The Female of the Species (30 page)

Ellen rolled her eyes. “You don’t trust me.”

“My position…”

“Do you talk to anyone?”

“Every five years to my sister from Australia. And to a construction worker in Boxford.”

“A construction worker.”

“He’s a nice guy.”

“Errol, what do you think you’re keeping secret? I didn’t know it was Raphael, but I already knew she was having an affair with a much younger man.”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“Summer’s a slow season, Errol. Not much happening. It gets around.”

“So what’s the consensus?”

“A lot of people have been waiting for thirty years for Gray Kaiser to make a mistake. I think she’s just made it. The comments I hear aren’t—kind.”

“What are yours like?”

“I’ve defended her. After all, if she were a man everyone would be titillated, even envious. That macho-Picasso sort of thing. But for a woman it looks—”

“Pathetic. In the words of Herself.”

“But now that I know who he is, it looks worse than pathetic. It looks ugly. Gray has a lot of power, and I’d hate to see that man get his hands on it. Is there anything immediate she can do for him? Something tangible?”

“There is the Ford Fellowship,” Errol admitted. “I’m sure she has final say on it.”

“I’m sure she does, too. Those foundations don’t know zip about anthropology, just Gray Kaiser.”

“You sound a little bitter,” said Errol edgily.

“I’m sorry, I know she’s your idol. And she is good, but so are a lot of people.”

“Has something in particular set you off?”

“I suppose. I talked to Bob Johanas. He had everything lined up to direct a film project in New Guinea. Lots of money, NEA, NET. For a two-hour documentary. It was his baby, Errol. And suddenly, zip. Oh, the project’s going to go. Bob isn’t.”

“Mm.”

“He was
quashed
, Errol.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He put months into this, and bang! Nothing! It took very little probing to turn up Gray’s name.”

Errol shrugged.

“And do you know why?”

“I’m not sure, but I do remember a while back Bob wasn’t very—diplomatic.”

“And over what?”

“Ralph.”

“Who?” She looked at him queerly.

“I mean Raphael.”

“You have to do something. That boy is dangerous and Gray’s being irrational. You know that was no reason to get Bob dismissed from that project. It wasn’t even like her. She’s usually fair. You’ve got to get her away from him.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“You’re closer to her than anybody. Get her to take a look at this thing. Why would a man that good-looking go for a woman her age?”

“There are things I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Someone’s got to say them! What’s going to happen? He’ll get his money and she’ll never see him again, and then she’s going to feel pretty stupid.”

“She might feel worse than stupid,” said Errol quietly.

“Listen. Take her to see Anita Katrakis.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. It would be better than shock therapy. Here.”
She scribbled on a piece of paper from her purse. “This is her address. Feel free to use my name.”

“We’ll see,” said Errol uncomfortably. “I don’t drag Gray many places. She drags me.”

“Errol,” said Ellen with exasperation, “you’re a wonderful guy, but sometimes—”

“I’m a dishrag.”

“You said it, I didn’t.”

“No, you did say it.”

They walked a couple of blocks in silence. The bugs were bad.

“At least make sure she doesn’t give him that damn fellowship,” said Ellen at last.

“No problem,” said Errol. “I’ll say, ‘Gray, don’t give the kid the fellowship,’ and she’ll say, ‘Oh, I was going to give it to him, but I certainly won’t now. I didn’t realize you disapproved. Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Then I’ll tell her, ‘Well, I wasn’t going to mention it until Ellen Friedman pointed out to me how weak and ineffectual I was, so I decided to start being more forceful.’ Then she’ll tell me, ‘What a good idea, Errol. While you’re at it, is there anything else you’d like me to do?’ Then I’ll make her give that documentary back to Bob Johanas. I’ll order her to fund your projects. I’ll tell her to stop eating so much sugar. Any other edicts I should deliver?”

“Very funny.”

“The problem isn’t that I’m a spineless jellyfish, Ellen. The problem is Gray Kaiser.”

