William Vollmann - The Royal Family

Irene grimaced and rubbed her temples. The red neon chain blinked around the yellow sign for the Russian Renaissance Restaurant where Henry had once taken her, and then the light changed and they were past it, Geary Street leading them deeper into the fog. Red bus-lights glared, ringed around with mist like the moon in some old almanac, and then after a long light John turned sharply on Nineteenth so that Irene was thrown against her seatbelt. They crossed Anza Street. John turned sharply left again. Irene felt like vomiting. Now they were crossing Golden Gate Park. The stream of tail-lights ahead of them in the fog of Park Presidio resembled the articulated scales of some complex Chinese dragon made of bright red paper.

I don’t want you to let him kiss you hello, John said.

Aren’t you maybe worrying about nothing?

It makes me sick. I can hardly stand the bastard as it is. If he weren’t my goddamned brother…

John slammed the car faster and slower through the traffic of Nineteenth, which sloped ever so gently uphill in the fog, everything grey; it would be a night of fog, with coronas around all the streetlights.

Tyler lived on Pacheco, just off Nineteenth, so he was actually very close to where the old Parkside Theater used to be — one reason that he had felt pleased with his address when he’d moved in fourteen years ago — to say nothing of the cheapness of it, thanks to quiet and to fog. John, of course, had long since accepted the dismal blocky ugliness of his brother’s choice as further evidence of ineptitude, if not of actual inferiority. To him the place had and was exactly nothing.

They parked in the driveway, and Irene, sitting queasily in the car, let John go ahead to ring the buzzer for Number Four. It was all too clear to her that she had better not act in any way eager, that her only permitted role tonight would be that of mournful irritability, so that John would be able to say at last: Well, Irene seems to be out of sorts. She’s hardly said a word all evening. What’s the matter with you, Irene? I’m going to take you home. Anyway I have some work to do…

What’s the matter? he was calling to her now. Can’t you see I’m holding the door open?

Irene got out of the car and shut her door. With an impatient finger-stab on the small black remote unit which he clenched, John locked and alarm-activated the vechicle against foggy intruders. Irene gazed up at the sky, inhaling cold, refreshing fog.

That coffee-maker of yours really sucks, John said as kindly as he could. If you’ll just read about it in Consumer Reports you’ll understand that there’s no way it could ever make good coffee. Irene, do you think we should get Hank a decent capuccino machine for Christmas?

If that’s what he wants, his wife replied almost inaudibly.

Tyler longed to ask her whether she might be unwell; but he knew that any such question would send John into a rage.

Well, enough of this swill, said John, taking his mug and Irene’s and dashing their contents out into the sink. Tyler sat sipping steadily from his cup.

The chicken was very good, said Irene without enthusiasm.

What are you talking about? laughed John. He burned it! He fucking burned it! Henry, you’ve got to get married. Mom wants you to! Not that it’s any skin off my nose, but you’re going to starve to death or poison yourself or something if you don’t find a woman to cook for you.

Do you have anyone in mind? Tyler drawled, staring into Irene’s face.

If I did, it would be pure self-defense, John replied. I think you know what I mean. Why don’t you take out an ad in the paper or something? How long has it been since what’s-her-name?

Jackie? said Tyler with weary patience.

I wasn’t even thinking about her. She never counted. No, I was thinking about… — John snapped his fingers.

You mean Alyssa.

That’s right, that’s right! John cried with a sudden strange gaiety. Alyssa — that was her name. And she would have done anything for you, but you let her go, you stupid, stupid sonofabitch!

How long ago was that, Henry? whispered Irene with effort.

Seven years ago, Tyler said. No, eight years ago. We broke up just before Christmas 1985. She, uh… I guess she still hates me…

She would have married you! laughed John. And you showed her the door! And you said, get out of here, bitch! You said—

It didn’t happen quite that way, John.

And Mom liked her, too, his brother said accusingly. Mom would have given anything to see you married.

Well, that’s not a secret, said Tyler, his hand trembling.

So you didn’t marry her. You let her go. What was the reason? John persisted, and Tyler felt hatred red and black and wobbling rise up in his stomach.

Irene sat staring down at her plate.

I guess we just didn’t get along, Tyler said finally, relieved to hear the steadiness in his voice. Now the hatred was in his chest.

Look, John said. You’ve got to face facts, Hank. You have a crummy personality. You’ve always had a crummy personality. No woman’s going to enjoy being with you. So if you catch one, you’ve got to get your hooks in her while you can. You’re going to be miserable no matter what you do, so why not just get married and forget it?

Just pretend this is Mission Street, Tyler thought to himself. Just pretend that he is a crazy and potentially violent panhandler who must be humored. He smiled at John and was about to offer him more coffee, but then he remembered that the mugs had been taken away.

The following morning was blue and cool in San Francisco. Tyler sat at the counter of a coffee bar across the street from his apartment, gazing down at the wood that the steadily darkening espresso in his cup rested upon, and he ran his forefinger along the lines of grain as if they were trails of meaning in a street map. He put a new surveillance report form onto his clipboard and wrote: 2:48 a.m. Domino and other unidentified Caucasian female entered garage with middle-aged Afro-American male, exited 3:04 a.m. He wrote down the license plate number of the car across the street, added some more garbage, and that form was a quarter finished… A woman with wet dark bangs and sunglasses kept breaking off pieces of her scone and easing them into her newspaper-reading boyfriend’s mouth, after which she licked her fingers. — Well, thought Tyler, it’s obvious who loves whom.

Any new developments? said Brady, sliding into the stool beside him.

Morning, boss.

Boss again, is it? I can take a hint. Sure, I’ll pay you. Why do you need it now? You sexually compromised?

Tyler thought but did not say: Mister, you are a toad. — But then he thought happily: And a rich one, too.

Well, did you find the Queen? said Brady.

Not yet.

But you did find something?

She’s smarter than I figured. I sent her some love letters and they stayed in that parking garage. They’re still there and it’s been two weeks. She must have read them there, or somebody read them for her. I’m sure she knows about us now, but we still don’t know where she is.

Well, it’s great she knows me, but I’m not trying to get elected. I’m sick of flushing money down the toilet. I want it to stop today. I want you to take care of it today.

Why do you want to find the Queen anyway, boss? What is it you want to say to her?

Classified, said Brady. Then he winked and said: I want her to be the star attraction of a little franchise operation I’m putting together in Vegas. I’m going to teach her to sing a little jingle that goes like this: Klexter, klokan, kladd, kludd, kligrapp… You know what that means?