David Gates - Jernigan

The bottle was still about half full: ought to more than do me. I set it down next to the Morris chair, tucked my feet under me to sit sidesaddle and began reading again and sipping right from the bottle. A much more generous feeling than doling it out to yourself by the mingy glassful. I was satisfactorily drowsy, if drowsy is really the word, by the time I got to the part where Freddie Threepwood finds Psmith’s ad in the newspaper (CRIME NOT OBJECTED TO). But now I didn’t want to stop reading. So I went back to the kitchen, drank off the inch or so of coffee left in the saucepan (not bothering with milk this time), then filled the pan with water and made a fresh pot. Not to drink all of it myself; it would be a nice surprise for Martha to wake up and find coffee already made that all she would have to do was heat up. Those old husbandly nice surprises. Oh what a feeling, Toyota, not to have to work tomorrow, and to be able to stay up and do whatever the fuck you felt like doing as late as you felt like doing it.

So I sat curled up in the Morris chair, reading again the familiar deceptions and revelations, taking now a sip of gin, now a sip of coffee. At some point I looked up and saw branchy webs of frost on the windowpanes. I tried to remember how Coleridge’s “Frost at Midnight” went, or at least what the fuck it had been about besides frost at midnight, but all I could remember was the title — and this was one of the seminal poems of the Romantic period! Unless I was getting it mixed up with the “Dejection” ode. The old In our life alone does nature live . Then it began to turn gray outside, and most of the coffee was gone, and most of the gin.

So: My Big Wild Night, by Jernigan. Now, probably at the same time I was up reading P. G. Wodehouse in the Morris chair, some rock-and-roll star in New York was speedballing coke and heroin and getting sucked off, as flunkies stuck needles into both arms, by a groupie in a leather skirt. Okay. But who’s to say I wasn’t as close to my edge as he to his?

The gray gave way to full daylight, but I didn’t turn the light off: I liked the yellow glow off the page, giving the illusion that darkness still surrounded. Martha appeared in her robe and said, “Hi, you been up all night?” Not even judgmentally. And nonjudgmentally, she put the tablecloth back over the tv.

I picked up my coffee mug and raised it as if to toast. Meaning, I suppose, Here’s what kept me awake and here’s to it. She whittled her index finger at me and said, “You want some breakfast?”

I shook my head.

“Listen,” she said, “were you going to speak to the kids about last night? Because if you’re not up to it, I’ll be glad to say something.”

I stared at her. “Be assured,” I said, “that Jernigan is up to it.”

She looked doubtful. “Well, I guess that settles that.” She picked up the gin bottle and raised it to eye level. “Whew,” she said. “If you’re sure.”

“I would like some toast,” I said with great dignity. “And I will come to the table.”

She put down the gin bottle and saluted, then went into the kitchen. I listened to the breakfast sounds: burners lighting snat snat snat snat, pans clanging, cupboard doors squeaking open, refrigerator door thumping shut. Two soft pings — slices of bread being dropped into the toaster! — then the springy snap of the toaster’s lever being pushed home. I got up then and went into the kitchen myself, so I wouldn’t have to hear my name called. And there I sat as she bustled.

“Are you all right?” she said.

I nodded.

“Maybe you can get some sleep once the kids get off to school,” she said. She sat down to wait for the toast.

“I’ll think about that,” I said. And I did. Then I got to thinking about some other thing, and the next thing. My mind not really racing anymore, just going. And her mind, I thought, must be going too. We sat there with our minds going.

The toast sprang up and Danny and Clarissa came in, still buttoning their shirts.

“Hey, Mrs. Peretsky?” Danny said. “We’re running real late. You have anything we could just grab?”

Martha looked at me.

“Not so fast, you two,” I said. “I want the both of you to sit down and have a decent breakfast”—that’s right, folks, Peter Jernigan saying Not so fast and talking about decent breakfasts—“and we’ll have a little family conference.”

“Dad, we’re gonna miss the bus,” said Danny. He picked up a tiny green tomato from the windowsill, examined it, put it back.

“Right you are,” I said. Danny and Clarissa looked at each other. “Fortunately, old Dad happens to have some time on his hands this morning, and will be available to drive you to school. And I should warn our affiliates that we’re going to be going a few minutes over this morning.”

Clarissa’s brow knit; Danny’s head cocked. Not quick on the uptake, these kids.

“But. Old Dad will be happy to go into school with you and placate whoever needs to be placated.”

What a way to talk. I didn’t blame them for feeling contempt, assuming that’s what those sullen expressions meant. In fact, I thought, that in itself might be a topic worth addressing.

“If you grow up and have kids of your own,” I said, “I mean, when you grow up and if you have kids, and not necessarily even the two of you having kids with each other” —I was getting lost in all this—“if you ever have kids of your own, then you’ll know what the hell I’m talking about,” I said. “And you’ll know what it is to behave in ways that are contemptible , and to read that contempt right there in the faces of your own children. And enough said about that aspect of things.”

I was trying to talk about authority.

“Dad, are you okay?” said Danny.

“I am trying,” I said, “to talk about authority.”

Nobody said anything. Danny looked at Martha.

“Now I agree,” I said, “that authority is probably arbitrary, okay? Ultimately probably arbitrary. That’s not what we’re talking about. But okay, let’s even assume it is arbitrary. Simply contractual, okay? Not divinely fucking ordained . A simple agreement that I will play this role and you will play that role, for our mutual benefit and exploitation. Okay? Say that’s the deal. The point I’m getting to is, that some of us in this room haven’t been living up to the terms of that contract.”

Clarissa was staring at the tabletop. She didn’t seem to be aware that one leg was bouncing madly.

“Dad, I’m sorry we didn’t help out last night,” said Danny, probably thinking he was cutting right to the heart of the matter. “When I went to get Clarissa she was asleep and I didn’t want to wake her up, and then I sort of fell asleep.”

“Whatever,” I said, graciously.

“Do you want more coffee?” said Martha. A pathetically transparent stratagem, and I came about that close to telling her so.

“Let’s all have some coffee,” I said. Mr. Genial. “You kids, now, you have some cereal or whatever, nice breakfast, and let’s see if we can’t agree on what the nature of our contract actually is.”

I was about to begin asking Socratic questions.

Clarissa’s leg had stopped bouncing. Now she was looking at her mother, lower lip trembling. “Mom?” she said, and couldn’t go on. My heart went out to her: here was this horrible man in her house.

“It’s all right, sweetie,” she said, putting a hand on Clarissa’s arm. “May I talk?” she said to me. “You’re not making very much sense.”

I pointed to her and called out, “Take it!” As if to a jazzman.

“This probably isn’t a great time to make it official,” she said, “but since we’re all here and since everybody knows anyway that we’re going to try to make a go of this together, you know, as a family, we thought it would be a good idea just to make clear what the rules were.”