William Vollmann - The Royal Family

At once she was given to understand by the changed expressions of her two interlocutors that she had said more than she should, or at least more than they wanted to hear. It was acceptable for John or his mother to broach the subject of Henry’s sadness, but Irene would always remain an outsider; admitted to the family for a lifelong period of probation, it was not for her to make judgments on the emotions of others. Later, on that Sunday afternoon when she and John were driving back toward San Francisco’s foggy white and blue rectangles, she succeeded in forgetting the frown on her mother-in-law’s face. John was happy. He drove at five miles an hour above the speed limit, smiling all the way home. It was as if he’d received the gifts of the drug Ectasy, which (according to Henry, whom she loved to ask about drugs, none of which she’d ever tried) consists of a drowsy joy which thickens around your naked skin like fur; this is the transformation of every nerve ending in your skin into an excited clitoris; you knead a breast or buttock in your hand and cannot stop because your hand is having a million orgasms; you massage your sweetheart’s back for hours; when you close your eyes and wriggle your fingers you can still see them move; your teeth keep grinding until your jaws most pleasurably ache. Irene gazed at her husband, who drove on, and somehow his very joy overcame her with the familiar intractability of her position, as solid as her room in her parents’ house with its computer, TV, telephone, beads, animal posters, and stickers. Perhaps her cousin Suzy had the computer now. Irene had told her parents to give it to her. Suzy was still in school, and the computer had not yet fallen so far out of date.

They were on the Bay Bridge now, and looking over the edge Irene saw the dark steel ships upon the pale grey sea.

Her husband was still smiling faintly. Summoning her fortitude, Irene said: John, I think I’m pregnant.

Slowly, slowly his head turned toward her.

I guess you forgot your pill again, he said.

Yes, she said.

Well, he said, I hope you’re happy.

How about you? she said. Are you happy?

Mom will be thrilled, he said. Well, it’s a shock, Irene. I won’t deny that.

There was no traffic at the Civic Center exit. He turned right on Van Ness, where the traffic was also abnormally light, and was silent until they got to Chestnut Street, where as he turned he said: Who’s the father?

Mr. Tyler lived in Wyoming somewhere. Nobody had heard from him for years. California’s no-fault divorce laws entitled Tyler’s mother to an automatic half of common assets, but, having kept the house anyway, she let the cash go. John once took her to task about this, because he believed her to be motivated only by an apprehension of being thought greedy, when the simple truth was that like her other son she honestly did not care about money. Possibly Mr. Tyler would have settled some of it on her, had she asked, but by that time neither of them wanted the death of their marriage to drag on. Not long after John had begun to go steady with Irene, he’d proposed in one of his metallic jests that Hank employ the professional knowledge which he presumably possessed to go to Wyoming and seize their father’s assets, his reward to be a ten percent commission on anything collected. — I had an assault case involving that scenario, Hank mumbled. It happened right around the Loki Hotel. This woman made a nice little scar on this young girl’s forehead. You see, she was one of these women who… — John walked away, disgusted. And the notion of sending out a Viking raider on their father’s track had died a merited death, much to Mrs. Tyler’s relief. All that was important to her was seeing her sons, which was why every July they drove down to Monterey for a week, that town not being so far away that John couldn’t pop back into San Francisco if he were needed at the office. This year he warned that he could not guarantee his presence in July, because a new client had asked him to prepare some articles of incorporation which it seemed might have ripened exactly to the point of signature by July fifteenth, commencing the infant enterprise’s fiscal year, so he telephoned his mother to ask whether May were acceptable. That would be a pity, of course, Mrs. Tyler replied, because the beach would still be so chilly in that season, but John only laughed and said that Monterey was always cold and she never swam, so what was the difference? As for Hank, he knew how inconvenient it was for John to get away at all, so naturally he would rearrange his schedule as needed. It was a rare sunny day. Mrs. Tyler had installed herself in her hotel room for a nap. Irene lay sleeping on the sand, and her hands met at an apex beyond her head, there by the chair and the empty soda bottle. She had not yet reached that sluggish, langorous, trusting stage dwelt in by so many pregnant women, when the heavy belly makes every breath a burden, and independence must be traded for resignation, with or without hope, depending on temperament. Why not hope? Too late now to kill the fetus, if one ever thought of it. Why not assume the best of the father, and maybe even of the world? The only other course, aside from denial and distraction, would be a despair compounded by its own passivity. C’est sera sera, and so… The sun glittered on her watch. Beside her, John lay very still on his back. He was gold from head to toe. The breeze strained patiently inside his swim trunks, and the golden lion’s down on his arms seethed like seaweed in the waves. His chest barely moved. As Tyler watched, busily recording nonexistent license plate numbers in the surveillance report, Irene opened her eyes and looked up at the stubble on her husband’s chin. John seemed to feel her gaze, because his hand slowly rose to touch that very place. His eyes opened also, and he sat up. — I’m getting sunburned, he said. I think I’ll go in and put my shirt on. I need to shave, too.

As soon as her husband had gone, Irene’s eyes widened, and she turned her face slowly toward Tyler’s. Tyler’s heart began pounding.

And how’s the home life? Tyler was saying to his brother.

Great, said John, drumming his fingers on the edge of his beer glass. — Which reminds me. Mother, you’ll want to hear this. We’re expecting.

Oh, John! their mother cried. What fabulous news! When is Irene due?

September.

Where is Irene? their mother said.

She went to lie down.

Has she been having morning sickness?

I don’t think so, Mom, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. Irene’s not a complainer.

John, you are very lucky to have her.

Yeah, I know, Mom. How’s your blood pressure?

It was normal today. Henry, aren’t you going to congratulate your brother?

Congratulations, Tyler choked out.

I think this calls for champagne, boys, don’t you think?

Well, let’s wait until the baby’s born, said John sullenly.

They sat there, and Tyler said: How’s the Peterson case coming along?

We stopped that conviction dead, said John. Irene and I can count on a good bonus this year. So they’ve asked me to take the T-scam reclamation case. I haven’t refused, although it means I’ll be pretty busy for the rest of the year.

Well, you do have to think of your career, their mother said. You certainly couldn’t have refused. I’m sure that Mr. Rapp and Mr. Singer are to be trusted. You’ve put up with so much for them. Oh, John, I’m so proud of you, and now you’re going to be a father, too! But you won’t leave Irene too much alone, will you? It’s difficult, a woman’s first time. I remember when I was pregnant with you, John, and then your father… Henry, you’ll have to look in on Irene even more often than you do. It’s a mercy that you and she are so fond of each other.