by Fabian Black
His mother claimed to be in financial straits, something about the IRS and a whopping unpaid tax bill regarding the nightclubs she owned with her partners. She told Dee-Dee she needed money, a lot of money, so he would have to use his apartment to raise the funds, either by securing a loan against it or by selling. Her argument why revealed a long held grudge. She claimed it should have been hers in the first place. She should have got a portion of her uncle’s estate. He had got everything, and it wasn’t fair. He didn’t need a big apartment, not for himself. It wasn’t like he entertained or had a family. She said her uncle would expect Dee-Dee to do the right thing by her.
I offered a blunt opinion. “You don’t have to sell. She can’t make you.”
“She’s my mother. She said she might go to prison if she doesn’t pay her back taxes.”
“Is she bankrupt? Are her partners? Is she in danger of losing her home?”
“I don’t think so.” He rubbed his forehead with the knuckle of his thumb. “She said she owed thousands of dollars in tax and it was up to me to bail her out or they might lose the clubs. She said it was money I owed her, because I got what she should have had.”
“Listen, Dee, the way I see it you don’t owe her anything. It might sound harsh, but you don’t. She gave birth to you, but she hasn’t been a mother in any real sense, has she, be honest?”
“I suppose not.” He gazed at me, his eyes sad. “I don’t want to leave the bakery, Si.”
“Then don’t. Your uncle left you his estate because obviously he loved you. He went to lengths to make sure you were taken care of and protected after his death. This is your home. It seems to me Anne and her partners are trying to safeguard their own assets by stripping you of yours. They must have some resources. I mean one of her fellas runs a publishing business, she’s a successful writer, and they have the clubs. Let them sell them. It was their responsibility to make sure they paid the proper taxes. It’s now their responsibility to find the money to pay the deficit.”
“You don’t think I should sell?”
“No. I don’t. Why should you lose your home so they can maintain their lifestyle without making any sacrifices at all? It isn’t right. They should look to liquidise some of their own assets, not rob you of yours. I didn’t know your uncle, but my guess is he’d be appalled and angry at what Anne is trying to do to you. I think he’d also be cross with you. He didn’t leave you this apartment so you could sell it and hand over the cash to the first person who asked, leaving yourself homeless in the process.”
“I’ve been so scared and confused, Si. I haven’t been able to think straight. Anne said I had to get her the money. She said it was my duty. She shouted at me. I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t know if I had the right to say no, with her being my mother. I know it makes me sound stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, Dee. You’re just a shade or two more innocent than some people. We’ll straighten this out, don’t worry.”
“She’s flying over in a few days time, to help put the apartment on the market.”
“Call her. Tell her to put the airfare towards her tax bill. I know it’s none of my business, and you can tell me to butt out, but if you want me to I’ll call her and have a word.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. You’re my friend and friends help each other out.”
“Thank you.” He gave a shaky smile and stood up. “Is it okay for me to give you a hug?”
“I’d say so.” I got to my feet. “In fact I think it might be statutory law for friends, especially gay friends, to hug each other in times of crisis.”
After hugging him I patted his back. “No offence, man, but you stink. Go and have a shower and put on some clean clothes while I tidy up in here a bit and make us something to eat.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t got anything in, not unless you fancy a bowl of cornflakes doused in sour milk. I haven’t been shopping for days. I haven’t had much appetite.”
“It’ll have to be fish and chips then. I’ll nip to the chippy while you freshen up, but you’re paying for them, seeing as you’re loaded again.”
He laughed, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “Fair enough. There’s some money on the Welsh dresser over there. Help yourself.”
Chapter Nineteen
When I returned with the fish and chips he was in the kitchen. He’d tidied up a bit and had laid the table with plates and cutlery. He was dressed in fresh jeans and a clean t-shirt. He still looked tired, but the fearful anxiety that had sapped his energy had lifted, leaving him brighter.
He didn’t say much as we ate, concentrating on giving his body the sustenance it needed, but with no sign of enjoying the process. He was in deep thought. I let him get on with it.
When he’d finished he laid his knife and fork neatly together, covered his mouth with his hand to smother a small burp and said, “Si, I’ve been thinking, a bit straighter this time. You’re right. I think Anne is trying to use me instead of giving up things important to her. I’m not important to her. I never have been. She loves her life in New York, and she doesn’t want to lose or change a single aspect of it.” He swallowed. “This apartment is important for me. My uncle left me it because he knew I needed it more than her. It’s all I have. I’m staying.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” I said solemnly.
“It was good of you to offer to talk to her, but I should do it. I would like you to be here though, for some moral support, if you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind at all. How about you do it now?” I glanced at my watch. “I reckon it’ll be early afternoon in New York, so it’s not an unreasonable time to call. Get it over with.”
“I don’t have a phone number for her. She won’t give me one. She withholds it. I think she’s afraid in case I disturb her life by calling for a chat. I have an email address. I’ll send her an email telling her to call me about the apartment. I’m sure she’ll respond as soon as she reads it, though when she’ll read it is anyone’s guess. She works at her writing during the day, nine to five.” A touch of sarcasm entered his voice. “It must prime her for all the fucking she does on a night. Can you stick around for a bit?”
