William Vollmann - The Royal Family

Irene did not return that call.

The next day he called her answering machine and said: Irene, please forgive me. I’m sorry. I’ll try to control my feelings better. I’ll try not to call you every day anymore. I won’t call you unless you call me. I’m just calling now because I didn’t hear from you about lunch. If you feel uncomfortable around me now, I won’t bother you anymore, I swear, Irene. Just let me know your plans. I’m sorry I’ve been so stupid. I haven’t felt like this since I was sixteen. I feel so idotic and angry at myself and so miserable. I don’t know why this had to happen. Don’t stop being my friend.

Irene had not returned that call, either.

There was a Cambodian girl he knew who looked a little like Irene.

He put his hand on her thigh. All day she let him hold her hand; she’d held his hand back; she’d snuggled up into his arms. He began to stroke her thigh. He stroked her hair.

You like to touch my hair? she said.

Your hair is so soft, he said.

(She had to stay home to care for her parents. Her sister she didn’t trust so much.)

Now his hand was right between her legs, and he was rubbing her mons veneris which he could feel through the polyester slacks which were getting damp there. Imperceptibly she opened her thighs a little more. He stroked, and they never looked at one another.

You like to touch that? she finally said.

So much, he said.

She put her hand on his hand and drew her fingers across his as he masturbated her.

A moment later she moaned. That animal happiness of hers thrilled him.

But then she said: It’s making me nervous.

Sometimes he called her on the phone to give her compliments. As soon as he had hung up, he felt sad and miserable inside. Once he called her back five minutes again and she seemed just as happy to talk to him as ever. He felt happy, too. Then the conversation ended, and he hung up and felt miserable again.

Speak when spoken to, you little bitch, chuckled Domino, slapping Sapphire across the face.

Doan hit back! whispered Beatrice, for whom running away had not worked out.

Mr. Brady? said Tyler.

How the fuck did you get my number? This is an unlisted number. This is a business number.

Unfortunately, it was in a new CD-ROM product that just arrived today, said Tyler.

Wait a second, said Brady. Do I know you?

Do you know me, boss, or do you just believe that you know me, or do you believe that I believe that you believe that I know you?

Henry fucking Tyler! boomed Brady in high delight. This San Francisco voice reminded him that he had fond memories of the Ritz Carlton Hotel, of the bells from Grace Cathedral mingling with the trolleycar bells. — Well, how the blazes are you, old son?

Can’t complain, Mr. Brady. And you?

I personally am doing quite well, said Brady. This Feminine Circus thing, well, everyone just loves it. Feminine Circus is going places, son.

Well, how about that, said Tyler.

We ran a lot of marketing experiments, said Brady. We tested the product within an inch of tolerance. And you know what, Henry?

What? said Tyler.

The goddamned product held up.

Well, I’ll be, said Tyler.

Cut to the chase now, said Brady. What do you need?

Where’s the Queen, Mr. Brady?

Which Queen? laughed Brady. Don’t tell me that even you ended up falling for that horseshit you snookered me with…

That’s a mixed metaphor, boss. Well, no. I guess it could just be an odd one.

I don’t have time to screw around, said Brady.

Okay, boss, but I do. So where’s the Queen?

What do you really want? Brady said wearily.

I want the Queen back. I want my Queen.

You’re a nutcase, Brady growled. Falling for some skanky little black bitch who never even existed. It’s not going to happen, Henry. Take a hint. You’re nuts. You’re in dreamland. Now, let me ask you something. Are you just a nut, or are you going to make yourself a dangerous nut?

I’ll say just one word more, Tyler said. Please.

This is embarrassing, said Brady. Now, Henry, I’m sorry for you, but I’m going to have to let you go now…

Toward the end of November he dated Beatrice again. (Outside, two kinky-looking, fat-buttocked cops were helping a weeping woman into an ambulance, the one at her elbow, leading her up the ramp; nobody was in any hurry so any other passengers must have died.) He asked about the Queen. Beatrice whispered that she was too afraid to revisit that subject, but Strawberry was up in Sacramento now, and Sacramento was far enough away from Domino and Brady that Strawberry might feel safe…

But she didn’t. When he finally tracked her down, she wasn’t hooking downtown or in Oak Park anymore; she was doing three months in Rio Consumnes for parole violation. Her real name was Naomi Luisa Ehernberger. Inmates whose last names began with any letter between A and M inclusive were allowed visitors on Saturday mornings, provided that their behavior had been apathetic or assiduous. He drove down from Sacramento in Dan Smooth’s car at seven on a bright cool leafy Saturday morning with scarcely any traffic to hinder him. He took Route 99 south to the exit for Elk Grove Boulevard and then pulled into the first service station he saw and got directions to the prison. The cop at the door sent him back to the car twice, the first time because he’d dared to show up with his wallet in his pocket, and the second time because there were too many keys on his keyring. These contraband items having been rendered inoffensive, the cop at the door slowly read his visiting application slip twice, disparaged his penmanship, and motioned him into the hallway where after waiting in a line of quiet patient people he met a second cop who scrutinized his application slip and sent him upstairs where after showing the application slip and his driver’s license to an old desk cop who stamped his hand WDF for Women’s Detention Facility he had the pleasure of settling into one of the many white plastic chairs which faced the television’s advertisements for wonderful cars with almost no money down and easy hazy future obligations; he stayed there for about half an hour, until they called for all persons whose hands had been stamped WDF to line up. He followed his peers across the parking lot past the high fence with the sign MALE PRISONER INTAKE to the Women’s Detention Facility upon the ivied walls of whose exercise yard another sign read NOTICE: IT IS UNLAWFUL TO COMMUNICATE WITH INMATES IN THIS FACILITY. Inside the cafeteria where he was going to meet Strawberry, another sign prohibited the inmates from attempting communication with the food servers, and Strawberry would tell him in that place the women weren’t suposed to talk to each other, either. They had ten or fifteen minutes to eat, four to a table, and the administration didn’t want any fights. Tyler showed his application slip to a pretty deputy behind glass, then went to the bathroom because the deputy had just announced that anybody who needed to use the toilet during the visit would not be allowed to come back. A hale, whitehaired old man stood straining over the toilet. Tyler heard three or four staccato drops of liquid splash into the bowl. — Weren’t hardly worth it, laughed the man with a wink, leaving the toilet to Tyler, who after a more volumetrically successful urination returned to the waiting hall to discover that beside the panoramic window-view of steel seats and telephones a door had been opened permitting egress to the cafeteria into which uncertain women in yellow or red institutional shirts were now advancing, each searching for her visitor. Later, when Tyler met Chocolate at the Wonderbar and told her where he’d been, she asked what color shirt Strawberry was wearing, and when he said yellow, Chocolate looked sad and said: She’s in the bad place. Poor thing. — Camelia Dorm, he said. — That’s the worst, Chocolate said. That’s the fishbowl place where they don’t trust you. Screws watching you everywhere.