Domestic Violets (25 page)
“This place used to be such a dump,” says a voice close by.
I’ve been so busy hiding out that I hadn’t even noticed that Nicholas Zuckerman has sat down two stools over. “Truly,” he continues. “People glorified it, of course. Writers glorify all sorts of things that don’t necessarily deserve it. Your dad especially. But it was definitely a dump.”
I look around to see if Brandon is nearby. “Umm, hi. I’m Tom—”
“Of course you are,” he says, holding his hand out. “You look just like him. You didn’t so much as a child, but you do now. I guess we change as we get older.”
He’s not a well-looking man, Zuckerman, and his sadness is vivid, like an aura. I’ve read every book he’s written, and he’s written many, but I’m a little frightened of him. He and my father have been famous for decades, but they’ve largely drawn wide circles around each other, interacting most often in the abstract, by referencing one another in the occasional interview, and not always in flattering ways.
“Were you at the ceremony thing earlier?”
“No, no. I’ve stopped attending those things. I’m in New York for—well, for some medical reasons—and I thought I’d drop in on your dad. He called me last week and made me promise I’d come. It’s quite a day for him. You should be proud of him.”
For years I’ve been watching seemingly intelligent people grow tongue-tied and stupid around Curtis, and I never understood exactly why. But now, the part of my brain that controls talking is filled with fog and static. Zuckerman must be used to this, and so he looks at his drink, something clear with a lime wedge floating in it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I actually didn’t realize that you and my dad knew each other all that well.”
“It’s interesting. People always assume that we don’t like one another. Your father behaves like an imbecile most of the time, that’s certainly true. And I think people tend to assume that I don’t really like
any
one. But I’m actually rather fond of Curtis. We’ve kept in touch over the years. He’s the only man I know who’s as bad at being married as I am.”
I laugh eagerly at this. Nicholas Zuckerman just made a joke to me. This is one of those moments that I’m going to think about for years and wish I’d been more clever and interesting.
“So, what do you do, Tom?” he asks.
“Well, that’s complicated. I used to have a horrible office job, but I’m currently working as my dad’s bodyguard.”
Zuckerman smiles. “Your dad told me once that he thought maybe you’d end up writing as well. ‘He has a writer’s sensibility, and a writer’s flair for knowing how bad things can get.’ That’s what Curtis always told me. Sounds like a bit of a curse to me, actually.”
I resist the impulse to ask Zuckerman to repeat himself. The idea that he and my dad have discussed me, even in passing, is shocking.
“How’s he doing anyway?” he asks.
“Who, my dad?”
Zuckerman nods.
“Fine, I guess. He’s trying to finish his novel. He tells everyone it’s brilliant, but I think it might be giving him more trouble than he’s going to admit.”
“I mean,
physically
. How’s he doing? He’s lost some weight, but he looks well, all things considered. I have some experience with cancer myself. It’s an awful thing. But it
can
be managed. I’m certainly a little worse for the wear, but I’m here. And Curtis is a younger man than me.”
The drink in my hand goes heavy, and I nearly drop it on the bar. “Wait. I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I—” he says. His face changes, the lines go smooth, and then everything snaps back into place. But before he can say anything else, my dad, Sonya, and Brandon appear, and Curtis is accusing the two of us of being wallflowers. “Come on, you reclusive bastards, this is a party. Nicholas, I see you’ve met my son.”
“Um, I have,” Zuckerman says.
I’m almost certain that he said “cancer,” but that’s impossible. My father is standing right here, drinking with his arm around his literary agent. It doesn’t make any sense.
Sonya introduces Brandon to Zuckerman. The shortest among us all, Brandon pulls his shoulders back and lifts his chin. “I tell you, Mr. Zuckerman,” he says. “I’ve got a lot of clients right now. But, if you’re interested in a new literary agent, I could probably make some room for you.”
Zuckerman forces a smile and looks at me before quickly looking away. “I’ll give it some thought. I’m actually in a bit of a dispute with my current agent over some cover art.”
“Cover art? Jesus, why do you even need cover art? Save the money. Your cover art should be a sign that says, ‘I’m Nicholas Zuckerman, buy this damn book, you idiots.’”
Everyone laughs.
I’m still dazed, replaying over and over what Zuckerman just said. The two writers together have caused the room to shrink as people have begun shifting in our direction, and in a matter of seconds we’re all but surrounded. I look at Curtis’s neck and his hands and the hollows of his eyes and his belt, cinched tighter around his waist. I think about the way he looked when he showed up at my house that night and the way he looks now. There’s the duffel bag of pills he had me steal for him. Did he even need clothes? He could have just bought some.
