Home Land: A Novel (17 page)
A pack of laxatives.
“I’m on the go,” she said. “I don’t have time to sit around. Do you?”
TODAY IS Hazel’s birthday. She would have been, well, what? An older old lady?
When she was mostly dead in the hospital I clutched her chapped hand, desperate for those involuntary spasms people take for secret squeezes, farewell twitches. The nurses know better, of course, even the ones who believe in heaven, wear dumb pins.
I had lots to say after the memorial service.
I said, “She was the only one who loved me unconditionally.”
I said, “She believed in my potential.”
I said, “I’m floating in darkness now.”
It was all about me, of course. Teabag, aggrieved. Never mind the woman we’d just fed to flames.
I was floating in darkness anyway. I’d been floating in darkness while she was nibbling on saltines.
Did she love me unconditionally? Did I love her unconditionally?
Who tests the conditions? Maybe Gary did. But look at Gary. He had to buy his mommy’s love back.
Who tests the conditions? Maybe Gary did. But look at Gary. He had to buy his mommy’s love back.
Hazel was the universe for a while, then she was the old woman who knew about that mole on my scrotum, who didn’t approve of my friends, who took me, probably correctly, as a less cunning corollary of my old man.
Right before she died was the universe again.
Then she was my dead mother.
There are perks to the pain. You have permission to appear saintly, or at least tuned to some extradimensional frequencies.
“It may sound silly,” you tell people, “but sometimes I know she’s there in the room with me. Life, death, it’s such a mystery.”
People nod, their eyes water. They want to be part of the mystery. Maybe they wish their mothers were dead so they could be part of the mystery.
They must hate themselves for wishing that, cringe from themselves in their heads. Maybe they go home, call their mothers up, lunge at these women with their baby love. The mothers want to watch a movie, have a light snack, not listen to their progeny slobber. Why can’t these kids understand what’s understood?
“I love you, too, honey.”
Devotion’s twitch, its unvolunteered spasm.
Hazel’s calves.
Today is the birthday of Hazel’s calves, Hazel’s nose.
I’ve got a candy bar in the freezer in honor of this day.
FONTANA CALLED while I was peeling the wrapper. He sounded frenzied, demanded we meet for lunch. I wound the candy bar up in its foil, stuck it back in the freezer.
“The Garland?” I said.
“Good tuna melts, but full of spies.”
We met at the Corner Luncheonette, that Flying Dutchman diner near the Moonbeam. Fontana was antic in the shadow of his
sweatshirt hood, as though in his solitude he’d been storing up new frowns and sneers, experimental grins. He stabbed at the fruit in his fruit cup, stole looks out the window to his ride.
sweatshirt hood, as though in his solitude he’d been storing up new frowns and sneers, experimental grins. He stabbed at the fruit in his fruit cup, stole looks out the window to his ride.
“The car will be fine,” I said.
“Anything happens to me, it’s yours. I’m serious. Ginny and Jen, my daughters, well, there are only so many listless embraces I can take from those bitches. The hooker thing, it didn’t have to be end of the world. They acted like I’d done it to hurt them. What, a father’s supposed to cut it off? A father can’t fuck? They don’t get the car.”
“Don’t be silly. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“Nothing never happens,” said Fontana. “Psycho followed me to the pharmacy last week. I was getting my Saint–John’s–wort. Some magazines. Do you read
MindStyle?
They had this article—”
MindStyle?
They had this article—”
“Hollis?”
“Of course, Hollis.”
“He’s just trying to intimidate you.”
“Thanks for the expert profiling. Doesn’t matter now, anyway. Or it won’t for long. As soon as they catch him I’m safe.”
“Catch him?”
“There’s a warrant out. He sold drugs to some kid who died. Kid’s parents had connections. This is how society works. People leaning on people. People pressuring people.”
“There’s a warrant?”
