We're All in This Together (12 page)

"I don't talk to strange men," I said.

On Route 12, the BMW pulled onto the shoulder and up beside me. He slowed down and unrolled the window. "Are you sure you
don't want a ride?"

"I don't accept—"

Dr. Vic swung the BMW back into the road, turning up a spray of gravel.

But when I reached the house on Dundee Avenue, I found Dr. Vic already there; he was on the front lawn, helping Papa add a
beard to Al Gore. Dr. Vic acted as though nothing had happened, just gave me a "howdy," and went on talking with Papa. My
grandfather stood on a milk crate, using a Magic Marker to meticulously dab in the former vice-president's much discussed
new whiskers. Some pundits had wondered if it was a statement of some kind, further evidence of the man's unbearable liberal
pretension.

"They can't even let the man groom himself in peace," said Papa. "So he's not shaving. He's probably depressed. He's got a
right to be. It's not enough they stole the election, now they're after the man's dignity, too."

Dr. Vic stayed on the ground and kept a hand on the other man's belt to make sure he didn't fall. "So let me get this straight,
before the little bugger started vandalizing your sign, he stole your Travel section?"

I sat down on the hood of the Buick and crossed my arms.

"That was the start of it."

Dr. Vic shook his head. "What kind of a kid wants the Travel section of the Sunday
New York Times}
It's all stories about places you'll never go or, even worse, places you've been to, but that the article ends up making you
feel guilty about because you missed all the really great stuff that stupid tourists don't know about."

Papa paused to extract a crumpled magazine page from his pocket and consult a picture of the former vice-president with his
new beard. "He looks dignified, I think."

"I'll tell you, though, Henry, if you look on the bright side, at least the kid saved you the trouble of throwing it out."

"He took the Style section, too," said Papa. His voice contained an edge. He was shading in around Gore's cheeks, filling
out the last few inches of gristle.

"Well," said Dr. Vic, "I suppose I can see how that might rile a man."

After Papa finished, he braced himself on Dr. Vic's shoulder and stepped off the crate. He gave a tiny groan when his shoes
hit the grass and his weight came down. Dr. Vic asked him if he was okay.

"Fine," said Papa, and shrugged off the other man's hand.

We all walked out into the street and surveyed the billboard:

Albert Gore Jr. won the 2000 election by 537,179 votes, but lost the presidency by 1 vote. DISGRACE. The leader of the free
world is now a man who went AWOL from his National Guard unit, a huckster of fraudulent securities, a white-knuckle alcoholic,
and a gleeful executor of the mentally handicapped. CRIMINAL. Our nation is in the midst of a coup d'etat, perpetrated by
a right-wing cadre that destroys the environment in the name of prosperity, hoards in the name of fairness, intimidates the
voices of its critics in the name of patriotism, and wraps itself in the word of God. FARCE.

And below that the adjusted portrait of Gore, underscored by the legend:

THE REAL PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.

Below the text, Gore, and his beard, fixed south.

Papa held up the crumpled magazine page with the up-to-date picture of Gore, and we all looked back and forth between the
two. The rendering was, I thought, quite accurate:

The former vice-president's facial hair appeared soft, almost tentative, hinting at curls if it were allowed to grow long
enough. It was a beard that belonged to a much younger man, and it gave Al Gore's expression a morose quality, as if he were
staring at the road for a ride that was late in coming, or more likely, never coming at all.

"You got him," said Dr. Vic.

Papa folded up the magazine page, and went over to the billboard. He took a rag out of his pocket and gave a quick polish
to the union bug in the corner that marked it as the work of the printer in Providence.

"Even better," said Dr. Vic.

"Ayuh," said Papa. He rummaged in another pocket for a handful of peanuts, and started to crunch.

"Say, you should take it easy with those things, Henry. Not too many and not too fast, as they say."

"I don't want to hold you any longer, Dr. Lipscomb." Papa walked over to the BMW parked at the curb. I hopped off the hood
of the car and followed him. "Be sure and tell Emma I said hello."

My grandfather gave me a wry glance, and added, "Or write it to her. Or do whatever it is you people do to communicate with
one another these days."

"Will do," said Dr. Vic.