“Tell her you’re aren’t prepared to sell in the email, save yourself some stress.”
“I don’t want to seem callous. I’d prefer to tell her face to face, if you know what I mean, or voice to voice at least.”
“It’s up to you. I’ll stick around. I’ve got some student work to mark. I’ll bring it down here and do it.”
He went off to his bedroom to send an email. I began to wash up plates and cutlery. It was wrong of me to judge a woman I had never met, but I did it anyway. Anne was a narcissistic bitch who saw her son as nothing more than an appendage to her ego. She wasn’t interested in him as a person in his own right at all. He was a resource to be plundered to serve her needs, be it to make artwork of her sexual activity or to sell his home so she could continue her lifestyle of choice. Had she really expected her uncle to leave his fortune to her rather than the child he had effectively brought up? It showed a boundless egotism.
I emptied away the washing up water and dried my hands on my trouser seat seeing as there was no tea towel around. Cold and hard, Dee-Dee had said of the scenes she played. I rather suspected she was cold and hard, as opposed to the scenes themselves. She had rejected a relationship with her son in favour of living a life of sexual self-indulgence. It was a sad state of affairs.
I ran upstairs to my apartment to get my briefcase and then sat at Dee-Dee’s kitchen table marking maths assignments, the first of the new term. He didn’t sit over me. He went into his bedroom and told me to give him a yell if I needed anything, such as a cup of tea, or, he said with a touch of pride, some coffee, real coffee, from beans.
I’d almost finished marking the last few papers when the phone rang. I fought a strong compulsion to answer it, yelling for
Dee-Dee instead.
It was Anne.
I could see his hand trembling as he held the phone against his ear, but his voice sounded calm as he informed her there was no need for her to fly to England, as he had decided upon reflection, and the advice of a friend, not to sell his home to finance her oversight on the tax front. She would have to sort it out with her partners.
I watched his face flood with colour and then pale to a stark white as he listened to her response. She was shouting. I could hear her voice if not the exact words. Getting up I went to him, placing a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing a supportive circle. He gave me a small smile, but his body remained tense.
She abruptly jettisoned the conversation, putting the phone down her end without saying goodbye. I heard the angry click of the receiver.
He stood chewing on his lip, the phone still held to his ear. I took it from his hand and replaced it on the wall bracket. “I’m guessing you’re not at the top of her Christmas card list at the moment?”
“I’ve never figured on it at all, never mind at the top. I don’t think you’ll be getting one either. She said she didn’t think I had any friends and you had no right to advise me on matters you know nothing about.” Tears washed away the smile he tried to make. “Sorry.” He tried to wipe them away. “I’d have been okay if she hadn’t shouted. I’ve always hated her shouting at me. She used to do it when I was little. Uncle Desmond used to tell her my ears might be small, but they took in sound perfectly well, so she didn’t need to raise her voice.”
I located a roll of kitchen paper and tore off a square, handing it to him to use as a tissue. “What did she say to you?”
“She said she wished she’d aborted me and the only reason she didn’t was because Desmond wouldn’t have bought her the flat or helped get her writing career going if she’d had an abortion. She called me selfish and greedy. She said why should she have to give up anything when I’m sitting on the fortune she should have had as his full niece. She said she’s going to get a lawyer and contest uncle Desmond’s will.”
“Words, Dee-Dee, angry words from a thwarted woman. I doubt she has a legal leg to stand on. I’m sure it’s too far down the line to contest his will. Did you ever make the appointment with your solicitors, to sort out a rise in income?”
He shook his head.
“Then do it first thing. Make it for after four tomorrow evening or for Saturday morning. I’ll come with you and we’ll ask whether Anne can make any claim on your inheritance, for your peace of mind.”
“Sorry, Si, for getting in such a state.” The paper towel I’d given him reached capacity, so he pulled his t-shirt up to wipe his eyes and nose. “I feel overwhelmed.”
“I think I’d feel overwhelmed if my mother phoned me out of the blue and demanded I sell my house and hand over the money.”
“I’m going to go to bed, Simon. Do you mind?”
Bearing in mind what Sue had said I did mind.
“If I thought you were tired I wouldn’t mind a bit, but you’re more depressed than anything else. It’s no good locking yourself away feeling wretched, especially as you have nothing to feel wretched for. I’ve got homework to finish marking and seeing as I started it here I’m going to finish it here. Why don’t you go and watch a film? Put Mama Mia on. Didn’t you tell me it always cheers you up? Once I’ve done my teacherly duty I’ll watch it with you.”
“Okay.” He gave a watery smile. “Thanks, Simon, for being here.”
“It’s what friends are for.”
He went off to watch his film while I finished marking maths. I could hear the strains of Abba coming from his room, but without extra vocal accompaniment. Mama Mia was failing to work its magic, a point proven when some minutes later he turned it off.
When I’d done marking what turned out to be a bunch of lacklustre papers, I packed everything in my briefcase and took the liberty of making coffee. While waiting it for it to brew I made note of his telephone number, scribbling it into my diary. I didn’t have a landline phone, but I made a note of my mobile number and also my email address leaving it on the dresser for him.