“That’s what Loretta says.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Loretta? She was over the other night. I’m sure Hollis was out in the bushes, too. Like you used to be.”
“Just that one time.”
“You haven’t missed much. We’re not planting this year. The fields lie fallow. We’ve been reading haiku to each other, though. We cooked Swedish meatballs the other night. Miner, let me tell you something. I realize now I can exist. She makes me want to exist. Even the Hollis part is amazing in its way. I mean, how many
romances go south because of boredom, distraction? You know, I read in the paper that people lose interest in each other after a few years if they don’t breed. It’s biological.”
romances go south because of boredom, distraction? You know, I read in the paper that people lose interest in each other after a few years if they don’t breed. It’s biological.”
“Junk science.”
“Just what they said about Copernicus. But that’s not my point. My point is how many love affairs have the benefit of an outside threat to invigorate them? Well, around the world, sure, tons, you’ve got your coups, your pandemics, your floods, but here in Jersey? We don’t get to screw to the boom of the ack-ack guns around here. Not yet, anyway. Probably soon. Where’s my car?”
“What’s an ack-ack gun?”
“Never mind that. I’ve lost view of my vehicle.”
“It’s right there where it was the last time you looked.”
“So it is.”
Fontana took a French fry from my plate, dipped it in the wet dregs of his fruit cup.
“How can you eat that?” I said.
“I eat the world, Miner. It’s all tasty. I want to exist, to live, and that makes the world extremely fucking tasty. Also, I haven’t really eaten for days. Or slept, for that matter. I’m too excited about existing.”
“Is that why you wanted to meet? To tell me that?”
“No,” said Fontana. “I had to get out of the basement. Listen, it would mean a lot to me if you’d come to the Togetherihg. I need moral support.”
“I’m working the Moonbeam that night.”
“Can’t you switch?”
“I begged for the shift. Anyway, are you sure you should be out and about so much?”
“No way Hollis will risk showing up in public.”
“He’s got friends.”
“Nobody likes Hollis enough to hurt me for him. And I’m not worried about the Togethering. Dark parking lots are that man’s
domain. Maybe he’s already split town. Anyway, you’ve got to come. What’s wrong with you? What are you scared of?”
domain. Maybe he’s already split town. Anyway, you’ve got to come. What’s wrong with you? What are you scared of?”
“Everything.”
“You think you’re the only loser this town has produced? We should be jubilant in our disappointment. We should join hands, form a ring. A broken promise ring. Everybody’s weeping themselves to sleep, Miner.”
“Not Mikey Saladin.”
“Are you kidding? He hit 232 last year.”
“I didn’t know you followed baseball.”
“I don’t. It’s a load of pseudopoetic crap, boring as hell. It was invented so frustrated intellectuals could pine for their daddies without appearing too unmanly.”
“I like baseball,” I said.
“I’m just kidding, buddy. Of course I like baseball. But I like French fries dipped in melon juice and giving it to Loretta from behind more.”
“I should get going,” I said.
“Live, Miner. There’s nothing to it. It’s not original. Just necessary.”
I’d had enough of Fontana, Catamounts. Sometimes the idea of a man is sufficient. Fontana was a fine enough notion for a man, but to see him here, sick eyes afire in hood shadow, to listen to his lectures on the art of living, it was more than I could stand.
I stood.
“Where are you going?”
“There’s something I’ve got to do,” I said. “Be careful.”
Fontana gazed out in reverie upon his car.
“Maybe I don’t like baseball,” he said. “I can’t decide.”
I WANDERED out to the avenue, Catamounts, to the bus shelter catercorner from the Corner Luncheonette. The ride to the Department
of Motor Vehicles took long enough for me to realize what I was doing. Symbolic implications. Rewards in real time.
of Motor Vehicles took long enough for me to realize what I was doing. Symbolic implications. Rewards in real time.
It turned out I didn’t need to take any kind of test again. The clerk slid my license across the counter.
“Why do we even have this?” he said.