Papa held the door of the BMW open for his prospective son-in-law.

If he felt rushed, Dr. Vic didn't show it. After he shook my grandfather's hand and climbed into the car, he took his time
feeling around for the keys. "And you'll give my best to Gil?"

"Very well, Dr. Lipscomb."

Dr. Vic didn't look up as he patted his breast pocket. "Who's his doctor, anyway? And how's he feeling? Emma told me that
it was her impression that it was—pretty serious."

"I don't know. You'd have to ask Gilbert. But I guess he's hanging in there the best he can."

"Of course he is," said Dr. Vic. "Of course he is."

Bending his tall, lean frame at the waist, my grandfather reached through the car window, and poked the car keys. They jingled
from the visor. The fob was a plastic cartoon Pekingese, wearing shades and riding a surfboard. "There."

"Ah." Dr. Vic snapped his fingers. He stuck the key in the ignition. He gave Papa a big smile and sat with his hand still
on the head of the key. "I've got to ask: you feeling okay, Henry? You seem—I don't know. A tad frazzled."

The old man sighed. He jammed a hand in his trouser pocket and grabbed more peanuts. A few nuts popped out and went rolling
crazily across the pavement.

"I'm fine," said Papa, and tossed back the peanuts. He started to chomp, talking between bites and breaths. "Mind you, our
country is being run by a man who would just as soon wipe his ass with the Constitution as read it—and my First Amendment
right is being trampled on by a member of the local chapter of the Hitler Youth—and everyone around here just walks around
like they're deaf, dumb, and blind." He swept out his arms to indicate the scope of the catastrophe. A peanut fragment wobbled
at the corner of his mouth. "Other than all that, Dr. Lipscomb, everything is fine. Everything is super."

Calm, and still holding the older man's gaze, Dr. Vic nodded. "And you lost your wife, Henry."

"That's right," said Papa. "I did lose my wife."

"Have you ever considered seeing a grief counselor?"

"Did you vote for Bush?"

"No."

"Did you consider it?"

"Yes."

My grandfather nodded. "No."

Dr. Vic raised an eyebrow.

"No, I never considered it. Going to a counselor. For my grief."

"I know a good one," said Dr. Vic.

They smiled at each other for a few seconds, the kind of squinting smiles that men use when they aren't really happy.

Dr. Vic turned the key and the engine awoke in a whoosh of high air-conditioning. "I'm going to have to insist that you start
calling me Vic."

"Very well," said Papa. "Vic." He gave the BMW a rap on the roof.

Dr. Vic pressed the automatic window button and said, "I'm picking you up at four, George." He gave me a tight grin from behind
the glass and backed up his car.

When the BMW disappeared around the curve in the road, Papa put his hand on my shoulder. It closed like a claw; I could feel
him shaking. "I need to sit down."

We crouched down together. He hung on to my shoulder, lowering his rear, and then dropping the last couple of inches with
a groan. I sat down beside him.

The pavement was warm from the sun. He breathed and clasped his hands in his lap. I reached out, flicked away the peanut at
the corner of his mouth. He nodded, rocking a little, his breath hitching. Seconds passed, minutes. A car drove by, another
car, a truck, cars and trucks.

I thought my grandfather might be about to cry. I had no idea what I would do if that happened.

"I've never sat in the driveway before," I said.

"I guess it's one of those places you don't usually sit."

His voice was tired, but controlled. Papa scanned around, taking in the lawn, the sign, the diminishing, ground-level viewpoint
of the tall white house. "Well. Now you can check it off the List."

"The List?"

"The old Things-I-Did-Before-I-Died List."

"You, too," I said.

"Me, too," he said. A thoughtful, faraway expression came over his face. "You know who I bet has a hell of a list?"

"Who?"

Papa gestured in the direction of the Desjardins' house. "Gilbert."

"Really?"

"He's a hedonist."

"What's that?" I asked.

My grandfather grinned. "Better you don't know." He started to laugh—and then abruptly, his eyes grew wet and he stopped.
He coughed several times and rubbed at his eyes. "Don't look," he said, and I closed my eyes while he blew his nose on the
pavement.

