River of the Brokenhearted (32 page)

“There’s another summer coming,” Ginger said. “Will he even be alive for our wedding? How many more summers will he have?”

I went back home and opened the door of our yellow house. Miles was still talking to me as if he did not realize I had left two hours before. He was sitting in his room, thinking I in mine, and he was saying, “Yes, I have every intention of figuring this out for the memory of my family. It is simply an extension of the sleeping pills Rebecca gave me when she wanted to rifle through my mother’s closets. I have no hesitation in saying that she might be a master criminal. Are you listening, Wendy? It’s shocking to hear, I know, but, you see, that’s the trick—she has never realized she has committed a crime. Her son’s marriage to Ginger is a perfect example. There is a seed of conceit in there, Wendy, or deceit, if you prefer. Everyone believes her, thinks of her as Dr. Mahoney, yet I myself will not be won over so easily. You think this paranoid. By this marriage to my little girl she will have everything she wanted from the time she was eleven and went to Janie’s theatre for a Saturday matinee—everything she wanted she will have attained by this. What will she do, Wendy? I will tell you. She will throw it in my face, to prove to me it was calculated all along—even though it is as random as the handkerchief falling from Desdemona’s paw. Are you listening, Wendy, my son—my son, my love?”

He went to sleep in the chair that night. The next day he was unusually chipper, going about his yard and raking last year’s twigs out of the flower beds in the lower part of his garden, with his brimmed hat and his bare feet (for he found it troublesome to put on socks or tie shoes). He came into the house for some lunch.

“I am proud of you, Wendy,” he said, sitting heavily in the kitchen chair. “Well, to a certain extent—let’s just say I am at least as proud of you as Mommsie is of Prince Charles, that idiot—if I may say so—so I am as proud of you as a prince. But you have not figured out what
I
have. Our Mrs. Lovett has figured it out. That’s why Dr. Mahoney feared her. You see, Noel’s mistake was taking money from old Dingle. That’s what is being investigated, the beginning of the falling dominoes—so they must do something very quick and very big to go. They must get some reward for their terrible effort, and leave. That is all they are working toward at this moment—to get Ginger’s money and go. They have to hurry now, or they’ll end up in court. But a hurry will cause a mistake sooner or later. Then they will begin to squabble against one another, a little here a little there—vultures at a carcass picking out each other’s eyes.”

“What carcass?”

He poured himself a drink. “What is left of our business.”

I caught a glimpse into Father’s terrible world I had always known was there yet had not seen (if it was true), walking around, inhabiting the same space as we did, yet invisible as specks of hatred in the eye (if it was true). Brilliant as Lowry, as understanding as Orwell—yet a curious difference; the great shame of knowing and never being listened to.

He downed his drink with a wonderful thrust of his hand, and looked at me with a merry, merry (insane) eye. “It’s all a seamless thread. How do we get Mr. King (that is me) to sell the business—the Grand? We destroy his right flank—the drive-in. We cut the cables to the screen and make it fall. Cassandra helped Dr. Mahoney see this. Gus Busters, who owes money for many draughts of cocaine—is it draughts?—I am unsure—realized this and is set to tell Ginger. Mr. Winch comes to my house and buys a pistol. Gus Busters was the mouse. The mouse runs away.”

“My God,” I said.

“My God,” Miles answered, “has nothing to do with it. He only wills or allows. And in this case he allows.”

He stood and took the bottle of gin from my hand. Then he sat down and poured another.

He complained that his pants had not come back from the cleaners because of some silly bill he did not know he was supposed to pay. His breathing was laboured. The wedding was in two weeks, the party planned, the caterers hired; sorrow, sorrow, sorrow.

TWO

It was completely beside the point that I had totally forgotten Joey Elias, and had forgotten what I had heard in my childhood about the hidden life. There was something from this hidden life now pushing Dr. Mahoney forward, faster and more recklessly than she had ever wanted to go.

Telephone calls came from Sleepy Hollow Prison for Women.

