Timothy Hallinan: Everything but the Squeal

Neither the gesture nor the sentence was as precisely articulated as Bernie might have liked, but most of us were three or four notches beyond the point where we would have noticed. The one exception was Bernie's girlfriend and sole source of support, Joyce, who was pregnant. She was following her doctor's advice, or maybe it was her own advice, since she was a doctor, and not drinking. She had the glow that comes with early pregnancy. The rest of us had the glow that comes with advanced intoxication.

A fortieth birthday party is like trying to cut your wrists with an electric razor. It takes longer than you'd hoped it would, and there's no payoff. Although most of us had been doing our best, this evening was no exception.

The candles were burning in Wyatt and Annie's living room, just as they had in the late sixties and early seventies, and the food, most of it fearsomely healthy, smelled the same as it had then. The birthday cake was carob. Annie thought that carob tasted like chocolate. She also thought that near-beer tasted like beer. The cake was enormous and slightly lopsided, and it said Forty is better than nothing . Most of us in attendance, if we'd been polled when Wyatt was twenty-five, wouldn't have put small amounts of money at favorable odds on his reaching twenty-six, much less forty. When Wyatt was twenty-five, any vampire sufficiently ill-advised to bite into his neck would have OD'd long before sunrise.

Of course, that was before Wyatt had married Annie and straightened out his act. It had been more than a decade since he'd sought either cosmic enlightenment or comic relief in anything that had to be snorted or injected. Jessica and Luke, the kids on whom he and Annie had collaborated, had a lot to do with that.

I was the least interesting person present. For one thing, I was drunker than Wyatt. For another, I was thick and stupid from lack of sleep. Even if I'd been at my best, though, I'd have thought twice, or at least one and a half times, before I opened my mouth. The folks who'd gathered to celebrate Wyatt's unlikely survival into his forties could be a critical bunch. Everybody had lived through something that emphatically did not have the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

“Looking around this room,” said Miles Brand, who'd been our graduate adviser when Wyatt and I had been taking our doctorates in English, “I feel like I'm with the survivors of the Children's Crusade.” Miles, as ever, both glittered and soothed. The glitter was candlelight refracted off his steel-rimmed spectacles, and the soothe was the influence of yet another of his apparently infinite number of cashmere tweed sport coats. Miles was the only member of the UCLA faculty whose family owned a Texas bank, and the town that went with it. He made the most of it.

“The Children's Crusade?” asked Joyce as Bernie gave up trying to stand on one leg and collapsed to the floor beside her. “What was that?” Joyce, a gerontologist, had come relatively late into Bernie's life. Bernie had gone to college with Wyatt and me. The difference among us was that Bernie was still going to college, working on his fifth or sixth degree, and would probably stay until Gabriel blew the trumpet for the Great Matriculation. Thanks to Joyce, he now lived in an actual apartment. For years, the address for Bernie in the UCLA alumni handbook had been the gas station where they'd let him sleep in his car. At the moment, he looked like he was thinking about going to sleep on Joyce's shoulder.

“One of history's sadder footnotes,” Miles said, a bit more dramatically than was probably necessary. “Twelve-twelve or thereabouts, wasn't it, Wyatt?” Miles believed in sharing the stage.

Wyatt looked up from pitching lengths of pine and oak imprecisely into the cast-iron stove. There were large pieces of wood on the floor. “Poor little buggers,” he said. “A bunch of French and German kids, wandering around in the rain trying to find the Holy Land.”

“Well,” Bernie said, reviving, “at least they were foreigners.”

“Pipe down, Bernie,” Joyce said in the tone of one who paid the rent. She folded her arms across her swelling stomach. “What happened to them?”

“They were eaten alive. Not literally, or at least I don't think so.” Wyatt looked over at Miles, who made a show of searching his cluttered mind and then shook his head no. “But that was about all they weren't. Betrayed by Christians and captured by infidels. No leadership except a couple of cracked kids.”

“Sounds like the Democratic party,” Bernie said in a melancholy tone. He closed his eyes.

“Steven the something or other,” I said from what seemed like a great distance. I felt like I had to say something. After all, I'd been invited.

“Of Cloyes,” Miles said. “That was the French one. And Nicholas of Cologne leading the Kraut column,” he added, secure in the knowledge that there were no Germans in the room.

“Where were their parents?” Joyce said indignantly. “How come I've never heard of this?”

“You're a gerontologist,” Bernie said. “If there'd been a senior citizens' crusade, you'd probably be dazzling the whole room now.”

Wyatt slammed the door of the stove and looked to Annie for approval, but she'd gone into the kitchen in search of yet another bowl of her avocado-and-clam dip, with a bunch of mean little red chilies thrown into it as an unwelcome surprise. Two bowls had already turned brown at the edges and there was still no sign of dinner. I was almost hungry enough to attack the carob cake.

“But their families,” said Joyce, who supported, in addition to Bernie, a happily idle mother and father. “There have always been families. Where were their families?”

“The family is largely a literary invention,” Miles said cheerfully. He was a bachelor. “In the tenth century, painters depicted the children who were lucky enough to live as little adults, and that's what they were. They died so often in infancy that the Koreans, for example, held a birthday party on the child's hundredth day to celebrate its having survived so long. The Chinese did it at the end of the first month.”

“They still do,” I said. “I went to a one-month party with Eleanor a couple of weeks ago. There were lots of red eggs, sort of a Chinese Easter, except that the kids didn't have to die and get resurrected first.”

“And where is Eleanor?” Miles asked. “I didn't want to intrude into what might be touchy territory.”

“In China,” I said, wishing I hadn't brought her up.

“Doing what? Seems rather a long way to go to escape your admittedly peculiar charm.”

“Research on the extended family. Looking at ancestral shrines. She's going to write something,” I added, both to change the subject and to forestall the question I saw forming in Miles's mind.

Joyce wasn't interested in China. She folded two hands defensively over her swelling stomach. “What do you mean, the family is a literary invention?” she demanded.

Miles held up his empty glass, sighted through it, and poured some more red wine into it. He'd brought four bottles with him. “In medieval times, the family was purely and simply a unit of economic survival. The more kids, the more hands for harvest or for work, the greater the chance of passing along whatever miserable property the family might have managed to accumulate. Otherwise, when papa passed on, the neighbors would divide it, or the local lord- which is to say the closest armed thug-might simply annex it, just as he was likely to annex the prettiest daughter. Except that he'd keep the land, whereas he'd return the daughter after he'd had his way with her. ‘Had his way with her,’ ” he repeated, rolling the words and about twenty cc's of wine around in his mouth. “Such a delicious phrase.”