Gabriel Tallent - My Absolute Darling

“It was a war, Martin.”

“And then they give you a shotgun and send you off to Vietnam. Isn’t that right? This is a son of a bitch who likes to get up close and take you right low in the back with a twelve-gauge and watch you try and fucking crawl, and then kneel on you and cut your fucking throat. The M12, that was a good shotgun, wasn’t it? An antique by then, but the best they ever made.”

Grandpa says nothing.

Martin slaps his hands down on the table. “For what! A war for what ? Did you give a fuck? Did you care or understand what you were fighting for? Fuck no. Fuck, fuck, fuck no . You just liked it.”

“I understood why I was fighting, Martin.”

“Maybe.”

Martin sets the knife heavily on the table and Turtle picks it up. “A lot of blood in that leather handle that will never wash out, isn’t that right?”

Grandpa lowers his head onto his chest as if resting, his jowls sagging away from his face and deepening his frown.

“Well,” Martin says, “kibble must be proud to have that knife. A real family treasure. And, Daniel, you should maybe think that a hard streak runs in this family. You should maybe think about what that hard streak means in your granddaughter.” Martin leans over and spits on the floor.

Turtle looks down at the pool of grease and cream on her plate.

“None of that matters,” Grandpa says ponderously.

“None of that matters ?” Daddy echoes in disbelief. “None of that matters? What I’m saying is that, her whole life she’s been loved. And that’s something I never had from you.”

“I can’t let you around that child. I can’t do it.”

“Let’s talk about this,” Daddy says. “Is it the bruises that’ve got you worried?”

“It’s the bruises, and this whole end-of-the-world horseshit.”

“It’s not horseshit, Dad,” Martin says.

“It’s horseshit, and it’s no way to raise a child, pretending that the world is going to end, just because you’d prefer it did.”

“No way to raise a child—? If you don’t think the world is in trouble, Dad, you aren’t paying attention. The elk, the grizzlies, the wolves, they’re gone. The salmon, almost. The redwoods done for. Pines dead in stands by the acre. Your bees are dead. How did we bring Julia into this fucked-up place? This dying, raped, rotting remnant of what should’ve been? How exactly do you raise a child into the company of the self-obsessed fuck-offs who squandered and destroyed the world into which she should’ve been raised? And what understanding can she ever have with such people? There can be none. There is no negotiation. There is no alternative. They are killing the world and they will keep on killing the world and they will never change and never stop . Nothing I can do, and nothing she can do, will change their minds, because they are incapable of thinking, of seeing the world as something outside of themselves. Insofar as they see it at all, they believe themselves entitled to it. And you tell me that my rage at such people, at such a society, is horseshit ? You tell me this is no way to raise a child, and yes, I know it. But what else can I do?”

“Goddamn it, Marty, you can’t keep—” He stops.

Martin says, “I can’t keep what ?” He gives Turtle a wild look. Grandpa jaws. He can’t find the word. Turtle’s mouth is open and she puts her palm into it and bites fiercely. She can feel the smile on her face like a dreadful thing.

Martin leans forward. He says, “Well, do you know what you want to say, Dad?”

“Yeah,” Grandpa says. “Yeah.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Well, I was saying—”

“ Yeah? ”

“Oh, never mind,” Grandpa says.

“What?”

“Oh, well, I— I just meant—” Grandpa says.

Martin looks at Turtle. Grandpa is slurring his words.

“Dad?” Martin says.

“Never mind,” Grandpa says. “Oh— Oh— Never mind.”

“What? What? ”

Grandpa looks from her to Martin with his one good eye, his right eye lidded, and he adjusts himself on his chair with dignity. He opens his mouth, and slurring badly he says, “I think . . . I was just saying that . . . this is no way to— to— to—” He stops.

“What, Dad?” Martin says.

“To—”

They wait.

“Oh, never mind,” Grandpa says angrily, “never mind.”

“To raise a child?” Martin says. “No way to raise a child?”

“Yes,” Grandpa says, and he stops. He is spraying with every word. Turtle looks intently into his face. The right side seems to be going to sleep. The lid is closed. It opens once sleepily and shows the white crescent of the sclera and then lowers just as sleepily and stays closed. Daddy waits, leaning in, looking at Grandpa.

Grandpa says, “A— A—” and can’t seem to find the word.

“A child?” Daddy says.

“Oh,” Grandpa says, “oh never mind.” He reaches one hand across the table to her, says, “I . . .” and whatever else he means to say, he can’t find it. He says, “I . . .” and visibly searches painfully, mouthing.

“What the hell, Dad,” Daddy says.

“I was going to . . .” Grandpa says. “I was . . .”

Martin says, “What in the fuck ?”

Grandpa stands up, knocking his chair over, lists wildly to the side, and Martin lunges up, making a grab for Grandpa’s shirt, and Grandpa goes down hard onto the floor.

“Kibble,” Daddy says, “call an ambulance. Do it right now.”

Turtle stays fixed in place, looking in horror at her grandfather lying half tangled in the chair. He struggles and rolls over onto his side. He looks up at Turtle. The right side of his face is slack, the skin hanging away in curtains of old flesh that looks like poured yellow wax. He says, “Sweetpea— Sweetpea—” He tries feebly to get his hand under himself.

“Call an ambulance, kibble.” Martin comes around the table and kneels beside Grandpa. His boots creak.

Turtle rises and walks to the phone on the wall, picks it up, and dials. Martin is helping Grandpa out of the fallen chair. He says, “You fucking— You motherfucking— Goddamn you, Daniel. Goddamn you.”

Someone says, “911, what is your emergency, please?”

“Um,” Turtle says. “What’s our emergency, Daddy?”

“Stroke,” he says.

“Wait— Wait— Wait, Julie—” Grandpa keeps saying. He jaws and searches for the word.

“Wait, what ? Dad. Wait— for what ?”

“Oh, never mind.”

“What do you see?” Martin says.

Turtle uncovers the phone and she says, “Wait.”

“Waiting,” the operator says.

“Stroke!” Martin yells at her.

“Stroke,” Turtle says.

“And are you at . . .” and the dispatcher gives their address.

“Yes,” Turtle says.

“Oh, Martin,” Grandpa says. “I was going to say— Say that . . . What I meant was . . .”

Daddy kneels, holding Grandpa’s hands and looking down him, and he says, “What? Daniel? Tell me what ? What is it?”

Turtle has never seen her father so desperate.

“Miss?” the dispatcher says. “Miss?”

“Wait,” Turtle says. She wants everybody to stop. She wants everything to slow down. She just needs more time. “Wait,” she says.

“Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

“Shut up!” Turtle says. “Just wait!”

“Miss—”

Turtle presses the phone to her chest and watches. Martin holds Grandpa’s hand and says, “What is it, Daniel? What did you want to say? What do you see? Tell me what you see.” She drops the phone and walks to the table and sits down beside Martin. He is kneeling over Grandpa, saying, “Tell me what’s happening, Dad. Tell me what you see.” In the corner, the phone hangs on its cord and the dispatcher says, “Miss? Miss? I need you to stay on the line.”