William Vollmann - The Royal Family

Clenching his lips, he sat up and removed his hand from his niece’s pants. He sucked on his middle finger again, just to get the taste. Where was the harm in that? The taste was sweet and rich, like sweet and sour fish in a Chinese restaurant. He almost ejaculated.

The panties had somehow worked themselves down to her knees.

You see, honey, it’s time for you to go back to sleep, he made himself say.

No, Uncle Dan. Can’t I please stay with you?

I’m afraid if you stay with me we’ll get in trouble.

I won’t tell, the girl said. I can keep secrets.

That’s good, honey.

So can I stay?

He bit his lip hard.

Can I?

So you never tell secrets? he temporized.

You want to hear a secret?

Yes.

She whispered in his ear: I like playing doctor with you. That’s my secret. It feels good. I want to play doctor with you again. Right now.

Well, honey, go to sleep and we’ll play doctor tomorrow.

You promise?

I promise, he lied. His plan was to pack up and leave the house immediately after breakfast.

The child touched him through the jockey shorts he wore. — I want to play doctor right now. I can’t sleep if I don’t play doctor with you.

Her little fingers spidered so curiously up and down him. — I want to see it, she moaned. Please, Uncle Dan. I want to see it.

Once Dan Smooth had seen a pearl, a new pearl, freshwater or saltwater he couldn’t remember, but it was so small and shining and pink. Wet and pink it had been, with a gleam of light on it that changed according to the angle of his glance. It was so new and clean and pink.

Suddenly Darcy began to wail loudly. — I want to see it! I want to see it!

He heard the bed creak upstairs, and then his sister’s heavy footsteps. Darcy! his sister called. Darcy, honey, are you okay? Where are you, sweetie?

The silence lasted as long as man and child stared into each other’s eyes. The child saw the man’s fear and felt her mastery.

If I keep quiet, will you let me see it? she said.

Yes, he whispered. Later. Now pull up your underpants, quickly.

Darcy! Darcy! called the mother loudly.

He could hear her footsteps coming downstairs.

He had his hand on her underwear trying to pull it back up and she was trying to push his hand away and crying: No, no, no, no! when his sister opened the door.

That had been almost twenty years ago.

One night Smooth told that story to Tyler just as it had happened, but needless to say he had to elaborate upon the rich fresh animal odor of the little girl’s underpants, which approximated the steam-smell from meaty minestrone; and to Tyler’s mind this detail alone condemned the account as a lie, because how would Smooth have been able to sample and savor that smell without seeking it out? He didn’t consider the other equally plausible possibility that Smooth had incorporated this into the old memory, either on purpose, to twit Tyler and amuse himself, or inadvertently over the years, confusing what had really happened with what might have happened, or with what had happened with other little girls who had either liked him, or not.

The next time Tyler saw the Queen, he was looking for a parking place near Eight-Fifty Bryant, where an industrial job required him to check the recent court records of one Earl J. Simmons; and because the police cars had taken every available spot he started round the block, assuming that he would probably have to complete the circle for nothing and then go a different way, when he spied Our Lady whispering into the tall man’s ear in a doorway. The tall man noticed him right away (and once Tyler got to know him he would learn that the tall man never, ever forgot a name or a face). Tyler saw him touch her shoulder and point. She was wearing cheap dark wraparound sunglasses. There was a car behind him, but Tyler rolled down the window and waved. The Queen smiled. Her left hand rose to her cheek, and tilting her head, that gaunt, strange, small woman fluttered her little finger at him in a discreet wave.

That’s it, that’s it! Irene used to laugh when Mrs. Tyler made the dog twitch. There she goes! Oh, Mugsy!

She’s had these spots for a long time, said John. Maybe it’s from where they took out her ovaries or something. There’s something remaining. Are you a cutie? You’re happy, eh? You’re happy.

Fondly he scratched the old dog. John was very good to dogs.

That had been last year. Today Mugsy was at the vet. She had bone cancer, his mother said.

His mother was lying down resting. He felt so sad, so lonely and sad, so sad, watching the silhouettes of trees on the lawn across the street slowly join the darkness. Not so far away, he heard a long freight train.

The newspaper said that somebody else had gotten shot in Oak Park. The newspaper said that Wall Street was worried about the impending economic recovery because if there were more jobs, stock prices might go up, which would be bad for certain Fortune 500 companies, he didn’t understand why.

He went to see if his mother needed anything, but she was asleep, so he got into his car and drove to the Torch Club to have a beer. John had always been more partial to the Zebra Club, which was a jock kind of bar where to triumphant hurrahs the bartenders breast-squeezed pubescent girls on their birthdays and then poured double shots of the young things’ favorite concoctions down their throats as a reward; doubtless they weren’t allowed to do that anymore. Tyler didn’t care either way; John had been one of the hurrahers. But who knew what kinds went into the Zebra Club these days? Tyler found himself driving past, peering into the open door. He couldn’t see anything but he heard happy lustful shouts.

One good thing about Sacramento was that it was always easy to park. He stopped to get a quick shot of Scotch.

The President can’t be acting alone, said the man on the next stool. Who pulls his strings?

Which ones? said Tyler, thinking about Irene.

Who pulls the President’s strings? I’m asking you a question, guy.

The man was very drunk, angry and red in the face. Tyler pretended to give the matter due consideration and then concluded agreeably: Must be the Trilateral Commission.

No! the man roared, lunging. Tyler sidestepped him and tripped him. The man’s head hit the floor hard, and he lay there.

Why don’t you take a walk, guy, said the bartender. I’ll deal with this.

All right, said Tyler.

He went out and wondered what it was that he hoped for from the Queen. Expectation was growing in his heart. He had the feeling that he might be capable of change after all, and the thought of becoming different from what he was refreshed him so deeply that at this fatal moment he agreed with himself that it hardly mattered whether he were to change for the better or for the worse. But what did the Queen have to do with any of it? Suddenly he felt the the breath of evil was on his neck, and he walked down the street shuddering.

He went home and ate low-fat yogurt with his mother, then slept. In the morning he drove to the vet’s to get Mugsy. The dog stank of death. She could barely raise her head.

Well, Mom, it doesn’t look good, he said.

You have to expect those things at Mugsy’s age, his mother said, scarcely looking at him.

Last year, or maybe the year before, Irene and his mother had been lying together on his mother’s couch. John’s sleek little laptop computer glowed on the dining room table, while Tyler sat very slowly picking at his fingernails and staring at the moisture on a cold bottle of beer. The dog pillowed her head in his mother’s lap. Irene said: Mom, what would you do if your dog wasn’t around?