And Sons (7 page)

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said.

“Same here. Really nice.”

“I almost didn’t come. Still not sure if this is such a good idea.”

“Oh, it’s a great idea,” Andy said. “I bring all my first dates to funerals.”

Jeanie flinched.

“What? Date?” he asked, confirming his possible miscue.

She nodded without affirming.

“How about something in the fig family then?”

“I should just go.”

“No, no, no, unfair, you just got here, and we’re conversing, and this is pleasant, right, this is nice, and informative, don’t forget that, and I’ll stop with the crazy fruit talk, no dates, no figs, I promise you, unless you’re looking for a tasty kumquat ’cause I know a guy.”

She seemed to swallow that pebble. “You’re seventeen.”

“That’s like a hundred and fifty in dog years. It’s a miracle I’m still alive.”

She smiled.

“Enough of the ageism,” Andy said. “Hell, my father and mother
had like thirty-five years between them, not saying there’s a comparison. We’re just getting to know each other, right, face-to-face, in that old-timey analogue, and hey, I like your face, you have a very nice face, Jeanie Spokes.” She blushed, or her neck blushed, or flushed, went all blotchy, which Andy hoped wasn’t an allergic reaction.

In perfect Topping timing, the coffin burst through the church doors, guided by professional pallbearers who quick-stepped toward the hearse as if the commercial residents along Madison insisted on a low-corpse visibility.

“Oh no,” Jeanie said, turning, “you missed the entire funeral.”

“We should just leave, go for a walk or something.”

“But isn’t your father here?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Andy said. “I don’t need to see him.”

“I should’ve gotten here earlier.”

“Trust me, you’ve done me a favor.”

The congregation started to filter through the doors, us Toppings first, Lucy holding A. N. Dyer by the arm. I spotted Andy as he spotted his father, and I recognized his look from the look I get nowadays from my own son: a certain instant exasperation mixed with historical mortification, like I’ve blown another easy save. As more people spilled from the church, their numbers grew into a spontaneous sidewalk social. A tight grip of admirers gravitated toward A. N. Dyer, some holding books protected by Mylar, which seemed more fetishistic than archival, but for the most part they were a polite group, like servers offering up trays of unwanted canapés.

“I think I see your father,” Jeanie said, pointing.

“Let’s just get out of—” And that’s when his father caught sight of him and unhooked from Lucy and waved both hands, almost yelling, “Andy! Andy!” as he headed clumsily down the steps. I feared he might trip and break his neck, so I left my children with my sister and offered Andrew the crutch of my shoulder, like a good son, I thought, present in this world. Andy noticeably sagged upon our arrival. It was a gesture that threw me back to high school—oh great, here’s Philip Topping. Meanwhile, Andrew placed his hands around Andy’s neck and sort of did the inverse of strangling him, like he was trying to repair his
breathing. “Thank goodness,” he said. “I was getting worried. I had you injured and bleeding, dying on the street alone. Swear I heard ambulances. Bells ringing.”

“Good to see you too,” Andy said.

“If I had known the proper medical procedures perhaps I could have saved you.”

“What a shame,” Andy said.

“I can’t help where my mind goes.”

“But why does it always go to where I’m dead?”

“When you have children you’ll understand.”

“It’s only been like twenty minutes.”

“No, almost an hour.”

“And that means I’m dead?”

As they bickered I shared a look with Jeanie Spokes, her name as yet unknown. She was obviously older than Andy and the probable cause of all this trouble. She grinned at me like we were seconds in a bitter yet humorous duel. The hair on her arms was dark and obliquely sexy and I noticed a few moles brailled on her cheek and neck, which I had an instant desire to touch. My dowsing stick told me it was going to rain. I was curious when the time came if Andy would introduce me fondly, since old teachers, particularly old elementary school teachers, exist in the underworld of nostalgia, stuck in the eternal loop of whatever grade you’ve long passed. To this day I close my eyes on Andy as a ten-year-old, a peculiar boy who struggled to control his body, swinging his arms wildly and running into corners, tripping over his big feet, forever falling backward in his chair. In sixth grade this developed into a particular brand of shtick. You never knew if his accidents were on purpose even if the blood was always real. But in sixth grade everything gets complicated. That’s why I preferred fifth graders. They struck me as the best versions of themselves, middle-aged children effortlessly straddling their youth. Soon the gap would spread too wide and they would have to leap to the other side, but while I had them they were safe and merely curious of the divide.

“I just hate the idea of you being alone,” father was saying to son.

“But I’m the one dying.”

“Enough with the dying.”

“Yes, please,” Andy said, “enough.” He mimed a patient grin, the sort of exasperated condescension seen by parents immemorial, and that’s when he took the opportunity to turn to me and ask, not without fondness, about Buckley. While honesty was my new goal, I refrained from telling him the whole truth and simply explained that I was taking an extended leave of absence, to recover from my recent loss. The young woman, this Jeanie Spokes—hello, nice to meet you—gave me a grimace of woe that seemed almost exaggerated, and I half-wondered if she had heard about my sordid tale, if my shame had somehow gone public. I mentioned how very difficult these last few months had been and that I was no longer living at home but had taken up residence at the Hotel Wales, “just like your short story,” I said to Andrew.

