Sam Lipsyte - The Ask

The next morning I found a note from Maura in the kitchen. She'd written it in the margins of an unpaid cable bill, slipped it beneath a kiwi. I'd always loved Maura's handwriting, its swoops and swells, its queer collapses. She wrote like somebody half trapped by her bubbly grade school script, still trying to ungirl it:

Milo-Working late tonight. Please pick up Bernie at H. Salamander. He can have the other cupcake in the fridge, but only after he eats his dinner. He can have one show before his bath and two books after. Call if there's a problem. Please don't have a problem.

The absence of a sign-off did not seem strange. Once she might have written one of our pet names, along with a coded reference to some salacious act. But those names, like most of the acts, had vanished. Bernie had begun to suss them out anyway, and it could be rather unnerving to be addressed by your son as "Smoof" or "Turbs" or "Provost Cavelick," to hear the words wedged so unevenly in his mouth, the way they must have been in ours. That the pet names harkened back to lost years of sustained laughter and lovemaking made me somewhat grateful for Bernie's interventions. Besides, I knew who wrote the note.

I made some coffee and took the envelope Purdy had given me to the stoop. The envelope was thick, and the first thing that slid out was a packet of cash. I shoved it back in and tugged out some stapled papers, printouts of email exchanges between Purdy and Don Charboneau. Most were terse and cautious hellos, information about whereabouts, fund transfers, but a few let loose, went "aggro," to use Purdy's word, achieved a register that Purdy maybe even secretly admired. The longest, and latest:

From: buckcharb@earthweb.net

To: Purdy.Stuart@GroupusculeMedia.com

Hi Dad. Just moved down to the city to be closer to you, my dad. I'm in Jackson Heights. Ever heard of it? Some good curry around here. Lots of dotheads, too, though Mom would have killed me if she heard me say that. Weren't so many dotheads in the service, but there were a few. Cool guys. For dotheads. Most of my unit was just niggers, black niggers and brown niggers and white niggers and Christ niggers. So, now that my mom is dead and my aunt is dead and even the only close friend I had in the Army is dead, and I have nobody in the world but you (and my girl, Sasha), I am really looking forward to us hooking up and doing father/son things, like going to baseball games, and movies, and you can teach me about sex and how to tie my shoelaces and wipe myself or maybe you can just send me more of that money. Yeah, do that. Don't they call it hush money? That's a funny phrase. Where's Lee, your Hebrew friend? Can you get him to send more hush money? Or maybe you can do it yourself. I know how much you want to see me. Come out and we'll eat some dothead food or there's also really good Salvadoran. I knew somebody from San Salvador in my unit. Another light-wheel mechanic. The close friend I mentioned before. Her name was Vasquez. Fucking Vasquez. Got an RPG right in the teeth. Can you picture that? Probably not. Yeah, so, that was what happened to Vasquez. She was right ahead of us and I saw her head explode off her neck, about three seconds before our Humvee blew. I bet you really care. There was a lot of brain and bone in the road, and pieces of a paperback book by Roque Dalton. Ever read Roque Dalton? I actually have. I'm the one who told Vasquez about him. See, I'm not quite the guy you'd think would be the guy who wrote most of this email. I'm kind of a mystery. That's what Sasha says. But then again, she's not always the sharpest card in the deck, if that's the saying for it. I'll take that money now. Love, your loving son, Don

Along with the money and the emails were directions to Don's apartment. My mission, so to speak, was described in a brief note from Purdy. He wanted me to deliver the money to Don, but more important, get some kind of read on him, figure out whether he seemed to have a master plan or was just, as Purdy put it, a "hurt, confused kid with no legs (probably the case)." The "deal," Purdy wrote, was this: Purdy would be ready at a certain point to get involved in the boy's life, be a better secret father, if Don wanted that, to help in ways beyond these relatively paltry payouts, but he needed a more reliable sense of the kid, if he could be trusted to not divulge Purdy's broken trust to trust freak Melinda. This was Purdy's ask. I was going to be his bastard son's minder, his mind reader. It couldn't be as bad as building decks, and given what Purdy had intimated at the candy store, the payout would be better than paltry. Already in my mind I was curating the opening show in the Milo Burke Gallery at the Mediocre University at New York City, where, in a maneuver without precedent, I had been promoted from part-time development officer to full-time chair of the painting department. It seemed right, if only a tad egotistical, that the first exhibit include a few of my more representative works.

The morning glided by on daydreams and coffee and decadent sessions at stool. I read poetry for the first time in years, put on loud sludgy music, did a few sit-ups, rolled over with a heavy cramp. I crawled to the computer and hoisted myself into the chair. It was time to catch up on the state of the world. I'd start with the Middle East. I found the report of a recent debate between two professors at the Ivy League college uptown. One of the experts said the Palestinians were irrational and needed a real leader, like maybe a smart Jewish guy. The other professor said that the central paradox to all of this was that Jews both were Nazis and didn't really exist. But how could they be both? He was still working on it.

I clicked onward to Home Aid Ho's . This was actually part of a larger constellation of niche sites, and I searched some other scenarios until I found one that catered to my particular deformity. Spreadsheet Spreaders featured men who pleasured their female employers for raises of up to twenty percent. I started to rub myself and, remembering I would have to retrieve Bernie soon, recalled that I'd once done what I was doing with Bernie in the room. He'd been a few months old, and though sex in his vicinity was deemed okay, or, more than okay, beautiful and natural, Maura and I had never covered the masturbation question. Was jerking off in view of your mewler any different than making sweet slow love? I'd always meant to start an anonymous thread about this on one of those parenting resource sites. Things got away from me. Now it was no longer a concern. Bernie was too old. I was too old. It took me a good while to banish this memory, return to the hermetic joys of Spreadsheet Spreaders . I rubbed on valiantly, shot what was doubtless, at my advanced age, some sullen autist into a superannuated tube sock.

Happy Salamander, the physical space, as opposed to the educational concept, took up the basement of a private home off Ditmars Boulevard. You walked in the side door, dipped your head beneath a sagging heat duct, and descended a short staircase to the low, bright chamber. The fluorescent lights drove Maura mad, but I didn't mind them. It was the filth beneath the tidiness that got to me, every bookcase and table and chair smeared with an odd, thin grease. It must have been some pedagogical lubricant.

Otherwise, you really couldn't argue with Happy Salamander, or you could, but you would get nowhere with its idealistic and adamantine young educators. They had a smug ideological tinge about them, a minor Red Brigades vibe, which often angered Maura, but which I chalked up to an abiding love for children, or an abiding hate for what children eventually become.

Splotched toddler art pocked the walls, the usual stick figure families standing in green yards under multi-colored skies, as though to assure the anxious customer that here, despite rumors to the contrary, a healthful focus on heteronormative rainbows obtained. Posters of butterflies and chipmunks curled damp from tacks, along with Polaroids of the kids on their various excursions to the nearby playground, or the local handball court, or the cracked fountain near the subway where bums liked to sun themselves and smoke. I'd seen the kiddie-diddler there, snarling and remonstrative with his duller peers.