Probation (22 page)

“Finish your drink,” she says when the waiter offers coffee. She stares at me, wondering whether this human detritus sitting across the table is her fault. I look away, down at my new watch.

“You shouldn’t have done this,” I say, looking at my watch.

“You’re right, maybe I shouldn’t have,” she says, sipping her coffee. “But I did.”

That’s my mother. Are you happy now, Matt?

A
nother Kennedy is dead.

The talk show host says we measure our lives by their tragedies.

The sunlight pierces the dark lenses of my Ray-Bans. I need coffee and aspirin and water. Especially water. My mouth feels like I gargled with sand. The flight from New York to Charlotte was torture. Barely navigating on two hours of sleep, I got to the gate just as they were closing the door. The flight attendant eyed me warily. Unshaven, agitated, a little wild eyed, sweaty, I was a perfect match for the airline’s suspicious passenger profile. Inebriate? Schizophrenic? Terrorist? Fortunately US Airways decided I was harmless enough to board the plane. We circled Charlotte for thirty minutes, waiting for clearance. I forgot where I parked the car and took a wrong turn out of the lot, driving three miles in the wrong direction before I could turn around. I don’t have enough energy to turn the radio to another station.

The host welcomes a caller from Worcester, Massachusetts. She feels like she’s lost a member of her family. She’s reliving that dark moment decades ago when she heard that Jack had been shot.

Last night was a classic, a new low. Hard to believe the evening had such auspicious beginnings. The exhibit space closed at five to give the exhibitors time to grab a bite before heading off to see
Les Miz
or
Phantom
. I showered and put on fresh clothes. The sun hovered over the rooftops of Madison Avenue. A couple approached. The man was wearing reflecting aviators, but there was no mistaking who he was. My boyhood idol, his name synonymous with New York rock and roll, a onetime junkie who’s eased into a graceful middle age. His fingers punctuated his comments to the willowy blonde beside him. As they passed, I heard him talking about the dead Kennedy.

Many hours later I ended my procession through the bars of Manhattan at an East Village dump where the floor show was winding up for the big finale. The mistress of ceremonies, a famous drag queen porn director, snarled a nasty play-by-play as her latest discovery strutted for the last stragglers nursing their nightcaps.
He may be straight, honey, but he likes a little surprise up his ass now and then.
In a dark corner in the back of the room, a stripper was getting a hundred-dollar blow job, counting his tips while an old man sucked him off. A couple of bills were twisted in his G-string.

I found my way downstairs to the toilet, each step confirming I was drunk. Drunker than I’d been for a long time, too drunk to stand and piss. I would never have squatted on that filthy bowl if I were sober. Someone kicked the bathroom door open. I heard tears and a sissy’s voice, pleading, as he was slammed and shoved across the room. A deeper voice threatened.
What did I tell you? What did I fucking tell you?
The mistress of ceremonies had her protégé pinned to the wall by his wrists. Sobbing, scared, his face red and wet, he looked younger than he had on stage, much younger, just out of high school. The drag queen smashed the boy’s right hand against the wall and a syringe fell to the floor.
Get the fuck out of here, asshole
, she hissed at me, crushing the hypodermic with her heel.

What a fucking night. Threatened by the scum of the earth. I ordered one for the road, one to help me sleep. The guy standing next to me at the bar was flipping through yesterday’s
Post
, studying the pictures of the dead Kennedy. He turned to me and smiled. It was the blow-job stripper in his street clothes, denim shorts and a white button-down with the sleeves cut away. The wire-rim glasses threw me off. Now that he wasn’t squinting, he looked like a puppy, relaxed and friendly. No one ever sees a stripper wearing glasses. Maybe because they have to fly blind to do what they do. When I spoke he said I sounded like home. He was from a town not far from Fayetteville. I saw his whole story in his face. A boy from a tobacco farm down east. He never expected to end up here when he enlisted in the Navy. He wanted to buy me a beer. I told him I’d never make it home. Don’t worry about that, he said, I’ll get you home. I apologized for not having any money left, not even enough for a cab. He said he had a pocket full of small bills. They smelt like his balls, he laughed, but they were still legal tender. In the cab, he stroked my knee as the driver stared at us in the rearview mirror, disgusted, the black eyes of Islam uncomprehending. The boy didn’t care I was too drunk to perform. He was homesick and wanted someone to lie beside in bed, a man to kiss and snuggle with, someone who didn’t laugh when he shared his dream of saving enough tips to buy a convenience store back in Carolina. He bought me a coffee in the morning and stood with me as I waited for a cab to the airport.

