Infinite Jest (50 page)

‘Everybody said you’d regret not coming to the funeral. But I don’t think this is
what they meant.’

‘For example the Stork took himself down before C.T. moved in upstairs at HmH? or
after?’

‘…’

‘…’

‘This is you asking me?’

‘Don’t make this appalling for me, Hal.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of even trying.’

‘…’

‘Immediately before. Two, three days before. C.T. had had what’s now deLint’s room,
next to Schtitt’s, in Comm.-Ad.’

‘And Dad knew they were…?’

‘Very close? I don’t know, O.’

‘You don’t
know?
’

‘Mario might know. Like to chew the fat with Booboo on this, O.?’

‘Don’t make this like this Hallie.’

‘…’

‘And Dad… the Mad Stork put his head in the oven?’

‘…’

‘…’

‘The microwave, O. The rotisserie microwave over next to the fridge, on the freezer
side, on the counter, under the cabinet with the plates and bowls to the left of the
fridge as you face the fridge.’

‘A microwave oven.’

‘That is a Rog and Wilc, O.’

‘Nobody ever said microwave.’

‘I think it came out generally at the funeral.’

‘I keep getting your point, if you’re wondering.’

‘…’

‘So where was he found, then?’

‘20 for 28 is what, 65%?’

‘It’s not like this is all that—’

‘The microwave was in the kitchen I already explained, O.’

‘All right.’

‘All right.’

‘So OK now, who would you say speaks most about the guy, keeps his memory alive, verbally,
the most now: you, C.T., or the Moms?’

‘I think it’s a three-way tie.’

‘So it’s never mentioned. Nobody talks about him. It’s taboo.’

‘But you seem to be forgetting somebody.’

‘Mario talks about him. About it.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘To what and/or who all this talking?’

‘To me, for one, I suppose.’

‘And so you
do
talk about it, but only to him, and only after he initiates it.’

‘Orin I lied. I haven’t even started on the right foot yet. I’ve been too afraid to
change my angle of approach to the nails. The right foot’s a whole different angle
of approach. I’m afraid the magic is left-foot-dependent. I’m like your superstitious
lineman. Talking about it’s broken the spell. Now I’m self-conscious and afraid. I’ve
been sitting here on the edge of the bed with my right knee up under my chin, poised,
studying the foot, frozen with aboriginal terror. And lying about it to my own brother.’

‘Can I ask you who it was who found him? His—who found him at the oven?’

‘Found by one Harold James Incandenza, thirteen going on really old.’

‘You were who found him? Not the Moms?’

‘…’

‘…’

‘Listen, may I ask why this sudden interest after four years 216 days, and with two
years of that not even once even calling?’

‘I’ve already said I don’t feel safe not answering Helen’s questions if I haven’t
got a handle on what I’m not saying.’

‘Helen. So you did.’

‘Is why.’

‘I’m still frozen, by the way. The self-consciousness that kills the magic is getting
worse and worse. This is why Pemulis and Troeltsch always seem to let a lead slip
away. The standard term is Tightening Up. The clippers are poised, blades on either
side of the nail. I just can’t achieve the unconsciousness to actually clip. Maybe
it was cleaning up the few that missed. Suddenly the wastebasket seems small and far
away. I’ve lost the magic by talking about it instead of just giving in to it. Launching
the nail out toward the wastebasket now seems like an exercise in telemachry.’

‘You mean telemetry?’

‘How embarrassing. When the skills go they
go
.’

‘Listen…’

‘You know, why don’t you go ahead and ask me whatever standard ghoulish questions
you want not to answer. This may be your only shot. Usually I seem not to talk about
it.’

‘Was she there? The P.G.O.A.T.?’

‘Joelle hadn’t been around the grounds since you two split up. You knew about that.
Himself met her at the brownstone, shooting. I’m sure you know way more about whatever
it was they were trying to make. Joelle and Himself. Himself went underground too.
C.T. was already doing most of the day-to-day administration. Himself was down in
that little post-production closet off the lab for like a solid month. Mario’d bring
food and… essentials down. Sometimes he’d eat with Lyle. I don’t think he came up
to ground level for at least a month, except for just one trip out to Belmont to McLean’s
for a two-day purge and detox. This was about a week after he came back. He’d flown
off somewhere for three days, for what the impression I get was work-related business.
Film-related. If Lyle didn’t go with him Lyle went somewhere, because he wasn’t in
the weight room. I know Mario didn’t go with him and didn’t know what was up. Mario
doesn’t lie. It was unclear whether he’d finished whatever he was editing. Himself
I mean. He stopped living on April First, if you weren’t sure, was the day. I can
tell you on April First he wasn’t back by the time
P.M.
matches started, because I’d been around the lab door right after lunch and he wasn’t
back.’

