My Sister, My Love (19 page)

(SO: D’YOU THINK BIX “PLAYED IT RIGHT”? D’YOU THINK THAT BIX
WAS
right? Are you on Bix’s side? Do you sneer at the Fair Hills Golf and Country Club with its sizable membership, that includes, since the late 1980s, a discreet scattering of “ethnic minority” members, and do you favor, as Bix does, the smaller, more elite, less conspicuously “integrated” Sylvan Glen Golf Club?
*
What pisses me is: no matter how dramatically, with what closely observed moral indignation, I present a character like Bix Rampike who is intended to be an unmitigated/unredeemed son of a bitch, a “charismatic” bully and an asshole and a predator and (who knows?) the brutal assailant of his own six-year-old daughter,
^†
some of you, a reliable fraction of the female readership, will admire Bix anyway; and will imagine, as women who are drawn to such men invariably imagine, that such men would never hurt them but love them dearly.)

QUICK CUT TO: “OH ISN’T SHE DARLING!
ISN’T
SHE! AND SO BLOND. AND SO
small.
” For little Bliss Rampike—and little Skyler, too—are helping pass appetizers (stuffed mushrooms, yummy little spicy sausages, crab-puff-pastries) at Mummy and Daddy’s gala big party which is the largest party
that Mummy and Daddy have ever given in Fair Hills, a spare-no-expenses party Daddy has declared, a truly classy party with valet parking—a small platoon of eager high-school-age boys hired by Daddy: “You can’t expect guests like ours to park on the street, and
walk.
” From the street, the spacious old Colonial at 93 Ravens Crest is ablaze with lights like a Christmas tree. Inside the house are lavish floral displays, not one but two “full-service” bars manned by professional bartenders, making their way through the crowd are attractive young servers in white uniforms. Amid the babel of high-pitched voices and laughter, the wistful Gaelic strumming of a harp from the first-floor staircase landing where an ethereal-looking female harpist is playing with long slender fingers. So much excitement! So many people! For when you are popular like Bix and Betsey Rampike, and invited out often, naturally you must invite back: “reciprocate.” You must “entertain.” Skyler has been hearing this, frequently. A party is like many playdates simultaneously, involving as many names on Mummy’s pink-construction-paper pyramid as possible. Daddy is too busy to be involved in party plans of course though Daddy loves parties, returning sometimes from the very airport, from “abroad,” to hurriedly shower and shave and rush back downstairs even as the first guests arrive, shoving a big-friendly-Bix Rampike hand out for a bone-crushing handshake. And Daddy has the “final veto” on the guest list, of course: No one is to be invited to the Rampikes’ just because Mummy likes them, or feels sorry for them, or because they’ve been “nice.” First rule of social life! When Mummy protests weakly, “Oh but gosh, Bix, can’t we make an exception for—” Daddy wags his big-Daddy forefinger with comical menace like Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
: “Batta, sweetie. Bat-
ta.
”

Bat-ta?
Seems to mean case closed, Skyler has learned.

“Oh! Are you—‘Bliss’? I saw your picture in the paper, I think! Bessie, or, no—Betsey!—you must be
so proud
of this child.”

