Red Meat Cures Cancer (25 page)

BACK HOME

In my absence, rain plastered a smattering of leaves and grass on my driveway. My garage door opener revealed a surprisingly spry King, who should’ve been convalescing upstairs, but for some unknown reason was preparing to play handyman. Dressed in a pair of old denim overalls and a painter’s cap, he looked like a poor man’s Bob Vila as he mixed a can of Dutch Boy blue with his Taiji ruler.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as I climbed out of my car.

“I’m going to paint your house for you.”

“You’re supposed to be in bed. You were stabbed ten days ago. Remember that?”

“How about showing some gratitude? Your place could use a coat or two, if you haven’t noticed. How do you like the color?”

“I don’t mean to be an ingrate. I really don’t. It’s just that I’m familiar with your historical reliability as a provider of services.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t want a half-painted house when you head out to Aruba on a Princess cruise ship in two weeks.”

My criticism struck a determined nerve.

“I’m not going anywhere. I want to paint the fucking house.”

“I’m not sure which of your two pronouncements is more troubling to me. Probably the first, but it’s close.”

“Step out here for a minute, wise guy.”

King, who had healed quite nicely despite a lack of professional care, took me by the arm and led me out of the garage.

“Turn around.”

I did as instructed and stared up at my dilapidated dwelling. I’d never seen it look so bad.

“Now, Sky. (Pause) Look at this place and tell me it doesn’t need work.”

He was right, of course. It was falling apart, the victim of neglect for too long. The sad part—it was still hard for me to say yes to an offer of help, particularly one from him.

“The place looks fine.”

“What are you talking about? Are we looking at the same house?”

“I think it’s okay.”

“Trust me. It is
not
okay. The wood’s rotting out. The shutters are faded. The trim is cracked and chipped. You can’t let it go another winter.”

“Look, I don’t want you to paint it, okay? I just want you to leave it alone.”

“Let me paint it.”

“No! It can last another winter. Maybe two.”

“You’re an asshole. You know that? A real asshole.”

King stormed back into the house and I followed, dragging my briefcase and body over the domestic threshold yet one more time. I wanted to tell King about Albany, but he’d scarcely care now, not that I’d blame him, given my loutish behavior. I owed him an apology, but somehow couldn’t find the energy to deliver it. Instead, I consoled myself with the list of telephone messages he’d taken for me while I was away. Cal. Annette. M.C. Shufelbarger. Ethan. It was close to 5:00 P.M., and I wanted a drink before I did anything. The early edition of the local news would be coming on and I indulged the thought of one half hour’s mindless viewing. I plopped down on my brown sectional, lit a Commodore and channel-surfed until my nemesis, Katie Gomez Chang, was staring me straight in the face. Before I could turn away, she spoke.

“Tonight’s top story is the tragic death of one of our community’s biggest, and I do mean biggest, business leaders. Frank Fanoflincoln, founder of the Tailburger restaurant chain, is dead tonight at seventy-four. According to a St. Mary’s Hospital spokesperson, Mr. Fanoflincoln died an hour ago after watching a DVD of the film
Glory,
starring Matthew Broderick and Denzel Washington, one of his all-time favorite movies, and eating a large bowl of diet lime Jell-O, his first meal after awakening from a coma. Although his life ended in a humiliating miasma of pornography, atheism and the handicapped, he meant many things to many people in the greater Rochester area. Later in the broadcast, we’ll look at the life of this hometown hamburger king, Civil War enthusiast and enormously fat man.”

I sat stunned, a glass of bourbon glued to one hand, a burning cigarette in the other. You never know how you genuinely feel about someone until they’re dead. And now I knew how I felt about the Link. Somehow, some way, despite everything he’d put me through, despite the countless times he’d forced me to compromise myself, he’d gotten to me. I cared about that fat fuck. I cared about him a lot. You would’ve thought I’d be dancing on his grave, but I wasn’t. Instead, I was in tears. The sobbing started quietly and then crescendoed, leveling off to a loud, rhythmic heaving. King heard me and came downstairs to the study.

“What’s wrong?”

“Itsa Link,” I blubbered.

“What?”

“Tha Link.”

“Jesus. What did that asshole do to you now?”

“He . . . he . . . he . . .”

“Out with it. What’d he do?”

“He . . . he . . .” My sobbing made speaking impossible.

“I’ll kill that guy. I swear. You know me, Sky. I’m not a violent man, but I will kill that guy or I’ll get someone else to kill him. El Jefe is one phone call away. Now, c’mon. Get yourself together and just tell me what he did.”

“He . . . he . . . he . . . died.”

Suddenly my composure returned.

“He died?”

I nodded at my brother while catching my breath.

“Oh. (Pause) Well, good. Then I can cross his murder off my list. (Pause) But wait, now I’m confused. Why in the hell are you so upset? Isn’t this the guy who’s made your life miserable for the last twenty years?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t get it.”