Ellen stopped walking. “Errol, you’re right. I’m angry for Anita, and I’m old-fashioned—I like to see people get what they deserve. But they don’t, and that’s not your fault. You should probably steer clear of this whole business. In fact, I was thinking: Errol, you’ve worked in New Guinea, haven’t you?”

“Yes, why?”

“Why don’t you apply for that position? It’s wide open now.”

“I have some other projects lined up.”

“But, Errol, you’re qualified, you’d be away from all this, on your own—”

“Ellen, I don’t want it, period, and I don’t want to talk about it, either.”

“But, Errol—”

“I’m serious. Drop it.”

“Okay.” She shrugged.

There wasn’t much more to say.

When Errol returned by himself, Gray and Raphael were still in the den and the bottle of wine was gone. They were talking; Errol went into the next room to pick up his book. He paused to listen.

“Do you keep up with your father at all?”

“We haven’t spoken since I was thirteen.”

“All that time in the mill you never ran into him? North Adams is a small town.”

“It was a dance. We walked on opposite sides of the street. We shopped down opposite aisles of the grocery store. He went to one pool hall; I went to the one across town. And I went home occasionally, when he wasn’t there. I’d sneak in for a shower. Once, he came home early and must have heard water running. I poked my head out and heard the front door close again. Very softly. Not a bad guy,
Dad
.”

Gray didn’t say anything. After a minute or so, Raphael went on. “Sometimes I was hungry. I’d warm up a can of ravioli. I cleaned it up, put everything back. But he must have noticed the cans missing. Still, he didn’t change the lock. When I first came back the pantry was still full from my mother’s shopping trips—she loved a full pantry. I used up all the ravioli, my regular lunch. Later that year, though, a whole new stock of these cans showed up—wall-to-wall Chef Boy-ar-dee. It struck me that he threw a shit fit whenever my mother put that stuff in front of him. My father hated ravioli.” Raphael laughed dryly. “Now, you can’t say the guy didn’t care.

“So I did my part. I went by the house once a month. Every time, I’d eat a can of ravioli. I started leaving the pan in the
sink. By the time I got older I didn’t even like the shit anymore. I ate it, anyway. He kept a huge stock. After a while I’d stop by the house even when I wasn’t hungry. I figured as long as he found a pan in the sink he knew I was all right.”

“Why don’t we go back?”

“What?”

“Why don’t we go back to North Adams? I want to meet your father.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“
I
don’t want to meet my father.”

“Coward.”

“This is easy for you.”

“You only do things that are easy?”

“I prefer them.”

“Then why are you with me and not with Pamela Rose?”

“She bores me.”

“Easy bores you.”

“Is this a dare?”

“Yes.”

“Actually—” Raphael stopped. “Actually, there is one person I’d love to give my regards.”

Gray didn’t ask whom. Nor did Errol wonder. They both knew perfectly well. “Regards” wasn’t quite the right word was all.

“Why?”

“It’s anthropologically important to me.”

“I’d thought about asking you, but I assumed you wouldn’t be interested.”

“I’m desperately interested.”

“You won’t carp about the speed limit and get out of the car?”

“He can do 130 and I’ll keep my mouth shut like an absolute idiot.”

Gray sighed. “All right. But, Errol, don’t bait him.”

“Me, bait Ralph?”

“Don’t even call him Ralph for once. This is hard for him. For me, please? Be nice, and quiet.”

“Sounds as if we’re going to church.”

“If you expand your idea of the sacred, then yes, this is a sort of pilgrimage. Don’t profane it. That’s all I’m asking.”

Braced as Errol was for gripping the seat with both hands all the way to North Adams, Raphael obeyed the speed limit. He braked at yellow lights. He pulled over to a gas station when the tank was still half full. In their last leg off the main highway Errol watched Raphael closely as he eased ever more slowly
through the Berkshire foothills. He held the steering wheel, ten and two. Errol was incredulous:
Raphael Sarasola was nervous
.

