32

Station Identification

For years, nothing happened. Then, in a matter of days, everything happened. The long, steady slog toward a large family gathering—funeral, wedding, birthday—was always followed by a period of surprises, sudden and sometimes shocking. We crested that event and were tipped over, sped rapidly downward in all the foolish postures of tumbled clowns, glimpsed in our weakness, one revelation after another, bump, bump, bump.

Mother begged me for Charlie’s address. I refused to hand it over; too late, I said. Rose accused me of persecuting Mother. “Jonty was wondering if you could put him in touch with Charlie,” Franny asked. “Jilly could play with Patrick.” Jonty had heard that Charlie was wealthy; this was a networking move—his wife was an insurance agent, always looking for a new client and cash flow. I said, “Please leave him alone.” Hubby wondered if Charlie fished—Hubby was a fisherman.

I said, “He’s busy.”

Rebuffing them invigorated me and made me as confident as a traffic cop. I loved especially turning down Mother’s request. Her response was to spread the word that I was cruel.

Charlie kept in touch, met me at Baxter’s on Hyannis Harbor for lunch, and told me the story of his upbringing. This sunny narrative convinced me that Mona had done the right thing in handing him over to people better able to take care of him: they had been grateful, they loved him, they raised him in a small, uncomplicated family, without rivalries.

“I’d like to meet your adoptive parents,” I said.

“They’re not ready for that.”

Now I knew what it was like to be rebuffed. I was reminded that I had no rights.

“It must have been tough for you and Mona,” he said another day, another lunch, Centerville Pizza.

“The worst year of my life,” I said. “It was also the best year. Do you understand that? How it made me?”

“I guess so.” But how could he? He had grown up in a generous household. He did not need to learn anything about struggle and savagery, about the bitching and counterbitching that was a dialogue of Mother Land.

“What did your father think about your finding your birth parents?”

“Like I said, ‘Don’t give them any money!’” And Charlie laughed at the thought of it.

Being with Charlie, this unsuspicious and appreciative soul, so positive, so polite, was a tonic to me. He did not draw off my energy, as my family did. He lifted my spirits, and I always felt stronger after I was with him. I knew this because afterward, when I was with someone in my family, I felt diminished, exhausted by their deviousness.

Fred came by. He, too, wanted to get in touch with Charlie. “We’re opening a Boston office. We could throw some money his way—our computer installation is still out for bids. He might like the business.”

“He seems to be doing fine. I don’t think he needs you.”

No one in the family ever said what they meant. I had to translate. Mother had said, “I can’t give him money—you know I don’t have much—but I can knit a sweater for little Patrick.” Yet what she really needed was to atone, to be forgiven for ignoring him from birth. Franny wanted to patronize him, Jonty wanted a wealthy friend, everyone wanted something from him. None of us had anything to offer him; he didn’t need us. He had grown up fulfilled, while we had been raised like wolves.

I said to Fred, “He’s got plenty of business.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

In Mother Land this meant the opposite: he wanted Charlie to help him, perhaps find him clients. Was it possible to be a lawyer and not behave like a predator?

We were in my yard, Fred and I. I had been sweeping sand off my driveway. I kept sweeping—passive aggressive. Years ago I would have invited Fred into the house for a beer. No longer.

“Excuse me?” I bumped the broom on his shoes.

“Sorry.”

He stepped aside, and I swept where his feet had been, a technique Mother had taught me. This broom-bumping meant: You are idle and in the way.

“I just came from Ma’s,” he said. He took out a piece of paper and unfolded it—a used envelope scribbled in blue ink. “She says to me, ‘Freddy, will you check and see if I paid my water bill? Those damn people sent me a reminder notice, charging me fifty cents interest for nonpayment.’”

“Don’t laugh. Half a buck is a lot of money for Ma.”

“That’s what I used to think.”

He gave me a sly look.

“You mean half a buck is not a lot of money to Ma?” I asked.

“Sixteen thousand is probably a more reliable figure. That’s what she gave Franny.”

I put down my broom, crossed my arms, and gave him my full attention. He was holding the creased envelope in his cupped palm, referring to it like a speechmaker glancing at his notes.

“Gave her sixteen grand, did you say?”

“To renovate her kitchen. I saw the check stub. And”—he glanced down again—“eleven thousand to Rose, to put in a new septic system at the cottage. And you remember that the cottage was a gift.” He lifted his hand to his face, examined the paper, and went on. “Eight thousand toward a new car for Franny. Five thousand for Bingo’s college tuition. Two thousand for something called ‘dental work’ for Franny. Oh, and Hubby got a few thousand for a paint job.”

“But all of them got land or houses,” I said.

“Right. And money. These are rough figures.” Seeing that I had dropped my broom and was craning my neck for a look at the scribbled envelope, he folded it smaller and crammed it into his pocket. “I was looking through Ma’s accounts, as I said.” He was smiling because he had caught my interest. “These are the figures that stuck out. About forty grand over the past year or so.”

“That’s unfair.”

“But, look, it’s Ma’s money,” he said, trifling with me.

“Ma handed over forty grand?”