Within the hour, now that it’s dark outside the gala-reflecting windows of the house, little Bliss and little Skyler are to be scooped up by one of the Marias, taken away upstairs to be bathed and put to bed, just now there is a feverish thrum in Skyler’s blood, a pained smile on Sky
ler’s little-boy face, for Skyler has got it into his hardball-head that Mummy, who is Betsey Rampike in this gathering, Betsey who is Bix’s wife, and Bliss’s mother, must be protected against harm, or hurt: from what source, Skyler has no idea. For a party is a happy time, isn’t it?—a gay giddy roller-coaster occasion, where adults drink because they are happy and want to be even happier, a magical occasion, fraught with mystery like a ship embarked upon unknown waters, choppy, turbulent, its prow pitching, its decks tilting, impossible to know if such excitement is a good thing, or not-so-good. Skyler, bearing a tray of appetizers, is drawing some attention, too: at least, his parents’ guests pause to snatch up the delicious tidbits, and to thank him. What an adorable little man! Is this—Scooter? Bix and Betsey’s son? Skyler’s wavy-fawn hair has been damply combed, Skyler has been fitted out by Little Maria in his hunter-green Fair Hills Day School blazer with school insignia on the breast pocket, his shirt is white cotton in emulation of Daddy’s white shirt, his clip-on tie is a dark-green school necktie, his trousers are little-boy corduroy from Junior Gap. Entrusted by Mummy with the responsibility of “helping out”—bearing a tray of appetizers among the guests—Skyler is anxiously aware that both Mummy and Daddy might be watching him and has vowed not to limp!—nor even to shift his weight to one leg, to make an inadvertent laughable sight (for, at Fair Hills Day School, Skyler has been mortified to see certain of his mean-boy classmates mocking him by lurching about as if one of their legs was shorter than the other, to the amusement of observers), as adult strangers with drinks in hands loom above him, jostling him and his sister holding her appetizer tray at dangerous slant, for Bliss is such a clumsy ill-coordinated girl on land, however graceful and determined on the ice, and stricken with shyness like measles, though eager to help Mummy on this crucial occasion for Mummy has been planning this party for weeks, Mummy is celebrating the triumph of Bliss’s career and yet more triumph to come—there are “deals” pending, of which no one knows except Mummy!—and Mummy has dressed Bliss as a doll-like replica of Betsey Rampike: both mother and daughter are wearing glamorous zebra-stripe dance dresses
of crinkly, clingy velvet with provocatively tight bodices and flaring skirts, diamond-patterned black stockings and shiny black patent leather dance shoes adorned with red cloth roses. Quite a sight! Might’ve been painted by Velázquez, or by Goya in a benign mood! (Renoir? Whistler? Otto Dix?) Mummy’s helmet of glossy dark-brown hair sparkles with “stardust”—Bliss’s blond, ringleted hair sparkles with “stardust.” Expertly, with a very light touch, for Betsey Rampike is strongly disapproving of those figure-skating mothers who “make up” their daughters like “little painted harlots”—Mummy has transformed Bliss’s plain-little-girl face into a beautiful-little-girl face by penciling in Bliss’s pale, almost nonexistent eyebrows with a light brown pencil and by “dabbing”—“just a touch”—of coral-pink lipstick on Bliss’s pale lips. And maybe a little liquid makeup, and an artful “dabbing” of powder. (For the irony is, as few persons know, certainly not Bliss Rampike’s adoring fans, that Bliss isn’t especially pretty, not even what you’d call cute; but a child-face is far easier to beautify than an adult face, if you know how. And Betsey Rampike has learned!) Mummy herself is very beautiful tonight, Skyler thinks, for Mummy’s eyes glow like gems, dramatically outlined in inky-black mascara; and Mummy’s lips are full, fleshy, shinily crimson, and the lines and “crow’s feet” in Mummy’s face that have made her so vexed and sulky in recent months—complaining what is more unfair, more unjust, than lines caused by
smiling
?—by being nice, and
smiling
?—have mysteriously vanished after appointments with Dr. Screed, the Fair Hills dermatologist/otolaryngologist much recommended by Mummy’s new friends. Especially, Mummy is thrilled to lead eager new arrivals to her daughter who has been positioned like a fairy-tale princess in a corner of the living room, how thrilled Betsey is when her friends marvel at Bliss with the widened eyes of awe/envy: “Ohhh. Is this child adorable! And that matching mother-and-daughter outfit—
amazing.
”

