William Vollmann - The Royal Family

And if John had failed to keep it all business that night at Celia’s house, it was because that very day an untoward discovery had caught him up. Celia’s allergies to mold had impelled him to have his carpet steam-cleaned. It was one of those half-rare Saturdays when he did not need to be reading briefs or visiting the tall, windowed huddle of downtown, so while Celia, who was an excellent cook, went home and made peach ice cream, meanwhile adding to her latest list the following items:

call Jeffrey

return video

draft exclusion to Merino policy

call John — dinner on Monday or not?

delete Sandy from system

create agenda document

database A-2

John began moving furniture up against the wall, rather enjoying the work. The bed was on casters. When John rolled it aside, he discovered among the inevitable accruement of dust, lint, a penny, and several of Irene and Celia’s hairs, black and brown together, mixed together in the dirt, a sheet of Irene’s blue notepaper, which he recognized as instantaneously as he did the handwriting of Irene’s which rippled so evenly across it. Longing then to rid himself of all such memory-capabilities fluttering like voracious moths amidst the already moth-eaten curtains of self which hung inside his airless skull, John sat down on the bed with a dully submissive look upon his face, weakened by the immensity of his anger and anguish. His first impulse was to tear up the letter without reading it, but he mastered this desire, believing (though he could not have said so) that communications from the dead are sacred, that they must be accepted with trembling awe. He was afraid. But he also hoped. His wife’s suicide would never, could never, be entirely explicable to him, but he understood it well enough to interpret it as a reproach. Had Irene been less desperate on her last day, or perhaps less vindictive, she could have left him with an explanation or a few lines of tactful self-blame, so that John could try more successfully to persuade himself of his own righteousness in the matter. After all, what had she to gain by torturing him after her death — unless, indeed, that motive was the wellspring of her act? This question haunted John. And there had been no message whatsoever. The two policemen who came to take his statement told him that in San Francisco only about one out of every four people who killed themselves left a note; he musn’t feel bad about that aspect of the case, they said. But of course he wondered whether he’d been too lenient with her, or not lenient enough, or simply negligent; and if his hostility later fastened upon his brother, one reason was that Irene had herself been negligent in allowing that hostility no proven act or assertion of hers to cling to. Work, time, Celia, self-discipline, and above all the logic of hopelessness had combined to dull the ache. Now it throbbed so fearfully that for a moment he could almost believe — he had to believe — that she who would never rise again now stood before him, calming him and helping him. She would speak to him. She would explain. Sitting there on the stripped bed, he brushed the dust off that blue page and began to read — only to cry out when he saw that it was not addresed to him:

Dear Henry,

I rarely write people, the occasional letter yes, I have written a few, but not enough really. I feel bad that I haven’t written more letters in my life. The idea of writing to people strikes me as very pleasant. I write them and think not to send them. Someday I will come across this and wonder why I didn’t send it.

No, I will send this one, if only to write you — when you thought I wouldn’t. What did you think?

Did you think I would?

Will you write back…?

I was feeling pretty unhappy that day at the Korean restaurant. It made me feel better being with you. Thank you for holding my hand.

I feel so strange writing to you. But first letters are usually difficult. No matter what, they sound forced.

It’s good that I wrote it, though. I wanted to write you. And I have.

I’ll say goodbye now. And goodnight.

IRENE

He was still sitting there half an hour later when the phone rang. He sat listening as on the answering machine Celia’s voice asked over and over where he was; they were supposed to leave for OAK HILLS in forty-five minutes…

Did something happen to upset you today? Celia asked.

Oh, Brady wants some stupid clause about protecting himself from market saturation. I thought we’d be done months ago. That’s like me wanting a clause in a friggin’ marriage contract to protect myself from unhappiness…

Tell me what I should do, said Irene, playing one of John’s computer games.

The Queen or the King? asked John, and he stroked her face.

The plan is to expand internationally, was what Brady had actually said in a rambling, tedious message on John’s voicemail. (Wherever John went, he had to call his private line at the office for voicemail, check his answering machine at home, read his electronic mail, then return telephone calls in a breezy voice, after which he hung up, and swore, then with an addict’s eagerness called new numbers in order to leave contingency messages or, more likely, to get caught up in conversations he didn’t care about so that he fidgeted, tapped his foot and silently implored his watchdial until he could hang up once more.) Brady went on: We gotta capitalize on our opportunities, son We gotta launch Feminine Circus outlets in Amsterdam and Tokyo. The American market may get saturated faster than we think, or there may be local legal repercussions, and in fact, John, I want, no, I demand, some quick-release option allowing me to pull out at or just before we reach that point…

John hadn’t moved the bed yet. Irene remained temporarily deniable. He sat down on the leather couch and called Brady. Lighting a cigar, he said: You seem to think I’m a stockbroker or something. I’m just your contract lawyer.

All right, son, Brady said vaguely; John could tell that he was “with someone,” as they say, that his message had not been about anything anyhow except making sure that his hired help remained on the ball. John knew Brady’s type very very well.

Now, did we talk about executive compensation, John?

Yes we did. Several times.

Good. I want you to structure executive compensation to make it performance-based, because that way we can say screw you to the revenue code. Get the hint? And I presume you know how to get us a full tax deduction for non-qualified stock options…

That means that nobody actually gets the use of the income when the option is first granted, John said, stubbing out his cigar, which he had not once placed in his mouth.

That’s right, Brady was saying.

Then you’ll get your deduction for ordinary income above the market value…

Yeah, yeah. — Brady cleared his throat. — We’ve added two new members to the senior management team, John. So they’ll be needing to sign off on all this paperwork.

Fine with me, said John. If it takes up more of my time, that’s just more of your money. Was there anything else?

Yeah. You heard how to titillate an oscelot?

Oh, brother, said John.

Oscillate her tit a lot. This little girl here in the room just told me…

All right, Mr. Brady. You have a good weekend, said John, hanging up.

Sometimes I think that guy’s a clod, he said to Celia.

A week before her suicide, John had attempted for the last time to make love to Irene.

As he laid his hand on her naked shoulder, she began murmuring sadly in her sleep. He reached up under her nightgown. Usually she wore clean white cotton underpants to bed, but tonight she was wearing nothing. Stroking her thick, hot pubic hair, John felt the vibrations of desire. His fingers began probing and searching.