Jonathan Franzen - The Twenty-Seventh City - A Novel

“I don’t see why you bring this up now. We could have gone to the Club.”

“Except then Martin would have said, ‘Uh, how about the Saint Louis Club instead? Uh, they’ve got a, uh, traditional dinner. Uh, goose, turkey, the works. Ya interested?’” Martin thought the new Saint Louis Club was the smartest place in town. Rolf did a deadly impression of Martin.

“And it’s New Zealand, not Pago Pago.”

“Mea culpa.” He glanced to his left and caught a glimpse of Sherwood Drive, fast receding. “Dash it all, why didn’t you say something?”

“Mm?” she said.

Rolf scowled. Of course she hadn’t said anything. She gave him no help. “We’ll just have to turn around then, won’t we?” Thirty yards past the railroad bridge he swung over the left-hand curb with a well-absorbed shock. Gunning the engine, he threw the Ferrari into second gear and spurted across the median. The tires grabbed the pavement. The car tore off again under the bridge and up Sherwood Drive, while Audreykins shook like a leaf.

She fairly ran up the brick walk to the Probsts’ front door. Rolf consulted his Tourneau. Twenty to four. He hadn’t intended to arrive so punctually. Audreykins aimed a few girlish taps at the front door (“It’s only us!”) and Martin must have seen them coming, because the door swung right open. He beckoned them inside, took Audreykins’s hand, and, smiling with admiration, planted a kiss on her cheek. He turned. “Rolf. Afternoon.” He wore a bright red sweater and dark plaid pants.

“Good to see you, Martin.” It was! Martin looked dashed bad, his eyes pinched and his hair full of lumps. Rolf felt better already.

Audreykins was speaking in a low voice to Barbie, and when Rolf saw them side by side his spirits dipped again. His wife paled when she stood beside her sister. He pushed her away and leaned to receive Barbie’s kiss. “Barbara, dear.” He gave her a short, strategic squeeze in the hindquarters.

“Jesus Christ!”

He straightened. “Pardon me?”

“Rolf, here, let me take your coat.” Martin was pestering his shoulders, and he shrugged the coat off. Barbie was the girl with pluck. He had the wrong sister.

The women beat an effortless retreat to the kitchen. Martin was having inordinate trouble stuffing the coats into the closet, where Rolf recognized jackets dating back to the mid-sixties. One shiny gold anorak in particular caught his eye. The Martian Look. Martin the Martian. “Those old jackets do eat up the space, what?” he said meanly.

Martin gave up, leaving Rolf’s coat and muffler draped broadside over the others, and hastily shut the door.

They repaired to the living room and stopped by the fireplace, where kindling crackled beneath sodden logs. A draft brushed Rolf’s knees. Martin and Barbara had redecorated this room since he saw it in August, and why they hadn’t gone ahead and put in carpeting was beyond his comprehension. It was as comfortable as a bloody cathedral. Martin prodded the fire with a poker. Sunlight, tinted green by encroaching ivy, showed up streaks and spatters on the row of leaded windows in the long western wall. Beneath them was a window seat with lime-colored cushions, and to Rolf’s right was the piano, which Barbie could play with less precision and more feeling than Audreykins. Barbie had clearly had complete control of the redecoration. On the wall above the sofa, where Martin would have hung mail-order prints of pheasants and setters, she’d installed a series of three outsized still lifes, all by the same fellow. The paintings dominated the room. The first was a pineapple that had been split in two; the rind was gabardine, the meat a yellow tulle. In the second were bananas, fat portentous nanners on a sea of grays and whites, and in the third, a — what? A kiwi fruit. Quartered and emerald, with dark speckles, it looked like an animal from the ocean. He regarded the three paintings somberly. It was cold and glum in here. He felt unwell.

Martin clapped the dust and ashes off his hands, and Rolf closed his eyes. The man was going to ask him how business was. Invariably the crass ass inquired about business. He waited. The question didn’t come. He opened his eyes and saw Martin frowning.

“Had a pleasant day?” Rolf asked, certain he hadn’t.

“Went to the Webster-Kirkwood game, that’s about all.”

“Luisa took you?”

Martin coughed and his face grew still more sour. “No. She’s gone for the weekend.”

“Not coming tonight? That’s a pity.”

“What can I get you, Rolf?”

“Scotch if you have it, Martin.” As if he might not.

Martin marched away and returned moments later with refreshments. He raised his glass. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Yes indeed.” Rolf turned to the dismal fireplace. One of the logs groaned. “Charming fire you have here.”

“Barbara made it,” Martin said, deadpan.

“Where are the girls?”

“They are in the kitchen.”

“And Luisa?”

“She’s spending the weekend with her boyfriend.”

Rolf looked up from his glass. Martin’s eyes were glassy. “I confess that I’m surprised, Martin.”

“Let’s go watch some football, Rolf.”

“Really quite surprised.”

They left the living room and watched football. Martin refused to acknowledge that Rolf was sick. Not that Rolf needed sympathy, but in the family room, while hominid Bears clashed with hominid Jets, he began to feel as though he really did belong in bed with his heating pad, a bottle of cheer, and the telly tuned in to the most explicit of the cable channels. Football was not his cup of tea. Down the hall in the kitchen the girls twittered ad nauseam, and the setting sun cast a spindly claustrophobic sort of light through the windows. All at once the light blinked out. It was night, though somehow the sky above Chicago was still glowing, the clouds still pink and violet. Had the game been taped? Rolf sank deeper and deeper into the corduroy-covered easy chair. A beastly spot of itch was developing in his chest. He coughed.

“You have a cold?” Martin was watching him severely.

He attempted a smile but saw that he was only being told to cover his mouth. “Yes.” He projected a full-bellied cough in Martin’s direction.

Audreykins appeared in the doorway, her third shoulder now an extra breast, and announced dinner. Rolf guessed it must be at least eight o’clock. He looked at his watch. Five-thirty! This house was hell.

Barbie had laid out a goodly spread, however. The turkey rested on a platter in front of Martin’s chair, and on the white tablecloth were silver bowls and trays stocked with yams, peas and hominy, mushroom-studded stuffing, steaming gravy, an unidentifiable whitish something, and craggy mashed potatoes. A bottle of superior Muscadet stood by. Rolf helped his wife into her chair, taking care not to touch her, and took his place on the opposite side. He rubbed his hands. “Goody!”

“Barbara made an oyster pudding for you,” said Audreykins.

“For me?” He scowled. Audreykins’s face was lost in candle flames. Didn’t she know he hated oysters? Surely she did. “There’s been some mistake,” he said. “Not…plum pudding?” Which he adored.

“You don’t like oysters?” Barbie said, making oyster eyes.

“Oh, I don’t mind them—”

“Rolf!” squeaked the candles. “Be polite, won’t you. She made it especially for you.”

“Do help yourself,” Barbie purred. “Take a lot.”

While Martin concentrated on not severing a finger with the carving knife, Rolf dutifully spaded up a helping of pudding and dumped it on his plate. It would be sandy. Oysters were always sandy.

The other bowls made the rounds, and Martin loaded each plate with sawtoothed slices. Rolf found himself face to face with several pounds of tradition. He coughed on it, his private blessing. Politely, then, for Barbie, he sank his fork into the pudding and took a bite.