Curtis is going on about some student of his, some story about a character murdering his girlfriend with his grandmother’s ancient blender, and Nicholas Zuckerman is looking at me, trying to silently apologize. He thought I knew.
Of course
he thought I knew. I’m his goddamn son, why wouldn’t I know?
“Tommy,” says Brandon. “Have you ever even driven the Porsche?”
“What?”
“The Porsche. You ever driven it? Or have you just been staring at it since you were a kid?”
“I . . . no. Never.”
There’s more laughter and then Brandon is telling my dad that he’s too old for a Porsche, that men his age should drive sensible Cadillacs. People are getting closer still, and I don’t even know who any of them are. It’s suddenly very claustrophobic.
“OK, so he won’t let you drive his car,” says Brandon. “That seems a little obsessive, but at least he’s told you what his new book is about, right? Come on, Violets. Give it up. Curtis, it’s been five years. Give us a synopsis, at least.”
Curtis laughs and takes a sip of his drink.
How could I not have seen how thin he looks?
“It’s about . . . the human condition,” he says. “Right and wrong. Good versus evil. I don’t want to give anything away.”
Brandon is about to push further, and I should tell him to back off, but someone yells “Ha!” and the room goes quiet. And then it’s yelled again and again. It’s a big, loud, drunken fake laugh. It’s Alistair Stewart. “Ha, ha, ha, you smiling asshole!”
“Hey, Al,” say Curtis. “How’ve you been, old friend?”
Alistair elbows his way into our circle. “Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop, Sonya, but I couldn’t help but overhear your kid asking about this arrogant bastard’s
new
book.”
“OK, Alistair,” says Zuckerman. “This isn’t the right time.”
But not even Nicholas Zuckerman can stop this. Alistair is too determined, and worse, he’s shit-faced. “It’s an interesting question, Curtis, isn’t it? How
is
that novel coming along? What’s it about again? There’s no reason to be shy about your brilliance. We’re all so interested, being as the sun rises and sets out of your ass.”
“You’ll have to wait and see, Al, just like everyone else.”
“Alistair, please,” says Sonya.
His highball glass is empty in his hand and he’s using it as a pointer. “I’m sorry, Sonya. I’ve always respected you. But no. I’ve had just about enough of this—our pandering to this overrated fraud. Tell us again how talented you are, Curtis. Please, it never gets tiring.”
Curtis is half smiling, but all of the bravado is gone.
“Come on, the Pulitzer for
your
collected stories? It’s a stroke off, and we all know it. Your little farewell award.”
“Dad,” I say, taking his arm. He looks at me—he seems almost confused—but he remains there, standing his ground against this little tyrant.
“Son,” says Alistair. “I hate to break this to you, but your precious father hasn’t written a bloody word in five years. It’s his little secret. But
I
know it—and other people are starting to figure it out, too. He’s finished.”
Zuckerman steps forward now, unsteady but towering over Alistair. “Al, I forget, how many Pulitzers have you won?”
The editor seems stung, stumbling back a step as a smattering of laughter echoes off the pastel walls. But his anger brings him back into focus quickly, and he levels his gaze on Curtis. “You’re washed up. In thirty years when people are still reading Nicholas and all the other writers who really matter, no one will even know who you were. No one will give a shit about you anymore.”
Curtis sets his drink on the bar and manages still to smile. This is bad. I should get him out of here, but behind my dad’s smile there’s something like genuine fear, and I’m so startled by it that all I can do is stare at this scene like some car accident in slow motion. Curtis surveys the room—acknowledging all of the eyes on him. “You shouldn’t believe everything that comes out of your wife’s mouth, Al. Unhappy women have been known to tell tall tales. I can’t say I blame you though. It’s a lovely mouth.”
At the mention of his wife—and worse, her mouth—Alistair goes rigid.
“Those lips are really something. All pouty and damp. It’s amazing the things she can do with them.”
Sonya covers her face and lets out a sound I don’t think I’ve ever heard before, like a sob and a scream.
Alistair slams his empty glass down and it shatters into a wide circle of broken glass as a lime skitters across the floor.
“Can I get you another drink, Al?” Curtis says. “That one looks empty.”
And then Alistair Stewart is lunging at my father. The rest of us, Sonya, Zuckerman, and I, are frozen. We’re statues in a movie about people who can stop time. Everyone except Brandon, that is. One quick step and my would-be agent’s fist catches Alistair’s weak jaw, sending the editor sprawling to the floor atop his own broken glass.
“Brandon, no!” yells Sonya, too late.