Whew! Who opened a can of peas and spiked it with vinegar? That sharp cider smell can’t be my armpits, can it? Is it my feet? My crotch? It was either shower or make my flight this morning, and I must be a little ripe. My pants are dirty and my shirt belongs in the laundry pile. All I want is to scald myself in the shower and crawl into bed for thirty-six hours. I’ll be lucky to steal a few hours’ sleep; my mother’s expecting a nice evening tonight. A hair of the dog will help. There’s one last swig left in the flask in the glove compartment. It tears a hole in my throat when I swallow it.

Clete from Oklahoma City is unmoved by the Legacy of Camelot. He doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about. Just another kid born with a silver spoon in his mouth. The country has lost its mind, weeping and wailing over this spoiled brat because of his last name. The talk show host is indignant, cutting off the naysayer, enraged by his heresy. The caller from Oklahoma has created a firestorm. Patty from Pittsburgh is leading the lynch mob. The Kennedys have given us so much, she insists. They’ve earned our respect. Tom from Tioga challenges the apostate to a fist fight. Even Merrill from Provo, Utah, a militant Republican, is calling for the blasphemer’s head.

Distracted by the funeral choir, I nearly rear-end a BMW sedan parked in the driveway of the Monument to Heat and Air. How much are we paying these private-duty nurses that they can afford to indulge their appetite for luxury imports? The car is a beauty, right off the showroom floor, probably less than three thousand miles on the odometer. There’s a Princeton decal in the rear window. What a racket, I swear as I grab my bag from the trunk of my sorry little Toyota compact. I’m subsidizing the German auto industry
and
paying Ivy League tuition. I take the long march to the back door. The overgrown lawn is a rebuke to my commitment to my domestic duties. I’ll call a lawn maintenance company tomorrow, conceding that assuming any responsibility for the upkeep of our house is beyond my capabilities. I’ll hire a painter and a contractor to replace the gutters while I’m at it. The Monument to Heat and Air is starting to look like the residence of the Addams Family.

“I’m home, Ma,” I shout, praying for no response, hoping she’s in her bedroom, resting, exhausted by the chemical cocktails racing through her bloodstream. But she calls out immediately, not answering me, but announcing my arrival.

“He’s home! You’re not going to miss him!”

And as I step in the kitchen, a familiar figure rises to greet me.

Ambushed! I’m in shock, denial. This can’t be happening. I must be further gone than I think since the only possible explanation for this hallucination is end-stage delirium tremens. My soon-to-be-ex-wife, the woman I haven’t seen since I was kicked out on my ass, is rising from her chair. Our one brief telephone conversation was deceptively easy. This unexpected face-to-face encounter is awkward, worse than awkward, painful. Alice could never play poker: it’s obvious, to me at least, she’d called ahead, knew I was out of town. Running late this morning, she didn’t want to disappoint my mother by canceling; she’s been sitting anxiously, too polite to cut the visit short, trying not to be distracted by her watch and dreading the possibility of this uncomfortable moment. How do you greet a woman you’ve lived with for nearly twenty years, who vowed to stay with you through better or worse unless the worst meant being rescued from a police station, no toothbrush or mouthwash available and the smell of cock still on your breath? A handshake is too formal; even a chaste kiss on the cheek is too intimate.

“Please, please, sit down,” I say.

“Barry’s family is from Charlotte. They’re down visiting his folks for the weekend,” my mother says, as if this reunion is as casual and relaxed as an old chamois shirt.

“Who’s Barry?” I ask.

The uncomfortable look they exchange answers the question. Barry is obviously the individual responsible for this insult to Alice’s once robust and healthy body. She’s the exception to the old adage that all pregnant women glow. She looks exhausted, with an unhealthy pallor, and the pouches under her eyes are as dark as mine. Her feet and ankles are swollen. Most shocking of all are the gray roots of her still stylishly cut hair. How long had she been coloring it before her obstetrician banned tints and rinses for the duration? Had she kept it a secret from me or had I simply not noticed?

“I really have lost track of the time,” she says to my mother with forced cheerfulness. “It’s good to see you,” she tells me. “Call when you can.”

Why? So we can chat about Barry?

“I’m so glad you came by,” my mother says as she and Alice embrace. I can see Alice is shaken. By me? By my mother’s condition? “I just know you’re going to have a beautiful baby,” she promises.