Raphael pulled into town and stopped the car. They were on the main street, lined with a series of limping commercial projects. Errol knew this kind of lineup: the diner would be overpriced; the hardware store poorly stocked; the styles in the department stores outdated. It was hot and the sun was out, but the street still managed to look gray.

“Are we there?” asked Gray.

“Not quite.”

“Well?”

Raphael leaned back in the seat. “This is crazy. I’m going back.”

“To Boston? Now?”

“Yes.”

Errol was looking around in amazement. This was it. This was the place. Down at the bottom of the hill, that must be the grocery store. That was where the olives were, and Ida’s five-dollar smoked abalone, and Frank’s cans of ravioli.

Gray put her hand on Raphael’s neck. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of this place,” he said simply.

“Why?”

“It’s small.”

“So?”

“I don’t feel small.”

“You’re not.”

“I am, here. And it’s ugly.”

“That makes you ugly, too?”

“Places are important. They rub off on you. I left here. On purpose.”

Gray shrugged. “You can leave again. This very afternoon.”

“That’s right. I can leave right now.”

“If you go now, you will feel small.”

Raphael said nothing. He glanced out the window, but when someone passed by the car, he looked down at his lap. He did not drive to his father’s. He did not drive to Boston.

“You are from North Adams? You were born here.”

“Yes, but I don’t have to wallow in it.”

“I think you do.”

“What.”

“I was born in Racine, Wisconsin,” said Gray, leaning back. “Bigger than here, but only numerically. I stayed away for years. Now I go back sometimes. Buy shampoo at the same Squabbs Drugstore. Run my hands along the fence of Lincoln Elementary School. Notice that the Silas A. Jacobs Memorial Hospital, where I was born, has a new parking lot. I walk down the sidewalk of Bentnor Avenue, where I used to draw hopscotch squares. I go back and eat red-hots and nonpareils. I order a ‘suicide’ at the fountain, with a pump of every flavor syrup they have. I sing songs. I learned a lot of radio jingles as a child.” Gray started to sing, and Raphael looked at her as if she were crazy. “Pepsi-Cola hits the spot. Twelve full ounces, that’s a lot. Twice as much for a nickel, too! Pep!-si Cola is the drink for you…” Gray raised her eyebrows and smiled.

Raphael looked at Gray for a long time. Then he looked out the window. He looked at the diner. He looked at the grocery store. “There,” he pointed, “is my billiards parlor. Rudy’s.” He smiled to himself as he started the car. “My movie theater”—he nodded as they rode down the block. “I saw
Casablanca
twelve times there.”

Raphael parked his car out in front of a surprisingly well-kept clapboard. The yard was full of weeds, but pretty ones—Queen Anne’s lace, goldenrod. The screen door hinges appeared to be in good repair. He paused once more before getting out of the car. “I hope he’s not dead,” he said casually, then swung out of the seat with resolution.

The man who opened the door also surprised Errol a little. Errol had imagined an overweight, dismal character with blunt features. The real Frank was burly but solid, and only forty-five, younger than Errol, with hair still thick and dark. And while there was no comparison between his son’s radical looks and Frank’s acceptable ones, there was something about the sharp ridge of his brow and the black flash of his eyes that was
eerily familiar. Errol had always assumed Raphael had gotten his eyes from Nora; now he wasn’t so sure. Frank didn’t immediately appear to be a dull, stupid man. He had an edge about him, so that when he saw Raphael on his doorstep he didn’t reel or catch his breath, but raised his thick eyebrows with a sophisticated understatement Errol admired.

“Hi, Dad,” said Raphael, almost blandly.

“Hi, son.”

“This is Gray and Errol.”

“Let me guess: they’re your parole officers.”

“No, I haven’t been caught yet.”

“At what?”

He shrugged. “Assault. Breach of promise. Not being a nice guy.”