“I don’t either.”

King came over and sat next to me, placed his arm around my back and cradled my head against his shoulder. For a few minutes we sat together, one aging man holding another, both expecting the embrace to feel awkward at any moment. But it never did.

“Sky, do you need anything? How ’bout a run to the Sweet? That’ll make you feel better.”

“No, not tonight. I think I’d rather be here. Thanks for the offer though. (Pause) Maybe tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I nodded.

King stood up and reflexively crossed his arms.

“No problem. (Pause) I’ll tell you what. I’m going to leave you alone for a bit, but I’ll be upstairs if you change your mind.”

“Fair enough.” I managed a smile for King before he turned to leave.

“King.”

He paused at the doorway and looked back at me.

“About . . . you know, earlier, in the garage?”

“You’re sorry?”

“I am.”

“It’s okay . . . I’m a shitty painter anyway.”

King’s exit left me alone with my original unanswered question and an opportunity to examine my mourning a bit closer. Why
was
I so upset? As a child, I’d once pretended my parents had died and allowed myself to feel imagined emotions, acting out a version of grief I wouldn’t experience for real until many years later. It was then I’d learned, in the most painful way, that the profundity of loss for someone you truly care about is deeper than anything you could ever imagine or wish upon an enemy. This was a different kind of grief though, entirely distinct from what I’d felt for my mother, father or Jess. So what was it?

I concluded that my feelings were as much about my own mortality as they were about the Link’s. From somewhere within, I felt a deep sense of loss because a piece of my own personal history, for better or worse, was gone. And with it, a large passage of my life. My theory was an evolving one. If surviving longer than the Link meant winning, I cried the way a victor cries for a vanquished foe. The way Frazier would cry if Ali died. My greatest opponent—gone. But if surviving longer simply meant surviving and nothing more, I cried the way you do when someone significant in your life, whether cruel or kind, lives no longer. The way a son cries for a sometimes abusive father. The way Cratchit would cry if Scrooge died. The person you love and hate at the same time— off with the angels.

The telephone rang and, out of habit, I picked it up.

“Hello.”

“Sky, it’s M.C. Shufelbarger.”

“M.C., this is a bad time. Can I call you later?”

“Sure, Sky, but I’ve got good news.”

Plot couldn’t have cut a deal with Humpy Wheeler this quickly. Or could he? Either way, it was an inappropriate time to discuss the matter. It would have to wait.

“I don’t want to talk about my case right now, M.C.”

“I’m not calling about your case.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Humpy Wheeler didn’t call you?”

“No. Why would he?”

“No reason,” I said, suddenly a bit defensive. “It’s just that you said you had good news.”

“I do. Frank Fanoflincoln died. Isn’t that great?”

“Hey, I know he wasn’t a saint, but how about a little respect for the dead?”

“Respect? I’ve got more than that. I’ve got his last will and testament. You’ll have to forgive my enthusiasm. I get a little excited whenever one of my estates matures.”

“Did you draft the Link’s will?”

“Yes, I did. But even better, I’m the executor of the estate.”

“I thought the rules of ethics prohibited the lawyer who drew the will from also serving as the executor. Something about a conflict of interest.”

“Sky, Sky, Sky. The ethics guys try to take all the fun, and worse, all the fees, out of practicing law. None of that conflicts bullshit is important. What’s important here is that, if memory serves, you are the intended beneficiary of a sizable bequest.”

I swallowed.

“I am?”

“Yes. I’m going to be reading the will tomorrow morning at my office. Why don’t you come over around ten A.M.?”

“Okay,” I answered, a bit stunned by the news. “I’ll stop by.”

After the call ended, I wandered around the house in disbelief for some time. Why would the Link leave me anything after what happened at the convent? Then the obvious hit me. Of course. He’d never had the chance to change his will. He’d been in a coma. But still, before that, before I helped put him in a coma, he’d thought enough of me to leave me something. Suddenly, whatever warm words he’d ever shared with me in life took on added significance in death. I could no longer disregard them as manipulative gestures, like I had when he was living. The Link cared about me. He cared a lot. This shouldn’t have been important to me, but it was.

I called Cal to tell him about the trip.

“How’d everything go?”

“I think it went well.”

“Were you tailed?”

“No, I wasn’t tailed. Who would be tailing me?”

“I don’t know. This whole thing has me jumpy.”

“Well, there’s nothing to be jumpy about. It’s all over.”

“So Thickens is going to talk to Humpy Wheeler?”

“He said he would.”

“God, that’s great.”

“Just make sure the contest evidence is secure.”

“I will. (Pause) Did the SERMON suit come up?”

I hesitated.

“No, it didn’t. I’ll have to find another way to get my pension.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“Thanks. (Pause) Listen, I need to call Annette. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Talk to you tomorrow.”