‘He went in for another detox you say. In what, March?’

‘The Moms herself emerged and risked exterior transit and took him herself, so I gather
it was urgent.’

‘He quit drinking in January, Hal. It was something Joelle was real specific about.
She called even after we’d agreed not to call and told me about it even after I said
I didn’t want to hear about him if she was going to still be in his things. She said
he hadn’t had a drop in weeks. It was her condition for letting him put her in what
he was doing. She said he said he’d do anything.’

‘Well, I don’t know what to tell you. By this time it was hard to tell whether he’d
been ingesting anything or not. Apparently at a certain point it stops making a difference.’

‘Did he have film-related things with him when he flew somewhere? A film case? Equipment?’

‘O., I didn’t see him leave and didn’t see him come back. He wasn’t around by match-time,
I know. Freer beat me badly and fast. It was 4 and 1, 4 and 2, something, and we were
the first ones done. I came around HmH to do an emergency load of laundry before dinner.
This was around 1630. I came over and came in and noticed something right away.’

‘And found him.’

‘And went to get the Moms, then changed my mind and went to get C.T., then changed
my mind and went to get Lyle, but the first authority figure I ran into was Schtitt.
Who was irreproachably brisk and efficient and sensible about everything and turned
out to be just the authority figure to go get in the first place.’

‘I didn’t even think a microwave oven would go on unless the door was closed. What
with microwaves oscillating all over, inside. I thought there was like a refrigerator-light
or Read-Only-tab-like device.’

‘You seem to be forgetting the technical ingenuity of the person we’re talking about.’

‘And you were totally shocked and traumatized. He was asphyxuated, irradiated, and/or
burnt.’

‘As we later reconstructed the scene, he’d used a wide-bit drill and small hacksaw
to make a head-sized hole in the oven door, then when he’d gotten his head in he’d
carefully packed the extra space around his neck with wadded-up aluminum foil.’

‘Sounds kind of ad hoc and jerry-rigged and haphazard.’

‘Everybody’s a critic. This wasn’t an aesthetic endeavor.’

‘…’

‘And there was a large and half-full bottle of Wild Turkey found on the counter not
far away, with a large red decorative giftwrappish bow on the neck.’

‘On the bottle’s neck, you mean.’

‘That is a Rog.’

‘As in he hadn’t been sober after all.’

‘That would seem to follow, O.’

‘And he left no note or living-will-type video or communiqué of any kind.’

‘O, I know you know very well he didn’t. You’re now asking me stuff I know you know,
besides criticizing him and making sobriety-claims when you weren’t anywhere near
the scene or the funeral. Are we just about through here? I’ve got a whole long-nailed
foot waiting for me here.’

‘As you reconstructed the scene, you just said.’

‘Also it just hit me I’ve got a library book I was supposed to return. I’d forgotten
all about it. Kertwang.’

‘ “Reconstructed the scene” as in the scene when you found him was somehow… deconstructed?’

‘You of all people, O. You know that was the one word he hated more than—’

‘So burned, then. Just say it. He was really really badly burned.’

‘…’

‘No, wait. Asphyxuated. The packed foil was to preserve the vacuum in a space that
got automatically evacuated as soon as the magnitron started oscillating and generating
the microwaves.’

‘Magnitron? What do you know about magnitrons and oscillators? Aren’t you the brother
of mine who has to be reminded which way to turn the ignition key in a car?’

‘Brief liaison with this one Subject who used to model at kitchen-appliance trade
shows.’

‘…’

‘It was kind of a brutal brand of modelling. She’d stand there on a huge rotating
Lazy Susan in a one-piece with one thigh turned in and a hand out palm-up, indicating
the appliance next to her. Stood there smiling and spinning day after day. She’d stagger
around half the evening trying to get her balance back.’

‘Did this
subject
by any chance explain to you how microwaves actually cook things?’

‘…’

‘Or have you for example, say, ever like baked a potato in a microwave oven? Did you
know you have to cut the potato open before you turn the oven on? Do you know why
that is?’

