ll take the sofa.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s where I always sleep when I come here.”

  “You’re a good son, Billy. Your mother is always talking about you. She’s very proud of you.”

  “My exciting career as a public school teacher?”

  “For everything. For the love and concern you’ve always shown her. You’re what keeps her going.”

  “I feel sorry for anyone who has to depend on me.”

  “Stop talking that way. Just stop it right now. Is that supposed to be modesty? To me, it smacks of self-pity.”

  I walked him into the bedroom. Indentations vaguely in the shape of Rosa’s and my forms were imprinted on the Indian bedspread. Nervously, I smoothed it down and then folded it back, so Grandpa might easily slip into bed. I showed him the bathroom, turned on the reading light, and turned off the overheads.

  Later, stretched out on the sofa and trying to sleep, I checked my watch. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. In Malibu, however, it was merely midnight. I scrambled off the sofa. The phone.

  I moved quickly, determined to keep a step ahead of my thoughts—which surely would have included self- admonishment, dire warnings about making this call. I dialed Luke’s number with a flurry of fingers, like a court stenographer. I would not leave another message if his answering machine picked up the call, as it surely would.

  On the second ring, the phone was answered—not by machine but by a human. A woman. Small, Asian-accented voice.

  “Hello, who is this?”

  “I’m looking for Luke,” I said. My heart was beating so ferociously, I could barely hear my own voice. Was I whispering?

  “He’s not here. He went to New York, an hour ago. Who is calling, please?”

  9

  I CAN BARELY remember the morning. Urgent, burning urination, piss itself thick as honey. Helium-headed. Why? Who knows? Fluky heartbeat. Bad body. Shame on you, body. You can just sit in that chair until you’re ready to behave. Pacing. Cereal. Coffee. The night had been cold, and a thin skin of ice had formed on the north window above the kitchen sink. I pressed my palm and fingers on it until I saw the hand-shaped world outside: a thumb of willow; fingers of sky, trees, grass, and garden; a bird bath floating in the pond of my palm.

  It was just after seven in the morning when the first of the phone calls began. I thought it was the hospital and I answered immediately, before that initial sick twist of dread became a paroxysm. The first caller was a woman named Rudy. I remembered her name from Esther’s call list. She had a light, porous voice, a Yankee accent, and she had no idea my mother was in the hospital. She was “just checking in,” she said. Next came another name from the call list, a man named Warren, who had heard the news and was sobbing. I took the messages, one after the other, until the sixth call, which was from a guy with a smooth, confident voice and the easy, loping cadence that money can buy. I wasn’t telling anyone that my mother was in the hospital because I was still fearful of the emergency becoming a media event. I simply told him Esther wasn’t in and invited him to leave a message.

  “Okay. This is her friend Felix. Will you tell Esther that Tess and I are driving down to the city in two days and we’d like to stop over at her place and say hi, or maybe just stay for a cup of tea, or whatever would be convenient for her?”

  “Felix?”

  “Yes. And Tess.”

  “This is Billy Rothschild, Felix.”

  There was a silence, in which I imagined him looking up at the soundproof tiles in his dorm room at Bennington, as if to register his annoyance with God.

  “Hi, Billy,” he said. “What’s up?”

  I felt ungainly, practically monstrous. Felix had gone to no small inconvenience to keep our paths from crossing—I never did learn what Annabelle Stevenson had told the twins to warn them off me—and I felt a little sorry for him to be so unexpectedly in my clutches.

  “You know,” I said, “I just learned last night you guys and my mother were friends.”

  “Yes, we are,” said Felix, clearly worried where this was leading.

  “That’s sort of weird, though. Isn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “We were Christmas shopping and Tess saw her in the sweater department at Saks. Tess recognized her immediately—she looked so much like she did on that old album cover. We were still all bent out of shape over …” His voice trailed off. He was reluctant to trigger me by mentioning our father’s name.

  “Luke?”

  “Yes. I guess you know what that’s like.” He paused for a moment, perhaps wondering if he had just insulted me. “Anyhow, we went up to Esther, introduced ourselves. She was so great about it. When I thought about it later, I realized we were just coming out of nowhere and really imposing on her. But she was so open, so warm. And we’ve been friends ever since. I mean, you know, we call her, just to check in. It’s just nice to know her. You know how she is. I mean, you know a lot better than we do,” he hastened to add.

  “Look, Felix,” I said. “I’ve got some bad news—only I want you to keep it to yourself. You and Tess. Esther was in a pretty bad car wreck and she’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh shit! Is she going to be … is she going to be all right?”

  “She’s pretty banged up.”

  “Oh no. Billy. What can I say? Where is she?”

  “She’s in the hospital in Leyden. But we’re trying to get her to a better hospital. Albany, maybe.”

  “Should we come down? Is there anything we can do?”

  “No, not now. I think maybe Luke’s coming, though.”

  “Luke?” As if the notion were preposterous. Then, a short, cynical sound that would more or less pass for a laugh. “I think I’ll give that a miss. I think I’ll file that under Life Is Too Short.”