Beaming Mummy is yet sharp-eyed Mummy observing that her daughter isn’t lifting her angel-face to Mrs. Frass ( judge’s wife) nor making eye-contact with Mrs. Muddick (mega-millionaire’s wife) but staring fixedly into space like a mechanical doll. With a part of her
hyper-vigilant mind (where
is
Bix? where has Bix crept off to, and
why
?) Mummy is aware of much that is happening at her party out of her field of vision, even as Mummy is unobtrusively pinching the soft flesh of Bliss’s forearm and lightly chiding Bliss to give Mrs. Fenn a kiss, please! (Mrs. Fenn, another mega-millionaire-developer’s wife who only a few months before had snubbed poor Betsey Rampike at the Fair Hills Literacy Volunteers gala fund-raiser.) Bliss consents, but with a shivery little wince detectable only by sharp-Mummy eyes; as Bliss consents to being hugged, cuddled, lifted in arms, “smooched” by Harry Fenn himself. Yet Mummy senses how reluctant Bliss is to please Mummy’s guests, Mummy does not like this (secret, surreptitious) little core of her daughter’s resistance (like bone-marrow cancer, invisible to the unsuspecting eye) as Mummy
does not like
Bliss removing the plastic “bite” from her mouth during the night and hiding it beneath her pillow or worse yet—as if Mummy wouldn’t know, for Mummy has continuous access to her daughter through the nursery door-in-the-wall opening into Mummy and Daddy’s bedroom—tossed beneath her bed. “Bliss: take care, sweetie. Hmmm?” (Just a light warning, disguised by a Mummy-kiss, and a Mummy-adjusting of the zebra-stripe bodice.)

But Mummy is in a good mood tonight! Mummy
is
! Drinking the most delicious red wine, expensive French wine Daddy has purchased by the case through his mentor-friend at Scor Chemicals, Mel Hambruck. Mummy has vowed, she will not become vexed/upset/agitated because of Bliss’s insubordination,
she will not.
Skyler is feeling protective of Mummy, and Skyler is pained to see that Mummy is drinking too much, and has unknowingly splashed red wine onto the swelling bosom of her zebra-stripe dress; Skyler is determined not to be jealous of poor little Bliss tonight, though Bliss is the child whom guests want to see, or anyway some guests, mostly women, exclaiming over the “angel-child” who reminds them of their own daughters no longer now so young, and not nearly so like doll-angels. Mostly these exclamatory females are women like Mattie size-fourteen wife of Reverend “Archie” Higley, and Mrs. Cuttlebone the real estate agent who’d sold the Rampikes their house
and Mrs. Whittier (Mummy’s mentor-friend who’d nominated her for membership in the coveted Village Women’s Club), and Mrs. Stubbe, and Mrs. Burr, so powerfully do these women smell of perfume that Skyler feels a sneeze imminent, a tingling-ticklish sensation in his nose, or maybe this is the result of naughty little Skyler surreptitiously sipping from left-behind glasses, red wine, white wine, Scotch diluted by melted ice cubes, quick before Mummy sees! quick before Daddy sees! A pair of (male) legs collides with Skyler—“Oh hey, sorry—is it Scooter?—sorry, son, din’t mean to spill my drink on you, don’t blame you for making an ugly face at me son, but I am sorry, Scoot. I
am.
” Not far away on the other side of a coffee table heaped with dirtied glasses and plates Mummy takes no heed of Skyler’s distress for Mummy is showing off Bliss to several new arrivals, must be VIP guests judging from Mummy’s quavering voice as she introduces Bliss to Mrs. Klaus (one of the lockjawed size-two wealthy-patrician Fair Hills blondes, of whom more later), and to Mrs. Kruk (“Biffy”—an officer of the Village Women’s Club and mother of the fat-faced budding-psychopath Albert Kruk, a notable ex-playdate), and to stylish Mrs. O’Stryker (a neighbor on Woodsmoke Drive, wife of “Howie” O’Stryker, Morris County D.A. and squash partner of Bix), urging Bliss to look up and say hello, honey? and smile? as a woman with bright lipstick looms over Bliss—Mrs. Marrow?—thrusting a cocktail napkin at her: “Will you autograph this for my daughter, dear? It would mean so much to my Mildred, the poor child has her heart set on ‘figure ice-skating’ though she lacks all physical coordination, I’m afraid.” Mummy assists Bliss by flattening the wrinkled napkin on a table so that Bliss is able to print on it, in the shaky hand of a child much younger than six—

—even as Skyler dazed and dizzied and queasy from the dregs of whatever left-behind drinks he’s been swilling on the sly is made to realize
The
party will never end, we are trapped here forever, I can’t protect Mummy from hurt and I can’t protect Bliss, I can’t even protect myself.
*

QUICK CUT TO: DADDY.