‘Jesus.’

‘The B.P.D.
⁸³
field pathologist said the build-up of internal pressures would have been almost
instantaneous and equivalent in kg.s.cm. to over two sticks of TNT.’

‘Jesus Christ, Hallie.’

‘Hence the need to reconstruct the scene.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Don’t feel bad. There’s no guarantee anybody would have told you even if you’d popped
in for, say, the memorial service. I for one wasn’t exactly a jabberjaw at the time.
I seemed to have been evincing shock and trauma throughout the whole funeral period.
What I mostly recall is a great deal of quiet talk about my psychic well-being. It
got so I kind of enjoyed popping in and out of rooms just to enjoy the quiet conversations
stopping in mid-clause.’

‘You must have been traumatized beyond fucking belief.’

‘Your concern is much appreciated, believe me.’

‘…’

‘Trauma seems to have been the consensus. It turns out Rusk and the Moms had begun
interviewing top-flight trauma- and grief-counselors for me within hours after it
happened. I was shunted directly into concentrated grief- and trauma-therapy. Four
days a week for over a month, right in the April-May gearing-up-for-summer-tour period.
I lost two spots on the 14’s ladder just because of all the
P.M.
matches I missed. I missed the Hard Court Qualies and would have missed Indianapolis
if… if I hadn’t finally figured out the grief- and trauma-therapy process.’

‘But it helped. Ultimately. The grief-therapy.’

‘The therapy ended up taking place in that Professional Building right up Comm. Ave.
past the Sunstrand Plaza by Lake Street, the one with bricks the color of Thousand
Island dressing we all run by four days a week. Who was to know one of the continent’s
top grief-men was right up the street.’

‘The Moms didn’t want the process going on too far from the old web, if need be, I’m
sure.’

‘This grief-counselor insisted I call him by his first name, which I forget. A large
red meaty character with eyebrows at a demonic-looking synclinal angle and very small
nubbly gray teeth. And a mustache. He always had the remains of a sneeze in his mustache.
I got to know that mustache very well. His face had that same blood-pressure flush
C.T.’s face gets. And let’s not even go into the man’s hands.’

‘The Moms had Rusk shunt you to a top grief-pro so she wouldn’t have to feel guilty
about practically sawing the hole in the microwave door herself. Among other little
guilt and antiguilt operations. She always did believe Himself was doing more with
Joelle than work. Poor old Himself never had eyes for anybody but the Moms.’

‘This was one tough hombré, O., this grief-counselor. He made a Rusk-session look
like a day on the Adriatic. He wouldn’t let up: “How did it feel, how does it feel,
how do you feel when I ask how it feels.” ’

‘Rusk always reminded me of a freshman fumbling with some Subject’s bra, the way she’d
sort of tug and fumble at your head.’

‘The man was unsatisfiable and scary. Those eyebrows, that ham-rind face, bland little
eyes. He never once turned his face away or looked away at anything but right at me.
It was the most brutal six weeks of full-bore professional conversation anybody could
imagine.’

‘With fucking C.T. already moving his collection of platform shoes and unconvincing
hairpieces and StairMaster in upstairs at HmH already.’

‘The whole thing was nightmarish. I just could not figure out what the guy wanted.
I went down and chewed through the Copley Square library’s grief section. Not disk.
The actual books. I read Kübler-Ross, Hinton. I slogged through Kastenbaum and Kastenbaum.
I read things like Elizabeth Harper Neeld’s
Seven Choices: Taking the Steps to New Life After Losing Someone You Love,
⁸⁴
which was 352 pages of sheer goo. I went in and presented with textbook-perfect symptoms
of denial, bargaining, anger, still more denial, depression. I listed my seven textbook
choices and vacillated plausibly between and among them. I provided etymological data
on the word
acceptance
all the way back to Wyclif and 14th-century
langue-d’oc
French. The grief-therapist was having none of it. It was like one of those final
exams in nightmares where you prepare immaculately and then you get there and all
the exam questions are in Hindi. I even tried telling him Himself was miserable and
pancreatitic and out of his tree half the time by then anyway, that he and the Moms
were basically estranged, that even work and Wild Turkey weren’t helping anymore,
that he was despondent about something he was editing that turned out so bad he didn’t
want it released. That the… that what happened was probably kind of a mercy, in the
end.’