  His blitheness confused me on some childishly devout level. Felix didn’t sound particularly angry with Luke, or filled with any real longing. He had better things to do; he wanted to keep his distance. He had somehow learned his lesson. He’d cut his losses, he’d found another way. Felix went west when I went east; he went up when I went down. What had consumed me, driven and defined me—and, it was beginning to dawn on me, had brought me to Esther’s house, which in turn had probably caused her to drink, and then to crash her car—this wild- goose chase, this doomed children’s crusade, was apparently to Felix something of a waste of energy. He thought he would give it a miss? I felt like a pious little country priest
whose parishioners have failed to come to Good Friday services because the daffodils are blooming on a hill outside the village.

  “Do you ever see him?” I asked.

  “Luke? No. I mean, not for a long time. Maybe ten years.”

  “Yeah. I know what that feels like,” I said.

  “It feels fine,” said Felix. “He doesn’t even admit to being our father, and we don’t need his money anyhow’so the way we figure it, we’re better off.”

  I heard the sound of an engine and looked out the window. A green Chrysler minivan with faux wood paneling was making its way up the driveway, its windshield wipers waving frantically, though the early morning sky was clear. At the wheel was a large, middle-aged woman with blond hair, wearing a beret and a multicolored Tibetan jacket, and in the passenger seat was a man or a woman, who was wearing a black leather jacket and who was unanimously bald.

  “A car’s just pulling in,” I said to Felix. “I better see who it is.”

  “Okay. Will you give your mom our love? Can you call me or something and tell me what’s happening?”

  “Okay. But let me ask you a quick question. How are you better off?”

  “I don’t know. I just feel that way. I don’t want to be Luke Fairchild’s son. I don’t want everyone looking at me that way. I don’t want to have to live up to it, and I don’t want to have to live it down. I just want to be myself.”

  We said our goodbyes and I went to the front of the house just as the blond woman was about to knock on the door. She knew my name, and she told me her name was Magda. She and her friend had just been to the hospital but had not been allowed to visit Esther. I wanted to know how she had found out about the accident, but I couldn’t find a way to phrase the question without its sounding peevish or mean. I told her I’d tell my mother she had tried to visit, and then, right before she turned to go back into her van, she impulsively threw her arms around me and embraced me with such suddenness and such fierceness that it took me a moment or two to realize that I was actually being given love, that uncomplicated, unquestioning love we often claim to want and need and which we sometimes fail to recognize when it is staring us straight in the face.

  Soon after, I went into the bedroom to awaken Grandpa. He slept on his back, with his long hands folded on his rising and falling chest, and one bare white violet-veined foot poking out of the covers—a sleeping trick he had once taught to me, a way of cooling down without tearing the covers off.

  “Grandpa?” I whispered.

  His eyes opened instantly and, remaining flat on his back, he reached for his eyeglasses on the night table.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “It’s time to go. To the hospital.”

  He emerged just minutes later, dressed in a brilliant white shirt, a red and royal blue tie, a dove gray suit. He must have packed his little suitcase with the care of an origami master. He put a comforting hand on my shoulder and we set out for the car. On the drive to the hospital, I wrestled with the notion of telling him I had called Luke the night before and that now I had reason to believe he was on his way—what else could “he went to New York just an hour ago” have meant? What else could have sent Luke flying east at such a late hour?

  We arrived at the hospital with the words unspoken and we breezed by the reception desk without anybody noticing us. We took the elevator up to the second floor, along with two lab technicians, at whom Grandpa coolly nodded, as if his position of authority would allow nothing more, nothing less. On the second floor, I said a soft hello to the head nurse, who, when she saw Irv, quickly glanced at the little wristwatch to make certain the old man wasn’t ignoring the rules governing visiting hours.

  “Oh, Mr. Rothschild?” the nurse said. Both Irv and I turned to look at her, and she indicated she was speaking to me. “There’s someone in with your mother now.”

  “A doctor?” Grandpa asked.

  “A priest, actually,” said the nurse.

  “Billy,” Irv said, grabbing my arm. His eyes were wide with what I first saw as fury and then as fear. “I don’t want a priest in there. Who would do such a thing to us?”

  “Okay. Okay okay okay.” I moved quickly toward Esther’s room. “All right, all right,” I said, barging into the room. There was a welterweight priest sitting at my mother’s bedside. Rosary beads and a crucifix hung between his widely parted knees. The blackness of his clothes made a hole in the world. There was a smell in the room—incense? tobacco? “I’m sorry, Father, but you’re going to have to leave.” There was a long silence. And then the priest turned to face me and he was Luke. Father indeed.

  “Luke,” I whispered. It took me but a moment to realize he had come in clerical drag as a way of guarding his privacy. He looked mad, his sun-baked face as creased as a walnut, his graying hair hidden by a sporty little checkered homburg, such as Bing Crosby might have worn, his tea-and-tobacco-stained teeth, so determinedly resistant to wealth and fame, showing for a moment in an uneasy, pleading smile.

