Revolution Number 9 (8 page)

There was another knock, more forceful this time.

“Maybe we’d better,” Charlie said.

They crawled out of the zipped-together sleeping bags. Charlie fastened his belt. Emily went to the door and opened it.

Outside were two men with gift-wrapped packages in their hands. The older one was bald with yellowish skin. He wore a bow tie and a seersucker suit that looked a size too big. The younger man stood well over six feet and was almost as broad as Charlie. He wore a blue and white striped rugby shirt and white pants with green whales on them. Both men had big smiles on their faces.

“Would this be Charles Ochs’s house?” asked the man in the bow tie.

Emily nodded.

The men’s smiles got bigger. “Looks like your nephew’s done all right for himself,” the one with the green whales on his pants said to the other.

“Buzz,” the older man told him, “mind your manners.” To Emily he said, “Tell Charlie his Uncle Sam is here.”

“His uncle? Charlie never mentioned—”

“It’s all right, Em,” said Charlie, appearing behind her. He looked out. “Hello, Sam.”

“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” said Uncle Sam, extending his hand. It hovered over the threshold long enough for Emily to
see it was trembling before Charlie reached out and took it. Uncle Sam pumped Charlie’s hand with enthusiasm and gripped Charlie’s elbow, southern-politician style. “I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said.

Charlie said, “It’s me.”

“Of course it’s you,” said Uncle Sam. “Haven’t changed a bit. Looking great, just great. This is my associate, Buzz. Buzz, I’d like you to meet my nephew Charlie. And unless I miss my guess, this is the brand-new Mrs. Ochs.”

“Emily Rice,” said Charlie. “She’s keeping her name.”

“Quite rightly,” said Uncle Sam. “My goodness, Charlie, it’s been a while. I’ll bet you’re itching to know how we found you.” Uncle Sam’s eyes were bright, his face turned up, like a dog with a trick.

Emily glanced at Charlie. He had never mentioned an uncle. In a flat tone, Charlie said: “How did you find me?” Emily decided that this was the sort of uncle relatives hoped to avoid, and almost smiled at Charlie’s discomfiture.

“To make a long story short,” Uncle Sam began, and set off on a tale involving a friend of a friend who had once done business with a contractor who had done work for De Mello and had been a classmate of one of the lobsterman’s wives, who in turn had talked about the plans for the wedding party at a high school reunion, and by the end of it they were all sitting in the living room with drinks in their hands—coffee for Charlie and her, water for Uncle Sam, beer for Buzz.

“So the champagne last night was from you?” Emily said.

“Why, of course,” said Uncle Sam. “Didn’t you see the note?”

Charlie, she remembered, had quickly stuck it in his pocket. “There was so much going on, I can’t even remember,” she said, trying to spare Charlie from embarrassment. “But it was delicious, thank you. And you,” she said to Buzz, “must be the gorilla.”

Buzz smiled. His eyes traveled down and up her body, fast and furtive, but they did it all the same.

“You’ve got a live one there, Charlie,” said Uncle Sam. He sipped his water, looked around the room. “Going on a camping trip?” he asked.

Charlie didn’t answer, so Emily said, “Yes.”

“Anywhere particular?” asked Uncle Sam.

“Long Trail,” Emily replied.

“Beautiful country,” said Uncle Sam. “Although it must be forty years.”

“Do they allow ATVs up there?” asked Buzz.

“ATVs?” said Uncle Sam.

“All-terrain vehicles,” said Buzz.

“Good Lord, I should hope not,” said Uncle Sam, and Emily thought:
He seems like a nice old guy. I wish Charlie wouldn’t be so rude to him
.

“Too bad,” said Buzz. “Nothing like an ATV for really seeing the outdoors.”

“Good Lord,” said Uncle Sam. “Good—” And then he started coughing. The coughing shook his body, doubled it over. Red gobbets sprayed from his mouth, landed on the trouser leg of Buzz, sitting beside him on the couch; the white trousers with the green whales on them.

“Shit,” said Buzz.

Emily bent over Uncle Sam and patted his back. The coughing subsided.

Uncle Sam sat up, took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his lips. “Sorry,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Terrible allergies.”

Allergies? Emily thought. Details—yellow skin, scrawny neck, completely hairless skull—came together in her mind. The prognosis was obvious.

“Shit,” said Buzz again. He was gazing with disgust at the red stains on his pants.

