The Funnies (7 page)
Pierce shrugged. “You know.”
“Mmm-hmm. Why don't you all have a seat?”
Mal watched me as I helped Mom into a chair and walked around behind her to my own. I nodded to Susan as I sat down, and she nodded back. What was she doing here? Did she expect some inheritance from my father? Had they been close? Her face was such a rictus of discomfort that I could read nothing else into it, and her hands squirmed against each other in full view, leaving a damp shadow on the shiny tabletop.
Mal had a thick manila envelope in front of him, his giant hands spread flat on either side. “Well,” he said. “We might as well get this under way.” He turned the envelope ninety degrees on the table, reached into it and pulled out three things: a few pieces of textured, watermarked white paper, a thin white business-size envelope, and another envelope, identical save for a slight bulge in the middle. Both of these envelopes were signed across the flapâI recognized the crabbed version of my father's careful handâand stamped and signed on the front.
“It's a very simple will,” Mal said. Bobby's eyes widened. “The six of you, Rosalinde, Robert, Timothy, Pierce, Beatrice and Dorothy, are the only heirs.”
I glanced over at Susan to see what her reaction was to this, but she was sitting perfectly still, her hands folded, watching Mal. He began to read the preliminaries: sound mind and body, and so on. The only other sound in the room was the air conditioner's arctic hiss, and muffled traffic noise from outside.
“To Dorothy, my wife, and my children Rosalinde, Robert and Beatrice, I leave my extant liquid assets. These are to be divided equally into funds which I have already established in their names. In addition, I have established for my wife, Dorothy, in her name, a fund for the maintenance of her care until her death, such fund as will be attended to by the executor of this will.” He looked up, smiling sadly at my mother, whose eyes were elsewhere.
“To Pierce Mix, I leave the contents of the bank account already established jointly in our names, the house at 12 Old Dock Road, Riverbank, New Jersey, the attached garage, the 1984 Cadillac El Dorado, and the land surrounding the house and garage, save that land on which my cartoon studio stands. To Pierce I also leave this envelope, its contents, and all rights and claims attached to its contents.”
Mal held up the bulging envelope and set it down again.
“Save those items already mentioned, I leave my worldly possessions to my wife and all my children, to be divided as they see fit.”
He paused a moment here. Had I not heard right, or had my name not been mentioned along with the liquid assets? Could it be that I would get no money at all? The thought crowded my head like a mouthful of stale bread. Nothing! I was getting nothing!
“To my son Timothy,” Mal read, perhaps more slowly now. “I leave the Family Funnies comic strip, all merchandising, reprint, animation, book publishing, advertising and other rights as set forth in my name by Burn Features Syndicate, Incorporated, and the cartoon studio behind 12 Old Dock Road, Riverbank, New Jersey, the land it stands on and its full contents (and all rights to all drawings therein) under the following conditions: that he is able, three months from this date, to produce a week's worth of daily Family Funnies strips of his own devising and execution, to the satisfaction of a board of Burn Features editors and directors set forth below.” Mal proceeded to read from a list of names, none of which I heard. A silence gathered in the room with guerrilla stealth. People were looking at me.
“I don't get it,” I said, my voice dying in the chill air.
“He left you the comic strip,” Mal said. “To draw.”
“That's all?”
“This too,” he said, and pushed the second envelope toward me. It had the approximate heft of three or four pieces of paper.
I turned the envelope over in my hands.
TIM
, it read, in faint ballpoint ink. When I looked up I met Susan's eyes. She was gazing at me expectantly, like a lover naked under a thin sheet.
“Excuse me,” I said, and walked out.
I found a men's room in the hallway, pushed the door open, and locked myself into a stall, where I sat down on the toilet and ripped open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter. It read:
Timâ
Well, I imagine you're pretty pissed off right now, being as you didn't get any money from me. Of course if you can pull this off you'll get all the money you'll ever need and then some. Not that money's important to you. Or is it?