Cassandra was as a protégée at the apex of understanding. And what had she understood? She had understood Dr. Mahoney’s thesis—nonviolent intervention as a way of interjecting oneself into someone else’s life for one’s own benefit. And what life had she wished to interject herself into? It was none other than the life of Dr. Mahoney.

The phone calls came at random, and at first were simply annoying. But then one afternoon the conversation took a more deliberate turn.

“It’s just that I feel so lost,” Cassandra said, “now that everyone is getting on with their lives. What’s in it for me?”

“Well, dear, haven’t I given you some helpful hints?” Dr. Mahoney said.

“Of course you have,” Cassandra said. “I’m just thinking.”

“What are we thinking, dear?”

“I’m just thinking about how terrible we treated poor Mr. Dingle.”

“But did we treat him so terribly? I don’t remember.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say anything about it. But what might Kipsy Doyle say? There’s all this talk of old people being beaten up. What if someone thinks that’s what we did to old Mr. Dingle? I have a good rapport with the warden here, and she is interested in me also. She wants to see me get out from under this mess and make something of myself—instead of all that violence.”

“Is this an outside line? This isn’t being bugged, is it?”

“I don’t think it is,” Cassandra said.

“Well, all as I can say is, it is up to you how you want to take what I have shown you.”

“But it’s not up to me, Dr. Mahoney. It’s up to them—it’s them we have to fool.”

“What do you mean, dear—fool?”

“Oh, you know—we always try to fool people.”

“Who would I try to fool as a certified psychologist?”

“No one, but if they do get fooled we must help them.”

“Yes, yes—but who is fooled?”

There was a long pause. Then, “Ginger.”

“Oh, I’ve never heard anything so foolish—”

Cassandra hung up.

The doctor could not get in touch with her again for four days. She could not sit still, and barely slept.

But after four days—in which poor Dr. Mahoney had not slept, the phone rang.

“Will you accept the charges?” the operator asked.

“Of course. How are you, dear?”

There was silence.

“Cassandra, dear, how are you?”

“I have the envelope.”

“What envelope?”

“The envelope that held the money Ginger sent with Gus—you gave to me—Ginger would know.”

“What would Ginger know?”

“That I stole the money. And you told me to blame Gus. It would be awful for her to know that—if she was about to get married.”

“I never heard anything so misunderstood. I never told you to steal. Besides, you might have got an envelope from anywhere!”

“Yes, except that it has the note.”

“What note are you talking about, dear?”

“The note to Mr. Dingle telling him to get his teeth fixed. That’s what made me so sad about Mr. Dingle and worried that we had fooled poor little Ginger.”

There was another long pause. They could hear each other’s breathing.

“But I thought you knew why we had to do that,” Dr. Mahoney said.

“Oh, I know why you
say
we had to do that—but I don’t know really
why
we had to do that. I don’t think any accredited psychologist would say that.”

“For her protection, dear—for her protection from Gus.”

“But you know Gus couldn’t hurt a fly, Dr. Mahoney.”

Mahoney tried to sound stern. “I don’t know why you are going on like this and I don’t know why you are changing your mind when we settled on something and—”

“I’m afraid she might find out, too, about something else.”

“What else—what else could she find out?”

There was another long pause

“You and I are in the same boat,” the doctor continued. “No one has done us any favours. That’s why we tried to help Ginger.”

“Elizabeth and Noel. What would Ginger do if she found out about Elizabeth and Noel?” she said, and hung up before Dr. Mahoney could answer.

Three days went by before the next phone call. On a Wednesday night, Cassie asked for some money.

“But I have no money,” Mahoney said.

“I worked very hard for you to catch Ginger—like starlight in a bottle, you once said. Perhaps you should help me!”

“I see,” Dr. Mahoney said. “Well, you are being very pushy indeed.”

“Not at all,” Cassandra said. “I am only besting someone in an argument. It’s what you taught—nonviolent intervention. I’ll be out of jail soon, and I want things settled. I think I should have some money too—if everyone else has.”