“Probably more. I didn’t have much time to examine the books.” Fred was casual, and he could afford to be, because I was riveted by this disclosure.

“They’re shaking Ma down!”

“Not really. She can do what she wants. It’s her money.” Now, having seized my full attention, Fred said, “Gotta go.”

So his revenge on me for not putting me in touch with Charlie was to drop this scandal into my lap and then vanish. It was Mother’s method: a wicked word in your ear and then she would withdraw, and might deny ever having said the wicked word.

“Almost forgot,” Fred said. “Walter got fifty dollars for taking pictures at the birthday party.”

“They weren’t even good pictures.”

Fred was still walking to his car, as I followed, picking up my broom on the way. He got in, started the engine, and rolled down the window.

“What I just told you?” he said. “It’s confidential. Don’t tell anyone.”

That, too, meant the opposite. Tell everyone, he was saying. But I was not sure whom to tell.

 

Fred’s showing up with that news unsettled me, which had been his intention. It was a family of droppers-in. Remember me? they seemed to say. They looked for gossip, they left some gossip behind. Where do I stand? they wondered. The whole process of showing up and nudging me, leaving me stirred. Station identification.

Even my sons did it, but benignly, making sure I was all right, for as they had indicated a few years before, they were the adults and we were the children.

They had phoned from London to say how sorry they were to have missed Mother’s ninetieth. They had not known they weren’t invited. I didn’t tell them that Jonty was criticized for bringing Jilly, that I had been jeered at for inviting Charlie—that is, until they realized he was my millionaire son. But I had broken the news to them of Charlie’s existence, and told them that I’d invited him and his family to the party. Each mention of Charlie to them, I felt, was a way of easing him into their consciousness.

Julian arrived first, having called from Boston. “I had some business in New York.”

He didn’t have business in New York. He was trying not to condescend, or obligate me, with his sudden worried visit.

“I haven’t heard from you for ages,” he said. “Also, I wanted to bring Grandma a birthday present. Amazing that she’s ninety.”

“What did you bring her?”

“Green bananas. And a long book,” he said. “She’s going to last forever.”

I loved his visits, despite knowing that it was a form of station identification. I liked the glare of his intelligent scrutiny. I could not hide anything from him. I felt even better when Harry showed up a few days later. Together they were more relaxed, their gaze less intense. They enjoyed each other’s company, and mine. Because they were among the few people I spoke with who had a genuine interest in my work, I told them about my Africa book.

“I spent a lot of time in buses and beat-up trucks.”

“Trust Dad to find the slowest way of crossing Africa,” Julian said.

Harry said with mock seriousness, “You must have met a lot of English kids, traveling on their gap year. That’s what they do, take buses in banana republics.”

We were having lunch in the sushi bar in Yarmouth Port. I had declared a holiday because of their visit and put my work aside.

“I’m sorry I missed Grandma’s birthday,” Julian said. “She said I would have loved it.”

Now that the party was over, it was safe for Grandma to lament their absence.

I said, “Grandma had a good time. No one else did.”

“Charlie said he liked it,” Harry said. “He emailed me. He sent some pictures.”

“I mailed that group photo to everyone with a note,” I said, and told them how I had worded it.

“That is pure hostility,” Harry said.

“Where is your sense of fun?”

“This family never changes,” Julian said.

“Yes, it does,” I said. “It gets worse.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t there. You and Uncle Floyd in the same room,” Julian said. He shuddered. “Dr. Mongoose and Mr. Cobra.”

I said, “He was fine—in good form. We fooled around.”

They exchanged glances. I didn’t blame them. It was impossible to think of Floyd and me without imagining loud abuse, or else embarrassed silence.

Knowing that I had their attention, I said, “We could stop by his house after lunch. It’s on the way.”

“No, no,” Harry said.

“I want to. I have something to tell him.” I wanted most of all to prove to them that I was an adult, that I’d finally overcome the childishness of the years of feuding.

My sons were worried, they were anxious, but they were fascinated. Uncle Floyd was to them an almost mythical figure, famous for his rages, celebrated for his learning, a well-known poet, a cantankerous Harvard prof, widely published, a man in a black cape who had known Samuel Beckett, and in a sense had been anointed by him, as Joyce had anointed Beckett, extending a literary tradition. Floyd was part of this lineage.

Driving down Route 6A from the sushi bar, I slowed the car at Willow Street. Julian said, “I don’t want to do this.” But I knew that what I intended was another form of station identification.

As I drew up to Floyd’s driveway, Floyd was snipping with hedge clippers at a squatting, vaguely human-shaped bush. He wore a Panama hat, a white linen suit, and espadrilles.

“I have such a weakness for topiary,” he said.

“Is it a monkey?” Harry asked.

“Not even close,” Floyd said, still snipping. “The Ape of Thoth. Notice its prognathic visage. Question—which second-rate diabolist called his mistress the Ape of Thoth?”

“You want Aleister Crowley,” I said.

“As every schoolboy knows,” Floyd said. “Consecrated the Scarlet Woman by Crowley, and thus she was the initiatrix of his becoming Ipsissimus. Bride of Chaos, as she was known to him. But what was she known as to the world at large? You want simple, screwy Leah Hirsig, she of the turdish tastes in a world of cack, and I might add, not only American but one of nine children, so I think we can safely say she was one of us.”