We both know that what you're doing is a lot of bullshit. I tried the genius painter thing when I was in college, and I wasn't any better at it than you were. Actually, I was probably a little better. But that's not the point. The point is that it isn't right for you and never was, and you only did it to get away from your mom and me and that house. Can't say I blame you for that. I was a real asshole sometimes, that's for sure, and your mother was too. But now you're thirty years old (maybe more, depending on how quickly I knock off) and it's time to get your act together, like it or not. God knows what a pain in the ass that is, so here's your chance to do it the easy way.
Why me? you're thinking. Of course you are. Look at your brothers and sisters, Tim. Bobby's already got his little chunk of the pie, Lindy's told us all to go to hell, Bitty is married (we'll see how long that lasts), and Pierce, of course, is hopeless. It's the same old song, Timmy, you're not living up to your potential. You're the only one who can still make yourself a decent life. You're down in West Philly with that little girl of yours, but she's not any good either, and besides, you don't like her. Face facts! Say what you will about me, but I did whatever in hell I wanted, when I wanted, and I'm happy I did. Mostly, anyway.
I've included a list of the supplies I use. If you're going to do it, do it right. Finished cartoons go on 2-ply Strathmore plate; you stick a week's worth in an envelope with cardboard and ship them to New York. Do your prelims in pencil on 16-lb layout bond. Sketch with a Wolff “B.” Finals with a Globe Bowl point and letter with a Speedball B-6 round. Brushes are MORALLY WRONG, got that? This isn't art school, it's the strips. The other stuff you need's on the list, along with the product numbers for all the important things. Also, I've got you set up with Brad Wurster, out in New Brunswick. He's a real genius, he gives lessons to all the young punks who can afford it. He's the best there is. You'll go to him five hours a day, five days a week. When you make your decision, call him at 224-8935. He's always home. You think FF is a joke, but it sent you to art school, so you'll keep it the way it is.
I said I was mostly happy I did what I did. The only problem was your mother. We tore into each other like nobody's business. Don't do that, all right? That's what'll happen between that girl and you if you don't watch it. Your lives will go on being boring until one day you'll wake up and blame her for it, because you won't want to admit it's your own damn fault. And she'll do the same thing. And there'll be fights and drinking and all the stuff that ruined your mom and me. Now I'm sounding like a sap. But that woman was my one great failing. I bet she'd say the same about me. We screwed up and probably screwed all of you up too.
You won't want to do this at first, but you'll come around. There's more to it than meets the eye.
Dad
The accompanying list was long as my arm: sandpaper, palette, rubber cement, kneaded eraser, etc., etc. I shouldered out of the stall, crumpled the papers and hurled them into the trash can, screamed, spun around, kicked the door so that it gonged on its hinges. Then I stood perfectly still, breathing heavily, for several minutes.
Gathered, I went to the trash can and pulled the papers out. Did he think he could get away with this pop-psychological semi-apology for all the heartlessness and gloomy self-indulgence he'd inflicted on us over the years? But of course he had, and he was doing it right now. I smoothed the letter out against my leg, fresh sweat breaking out under my arms and on my back. I'd keep it as testament to my enduring patience. Someday, when I'd made my own fortune without him, I'd read it and laugh at what a supercilious twit he was.
I smoothed back my hair in the mirrorâfor once, I noticed, I didn't look like a penitent awaiting the lashâand flung open the men's room door. I almost knocked over Susan Caletti. She brought her arms up before her face, as if I were about to sock her.
“Jesus!” I said. “Sorry.”
She backed up a step. “That's okay.”
“Where is everybody?” The hallway and conference room were empty.
“They left. You were in there a while.” She smiled, pushing a wavy clot of hair away from her face. She looked terribly uncomfortableâher dress was navy blue and heavy-looking, with her ankles popsickle-sticking out of it, sunburned to a lurid pink.
“So I guess you're giving me a ride home?”
“I guess I am.”
* * *
Susan Caletti drove a tan Subaru station wagon that looked to be from the early 1980s. It was in great shape. I told her this as we wended our way out of Trenton, the air conditioner gusting clammy warm air into our faces.