“You came for a visit?”

“…Yeah.”

Frank stepped aside and let them in. Errol had expected a hovel—deserted husband floundering in shambles. But Nora had been gone twelve years, and Frank seemed to be managing nicely. The living room was orderly and militantly male. Couch. Chair. Table. Not a trinket, a vase, a plant, and, God, not a picture. Errol wondered if he’d ever been in someone’s house before where there was absolutely nothing on the walls.

Frank didn’t speak to Errol or Gray. Perversely, Raphael didn’t explain who they were. With return perversity, Frank didn’t ask, either. Errol was beginning to pick up an old game: I will withhold information from you; so what—I don’t care about your information. It was a game that encouraged two people to sit in a room saying nothing, forever.

“I figured you’d be back,” said Frank.

“That’s surprising.”

“I see it on TV all the time. Kids always turn back up, looking for their roots or something.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t watch TV.”

“No electricity?”

“I’ve got electricity. But brains, too.”

Frank just smiled affably. “Trouble is, I don’t think we’re
doing this right, Ralph boy. I think we’re supposed to hug and kiss.”

“You want to kiss me?”

“I’d rather smack you, to tell the truth.” Frank looked immediately as if he regretted saying this, and added moderately, “’Course, best we just stick a good ten feet apart.”

“Or ten miles or ten states.”

“What we’ve been doing.”

Errol and Gray sat down on the couch and positioned themselves so they had a good view. Until now Errol had been pretending not to listen, politely looking out the window, but the other two were so oblivious that there was no reason not to watch the show. Neither of them would sit down and so show his weakness or seem to commit himself to a whole conversation. But Errol would take the weight off his feet. He was beginning to feel invisible. He imagined if he were to get up and fix himself a cup of coffee, the father and son would see only a cup and saucer floating over the couch.

“Found another factory yet?” asked Frank.

“I live in a room in a nice part of Boston. Near school.”

“My my. College boy.”

“Graduate student. Anthropology.”

“Anthropology. You thought that’d impress me, I bet.”

“Sure, I did. You were always intimidated by big words.”

“Sounds like a load of crap, actually.”

“It is. But it suits my purposes.”

“You always were a good little student. That was never my idea of smart, though.”

“Nor mine. I mean, Dad, I learned all the important things I know from you.”

Frank looked skeptical. “Like what?”

“I learned to carry this, for example.” A soft snap. Gray jumped. Raphael ran his finger up and down his switchblade.

Frank smiled too widely. “Come to revenge yourself on your old father?”

“Now, what have you ever done that might require revenge?” The gleam on the blade was also in his eyes. Errol sat
forward on the couch. He wouldn’t. To his father? Yet Errol wasn’t going to watch for a second time, and he perched, coiled, watching the knife as Raphael turned it in his hand. Gray, too, seemed on edge. See, there were stories of Frank. Frank and his little boy. Everyone in that room knew them.

“Beats me.” Frank shrugged.

“Think hard.”

“Kids don’t realize what’s for their own good. It’s hard to discipline a child.”

“You seemed to manage.”

“You’re holding a grudge, Ralphie, I swear. I thought I taught you to take it. But here you come back to sniffle and feel sorry for yourself. You make me wonder if I hit you around enough. How’d you turn out so soft?”

Raphael’s back snapped straight; his eyes went to coal. Surely it must have struck Frank just then that Raphael was taller than he was, in better shape, and fully a man at twenty-five. That must have been a great deal to learn all at once, for the circuits in Frank’s face were overloading. He could not maintain a single clear expression of any kind.