His milk as he had said was sour, so we’d both have to have our coffee black. I poured two mugs and carried it to his room. Seeing as my hands were full I couldn’t knock on his door, so I shouted. “Open up, Dee? I’ve got coffees.”
He opened the door, taking a mug from my hand. “There’s wine if you’d prefer?”
“I’ve got classes tomorrow. I need to keep a clear head.”
“You’re always making me drinks and meals.” He put his mug down on the bedside cabinet and climbed back on his bed, sitting cross-legged. “I still owe you a meal. Tonight didn’t count, because I didn’t make it. I will though, Simon, maybe this Saturday if you’re not busy?”
“I look forward to it.” I took a few sips of coffee before putting my mug next to his on the cabinet. There was nowhere for me to sit but on the bed. The pandas were taking up the bottom bit, Dee-Dee was at the top and there was a sketchpad and heaps of pencils in the middle. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Of course not, here, I’ll move these.” He leaned forward to pick up the pad and gather the pencils.
“Been working on something?”
He nodded and after dropping the pencils on the floor, flipped open the pad, handing it to me.
I sat down and stared at the drawing. It was of the cat. He’d refined the details. It was brutally realistic, almost clinical, except it wasn’t. Something tugged enough to make you forget your revulsion and remember this had once been a beautiful living thing. There was a thin line of blue about its neck, a collar partially concealed by fur. I hadn’t noticed it when I’d helped wrap up the remains, distracted by disgust. There was also a tiny bell by the cat’s broken body, obviously detached from the collar by the impact of the car.
“My God, this is amazing, horrifying, but amazing. I have to ask, why did you want to draw it?”
“I wanted to catalogue its death, to record all the textures and give evidence of its existence. Someone hit it and drove away leaving it to die as if it didn’t matter. I wanted it to matter.”
He pointed at the little bell. “There was no name and address tag, just that to ring a warning to birds. It was someone’s pet, Simon.” He dissolved into tears. “They’ll be wondering why it hasn’t come home, not knowing it will never come home.” He repeated something he’d said before, sobbing. “I hate death. It’s so permanent.”
That’s what tugged about the drawing. It spoke of loss and the cruel nature and permanence of death. Poor Dee-Dee. There had been few enough people in his life for him to love and they’d been taken from him.
“Come here.” Setting aside the pad I shuffled up and looped an arm around him. “Fuck’s sake, Dee, I’ve never known anyone cry as much as you do. Give it a rest or you’ll set me off.”
“Sorry,” he snuffled, “but it might do you good to get rid of some of the tears you have banked up.”
I’d done all right on that score of late, but didn’t say so.
He got his tears under control. Raising his head from my shoulder he gave me a sheepish look. “Uncle Desmond used to say I didn’t so much think as feel. He said I needed to learn to regulate my emotions so they didn’t cause me so much pain, but I’ve never managed it.”
“Your uncle was right. Empathy is a wonderful thing, but it can be a curse when unchecked. You’ve got to find a balance.” I eyed him thoughtfully. “Know what, it occurs to me I’ve seen Anne and her men, and I believe I’ve even seen Jen, but...”
He interrupted. “You noticed her then? I wondered if you would. She just seemed to flow from the point of my pencil, like she wanted to be there.”
“I noticed. She was pretty. The only person I haven’t seen is your famous uncle. Have you any drawings or photos of him? I’d love to see what he looked like.”
Leaning down and reaching under his bed he withdrew a large dusty sketchpad and held it out.
“He’s in there.”
As I turned over the pages I found myself becoming more and more impressed by Dee-Dee’s skills as a pencil artist, and his ability to capture something beyond the physical. The portraits of his uncle showed a man in the closing phase of his life. His skin and hair revealed the passage and ravages of time. Though old it was a strong face with heavy brow ridges and a rather bulbous nose, but there was also sensitivity about the eyes and mouth, which showed he was a man of feeling, a man capable of giving warmth and affection, a kind man able to accept others for who they were. I liked him.
“Thank you.” I closed the pad and handed it back to him, feeling absurdly moved. “Thank you for showing me. Now when you speak of him I’ll be able to picture him. You ought to frame some of them. They’re beautiful.”
“Maybe, one day.” He slipped the pad back under his bed. Drawing his knees up he wrapped his arms around his legs and gazed at me. “I don’t like Anne, Si, is it bad of me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’d say I love her, but I’m not sure I do. I think what I love is the idea of the mother she should have been, or at least the mother I wanted her to be. It is selfish I suppose, to want her to be something she isn’t. Uncle Desmond used to say you can’t change people like Anne, all you can do is manage them and their influence on your life.”
I sought to waylay his growing sadness by suggesting he come out for a walk with me. I thought it might help calm his mind before turning in.
Though dark it was pleasant out. The daytime noises of traffic had diminished. The air was soft and warm, draping around us like a fleece blanket. We walked in companionable silence. Only when we were heading back to the bakery did he speak to make a statement.
