William Vollmann - The Royal Family

Tyler didn’t say anything.

You loved Irene very much, Henry, didn’t you? I know you did.

Tyler cleared his throat. — Yes, he said hoarsely. Yes, I did.

And you’re going to visit her again this weekend, his mother continued.

Maybe we can talk about something else, Mom. We’ve had this chat before…

Henry, I think it’s important that we discuss this subject a little further. I know it’s painful to you, but I’m concerned. I don’t think it’s good for you to dwell on Irene so much.

I’m sorry you think so, Mom, said Tyler, squeezing his glass. Far away, he heard a freight train.

There’s a certain question I asked you once before, and you refused to answer. Don’t worry, she said in a hard voice. I’ll never ask you again.

Fine.

May I be frank on a related subject? said his mother. I’m not sure that those trips of yours to L.A. are very beneficial to your relationship with John. It makes him feel odd.

So John’s been complaining about me again, said Tyler, squeezing the glass.

No, not complaining exactly, his mother lied, and Tyler, knowing that she lied, seeing and reading the lie and comprehending exactly what it implied, squeezed the glass and then put it down because he knew that if he squeezed any harder it would shatter in his hand; he was grateful that he’d realized that. John had once broken a glass that way, he remembered. (He thought of Brady jeering over and over: Are you emotionally compromised?)

Where’s Mugsy? he said.

I imagine she’s sleeping under the blackberry bush. That’s her little hangout.

Do you want me to take her for a walk?

That’s just what Irene used to say. Do you remember? Irene was so good to Mugsy.

Mom, I think I’ll go lie down, he said. Can I make you some more lemonade before I turn in? Oh, I see the pitcher’s still almost full. Should I bring the sugar inside?

Ascending the stairs to his old room with the battleship-green microscope, a birthday present, still on the bureau in which if he opened it he’d doubtless find many of his T-shirts from tenth grade, history kept at bay by mothballs, he undressed, admitting that his mother was right. He would stop visiting Irene. At least he would make this weekend the last time. Early the next morning he took his mother out for breakfast and then drove her home, promised to call her soon, promised to call John, promised to look for a girlfriend, waved goodbye, took I-80 West to the interchange and cloverleaved widely round to meet I-5 South. The day was already miserably hot. No traffic detained him in the Central Valley, and by the time he’d passed three hours he was already far past Coalinga; he wondered whether he ought to visit the Tule Elk Reserve sometime; that was a place he had always imagined going with Irene. At Pumpkin Center there was an accident, and then an overheated car blocked one lane near Grapevine, but he made good time still, and at the seven-hour mark was nearly in sight of the Korean florist’s shop near the Tropicana.

How’s business? he said.

Very slow, said the florist. Ever since after big riot here is no good. Black people no good. Make everybody afraid.

I’d like a dozen red roses, please.

Yes, sir. You is always same same. Your wife is so lucky. She is Caucasian like you?

She did look pretty pale in that open coffin, he said. Thank you.

The stones at the cemetery went on and on, but he knew how to find her very easily now; he sat down on the grass early on a hot dry endless Long Angeles evening of idiotic cloudlessness and meaningless freedom; up the green from him, some Koreans were singing hymns. Her stone was clean and polished. There were flabby, stinking, horribly rotten flowers in the metal holder — maybe his. He replaced them with the red roses. He looked around to make sure that no one saw or cared. Then, stretching himself out full length on the grass, he laid his head upon the stone. He stayed like that for a long time. Finally he turned his head slowly to touch with his lips that deep, cool, V-stroked letter “I.”

You know what I like the best? said old Dan Smooth. It’s those rape cases, when you get to collect pieces of the pillow slip for yourself, and pieces of the bedsheet. If I find a likely stain, I just cut around it with my pocket knife. I have quite a collection at home. You should see ’em under the fluorescent light.

Tyler sighed. — Have another Bushmill’s, Dan.

Why, Henry, you’re the next best thing to… even if your manner may not be so attractive… Say, can I ask you something?

What?

Well, I’m probably being an asshole, but I always wanted to know. I like thinking up questions like this. It’s kind of my reason for being. What I wanted to know is, did you ever screw that sister-in-law-of yours?

Tyler was silent.

You know, the one that killed herself, said Dan Smooth eagerly, watching Tyler with a malicious smile.

I thought all I’d have to do to get some information out of you was buy you a few drinks, said Tyler. I didn’t know I was going to have to put up with your bullshit, too. You know what, Dan? It’s not worth it to me to get that information. And you know what else? I’m going to walk out of here right now and leave you with the tab for these drinks, and what are you going to do about it?

Aw, Henry, I told you I’m an asshole sometimes. I can’t help it. Listen, did I tell you I’m trying to get a whole new specialty created for me?

What’s that, Dan? said Tyler impassively.

Pediatric forensics, the other said proudly. It’s the up and coming thing. Little dead boys and girls. Marks, bruises, evidence. Sodomy holes are like snowflakes, no two alike. Get the picture?

You ought to be castrated, Dan.

Hee, hee, hee! Coming from you that’s quite a compliment, you old sis—

Don’t say it. I’m carrying, and you’re starting to really piss me off.

Oh, he’s carrying, he says! Pissed off, he says! Cocked and locked! And no luck with the Queen, either! Don’t think I don’t know all your woes, Henry Tyler! I’m the master of stains.

I do enjoy your company, Dan, but will you tell me where the Queen is or not? I know you know everything.

Even the answer to the question I asked you? Hee, hee, hee!

You’re not just sick, you’re boring.

And if I also ask you, ye will not answer me, nor let me go. That’s Luke 22 something, or maybe 23. I could tell you a lot of things about Luke.

Get another hobby, like skinning rats. Here’s twenty for the drinks. I’ll come visit you in jail sometime.

Visit the sewers, whispered Smooth theatrically. That’s where her piss goes.

Lots of sewers in San Francisco, said Tyler, unimpressed. Lots of piss, too. Can you narrow it down for me a little bit?

Sure I can, Henry. You got a pen? I’ll draw you a map; I’ll write out a regular urinalysis. Hey, but didn’t that Brady take you off the case?

As a matter of fact, Dan, he did.

So what are you getting out of this?

Oh, let’s just say it keeps my mind off things, and you know which things, and the fact that you know ought to make you pretty gleeful, you sleazy old sonofabitch. Now, let me ask you something. Is there a Queen of the Whores and do you know where she is?

Yes to both, Tyler. Just call me the yes man. You see, she’s got her fingers in a lot of sex crimes. Got her fingers in all the holes. Here’s a photo of her. Full length, you see. An old photo. It was Halloween, so for a joke she dressed like a slut. With her that’s not usual. Likes to wear that baseball cap, but sometimes she wears a wool hat. And I’ll tell you something else. She uses so much perfume she stinks like a cathouse. Well, what could be more appropriate, eh? So buy me one more Bushmill’s before you go, and take this home with you and think about how you’re going to make it worth my while, and then give me a call up at the Sacramento number Saturday morning after ten —