“I’m sure Charlie has something that will fit you,” Emily said. “Throw those in the wash.”

Charlie led Buzz upstairs. Emily took Uncle Sam to the bathroom. Before the door closed she saw him open a bottle of pills.

A few minutes later, they were all back in the living room. Buzz wore a pair of Charlie’s jeans that didn’t quite reach his ankles; Uncle Sam’s skin seemed even yellower than before, and his bow tie was crooked, but he was smiling again. He drank some water, peering over the rim of the glass at Charlie,
then at Emily. “What a pair of lovebirds,” he said. “You’re a lucky man, Charlie. I hate to ask you to postpone that camping trip.”

Emily saw Charlie frown. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I’ve got some news,” Uncle Sam replied. “Good news, possibly very good news. Certainly the kind of news any couple starting out would love to hear.”

“Let’s have it,” Charlie said, again in a flat tone that struck Emily as rude. Did Uncle Sam raise an eyebrow? She wasn’t sure; he smiled and continued.

“It’s kind of complicated,” he said. “It all goes back to Charlie’s grandfather’s will. Old Ferdie Ochs—a first-class SOB—you’ll pardon the expression, Emily. He left a sloppily prepared will, which he neglected to alter even though one of his children—Charlie’s dad—predeceased him. Ferdie died a few years ago, and that’s when we got an inkling of the mess he’d made of his affairs.” He turned to Charlie. “One of our big difficulties was we had no idea where you were.” He shook his head. “You’ve been a bad boy, Charlie. Avoiding your relatives like this.” His smile faded for a moment, came to life again. “But that’s all in the past. The point is that Ferdie managed to accumulate some choice hunks of real estate, and since your father died intestate, you became one of the major heirs.”

“Choice hunks?” said Emily, and wished at once she hadn’t. She liked the phrase, that’s all.

“Choice,” said Uncle Sam. “But because so much time has passed, we’ve got some hurdles to jump. Charlie has, specifically. There’s a move underway—quite understandable, I suppose, since he hasn’t been in communication with the family, presumed lost and all—to cut him out of the will.” He held up his hand. It was still shaking. “Not to worry,” he went on. “Now that Charlie’s turned up everything should be fine. The law is on our side, or at least that’s what my legal people say. But we have to move quickly. There are statutory time factors involved and other complications I don’t quite understand. The lawyers do. I’ve scheduled a meeting with them for later today.” He leaned across the coffee table, took Emily’s hand.
His was cold and damp. “So I hope you don’t mind if we borrow Charlie for a while, my dear.”

“Today?”

“I hate doing this,” said Uncle Sam.

Buzz leaned forward in his chair. “But,” he prompted.

Uncle Sam sighed. “I don’t make the schedule.”

Emily said, “Couldn’t the meeting be postponed for a few days?”

“Naturally I tried that, with the wedding and all,” said Uncle Sam. “They’re not in a postponing mood.”

Emily turned to Charlie. He was staring out the window, didn’t seem to realize she was trying to make eye contact. “I guess our trip could wait for a day,” she said.

“It might take a few days, actually,” Uncle Sam said.

“A few days?”

“This is a complex matter, as I mentioned. But we’re talking about substantial sums.”

“Why don’t I come along, then? I’ve blocked off the time anyway.” Emily turned to Charlie again. He was still staring out the window. “Charlie?”

He faced her. She waited for him to say “Why don’t you?” When he did not, she repeated the suggestion herself.

Was it her imagination, or did Charlie wince, as though with a sudden pain in his gut? Her question was answered by Uncle Sam.

“Ticklish,” he said.

“Putting it mildly,” said Buzz.

“I don’t understand.” No one explained. “Do you, Charlie?”

“Not really.”

“Charlie’s not in a position to,” said Uncle Sam. “He doesn’t know the
dramatis personae
. They’re a suspicious bunch. We told them Charlie was single, not wanting to complicate things with possible heirs.”

“Et cetera,”
said Buzz.

“So now if we turned up with a connubial Charlie, they might think we were trying to pull a fast one.”

“Bizarre,” said Buzz.

“But that’s the way they work,” said Uncle Sam.

Emily turned again to Charlie: “You never told me about all this family.”

Charlie started to say something, but Uncle Sam interrupted. “He’s a bad boy. Now aren’t you, Charlie? Admit it.”