“Soft,” said Raphael quietly. “Do you want me to do something hard for you? Walking out of here was hard. Sleeping with rats was hard. Washing in a polluted river at five in the morning was hard. Stealing students’ jackets from their lockers. Eating the hamburgers thrown out in the back of Arby’s because they were too stiff and dry from the heat lamp to sell to normal kids with normal fathers who bought them something to eat. And that’s not enough for you? I didn’t come back here to prove anything. I proved all I needed to at thirteen. So don’t force me to do something to show what you’ve done to me. I’m not sure you want to know what I’m like. I might frighten you.” Raphael held the knife up to his father. “Revenge myself? No, I want you to stay alive as long as possible, because I want to put off indefinitely finding out how little your death will affect me. Maybe that makes me soft, but I’d like to preserve a few illusions.”

He retracted the blade and slipped the knife back in his pocket.

Yet it was interesting to see: Raphael’s height fazed Frank; his son’s age and strength fazed Frank; the hatred didn’t faze him. Frank was at home with hatred. He looked comfortable now. Frank put his hands in his pockets and shifted back on his heels. He seemed to be toying with a smile, but thought better of it; the boy did have a knife, just like last time. “I figured this from you. Oh, you never said much. But you were always spiteful. You’d cruise through the streets in those tight jeans with your head in the air—”

“At least it wasn’t up my ass—”

“Passing me by like I was some kind of telephone pole—”

“Instead of responding to your own warm greetings, is that right?”

“It’s a son’s responsibility to acknowledge his father, not the other way around—”

“What do you know about sons? How can you remember what it’s like to have one?”

“But no”—Frank plowed ahead—“you were too much of a pretty face to bother with your ugly old father. You were so hot and so smart that you didn’t need anybody—”

“That’s right, I didn’t. I didn’t need you, that’s for sure, and that ate you up, didn’t it? I started warming up your goddamned ravioli as a favor to you, understand? I figured it made you feel useful.”

Frank came up short, opened his mouth, and closed it again. “You shouldn’t have bothered being so considerate. It was a dollar a can.”

“You did put yourself out.”

“I did something!”

“You did jack shit!”

“What an ungrateful kid—”

“I should be
grateful?
For
ravioli?
”

“Yeah,” said Frank staunchly.

Raphael laughed and looked at the ceiling. “The sick thing is—” He shook his head. “The sick thing is that I was. Grateful. For ravioli.”

This struck Errol as one of the more convincing indictments of a parent he had ever heard.

“I’ve still got some,” Frank admitted.

“You’re kidding.”

“You know I can’t stand that shit. Must be seven or eight years old, but I’ve still got a few cans. Breaks your heart, don’t it?”

“My heart doesn’t break very easily anymore.”

Frank nodded. “I can see that. You take after your daddy. I was never the sort to go to movies and bawl.”

“So those TV programs when children come back home don’t make you cry?”

“I change the channel.”

“To what?”

“Wrestling. Hey, listen. It’s lunch. You want some? Chef Boy-ar-dee. Like old times. I’m not going to eat it.”

Raphael laughed. “You’ve still got a sense of humor.”

“How often you gonna be here, Ralphie? I gotta get in all the jokes I can. You want some?”

Raphael’s eyes glittered. “I’ll take it to go.”

Frank went into the kitchen and returned to throw Raphael a can from across the room. Raphael caught it and examined the label with an interesting combination of fondness and distaste.

Frank walked slowly across the room, eyeing his son. At last he said slyly, “I know where your mother is.”

“Is that so?” said Raphael coolly.

“Yeah, that’s so.” Frank kept looking at his son and waited.

“Well, that must be nice for you.”

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Then why did you mention it?”

Frank shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

“We’ve made enough conversation.”

Frank looked at Raphael intently, and for the first time that afternoon seemed to be genuinely admiring his son. Perhaps as a reward for this behavior Frank said simply as the four of them filed outside, “I like your car.”

“Thanks,” said Raphael, climbing in and closing the door. “Bye.” He started the car and then placed the can of ravioli on the dashboard, like a trophy.

“So long, Ralphie.”

“Just one more thing.” He revved the motor and put on his sunglasses.

“You want money.”

“No. Just don’t call me Ralphie.”