“Yeah, I had a boyfriend who waxed it every weekend, so I sort of caught on. It feels a little funny doing it out in the street, but whatever.”
“Where do you live?”
“TriBeCa,” she said, and addedâwith a practiced, muted jubilanceâ“rent-controlled.”
“There's no rent control in West Philly.”
She took her eyes from the road to offer me a surprised glance. “No?”
“Our rent's gone up something like four times in the past two years.”
“Too bad.”
Her driving was quietly competent, a rare thing. She seemed even to be enjoying herself. As if reading my mind, she said, “I like driving in cities, especially non-New York ones.” We were getting on Route 29 via a narrow entrance ramp. She paused to jockey for position against a pickup with wooden fence rails. The pickup backed off and let her merge. “It's funny, I don't really think of it as a part of real life. It's like a video game or something.”
“That could get you into trouble,” I said.
“Hmm. I suppose it could.”
We rode in silence for some minutes, watching trees and houses creep by. Susan didn't turn on the radio. We were coming into Washington Crossing when she said, “So have you given it some thought?”
For a second I didn't know what she meant. I had been thinking about Amanda's car, and began to look for the service station where I'd left it. Then I remembered. “Oh, sure,” I said.
There was the station, up ahead. The Chevette was parked outside in the sun, all the windows clamped firmly shut. “So?” Susan asked.
I turned to her. “Are you kidding me? Of course not!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I'm sure! That strip has been the bane of my existence my entire life! It's stupid!”
“Okay, okay,” she said.
“Sorry.”
“All I'm saying is don't be hasty. Your dad⦔
“Don't tell me about my dad, please.”
“Right, okay.” She opened her mouth, closed it again, then sighed. “Just let me say this. From the standpoint of publicity, it's preferable for us to keep it in the family. It's a family thing, you know?” We were on a straightaway past a meadow, and she took a moment to look at me. I kept my eyes out the windshield. “And the other thing is that it's easy. There's really not much you have to do. Your dad didn't really do much except draw his daily strips. We just send you your checks.”
“Susan, with all due respect, I've already made my decision.”
She poised herself to speak, her shoulders pitched like a linebacker's. But finally she relaxed into her seat, nodding. The willows and ranch houses of South Side Riverbank came into view.
At the foot of our driveway, she stopped the car. The air conditioner had finally cooled it off, and I envied her the drive back to New York. She opened the ashtray and pulled out, from a pile of nuts, bolts, rubber bands and coins, a creased business card. She handed it to me.
“In case you have second thoughts. Your dad saidâ¦.” She stopped short, her eyes on the river glittering in the distance.
“Oh, go ahead and finish.”
“Your dad said it would be good for you. Maybe that's true.”
“My dad has never known what's good for me.”
She met my gaze and held it, for the briefest moment, then put the car back into gear. “That may be true too,” she said.
* * *
There was a message on the answering machine for me. It was from the Sunoco station in Washington Crossing. They had an estimate on the Chevette.
I called back and got the woman I'd talked to when I broke down. “You threw a rod,” she said.
“I kind of figured that.”
“Yeah, well, it's gonna cost you six hundred bucks. We gotta get a new engine, okay? And there's one up in Ringoes we can get you used for about four hundred, and believe me that's a real good deal, and then labor's two hundred, and I know that sounds like a lot, but it's the best we can do in these particular circumstances.”
“Oh.”
“So we need a decision from you on whether to go ahead or not on it.
“I'm wondering if the car's even worth fixing.”
“Well, that's a possibility.”
“I'll have to get back to you,” I said. “It's technically my girlfriend's car.”
I hung up and stood a moment by the phone, waiting for inspiration. Six hundred dollars! On the day I was supposed to have become rich! I grabbed a pencil from the grease-spattered mug next to the stove and snapped it in two against the edge of the counter. This felt good, so I did it to all the other pencils too. Then the pitiful theatricality of the gesture struck me and I put the pieces back into the mug and wiped off the counter with a damp rag.