My mother has defected to the other side! She’s a pom-pom girl for Alice and her wonderful new life with beautiful, perfect Barry who would never be caught dead showing up like me, scruffy, rumpled, not quite clean, Jack Daniel’s on his breath. Beautiful Perfect Barry wakes up clean-shaven, rinsed, gargled, armpits shellacked, hair stylishly spiked. Beautiful Perfect Barry, the Princeton Man, has accomplished in record time the achievement my feeble sperm were incapable of producing. Alice must have pulled his photo out of her wallet so they could coo over this paragon of manhood with the piercing eyes and the Clark Kent cleft in his chin, her ultimate triumph, her reward for the years of humiliation and perseverance.

See, Ruth, this is my Beautiful Perfect Barry, my vindication, proof at last I wasn’t to blame for the failure of my marriage, none of it was my fault.

“I’ll be in touch,” she says to my mother. “We’ll be back in Charlotte planning the…” Her voice trails off, avoiding mentioning the sacred ceremony.

“I can’t wait to see the baby,” my mother says.

I’ve stumbled upon a conspiracy of estrogen! Why don’t we plan a big Sunday dinner together? My mother, Alice, Barry, the baby. How about inviting Barry’s parents? I bet they’re lovely people. While we’re at it we should ask Curtis to join us. Time heals all wounds. The two of us can bury the hatchet.

“I need to move the car,” I say, impatient for her to leave. “I’m blocking you.”

I leave the two of them alone for one last embrace and an opportunity to whisper their concern over the wreck I’ve become.
He’s just not adjusting
, they commiserate,
we wish there was something more we could do than hope and pray it all works out.

“I’m glad I came,” Alice says, emerging from the house.

“Yeah, thanks. It meant a lot to her. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

My instinct is to hold her when she starts to cry; her instinct is to be held. We take one step toward each other and stop.

“Andy, she looks terrible.”

I refrain from commenting she’s doesn’t look so hot herself.

“They’re considering a bone marrow transplant,” I say instead.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No. No, it doesn’t.”

“It’s hard to believe that this time last year…”

This time last year. Is she rubbing salt in the wound?

“…she was so full of life.”

This time last year.

“I’d really like to help,” she says. “I can, you know.”

Last summer. The very recent past. Practically yesterday.

“You didn’t waste any time, did you?” I say abruptly, the words sounding harsher than I’d meant.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I’m talking about. It hasn’t even been a year and you show up here pregnant.”

She stares at me, not responding, not backing down, her body language challenging me to keep going until I go too far.

“You’re already knocked up by some guy you didn’t even know a year ago.”

“I knew him,” she says, quietly, deliberately.

She’s not even kind enough to look away. Her face is a mask, impassive, refusing to confirm or deny the awful, unbearable possibility of her infidelity and betrayal, her secret life. I regret the words before I can spit them out.

“You fucking bitch.”

She opens the car door, tosses her purse on the seat, and crawls behind the wheel. A blast of music assaults me as the engine turns over. “Girlfriend.” She’s playing my fucking CD in Beautiful Perfect Barry’s Princeton-mobile. She wouldn’t even know who Matthew Sweet is if it weren’t for me. She turns off the music, pauses, then looks up, mocking me with an indulgent smile.

“Andy, I feel sorry for you. I really do.”

“Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t want your fucking sympathy,” I shout, slamming my car door. The radials squeal as I back into the street. I press the accelerator, hitting the mailbox and crushing the post.

Thank you, thank you, God, thank you, Jesus, for sending me to that fucking interstate shithouse that oppressively hot summer night! Thank you for clapping on the cuffs, booking me, setting my bail, forcing me to call my loving wife and forcing her to rescue me. The poor little thing must have been torturing herself, trying to find a painless way to break the news to me, how to gently announce that she was ending our marriage. Of course, in the midst of all this angst, she still found plenty of time to call Beautiful Perfect Barry to invite him to my house while I was out of town, sharing a bottle of my champagne while they listened to her favorite bel canto recordings on my sound system. Chaste Goddess my ass, holding hands on my sofa, a roaring fire in my fireplace, making out in my great room. I wonder if she felt the slightest twinge of guilt when she took his hand in hers, led him to my bedroom, and fell back on my mattress, lifting her legs so he could slip off the lace panties I bought her, begging him to stick his fucking dick into her unfaithful pussy. She did it with him in my bed. My fucking bed. I know it.