Charlie looked at him. “Do you really think that, Uncle Sam?” Emily heard the sarcasm in his voice, wondered why he didn’t treat his uncle more politely. But she knew nothing of his family, nothing of his relationship with Uncle Sam. She did know Charlie, and knew he must have reasons.

“No, no, no,” said Uncle Sam. “I don’t really think that. Just getting in the old needle. Wasn’t I, Buzz?”

Buzz was draining the last of his beer. “What?” he said.

Uncle Sam sighed. Then he rubbed his hands together, as though trying to generate momentum. “Well,” he said, “we’d best be going.” He rose. Buzz rose. Charlie rose.

And Emily. “Now?” she said.

Uncle Sam took her hand again. His was hot this time, and dry. “We won’t keep him long,” he told her. “Promise.”

It was happening quickly. The whole day had been like that. Everyone moved toward the door. “Charlie, shouldn’t you pack something? He said a few days.”

“Not to worry,” said Uncle Sam. “If it takes that long, Charlie can pick up new things.” He chuckled. “A whole wardrobe, if he wants.”

But Charlie didn’t care about wardrobes; he wasn’t materialistic. That was one of the things she liked about him. Now it occurred to her that maybe she was confusing cause and effect; maybe he lived simply not for philosophical reasons, but because of an inability to make money. And now that money was in the offing, he was off, as if he hadn’t been living the life of his choice. But that was speculation, supported by nothing; and it wasn’t him.

Buzz opened the door and went out. Uncle Sam followed. A black limo was parked across the street, with a driver at the wheel. Buzz got in the back. Uncle Sam waited on the lawn. In the doorway, Emily turned to Charlie. She looked up into Charlie’s eyes. He shied away from her gaze, stepped forward, took her in his arms. He squeezed hard.

“I’ve thought of a name, Charlie.”

“For who?”

“The baby. Who else?”

He made a funny movement, almost a shudder.

“Zachary,” she said. “If it’s a boy.”

Charlie squeezed her a little harder.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little hoarsely, as though something was caught in his throat. “I do.”

She squeezed him back. “Don’t be too long, Charlie.”

“I won’t.”

They kissed. She felt his lips, his face, the strength of his arms around her. And then he was gone, across the lawn, across the street, and into the back of the limo with his Uncle Sam. They were invisible behind the blackened windows. The limo pulled away from the curb, purred down the street, turned the corner, and disappeared.

Charlie. Her special, perfect man. And now he was rich too. She’d been off base. He was being responsible, she was being sentimental. Honeymoon: a lovely old word that had lost its meaning, like a glyph in some jungle.

Emily went back inside and closed the door. She separated the sleeping bags and was rolling them up when the washer buzzed, signaling the end of the cycle. She went into the laundry cubicle off the kitchen and began transferring wet clothes into the dryer. There were some of her things, some of Charlie’s; and the pants with the green whales on them, left behind by Buzz. As she was putting Buzz’s pants in the dryer, she felt something in one of the pockets and took it out.

It was an empty envelope, on Yale Alumni Society stationery. The ink had blurred, but the address was still legible:

N
uncio liked being the bearer of good news and always delivered it to his clients on the phone. Bad news he passed on through the mail, to keep things pleasant. Now, at ten-thirty on a morning in May, with the sun glaring through his dusty windows, Nuncio dialed Brucie Wine’s number. It rang many times before Brucie answered it, somewhat reducing Nuncio’s enthusiasm.

“Yeah?” said Brucie, his voice thick and sleepy. Then came a horrible sound that Nuncio realized was throat clearing. He held the phone away from his ear, as though germs might be speeding through the wire.

“Good news,” Nuncio said.

“Huh?” said Brucie. “Are you tryna sell me somethin’?”

“It’s me,” said Nuncio. “Mr. Nuncio.”

“Oh, hi.”

“I’ve got good news.”

“What about?”

“Your case,” Nuncio said. “They bought it. You’re off the hook.”

“Meaning?”

Meaning?
How, thought Nuncio, had he been unclear? “Meaning they dropped the charges in return for the tip. You can resume normal life.” Nuncio then made the mistake of adding, “Or not, as the case may be.”

“Huh?”

Nuncio sighed. “You’re in the clear, Brucie. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Whatever you say.” Brucie hung up. No thank-you, no good-bye. Nuncio switched on his Dictaphone. Could a client
sue his lawyer on the grounds that he had failed to understand that he was no longer under indictment? Probably. Nuncio dictated a letter to Brucie spelling out the good news.