When Alistair scrambles back to his feet, he inspects his hands. Blood, even in trace amounts from dozens of tiny cuts, leaves everyone stunned. And so no one has the presence of mind to stop him as he charges, flinging himself and Curtis Violet over a table of empty mojito glasses.
I
t couldn’t have
lasted more than two minutes, even though it felt much longer. Of all the brawls in the history of that bar/restaurant, I doubt if ours ranks among the best. With its scratching, name calling, flailing elbows, wild, virgin punches, a split lip, two bloody noses, and a bunch of wrinkled shirts, it was all definitely more Havana Central than West End. You’d think that the New York City Police Department would have more serious problems to deal with, but it must have been a slow afternoon, and they showed up so fast that I wondered if they were waiting outside, peering in through the windows just in case this gathering of American writers got out of hand.
To say that we were arrested would be an overstatement. However, since we were all legally drunk and some of us actively bleeding, we were rounded up, loaded into the backseats of two squad cars, and taken not to jail, where real, legitimate criminals go, but to a detoxification center about seven blocks from Columbia in the middle of East Harlem.
Thank God this didn’t include Nicholas Zuckerman, who did little more than stand in our ridiculous swarm and tell us all how asinine we were being. I could see that he was trying to protect my dad, but Alistair was too much and kept pulling Curtis back onto the floor where they rolled around grunting at each other.
“We’ve got some fighters here,” one officer said to another officer, a heavy man with a mustache sitting behind a Plexiglas window. He looked up from a crossword puzzle and frowned. “You fucking kidding me? These guys?”
“Seriously, can I, like, talk to a lawyer or something?” asked Brandon. Everyone ignored him. “Umm, hello?”
That was about an hour ago. Now we’re sitting in a long, narrow room with padded walls and about thirty rubber benches, each just wide enough for one person to lie down on. There’s a water fountain and a toilet toward the back of the room, and the walls are a dingy beige color. It’s an ominous, soothing, emotionally devastating color, and it’s almost identical to the hallways and conference rooms aboard the Death Star. Aside from a few snoozing bums in the corner, we’re the only people here. The fact that they’ve shoved us all in together, with our bruises and bloodstained collars, is testament to just how unthreatening we are as a group.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to hit you?” says Alistair. He’s been steadily sinking into his bench, his eyes at half mast.
“Probably fifteen years, I’d guess,” Curtis says.
“You’re such a dick.”
“If it’s any consolation, Al, I haven’t seen her in a long, long time.”
Alistair folds his arms, petulant. “It’s not. Not one bit. You ruined my marriage. Do you realize that? The only good thing in my life.”
“Well, let’s call it even, because my fucking eye is killing me.” He touches the side of his face, which has begun to swell. “I’m probably going to have a black eye for a month.”
“Good,” says Alistair.
“I can’t believe they took away my BlackBerry,” says Brandon. “What the fuck do they think I’m gonna do with it? Make a bomb? Who am I, MacGyver? At least let me check my Facebook.”
My dad coughs, holding his ribs. I saw him once with Alistair’s wife a few years ago. It was his birthday and I stopped by his office at the university to say hello. When he finally answered his door, he was harried, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Through the crack in the door, I told him I was taking him out for a birthday drink, but he said he couldn’t go because he was working on a scene. He told me he had two characters right on the brink. You can never leave them when something is just about to happen, he told me. As he closed the door, I caught a glimpse of her naked on his couch, her arms crossed over her breasts and her long bare legs on the armrest.
“I’m sorry about your lip, Tom,” says Alistair. “I wasn’t aiming for you.”
There are traces of insincerity there, but I appreciate the effort. “It’s OK. I probably deserved it for . . . something.”
“What about me, Alistair?” says Brandon. “Where’s my apology? Look at my nose. I look like a coke fiend.”
“You hit me first, you little queen.”
“Well yeah, but I got all caught up in the moment. You were being a real asshole to Curtis. We don’t take that shit where I come from.”
“Where’s that, the Upper East Side?”
“Ha-ha!”
I study a yellowing water stain on the ceiling, wondering if it’s urine. If so, I’d like to know how it got there.
A few minutes pass, and then Brandon perks up. “So, Alistair. Before you went all apeshit and got us throw into San Quentin, I was going to ask you—did you read that story I sent you last week?”
Alistair squints. “What?”
“You know, the one about the Iranian family at the Thanksgiving Day parade? It’s a good story, Alistair. His novel is slated for the spring at Random House, and it’s freaking awesome. Like
Kite Runner
after few Red Bulls. I think it’d be good to debut him in the
New Yorker
. He’s got an exotic last name and everything. I know how you guys love that shit over there. Think about it—you can take all kinds of credit when he blows up and goes on
Oprah
.”