There was a long pause.

“I will see to it—so you be quiet and enough of this chatter!” Dr. Mahoney said, hanging up.

Mahoney might have thought that a few dollars and she was rid of the child. But then a postcard came. It was something unexpected—and the doctor was very careless not to expect it. This again seemed to force everything into the realm of whimsy—of events not controlled by a woman so used to controlling them.

“Here’s a card for you,” Ginger said, a week or so before the wedding. “It’s from Cassie.”

Mahoney snatched the card, like one might an indiscreet photo they didn’t want a child to see, and turned to read it by the sunlight through the window.

Dear Abigail,
I hope all your plans are coming to fruition, as I believe they will. But I have to tell you a little secret. I feel guilty about it, because I want to make something of my life. You see, Noel and I were married last year. I do not know if he told you, or what it does to your plans. But he certainly pressured me into marriage. Like so many young girls, I have been done wrong by a man, just as you told us might happen. I will not break his confidence if you don’t. But perhaps you should tell Ginger? Of course no one wants to break Ginger’s heart.

Love,                       
Cassandra Avalanche

For minutes the doctor kept her back to Ginger. Then she gave a fatal “Ohh, that girl,” and tore the postcard up. She turned her head, her lips trembling and asked whether Ginger had read the card.

“Of course not,” Ginger said.

“Oh, that girl,” she said again. “I believe she hates us.”

“Why?”

“I tried to help—you know that, Ginger. Between her and you I worked day and night. Now she is fighting with the warden, whom I have a perfectly good rapport with, having counselled many of these young women. She is trying to say you stole Noel from her—at the drive-in years ago. But for your sake, your family’s, and poor Noel’s, I will handle it. You see, she broke his heart, and you healed it. She never thought you’d be able to. Now she can’t stand it. She might say or do anything just to cause pain. If she does telephone here, do not listen to a word she says.”

“I won’t,” Ginger said. “But maybe after she gets out she can come here for a while and get back on her feet. Maybe all she needs is love.”

“Oh, nothing would please me more. But her envy of me and you might ruin that,” Mahoney said. “Where’s Noel? I have to speak to him just a sec.”

And she went off to find her son, the torn postcard in her hand.

“How can you do that?” Ginger called after her.

“Do what?” Mahoney said, a little frantically, stopping dead in the center of the room.

“Love us all, love every one of us—after so many of us have hurt you?”

The doctor waved her hand gaily, continued toward the stairs, and did not turn around.

That Noel had done this infuriated her, made her less than cautious, made her want for once and for all to prove who she was.

“What is this about prosthetics?” Miles said, coming into the living room with his hands in his pockets one Friday afternoon, as sunlight splayed upon our carpet, showing the shadow of one maple leaf waving and dust undulating against my father’s wrinkled grey pants.

“This is Ginger’s new idea for money—get into the prosthetics business. How many people do you know need wooden legs?”

Two days later he asked me, “What would be the gain in sinking our money into the prosthetics business?”

I was not much bothered by this. And then one evening after supper, as I was brushing my teeth, I looked into the mirror and saw with a start an imp of Satan standing behind me, holding a towel in front of him. I turned around and there was no one there. A frame had moved out of focus and then back again, to reveal only a rack of yellow hand towels. And I realized that it was my first, my very first, hallucination.

I went downtown. It was late, and as sweet a night as I could remember. The lights glowed softly from the park, and the store lights made their front windows look like a splendid dusk attained.

Later in the tavern I heard the word—not prosthetics, but a new business venture by Dr. Mahoney.

In a state of shock I drove around in the rain in my father’s old woebegone car. At dawn I came into the house, miserable and sickly, and went to bed. When I woke up, it was almost evening again. For a moment I had forgotten what harassed me so. Then I realized it like a brick hitting my face. The house was quiet and almost dark, with all the blinds drawn against the outside world, and a lamp was on in the far-off den.

I stood in the hallway, near the picture of my gram.