  Luke stood up, squinted at me. I could feel the grief that was in him. His eyes were a blur of red; the evidence of his despair moved me so suddenly and so powerfully I felt my knees weaken. He lacked the insecurity and desire to please upon which is based much of what we call good manners, and so he made absolutely no attempt to conceal the fact that he was momentarily uncertain as to who I was. But really it was merely a matter of logic—who else could I have been? Even putting aside the quarrel as to my paternity—whose mother was in that bed? Who had called him in Malibu? Luke glanced back at my mother, who slept motionless in her barred bed, the hydrating and—one could only hope—pain-killing liquid trickling into her through clear plastic tubing, her oxygen supplemented by the hissing butterfly clips perched at the edges of her nostrils, like noseplugs for a long-distance swimmer, which once, in fact, she was, and now, in some miserable, metaphorical way, she was again.

  “Billy, right?” he said.

  But whatever was to come after that was lost to Irv’s entering the room. To my amazement, Grandpa made Luke the second he laid eyes on him.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Luke? Is this supposed to be—what? A happening? A … put-on? Or have you really sunk this low?”

  “Hello, Irv. Glad to see you’re not carrying a cane.”

  “As well you should be.”

  “You want to sit down?” Luke asked, offering the chair he had just vacated.

  A passing nurse, elderly, with immense eyeglasses and thin, chablis-colored hair, stuck her head in the room, “Only two visitors—” she said, and then cut herself short, seeing that the third visitor was ordained. By now, Irv already had Mother’s chart in hand and was scrutinizing it, with frequent glances back at Esther.

  “What’s the story, Irv?” Luke asked. “What’s wrong with her and what are they doing about it?”

  “They’re waiting to transfer her.”

  “Well, that’s good. This fucking veterinary clinic ain’t no place for her. But what’s wrong? What happened?”

  “So. All of the sudden,” I said, “you’re interested. Where have you been?”

  “Been? Why?”

  “You’re getting here kind of late, aren’t you?”

  “You know that gospel song?” Luke said. “God may not come when you want him—but he’s right on time.”

  “You’re not quite God, Luke.”

  “She crashed her car,” Grandpa said.

  “Your grandson here told me that over the phone.”

  Grandpa glared at me for just one radiantly scornful moment, and then went back to reading Mother’s chart.

  “Bleeding internally,” Grandpa said, blunt, factual. “Multiple fractures. Third-degree burns on back, legs, torso, and face.”

  “Oh, fuck,” said Luke. “Her face.”

  “Yes,” said Grandpa. “Her face. Let’s see. What else do we have here? Liver function, fair. Heart, good. Respiration … hmm. EEG normal—excellent. I was worried about that.”
/>   “Why haven’t they moved her already?” asked Luke.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Irv.

  “I heard that the medevac helicopter service they use went out of business,” I said, “and the one they use at Albany Medical Center is broken.”

  “Man,” said Luke, shaking his head.

  “I don’t want her going up to Albany anyhow,” said Irv. “I want her going to Roosevelt, in the city. I have many friends on staff there and she’ll get the best.”

  “Yeah,” said Luke. “New York. It’s gotta be good for something, right? Anyhow, my lawyer’s brother is chief of plastic surgery at New York Hospital. It’s already set up for her. That’s where all the society women go—not to mention foreign dictators. All we gotta do is get her down.”

  “Plastic surgery—that’s your priority?” said Irv.

  “For her burns,” I said.

  “And—” said Luke, raising one finger, and looking for a moment not only mad but strangely endearing in his habit, “the doctor who treated me after my car wreck is in New York and I talked to him, and he’ll be there, too.”

  I felt my pulse quicken. Luke was referring to Dr. Sanford Peck, very much a call-me-Sandy sort of wavy-haired hunk, who became an orthopedic surgeon originally out of his love of skiing, but then moved to L.A. because he had an unruly and unrequited crush on a movie exec named Sherry Lansing. I’d interviewed Dr. Peck twice, once by phone about five years ago, and then in person, while he was in New York attending a professional conference at the Sheraton, less than a year back. He told me Luke didn’t have much of a capacity for pain but then added, with an inside dopester’s smirk, that he did, however, have a large capacity for painkillers. “I mean, here’s a guy who can get whatever he wants, whenever, and he’s hustling his doctor for a few extra Percodans. You know what I mean? He has a kind of streety, King of the Gonifs quality.”

  I didn’t want Sandy to see me, didn’t want him to let Luke know about the interviews. If Dr. Ski Slope saw me with Luke, he might very well make some reference to our interview, like “Hey, Luke, your meshuga kid here grabbed me last year and grilled me like a lamb chop and it was all about you.” I wanted to hold off about Luke knowing about the interviews, the notes, the book. My plan was as it had always been: to publish the entire story, call it I Am Luke Fairchild’s Son, or My Fucking Hero, or The Rich Man’s Table, and send him an advance copy, cushioned in bubble wrap, via third-class mail.