Must’ve been just a few minutes later, as Skyler lurches/limps in frantic haste into one of two downstairs guest bathrooms (ordinarily off-limits to Skyler, as it is off-limits to Bliss, for Mummy does not want her expensive, specially scented miniature soaps in the shapes of seashells, turtles, and tiny birds and her delicate Irish linen hand-towels to be despoiled by her children’s grubby hands), and pukes up a disgusting mixture of acid-liquids and pulpy-masticated puffy pastries, spicy sausages, and stuffed mushrooms he hadn’t known he had devoured in such quantity, emerging then shaky but clear-eyed and “sober” and drawn by braying male voices to observe Daddy in a corner of the dining room near one of the full-service bars, in the company of several men among whom Bix Rampike is the youngest and what a presence he is, Bix Rampike! Big-shouldered, craggy-faced, blunt-good-looking American guy, quick to smile, quick to take offense, give you the shirt off his back, punch you in the gut if you insult his kids, his wife, his flag, his corporate employer, his God. An earnest crinkle to Bix’s brow, flash of “brown-soulful” eyes, he’s wearing an expensive camel’s hair blazer that’s endearingly rumpled. On all the men’s wrists are what appear to be Rolex watches but Bix’s Rolex is the least showy, as Bix is the youngest of these burly men, head cocked at a respectful angle as he listens to the indignant rant of his Scor Chemicals mentor-friend Mel Hambruck as flush-faced Morris Kruk, six-foot-three “Howie” O’Stryker and an unidentified other (Caucasian, youngish middle-aged) man emit those grunts and vehement head-nods that mean
Yes! Right! I am listening.
Sneering Mel Hambruck says, “—‘global warning’—biggest damn hoax since the Holocaust but know what?—you say so, you
get crucified by the left-wing Jew press. So, mum’s the word! We know what we know, eh?” There’s a pause as the men lift their glasses to drink, possibly to brood, or possibly in the festive party-din there is no need to brood, comes Bix Rampike to the rescue saying, “‘Global warming’—I think you mean ‘warming,’ Mel—actually there is something to it, Mel. I’m reading all these science texts, I subscribe to
Scientific American
, you can see the charts. ‘Polar ice caps’—‘Caspian Sea.’ Except what they leave out is: global warming is a fact of geology. Remember the Ice Age—it preceded
Homo sapiens
by millions of years.
Homo sapiens
has only been around about fifty thousand years and the big deal with us is, we have ‘opposable thumbs’—plus we walk upright—and we learned to grow our own damn food, not chase it bare-ass naked through the jungle as they are still doing, ‘ab-originals,’ in parts of the world. Now, fifty thousand years is but an eye blink in Time! In the galaxy, Time is relative. It’s like half-cooked spaghetti twisting back on itself, coiled and tangled. There’s no forward, or backward. It’s both. So, if things had not warmed up after the Ice Age, where’d we be?
Homo sapiens
wouldn’t have fucking hatched. Is that a profound fact, or not? Sometimes I think, waking in the middle of the night and I think Jesus! We might’ve not made it, our very civilization is hanging by a thread. So ‘global warming’ is just the way things work, in nature. It’s what Darwin meant by ‘evolution.’ And we are what Darwin meant by ‘evolution’—I mean us, in Fair Hills, New Jersey—‘the fruits of natural selection.’” Young Bix Rampike has spoken so convincingly, and so eloquently, his companions have only to grunt in vehement agreement, for what is there to add to Bix’s remarkable speech except, as Howie O’Stryker says, impressed: “Just what I was going to say, friend. I’ll drink to that.”
*