“It is not prosthetics, Father,” I said.

I did not know where in the house he was, but it didn’t much matter; we were very used to carrying on conversations like this.

“What is it?” he said.

I jumped, because he was standing right behind me, with a can of tomato soup he had brought up from the basement.

I told him first who our partner was: Gary Fallon. He had put in money as well. So you see, I said, this is a corporation almost.

“It is Gary Fallon—” I said. “Our little sergeant with the dish-washing machines—he is back in our life now. He and Ginger—well, with Dr. Mahoney as a guide—are the major partners in this.”

“I see. And what is it we are in business about?” he asked, trying to read the soup label to find out its content of salt—or to find out if it contained alcohol. Who knows.

“About?” I asked.

“Yes—what are we about? I know at one time we were about movies like
Mary Poppins
, and
The Sound of Music
, and a drivein theatre where I sold French fries—and had sales on hot chocolate when it got cold and wondered why every movie with Randolph Scott had a train and a mountain in the distance. What are we about now?”

“Prophylactics,” I said.

He didn’t seem to understand.

“French safes,” I said.

He didn’t seem to understand.

I made a motion as if I was lucky enough to be putting one on.

“Good God,” he said.

“Quite,” I answered.

We decided we would be silent. First, because we were too shocked to say anything. Second, for Ginger’s sake it would be better than becoming hysterical. Finally, it had to be her deal.

As a matter of fact it had nothing much to do with us any more. Her adviser in this had been Dr. Mahoney, who had been an advocate for birth control and all proper procedures for years. Dr. Mahoney had something we did not have: a kind of licence to the moral higher ground of the eighties.

Now Ginger had a fiancé and a business and a prospective mother-in-law all caught up together. She was out of our life, just as she wanted to be. It might have been a dangerous place, but how would I know?

Ginger had not come to me, because she no longer trusted me.

I was sorry about this. I was sorry her freedom was so painful to her and to us. Remembering her from the time of her childhood, remembering my mother, remembering my grandmother, I began to speak one evening, not like the conservative that people thought I was, but like the progressive person I so wanted to be so I could exist in the world again. It seemed I could not exist now, for like my father I could not pretend not to know what I knew.

Yet I was angered at this, and desperately needed a scapegoat. And what better scapegoat than Father himself? Tapping my fingers on the windowsill in my room, while staring out at Dad’s lilacs, I said, “This is her moment, her wedding, her life. Why should we torment her so?”

“I am not tormenting her,” Miles said from his room.

“You don’t have a decent bone in your body when it comes to her. You have tormented her and the things she loves all of her miserable little life.”

“That is not true.”

We were once again at opposite ends of the house, each of us drinking on our own, with the hall light on and music playing somewhere.

“You don’t. You are a feeble father, a hateful father. When did she ever have a birthday? When did she ever have a friend for a sleepover? Nada, nada, and nada once more. No wonder she has run to the nurturing arms of Dr. Abigail Mahoney.”

“Nurturing what?”

“Nurturing arms.”

“I don’t care what you think. I am not a miserable father.”

“Are so.”

“Am not.”

“A very feeble and hateful father who thinks he has read a great deal.”

“Have not.”

“Have so.”

(Long pause.)

“Have not.”

“Why, may I ask, if I can ask, if I should be so bold as to ask—why didn’t you learn how to play the piano?”

“Mom wouldn’t let me.”

“ ‘Mom wouldn’t let me.’ What a sissy, a pansy—”

“Am not.”

“Are so.”

“Not.”

(Long pause.)

“So you take it out on poor Ginger, who is my poor little sister—her happiest day, getting married, and you have been at her for ten months writing terrible apocalyptic letters.”

“Terrible what?”

“Apocalyptic letters—getting married. For God almighty’s sake, Dad, you should be ashamed of yourself. Your heart should be bleeding in gladness for her. But no, you have to stick the knife in and twist it up and down, because that’s what people did to you. You are no gentleman, sir.”