“Nice to see you, Uncle Floyd,” Julian said.

Floyd put down his hedge clippers and adjusted his Panama hat at a more foppish angle. He squinted at my sons and said, “Now tell me about England, which is ever so ducky, and that muffin-faced queen who is head of the church, God help her.”

“She can cure scrofula by just touching a person,” Harry said. “The English monarch has magical powers.”

“I’ll rub-a-dub,” Floyd said. “What a credulous, class-ridden kingdom. But of course I miss Fitzrovia and ‘the taking of a toast and tea.’ Whom am I quoting?”

“Henry James?” Julian said.

“Toilets, which is an anagram of T. S. Eliot,” Floyd said. “What have you brought me? Nothing. What have you brought your aged grandmother? Nothing.”

We were now following him across the grass where, under a tree, a table was scattered with scribbled-on paper, a human skull serving as a paperweight.

“This is a masterpiece,” Floyd said, tapping the paper, “and this is of course an ancestor skull, used by the Asmat people of New Guinea as a headrest or a pillow. Note the patina and the shell inlay and the overmodeling. Did you want something? Am I wearing something of yours? Do I owe you money?”

“Mum sent her regards,” Julian said.

“A good woman. Her sensibly shod feet squarely on the ground,” Floyd said. “Your father took her very much for granted and paid dearly for it, if I’m not mistaken.” He was glancing at the paper he’d written on. “Oh, most assuredly this is a capolavoro.”

The boys were laughing. They had relaxed, recognizing the old Floyd, teasing and good-tempered and overacting. They were reassured, and so was I. It had been more than ten years since I’d been here at his house. Instead of commenting on that directly, he welcomed us with a burst of family abuse, which was his oblique form of welcome.

“The birthday party was a fiasco,” he said. “Why was Hubby sulking? Was he having a fit of the vapors? Franny’s husband looks like a penguin. Walter is pan-headed, Jonty’s daughter is a monkey, but then, what five-year-old isn’t the very image of a bonobo chimp? And, entre nous, did you know that bonobos are ardent masturbators? The food was terrible. Places like that should provide a vomitorium. Did you see Fred? I want to give the eulogy at his funeral. I’ll stand over his casket and say, ‘I never really knew this man.’”

“Grandma said she enjoyed herself,” Julian said.

“Because it’s the House of Atreus. It feeds on chaos,” Floyd said. “Sit down. Have a drink.”

“We’re fine,” I said.

“That’s it, take charge,” Floyd said. “Do you want orange squash? Ribena? Lucozade? Stone’s ginger wine? A lemon shandy? Where do the English get these drinks, out of a kiddie’s book? They love nursery food, the English, especially the upper classes. ‘I want bikkies, I want pudding!’”

The boys knew better than to challenge him. Julian said, “You’re right. They’re pathetic.”

“Did I say that? Never mind. Have some lemonade. It’s a man’s drink.” Still speaking, he walked to his house and returned a few minutes later with a jug of lemonade and four glasses.

“You want that skull, but you can’t have it,” he said, patting the cranium. “Which poet saw the skull beneath the skin?” he asked, and in the hesitation said, “The answer is Webster, but the judgment is Toilets, a wicked anti-Semite and I believe no stranger to sodomy. His wife was a martyr to dysmenorrhea, poor thing. She turned to Bertrand Russell for consolation, which sent her barmy. Drink up.”

I said, “Fred dropped in the other day.”

“The human doormat,” Floyd said. “Mister M’Choakumchild. What is it with lawyers? They have no souls.”

“He had just come from Ma’s,” I said. “Somehow he got a look at her accounts. She’s been giving money to Franny and Rose. Big money.”

“Looking in Ma’s accounts for clues,” Floyd said to Julian and Harry. He flapped his fingers at me as though casting a spell, and made a face. “Step forth, Auguste Dupin.”

“Sixteen thousand, ten thousand, new kitchen, new car.”

“I’m not surprised,” Floyd said.

But he was surprised. He rattled the ice in his glass and looked into the distance, across his lawn to his limestone gazebo.

“I asked her for a loan a few years ago,” he said in a new, reflective voice, his own. “She said, ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees.’ Funnily enough, I knew that.” He turned to me. “Why did Fred tell you about the money?”

“To wind me up, obviously,” I said. “He says he doesn’t care. That means he does care. The thing is, all he wrote down were the big figures. Apparently, she’s given quite a lot away.”

“Queen Lear,” Floyd said. “Two adoring daughters. ‘We love you, Mumma!’ I wonder how much she gave them altogether?”

“We can find out. Look at the accounts. But I’m not sure how.”

Though he said nothing at first, I could see from his face that Floyd was becoming even more animated. He was mentally hurrying to Mother’s house, casing the joint, slipping on a pair of gloves, and tiptoeing around it in his espadrilles.

“Cat-burgle it,” he said. “Creepy-crawl it. Find out the truth. This is treachery.” He raised one eyebrow and fixed me with his gaze. “More lemonade, Watson?”