When we were inside, making our way up the stairs, he leaned on me again, digging into my shoulder with his fingers. At the
landing we stopped to rest. I could feel the vibration of his breath in my chest.

The previous autumn my freshman biology teacher, Mr. Capers, a spindly and excitable graduate student on loan from USM, had
achieved some minor renown for raising a tarantula named Boris in the class aquarium. We marveled with repulsion at the creature's
hairy, scuttling hunger, the way it devoured dead bugs and ravaged the papery fly corpses. Six classes worth of feedings,
however, caused Boris to swell to the size of a fist, and he went belly-up over Christmas break. For the edification of future
biology students, Mr. Capers, instead of disposing with the spider's body, installed Boris in a block of Lucite to use as
a paperweight. But there must have been a breach in the paperweight's seal. Moisture soon appeared on the surface of the Lucite
and one day, Boris's legs broke off. After that, the tarantula's body fell completely to pieces and rattled from one side
to the other when you turned the paperweight over. Mr. Capers, soured by a full year of dealing with adolescents, began to
patrol the class while holding the Lucite block of loose tarantula parts, and, if he saw a kid who wasn't paying attention,
he would shake it aggressively at them.

The hard little tips of Papa's fingers brought up the memory of the tarantula in the Lucite block, all broken into pieces,
the legs like matchsticks.

"Maybe you should see the doctor," I said.

"Just a little spell," Papa said. He let go of my shoulder, straightened, and walked the rest of the way without stopping.

I trailed him into the guest room. He sat in the chair by the orange-curtained window. "You know, sitting here, sometimes
I feel like that bastard Oswald." One of his hands flopped in his lap. He squeezed it. "Don't worry. It was just a little
spell, George."

For the first time, it occurred to me that if he wanted to, Steven Sugar could kill my grandfather, really kill him. If he
had a grip on Papa, Steven Sugar could break the old man. I could see him doing it, could see him snapping my grandfather
over one knee. I remembered how when Mr. Capers's Lucite paperweight was tilted, all the parts of the tarantula would pile
up on one side like a mess of tiny blackened kindling.

I decided to tell Papa what happened at the library.

When I was done, he gave a grunt of satisfaction. "We're getting to him," he said.

I asked if we should call the police.

" 'My own private Vietnam'? He said that?" Papa peeled back the orange curtain and peered out at the sign. "Well, well, who's
the sore loser now?"

"What about the police?" I asked again.

"What about them?" Papa held up his hand and flexed it a couple of times. Everything seemed to be under control.

"He said he would burn down your house."

My grandfather laughed. "I've heard that one before." He shot a finger pistol at the photograph of Joseph Hillstrom. "Isn't
that what they always say, Joe?"

A few minutes later, he was asleep, one hand on the IL-47.1 draped a blanket over him. Papa's hand stayed certain on the oiled
wood of the grip.

When I went downstairs, I found Gil watching television and building a garbage joint from the buds in the ashtray. "Pull up
a rock, lad. You know what time it is?"

I looked at the clock on the wall. "Noon?"

Gil crumbled a cinder into his paper. "Nope. It's Bare Ass O'Clock."

That was all the invitation I needed. I took a seat in Papa's armchair.

Gil had let himself in to see his favorite channel, an obscure cable station at the end of the dial that showed almost nothing
besides an import about the lifestyles of naked Europeans, called
Bare Over
There.

In the months after Nana died and Gil's cancer was diagnosed, I often joined the two old men while they smoked up and vegetated
for marathon sessions of
Bare Over There.
The three of us had been virtually hypnotized by astonishing wonders like the story of a pastry shop in a suburb of Zagreb
where the topless waitresses served breast-shaped pastries, or the segment on the popular and controversial Latvian garage
band who performed wearing nothing except Lincoln beards, and then fellated each other at the end of each show while simultaneously
playing a (remarkably credible) cover of "Won't Get Fooled Again." We had seen other episodes about naked Spanish farmers
who were tanned to the color of photo negatives, a naked mayor in Finland who married other naked people, and a benevolent
cult of do-gooding nudists who rode the tram in Vaduz, offering to help old people carry heavy things. All over the world
it seemed, people were living and working unrestricted by garments.