“What’s that?”

Had he been listening? “My wife and I are having a bit of a break, and so I’m living in the Wales, like Asher in
Hotel India
, but so far no Morse code tapping on the pipes.”

“Jesus, Philip, don’t live in my stories.”

“No, no, no, in the Hotel Wales. On Madison.” I pointed north.

Andrew tried to track but his eyes were like hands in the dark. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I think I need to go home. I just need to go home. The idea of a reception after my performance in there, I just can’t. And my feet. My head. My fingernails, I swear. Philip, I loved your father—of course I loved him, he was my oldest friend—but I need to go home. I’m starting to feel, I don’t know, in my teeth even, which can’t be good. If I had proper use of my body I’d fling it out the window. I didn’t say that. Beckett did. I don’t have much to say anymore. Except I need to go home. But Philip, living in the Wales, that’s no good. It ends poorly, if I recall. You could always move in with me—with us, we have the room, until you get settled or work things out with your wife. But Jesus Christ; not the Wales. I can still see those rugs with those stains that could eat you alive.”

Perhaps this invitation was offered in a moment of morbid duress, fueled by a tenderness for my father, ignited by guilt, stoked by a certain softness in the head, but regardless, I was thrilled with the offer
and told him so right then and there, trying my best not to jump up and down. I think Andy embraced the arrangement as well, figuring I might lessen the filial load—Mr. Topping, Philip, he can sit around the fireplace with pain-in-the-ass Dad while I try to bed this diffusely provocative woman. The truth is, no matter how beloved, a fifth-grade teacher is only truly beloved in fifth grade. After that we are like dioramas.

“I need a taxi,” Andrew said.

“It’s only a few blocks,” Andy said. Cruel boy.

Newly adopted and determined to heed all calls, I took the initiative and rushed onto Madison, past the limousines and the hearse, where a fragment of my father lay nestled in satin. I hailed a cab easily, like in the movies. Just wonderful. The church was now fully unpacked, with more and more of the A. N. Dyer faithful lingering near their hero, but only their eyes rioted, tugging and jostling for an autographed view. Did they wonder who I was? Did they mistake me for a son? With anxious yet dutiful purpose I went over and led the great man toward the waiting cab while Andy remained unmoved. It seemed he was making a stand. But not for long. Jeanie Spokes reached down and curled her fingers around the low-hanging fruit of the boy’s left hand. How her touch must have thrilled him. She pulled him toward the cab and into the backseat, where she positioned herself in the middle. Touché. I said my goodbyes, my see-you-soons, like maybe tomorrow, early evening, yes, yes, great, nice to meet you, Jeanie, who looked at me as if the duelists had retired and we seconds now held their aim.

I closed the door and the taxi pulled away.

I probably should have climbed into the front seat.

The funeral reception was at the Knickerbocker Club, on 62nd Street, and people were already on the move, commenting on the pleasant weather and the reemergence of a stroll. I caught my wife glaring at me from the top of the church steps. Ashley had lost weight and was as beautiful as ever, a perfect self-portrait, damaged yet determined, a newfound survivor. Her confident future was already being extruded through my unfortunate past. She stared at me and then gestured toward Rufus and Eloise, abandoned with their aunt. Recriminations
radiated from her knuckled lips.
You jerk, you asshole. You’ve ruined our life, you pig
. This was all true, and I tried to acknowledge the sin on my face, but to be honest I was more focused on my impending move to 2 East 70th Street. Had the Dyer apartment changed much since I was last there? Which bedroom would I sleep in, Richard’s or Jamie’s? Would I share meals with the man, conversations, favorite books and movies, latest pages of our writing? Would we drink and smoke and talk late into the night? My mind raced along old track. I was a foundling found. All told, or totaled, I would spend a week under A. N. Dyer’s roof, which is how I became a witness, the primary witness despite some feuding claims, to everything that happened.

Ashley grabbed the children and started up Madison.

My son waved goodbye to me, or so he told me years later.

“You were looking right at me and you just stood there, like I was nothing.”

It’s the little things they remember, like a raised hand, or the lack of a raised hand.

“Like I was less than nothing.”

How are we meant to see everything?

By late March we would all return to this church.

Master Charles Topping
12 East 72nd Street
New York, New York
USA

Dear Charlie, The Grand Canyon really is quite grand, despite the poor reproduction. The reverse looks nothing like the real thing, believe me! Imagine Dorothy in Oz and all that crazy color and realize we live in a black and white world. In an hour we’re taking mules down to the bottom for three nights of camping. I’ve named my ass after you. He is a stinky ass. I hope my ass doesn’t step in any holes for there are plenty of ass holes here! The sky at night is so dark & clear, the stars so starry you can’t believe what we’re missing in New York. It’s like a firecracker vs fireworks. Next stop the Hoover Dam for a bit of manmade glory. Hope you’re doing well in Canada. Caught any big ugly fish? Looking forward to the lies.

Echo … Echo … Echo …

Andy