William Vollmann - The Royal Family

Just a goddamned letter drop, he repeated to himself.

Two months earlier, Irene had become certain that she was pregnant.

Sacramento had received a wet spring. Water still shone upon the black earth, and the buttercups, dandelions and mustard flowers were a sunny yellow in the ditches. On that Sunday afternoon hardly any traffic dared to slow their progress on Interstate 80 West, which thickened the pleasure John already felt in having done his duty by spending Saturday and Saturday night with his lonely mother, whose house was crammed with paperbacks: The Algerine Captive, Growth of the Soil, The Last Temptation of Christ, Mary Webb’s The Golden Arrow; his mother adored Irene, but admonished her, as John did, to lose weight and get a job. Irene tried to smile and respect her because she wouldn’t consider herself a good person if she quarreled with her mother-in-law. Having told her once again that she was too fat, John’s mother served her an immense helping of pork chops and mashed potato with butter, becoming cross when Irene was too full to eat seconds. She admired John’s new tie and wanted to hear all about the Peterson case. John told her, in considerably more detail than he had ever told Irene. Irene, half-listening to her husband and gazing into the old woman’s face, wondered whether she were genuinely interested in her son’s life, simply because it was her son’s, or whether her love allowed her to feign interest. Either way, she was an excellent listener. (Under the table, Mugsy the dog nuzzled Irene’s thigh.) John seemed happier and more relaxed than he’d been in weeks. He asked his mother for advice, which he never did with Irene; he smiled and laughed… Deeply ashamed, Irene promised herself in future to express more interest in her husband’s affairs. When dinner was finished, she asked John’s mother what she was reading now.

I’m rereading Dostoyevsky, said the old lady. There’s one writer who’s truly ageless. I’d really forgotten how good he was.

You make it sound so easy, to read all those books! said Irene in her best admiring voice.

Well, of course English is not your native language, Irene (and Irene, smiling graciously, heard some monster in the old lady’s heart crying: You goddamned little Chink!). No one expects you to read Dostoyevsky.

If I were to read just one, which would you recommend?

You heard what Mom said, John told her, a patina of irritation now overlying the happy goldenness of his voice. Why would you bother?

Irene was determined at all costs to be polite to her mother-in-law, but she saw no reason to allow her husband’s condescension to pass unchallenged. — How many books by Dostoyevsky have you read? she asked.

What’s that got to do with anything? Is this some kind of contest?

If it is, replied Irene, continuing to play the good girl, I’m sure that Mom has won. And I know I’ve lost, because I never read anything by Dostoyevsky.

Mrs. Tyler smiled benignly. — Just reading for the sake of saying you’ve done it is cheating. You have to enjoy it. John of course has read everything Dostoyevsky ever wrote. I saw to that.

Is that true, John?

Look, Irene. Can’t we just leave me out of this?

Does he write fiction or nonfiction, Mom?

Oh, my poor dear Irene, said Mrs. Tyler.

And which one have you enjoyed the most?

How could that possibly matter to you? said her husband.

Noting Irene’s bitter grimace, Mrs. Tyler quickly replied: Well, dear, I’d have to say The Possessed, although it’s frightfully sad. It reveals in such depth the stupidity of revolution. I wish that all those terrorists in the Middle East were required to read it.

Maybe they’ve read it already, said John, still sour.

Can I borrow your copy, Mom? said Irene. I promise I’ll read it before we visit you again.

Oh, you’re such a sweet girl, Irene, said John’s mother, starting to clear away the dishes. Irene leaped up to help her.

Sit down with me, Mom, said John. Irene can do it.

Please, Mom, keep John company, cried Irene quickly. John’s right! And he doesn’t get to see you as often as he’d like.

How’s your blood pressure? she heard John say as she came back in for the glass bowl.

Oh, not so good, not so bad. No chest pains today.

John gazed into his mother’s face with a loving, worried look. Irene felt so lonely that she almost screamed.

And how’s your brother? she heard her mother-in-law say.

Unshaven and drinking as usual, said John. (Her wrists deep in soapsuds, she visualized his face slamming shut as it always did when Henry was mentioned.)

There’s something I want you to say to him, John. I don’t want it coming from me, because then he won’t listen. But I know he listens to you. He respects you, John. He loves you.

Turning off the faucet, she heard John’s silence. She heard Mugsy’s tail rhythmically lashing the table-leg. Someone must be scratching Mugsy’s belly the way she liked. Probably John was doing it. John loved Mugsy.

I want you to tell him to find another girlfriend, her mother-in-law was saying. At my age it’s not so important to be divorced. Of course I would have preferred it if Daddy hadn’t left us, but it seems that so many of my schoolgirl friends are widows already. Henry, though, still has half his life ahead of him. Well, almost half, I guess I should say…

I’ll tell him, Mom, John said tonelessly.

Irene always had difficulty finding where the spatulas were kept, and she did not want to interrupt the conversation, so she opened drawers one after the other, discovering silverware like grey claw-bones, corkscrews, receipts, medical insurance forms, everything in a clutter. In her own mother’s house everything was just so. Even the tapered ends of the chopsticks had to point in the same direction. Her mother was almost excessively clean, although she paled in comparison to her aunt, who kept everyone’s shoes in plastic bags in the closet at night so that they wouldn’t gather dust. Under the dish drainer, Irene suddenly saw one of her mother-in-law’s grey hairs, and sponged it away in disgust.

I had the strangest dream about Henry last night, Mrs. Tyler was saying as Irene finished drying her hands and came noiselessly back to the table. — Thank you so much, Irene. You’re a goodhearted girl.

Mom, I’m sorry I couldn’t find the spatula. I put the potatoes away in the fridge in that big bowl.

Never mind, never mind. Do you really want to read Dostoyevsky?

Of course, Mom. What was your dream?

My what? Oh, I was just telling John that last night I had a little trouble getting to sleep. When you get to be my age, Irene, you’ll find that sleep doesn’t come without a struggle. Sometimes I think that’s why old people die. They just get so tired.

I’m sorry, Mom. When John and I go to church I’ll make sure we both pray for your health.

What was your dream, Mom? said John, bored.

Well, I dreamed that Henry had married a princess — a real princess, with a golden crown! Isn’t that fantastic? Oh, dear! And he looked so happy. I think that’s why I’ve been thinking about him all day. I would certainly love to see him remarried. Irene, you’re so close to Henry. Is there anyone special in his life?

Mrs. Tyler asked this question so blandly and straightforwardly that Irene did not at first sense any menace in it. John had without a doubt made several comments about this matter; but Irene was certain that Henry had never said anything about her to his mother.

No, Mom, she said when she realized that they were both waiting for her to say something. Not to my knowledge. But I sure wish he would find someone. Sometimes he seems so unhappy.