“I couldn’t deal.”
“And now?”
“I’ve been walking in circles. I want to drive in them.”
“Glad I asked,” said the clerk.
THAT NIGHT I stopped off at In Your Cups to celebrate my reinduction into wheelsmanship. Victor spotted me a shooter of that syrupy stuff frat boys drink to nerve them for rape. The TV over the bar showed the view from a news chopper, a forest in flames.
“Half the country’s burning up,” said Victor. “It was a dry summer. Driest on record.”
“It rained here,” I said.
“Nonetheless,” said Victor, appeared proud he’d used the word, unsure how to follow up. “Nonetheless, we have statistics to prove this was the driest summer on record. It’s no surprise. What with the economy. And the terrorist networks.”
“Not to mention the television networks,” I said. “And that guy in the White House, what’s his name?”
“The president!” somebody called from the end of the bar.
Chip Gallagher had the makings of a one-man orgy down there with his boilermaker and his jeans unzipped from his last trip to the john.
“The president,” said Victor. “Exactly.”
“The president is a fucking monkey,” said Chip. “They should put him in a monkey house and feed him peanuts and cashews and shit.”
“That’s elephants,” said Victor.
“Ah, the free flow of ideas,” I said. “Democracy in action.”
“Don’t come in here with your snide comments,” said Chip. “This is a safe place for inane chatter and random hooting.”
“Sorry,” I said, “next one’s on me.”
“That’s more like it.”
I slid down the bar toward Chip.
“Are you going to the Togethering?” I said.
“The what?”
“That reunion thing?”
“Oh, shit, man. Yeah, I heard about that. Open bar?”
“I think so.”
“Then I guess I’ll be there. Is Jasmine Herman going?”
“Jazz Dancing Jasmine?”
“With those fucking … what do you call them?”
“Leg warmers?”
“No, those wristbands. Remember those spangled wristbands? She used to drive me crazy with those things. I wonder what she looks like now.”
“No worse than you or me.”
“Amen to that.”
“How’s Batch?” I asked.
“My old man? He’s dead, dude.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Last May. Caught a stroke.”
“He was a good man.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“He was a good groundskeeper.”
“That’s true.”
“I can still smell that smell. Fresh cut grass. Burnt oil.”
“He was a shit mechanic.”
“Hey, Chip.”
“What’s that?”
“Still have that rottweiler? The one that ate eighty million bucks?”
“I loved that dog,” said Chip.
Victor shot me a look. Apparently the lost lottery ticket was not a favored topic here.
“What happened?” I said.
Chip downed his drink, flipped his glass on the bar.
“Cut the bitch open. Couldn’t find the ticket.”
The phone purred.
“Like I said,” said Victor, clicked off the receiver. “Driest on record.”
“Say what?” I said.
“That was your father. Don Berlin’s Party Garden is on fire.”
I’M SURE many of you Catamounts caught the nightly news that night, work shoes kicked off under your coffee tables, ties loosened, bras unhooked, tattered concert tees slipped into, pistachios, beers in your laps, hands wheedling their way into your sweatpants to adjust a tampon, a testicle. I’m sure most of those watching saw Glen Menninger’s younger brother Roger with his Channel Four News Team News microphone standing yards from the blaze, shouting above the sirens while some neighborhood kid held a handmade sign reading “Dingleberry” above his head.
Black smoke pouring into the blue night.
Roger reported the arson rumors right away. Maybe more than a few in Eastern Valley wondered if Daddy Miner was the firebug. None that knew him, though. Hours later they were leading Don Berlin away in handcuffs. Gasoline stains in his car. Fumes in his suit. Insurance claim in his home office hopper. A real Murnighan scam.
Berlin told the police the whole truth, but it hardly sounded like a confession, more a deposed king’s lament. His stateliness never deserted him, even if his buddies at Borough Hall did. His wife, the prettier twin, stuck by, too.
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