William Vollmann - The Royal Family

But to John it was not dull, and he refused to believe in the sadness.

Maybe it wasn’t sad. John’s Sacramento nostalgia proceeded with the abnormal smoothness of the riverbank’s curve — so many rivers! Or were they just a couple of rivers doubling? Amidst bright fields those darkly tree-lined, dishwater-colored rivers offered strange light. To Henry Tyler, needless to say, the rivers meant less than those river-trees, which resembled the hair on the Queen’s armpits.

It was the middle of March. John knew so well that the fresh Christmas-colored leaves of riverberry bushes were now sweating in the sun of Sacramento, the smell of dead fish ascending from blue mud-banks, the damps of spring not yet burned away by the summer’s golden anger. Wasn’t it right about this time last year that Irene had told him she was pregnant?

You want to look in on Mom this weekend and then drive back through the Delta?

I want to have a torrid time, Celia said with what she hoped to be a sensual pout. Will it be torrid?

Come on, said John impatiently. Tell me yes or no.

Maybe, said Celia, licking her lips.

Laughing, John looked at his watch, accepting her complaisance in advance. When can you leave? he asked.

On Friday? Six o’clock.

Four, said John, drumming his fingers.

Oh, four-thirty, I guess. But that means I… What should I bring?

The hell with that. Just throw a few clothes in a suitcase and go. But you’ll need a nice dress to cheer up Mom. Well, you’ll be in your work clothes. You can wear that burgundy blazer I bought you. And we’ll take Mom out to dinner if she’s well enough and then maybe we’ll spend the night in Rio Vista or Walnut Grove. Or maybe we’ll just get an early start on Saturday. Mom needs company, you know, and I ought to mow the lawn. You can take Mom grocery shopping. And then we’ll head for the Delta. You’ll love it. You’ll absolutely love it. It’s like another world down there, Celia, it’s…

It’s what?

Oh, forget it, said John, remembering from his boyhood the funny old bartender at Al the Wop’s bar in Locke, and the gas station attendant at Walnut Grove like an emperor, commanding each motorists to slow, to advance, to halt. He wanted Celia to be surprised, to discover all these wonders for herself.

You’re smiling, said Celia. What are you thinking about?

You’ll see when we get to Locke. In Locke they all remember me. One time Homer Fessendon and Charlie Wong and Sam Smith and I drove down there and stapled Monopoly money to the ceiling of China Mike’s. Even Hank was there. And Ronnie the barkeep… oh, it’s all too funny. You’ll see.

So your mother’s—

Well, it’s not good. She’s not comfortable. — John glared at his watch. — They were supposed to give her medicine two hours ago. If they didn’t, they’ll hear about it from me.

Having more than a half-memory of the purple and white wisteria flowers in his mother’s back yard in April, and likewise remembering the strangely intense perfume of her jasmine hedge, John found himself driving to Saramento in that season when, letting more luminescence into life, we set all our clocks and watches back an hour — an hour less sleep, to be sure, but John read in his Sunday Examiner-Chronicle that people used to sleep nine hours and now slept only seven — not that they didn’t complain, not that the traffic experts and economists didn’t bemoan the costs — more accidents, lower productivity — but the point was that it could be done. John got by quite well on six and a half hours of sleep — not as remarkable as the achievement of my friend Lara Lorson in Washington, D.C., who lives on four — but John wouldn’t have complained because he hated complainers. In that late spring season, John got by on even less sleep than that, because it was almost June twenty-seventh when for the rest of his life John would wake up from fearful nightmares of Irene, who’d reincarnated herself either as some dangerous animal or as a skeleton or a bleeding corpse, chasing him with intent to devour him, gnawing her way through fences, killing all his protectors, and even though John knew that it was a dream, a stupid dream, he could never awake to shake away the taint of horror that he inhaled with every stifling breath; every June twenty-seventh he’d awake feeling exhausted and anxious, his eyes locking in on the clock radio to find out whether Irene was still alive or whether 9:37 A.M., the time he’d found her in the bathroom, had already come; in fact he always awoke miserably early on June twenty-seventh, at 6:30 or before, compelled to lie half-paralyzed in his bed, watching the crawl of the second hand, and the absurdly glacial moment of the minute hand, until Irene had died again, releasing him into an abyss of loathing and self-loathing so that he could begin his weary day. The day after the Brady contracts for the Dallas franchise of Feminine Circus were drawn up to everyone’s satisfaction, John threw on bluejeans and his favorite polo shirt, setting out with the half-acquiescent Celia, whose desire to belong to him and be taken care of (or, as she liked to think of it, to be used) enhanced her availability.

It’s all very well for Mom to think she can take care of herself, John was saying. But she’s getting old. No one wants to get old, I guess. And…

Celia stared at him in amazement. She had scarcely ever heard him be so introspective.

And Hank of course is always hanging around, said John, checking his watch and the speedometer at the same time. — He says he’s helping her but really he’s just freeloading, eating up her groceries.

Should we stop at the supermarket?

I already made up a list.

I—

She’s afraid to die, Celia. But I asked her, Mom, do you believe in Heaven? and she blinked her eyes yes. Thank God she can talk again now. And I said, well, Mom, that’s where you’re going. It’s going to be better than it is for you here.

And do you think she agrees?

Who the hell knows? said John. Poor Mom.

And do you believe it?

Believe what?

What you just said.

Look, Celia. Let’s leave me out of this.

I’m sorry.

And you know another thing that gripes me? The way those nurses dress. Can’t you remember when all the nurses dressed in white, with those starched white caps and the class pin on the cap just so? And now they come in dressed like — I dunno, dressed crazy. And they talk on the phone to their boyfriends; they don’t turn Mom often enough; now she’s getting bedsores…

They turned onto R Street, and John said: Oh, shit. Fucking Hank is here.

Why do you worry so much about meeting him?

Look, said John. What seems like nothing to you is not nothing to me. Enough said.

Tyler was just getting into his car. John drove past the driveway and waited on the other side of the street with the windows up. When Tyler, not seeing him, continued to take his time, John leaned viciously on the horn. Tyler stiffened. Spying John’s car at last, he ostentatiously turned his back and got into the driver’s seat.

He looks really sad and bitter, Celia said.

Can we drop that subject? said John.

Finally Tyler’s car started, and he backed out of the driveway, farting smoke. — He needs a smog check, John muttered. I wonder if he… — Slowly Tyler drove past them, heading toward the freeway.

All right, great, laughed John. That asshole’s gone.

He pulled up into the driveway. Celia got out glumly as he strode to the front door and rang the bell.

Mrs. Tyler embraced him and said: Did you say hello to Henry?

The snails are eating up your magnolia bushes, Mom, said John. He plucked them off where they clung like hard brown fruit, and crushed them under his heel.