William Vollmann - The Royal Family

What do you mean, what do I do with it? It’s my vacation. I don’t have to do anything. And by the way, about your and Celia’s vacation, I just wanted to know. I was actually just trying to make conversation, John. No need to get huffy.

John’s not huffy, Celia interposed. That’s just how he is.

Correct, said John, crossing his legs. That’s just my nature.

You think they’re going to terminate me? said Celia’s father anxiously.

Oh, Daddy, sighed Celia.

The back office prides itself on being a separate company. And they hold all the aces. If they terminated me, you think your legal eagle boyfriend could help me sue?

Sure, said John cheerfully. Pro bono.

How many people have you sued?

Thousands. They’re all dead now.

Celia’s mother, whose nervousness had already been aroused by the exchanges between John and Donald, tried to think of something to say and finally blurted: Are you still in your mourning period, John? I always thought it was good manners if the mourning period lasted a year.

Well, let’s see now, he said, raising his eyebrows. How long has it been since my wife killed herself? That’s what you’re asking me, right? I mean, why put too fine a point on it?

Please, John, whispered Celia, her eyes watering. Mama didn’t mean any harm.

Oh, well, forget it, John began, and if someone had rushed to dilute the silence he might have truly been able to let the topic pass, but since Donald was so evidently distempered by his bluntness, and since Celia’s parents, their countenances well sculpted but slightly timeworn, like the Elgin Marbles, hung on his words like vampires, he knew that if he did not speak he would choke with sadness, humiliation and rage, so he burst out, staring them all down: June twenty-seventh. Is that what you were all fishing for?

John, I’m so sorry. I—

She was a great gal, you know, terrific gal. But I’ll tell you something, Mrs. Keane (and here a horrid smile crossed his lips. Celia was tongue-tied with dread.). She couldn’t keep house as well as Celia here. Would you believe that?

John—

Your daughter sure knows how to clean. I’ll say that much for her. She knows what’s important to me. I’ll give you an example. She was the one who hit on that Blue Wave cleanser. That took the stains right off. Well, most of the stains. I still had to get the bathtub refinished. They say blood and protein’s the worst. And today is December twenty-first. So that makes a hundred and seventy-seven days, or six months, depending on how you count — how do you count a month, Mrs. Keane? Do you use the lunar month of twenty-eight days or the variable calendar month? Since June has thirty days and July has thirty-one days, was July twenty-seventh the one month anniversary of her death or not? Donald, my man, a penny for your friggin’ thoughts.

John, I’m so sorry, said Celia’s mother.

Now, what we need to determine, he went on, raising his voice, is whether Emily Post and the other mavens of etiquette actually permit me to be here whooping it up with you fine people on this — should we call it a fine evening? — or whether it would be more befitting for me to sit in a bar somewhere in the Tenderloin, the way my grungy brother would—

That’s a district of San Francisco, Celia explained brightly, clenching her fists.

The Tenderloin? said Celia’s father. Doesn’t he mean the bad area?

… Drinking myself into a stupor until next June twenty-seventh, or would June twenty-sixth be good enough? If there’s no leap year I guess then we could wrap it up. The mourning period, I mean, John shouted.

(Celia would not forget the sight in that bathtub, not ever. Nor would she forget the refinishing man who’d arrived two days later and lounged in the doorway saying to John: That bathtub’s gonna be as smooth as a baby’s ass, Mr. Tyler. Don’t you worry about that. I take pride in my work.

(All right, fine, said John. Just make sure you mask it off. I’m a clean freak.

(What happened in this bathtub, anyway? said the refinishing man. It don’t really look so bad.

(My wife died in it, said John. Just make sure you mask it off, all right?)

Donald said: For Christ’s sake, John, we get the picture.

Oh, you do? Good. Then let’s talk about something more pleasant. Mutual funds, for instance. Do you have a Keough IRA, Donald?

I don’t even know what I have. When I started working for the company last year they told me something about stock options, but…

Wrong answer, said John. I want you to tell me yes or no.

Celia laid a hand on his shoulder, but he shook her off. He went on and on. He talked about stocks and bonds. Only Celia’s father was interested, but Celia’s father was extremely interested.

Easy to put John in a bad light, to perceive in him a desire to torment! But, if we set aside his undeniable territorialism regarding his inner life, his mastiff’s instinct of self-defense even to growling and barking, we’re left with a sincere, almost ingenuous enthusiast of market forces, an almost convivial do-gooder, who enjoyed shepherding his fellow creatures towards security and riches. (Come tax time, Donald’s life is not going to be pretty, he said.) Mr. Keane’s anxiety about the future might have been tiresome to the family; to John, it was natural, prudent, appropriate. John would help him if he could. Passionate believer in self-help and mutual aid, unsurpassed justifier of insurance, accumulation and other end goals, he remained in his own peculiar way as kind to human beings as he was to his mother’s dog. It was natural that in due course he would advise Domino, who always wondered where the money was in her life. (He easily withstands comparison with his fraternal antipode, one Henry Tyler, whose twenty-thousand-dollar investigative access bond with the Department of Motor Vehicles John had paid half of, out of duty to that same Henry Tyler who when walking down Jones Street, enjoying in equal measure clouds over Ellis Street and fire escape shadows on that classy watering hole the Cinnabar, was approached by a man who said: Yo, brother, can I bum a quarter? I ain’t gonna lie to you. It’s for a beer. — You can smoke crack with it for all I care, said Tyler, fishing for a promise-keeper. Sure I’ll give you a quarter.) John wanted the best for everyone, even for the impudent Donald. Did his pity contain contempt? To be sure, John loved dignity. But his hardness was less a means of intimidation, or even of expression of any sort, than an inescapable constituent of his being.

I recall the afternoon at the office when Mr. Singer grinned, sneered and shrugged at the same time, back-tilting his massive bald head. — You’re certainly all business, John, he said. If it weren’t for the fact that the clients seem to like you so much, I’d have to consider you — well, almost abrasive—

If they like me, it must be because I’m all business, replied John. After all, we bill them for my time. They don’t want to pay me to talk baseball. I had a lawyer once who—

But, you know, sometimes talking a little baseball puts a person at ease. Sometimes you can get them to open up…

You mean, like a girl on the first date, said John.

Now, you see, said Mr. Singer with a tiresomely professorial air, you can say that to me, and it’s really quite funny. But if I were to say that to Joy, or, God forbid, to Ellen, why I could be sued for sexual harassment. Creating an unsuitable working environment, they’d call it. I’m sure you know what not to say to the client…

That’s why I keep it all business.

Maybe you’re right, John. Maybe you’re right. God knows, it’s easier to get castrated than you think.