“Christ,” says Alistair. He lies down and throws his arm over his eyes. “I don’t have time for this right now.”
“That’s interesting,” my dad says. “Does the
New Yorker
still publish fiction, Al?”
“Screw you, Curtis!”
“Really? I thought it was just movie reviews now.”
I’ve been denying it to myself for a long, long time, but I am my father’s son. Asking the fiction editor at the
New Yorker
if the
New Yorker
still publishes fiction is exactly the kind of thing I would have proudly asked Greg. Looking back, things might have gone more smoothly for me if I’d just learned to keep my goddamn mouth shut.
More moments pass, an hour, maybe more, and Alistair has fallen asleep—or passed out, depending on how one classifies these things. His breathing has trailed steadily into a little whine, and for a while, it’s the only sound in the room. Brandon has gone into a sort of pouting trance as he pines for his BlackBerry and stares at his expensive shoes. Curtis is quietly examining his bruised knuckles.
What Zuckerman said—that word he used—is abstract and unformed. It still exists only in the realm of the impossible. But what Alistair said, about Curtis’s writing, that’s different. “Is it true?” I ask.
He knows what I’m asking, of course. He looks over at Alistair, checking for signs of consciousness, and then he simply nods.
“How long has it been?”
He puts one knuckle in his mouth and rubs it. “About what Al said. Five years. Give or take. But it’s complicated.” He leans toward me, lowering his voice. “I’ve started more things than I can count. I’ve got so many damn beginnings. But everything just fizzles out. At first I thought I had Alzheimer’s. That’s how arrogant I am, Tommy. I’ve never had writer’s block in my life, so it had to be something else, right? Some deterioration. I saw this specialist in D.C. He stuck these little suction cups to my head and had me solve puzzles and do math problems. But my brain . . . apparently . . . is fine.”
“Then what is it?”
“There just aren’t any more words.”
He looks smaller than he’s ever looked to me, slight and worn on this rubber bench, and that’s when I’m able to grow up and admit to myself that it wasn’t a mistake, and that I didn’t misunderstand Zuckerman. I should have known, but I didn’t. This has been my mantra lately—I should have known, but I didn’t
.
“Who else knows?” I ask.
“Well, before tonight, just the women. Sonya. She knows. Al’s wife, Veronica, knows, too. And Ashley, kind of. As much as Ashley can truly know something that isn’t about herself. That’s my problem, Tommy. I’ve always told women too much. Oh, and I told your mother, too. It seemed like she should know. Like poetic justice.”
“Mom knows?” I say, and right then, somehow I know that she knows everything else, too. Curtis closes his eyes for a long time and coughs. I should ask the cop with a mustache for some water—or for . . . the last several years back.
“I don’t even remember what it’s like not to be a writer. It’s who I am—it’s
all
I am. I’ve alienated everyone in my life, and I’ve pushed everyone else away. But it didn’t matter because I could always count on the men upstairs. But now they’re gone, and I have no one.”
Brandon is listening now, and I can see him looking at me, wondering how Curtis could say this to his own son, that he has no one. But I know that he’s right. The most important people in this man’s life—the people who have mattered to him most—aren’t my mother or his wives or me or Anna or Allie. The people who matter most are the people in his head.
That
is loneliness.
Curtis takes my forearm, squeezing it for a moment. His eyes, blue and bloodshot, are fixed on mine. “Tom,” he says. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be me?”
One of the two bums murmurs something in his sleep. Up above us, at the thin row of dusty windows near the ceiling, I see Danny outside, the boy from my novel who lives in my head. He’s peering in at me, waving sadly. He’s wearing a jacket and he’s got a backpack over his shoulder, like he’s ready for us to go somewhere.
“Do you ever see them, Dad?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Your characters.”
He smiles and looks up at the beige ceiling. “I used to. All the time. Especially the ones I killed. I always felt like they held it against me. I bet that’s how God feels.”
Across from us, Alistair is curled in the fetal position, sleeping soundly. He’s kicked one shoe onto the floor and there’s a hole in his sock. I wonder if any of my dad’s imaginary people are here now, too, maybe lying on these benches beside us, or maybe just watching, waiting to be told what to do, like ghosts who never existed in the first place. But I doubt it. The room feels cold and empty, and I’m pretty sure that they’re all gone.
“You’re sick, aren’t you?” I say.
He looks surprised, but only mildly. Today has been a day of revelation and of things unraveling. “Your mother told you?” he asks.
“No. Nicholas. He thought I knew.”
Curtis shakes his head. “Zuckerman,” he says, and no one says anything else for a long time.