J. Lennon - The Funnies

“How’d it taste?”

He nodded. “Good. Going on a picnic?”

“I thought I’d go visit Mom, maybe take her out to Wash Crossing.”

“Can I come?”

“Yeah, sure. Should I make you another sandwich? For lunch?”

He looked at the pile of ingredients, eating them with his eyes. “Would you?”

“Absolutely.”

He stuck out his hand, to steady himself against the counter. “I think I might lie down for a bit.”

“Maybe you ought to.”

He walked halfway across the living room before he stopped, his hands out at his sides like a dancer’s. “Tim?”

“Yeah?” His voice had the quality of a wax-cylinder recording, tremulous and faint.

“There’s somebody else in the house, man.”

“It’s my friend, Susan. My editor. Do you remember?”

“No.”

“She’s in town for the weekend. I told her to stay in my room. Is that okay?”

He made it the rest of the way to the couch, supporting himself with delicate gropings of the chair, the end table. “That’s cool, sure,” he said.

I sat down with him. We turned on the TV, but since it was Sunday there were only religious shows on. Pierce noticed the Family Funnies videotape lying out by the VCR. “Were you watching that?” he said.

“Yeah. Brad Wurster did the animation, you know. He’s the guy teaching me cartooning.”

He was silent for some time, touching his face lightly, like one might a lover’s. “I don’t think you ought to be doing this whole thing. You can stay here forever for all I care, in fact that would be really cool, but you should get some kind of job instead.”

I took a minute to let that sink in. “Do you have any reason for telling me that?” I said. “Because it’s really hard to pass up. It’s a lot of money.”

He snorted. “Money corrupts, bro,” he said, half-ironically. “And besides that, you won’t ever stop. And you’re too nice a guy to do it.”

Nice. The innocent chime of it filled me with gratitude. I reached out and touched his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his seat.

“Jesus!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I backed off a few inches, trying to stifle the urge to touch him again.

“It’s okay, but. Man alive.” He shuddered. I waited for him to get back on the subject of me and the strip, but he never did, only held himself against an ambient and imaginary chill. I heard movement in the hall.

“Hi,” Susan said. “Pierce. Remember me, Susan?”

He managed a smile. “I guess we never officially met.”

She extended a hand to be shaken, and I cringed, but Pierce took it gently. “Forgive my, you know, inhospitality. I’m coming off a spell.”

“Sorry.” She seemed not to be made uncomfortable by this, and I was relieved.

“Well, you know,” Pierce said.

There wasn’t much to talk about after that. I told Susan to help herself to breakfast — I had bought some cereal — and that Pierce and I were headed for the nursing home. “I can meet you back here at some point,” I said.

She nodded. “Well, okay,” she said, and headed for the kitchen. I felt like I had let her down, and didn’t know what to say. What were the rules for accommodating one’s editor-friend? I had no idea. I was baffled enough to want to cry.

In the Cadillac, Pierce said, “She’s cute.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Are you, you know?”

“No!” I paused to swerve around a dead animal. “I like her.”

“She’s cool.”

I half-turned to him. “What’s your girlfriend like?”

“She’s a witch,” he said.

“That’s not very kind of you.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “She’s a witch . Like, a wiccan. Herbs and spells and shit. She lives in the Pines.”

I thought about the sand I’d seen on the floor of the Cadillac. It was still there now. “She’s a Piney? You’re dating a Piney witch?” A lot of people do not know that there is a giant forest in the middle of New Jersey, called the Pine Barrens. It’s all trees, sand and cranberry bogs, and is home to the cleanest natural water and most isolated people within five hundred miles.

“I wouldn’t call it dating,” Pierce said, but I could see he already thought he had said too much. I didn’t say anything more about it.

The first thing I noticed at the nursing home was Bobby’s car, parked at the far end of the lot, away from the other cars. I pointed it out to Pierce, and he nodded. “I forgot,” he said. “They come on Sundays. It’s like, their day.”

“They don’t like it when other people come? Does Rose come weekends?”

“Rose comes Tuesdays, I think. Mornings. Bitty during the week, but I don’t think lately.” He slumped in the seat. “I’m sure he’ll be pissed. Whatever.”

We found Bobby, Nancy and Samantha in my mother’s room, sitting in a small row of identical aluminum chairs. Nobody was saying anything, and my mother’s eyes were closed. Everyone but Mom turned when we entered. “Hi,” I said to them and grinned to show that I meant it.

Bobby stood up. “This is unexpected,” he said. He looked weary. The ruddy plumpness that usually came off as healthy now seemed like the result of some sort of infection, as though his thick skin was going to slough right off.

My mother’s eyes were open now. “Well. Is this a party?”

“Hey, Mom,” I said. She squinted at me. As far as I knew, nothing was wrong with her eyesight.

“Boy,” she said. “They let you dress like that in church?”

I had dressed, unconsciously, in what Susan had worn the day before: cutoff jeans and a white shirt. “I didn’t go to church.”

“It’s Sunday!”

Pierce spoke up now, almost at a whisper. “Mom, how are you?”

“Seems like I’m everybody’s mother.”

“Uncle Pierce,” said Samantha. “Are you sick?”

“Samantha!” Nancy said. To my utter astonishment, she reached out and slapped Sam full in the face, letting off a sound like a dropped volume of an encyclopedia. Nobody said anything. Samantha did not cry. I hugged the paper bag tighter to my chest, and it crinkled hollowly.

“What in the hell was that?” my mother said.

“I haven’t been feeling too well, no,” Pierce said. “But I’m a lot better today. Nancy,” he said, turning, “don’t ever hit a person for my benefit.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” Bobby said.

Nancy didn’t speak, but her expression betrayed a kind of horror at what had transpired. The guilty hand covered her mouth and she took a deep breath around it. Everything about her said I’m sorry and everything about Bobby — the deepening folds of his chin, his thick hands spanning his knees — said don’t apologize . Samantha’s face bore the handprint in deep, livid red.

I broke the silence by holding up my paper bag. “Mom,” I said. “I brought you some food. I was thinking maybe we could take you out to Wash Crossing for a little picnic. Do you think they’d let us do that?”

She smiled politely. “You’re so nice to invite me on a picnic,” she said.

Bobby said, “This isn’t your day to visit, Tim.”

Nancy, with a sound that nearly made me hit the ceiling, cracked her knuckles.

Samantha excused herself and got up to leave the room. Nobody stopped her. After a moment Nancy followed, offering Pierce and me a varnished smile on her way past.

“I’ll check on springing her,” Pierce said, and left.

My mother, alone with her oldest sons, looked blithely at us as if we were handsome strangers. “I’m interested in this picnic,” she said. “Are both of you fellows coming along?”

“Mom,” I said, sitting down. “It’s Tim.” I took her hand. Bobby looked down at the entwined hands, curious and slightly disgusted, as if they were a pair of trysting housepets. “I was here a couple weeks ago. We’ve been talking on the phone.”