I purposely avoided telling Cal about the Link’s will. In a strange way I felt guilty about inheriting anything from someone I’d disparaged so frequently in front of my best friend. I called Annette to clear my conscience, a difficult thing to do, considering my rectal cancer charade. It was academic anyway, since she wasn’t around, forced out for the evening by some political fund-raiser, no doubt.

Ethan was also out when I tried him, but Skull advised me
Macrocock.com
’s share price was off $20 from its peak and that management had been forced to make eighteen layoffs recently. Fortunately, my son was not among them, but his roommate painted a bleaker picture of the fledgling start-up’s finances than I’d ever heard before. All staff were now subjected to Mussolinilike motivational speeches from their appointed leader, some twenty-seven-year-old named Bilbo with a nipple piercing. When Skull joked that soon he’d be back to passing out on my lawn for a living, I knew not to rely too heavily on Ethan’s enterprise for my fiscal future. From what M.C. said, however, it didn’t sound like I’d need to. The irony that the source of my money problems might prove to be their solution was impossible to ignore. Exhausted, I went to bed, humbled by the Link’s death and my own life.

THE LAW OFFICES OF M.C. SHUFELBARGER

The brown shag carpeting and orange vinyl furniture in M.C. Shufelbarger’s office were as rude as Randi, the receptionist.

“Whaddya want?” The question sprang from her red-lipsticked mouth, along with a loud snap of gum.

“Uh . . . yes, I’m here to see M.C.”

“ ’Bout what?” Without looking up at me, Randi busily lined up a toenail to trim from the foot propped up on her desk.

“About the Fanoflincoln will.”

“And who are
you?
”

“I’m Sky Thorne. I’m a client.”

“Nah. I don’t think so. I know all of M.C.’s clients.”

“Believe me, I’m a client. I’ve been in here more times than I care to think about the past three months. I’m sure you recognize me.”

“Nah. You don’t look familiar.”

“Will you at least look up at me before you say that?”

Visibly perturbed, Randi craned her neck upward and took a long look at my frowning face.

“Wait.”

“Recognize me now?”

“Yeah, I do. You’re the guy who got all those crippled kids hooked on porn. Shame on you.”

“I didn’t get anyone hooked on porn. It was an advertising campaign that . . .”

“They’re all in back,” she said, cutting me off midsentence and signaling for me to take leave of her.

Sullied by the exchange, I put my head down and traveled further into the bowels of M.C.’s brown carpetdom, guided only by the voices of the Fanoflincoln brothers—men clearly still in the grip of their grieving.

“I’m telling you right now, he’s number one in scoring average, number one in driving distance,
and
number one in greens in regulation, but only number
two
in sand save percentage.”

“Ted, you don’t know shit,” Ned declared. “He’s number two in scoring average, two in driving distance, one in greens in regulation and number eight in sand save percentage.”

“Yeah, but what about his driving accuracy and scrambling rank?” Fred asked, not wanting to be left out of the conversation. “He’s nowhere in those categories. Goddamn Duffy Waldorf blows his doors in scrambling.”

“Will you shut up, Fred?”

“All I’m saying is that Tiger’s got a long way to go before he’s number one in my book.”

“As if he cares.”

“You don’t think he cares what the fans think?”

“He sure as hell doesn’t care what
you
think.”

My entrance to the room brought the great golf debate to a close. The brothers, dressed identically in black shirts, knickers, tam-o’-shanters and spiked shoes, were shocked to see me. I spoke to break the silence.

“Guys, I’m very sorry about your father. (Pause) I knew him for a long time and well, (Pause) he was really something.”

Dead air returned until Ned filled it.

“Sky, why are you here?”

“Well, uh, M.C. told me to come down. Didn’t he mention anything to you?”

“Oh, I get it,” Ned said, a lightbulb going off above his head. “You’re here to talk about your upcoming trial.”

“Ordinarily yes, but not today. I, uh . . .”

“He’s here for the reading of your father’s will,” M.C. blurted out, entering the room with an armful of files and a Slim Jim dangling from his mouth.

“What?” the brothers exclaimed in disbelieving unison.

“He’s in the will. I told you that.”

“No, you didn’t. This has got to be a mistake,” Fred insisted.

“There’s no way our father put Sky in his will.”

“That’s right. There’s no way!”

“Now don’t get your undies in a wad,” M.C. warned. “Just sit down and let’s get started.”

“This is total B.S.,” Ned fumed.

Ned, Ted and Fred took seats, crammed three across on an orange vinyl couch, while I remained standing near the door and befriended a dead potted plant.

“Take a seat, Sky.”

“I’d rather stand, M.C.”

“Suit yourself.”

M.C. shuffled the papers in front of him like a deck of cards until he located what he was looking for. Organized files were not his strong suit.

“Okay, this is it. I’ve found the will. Are you ready?”

Palpable tension, the product of fear and anticipation, could be felt as M.C. held up the document from across the room and began to read.

“‘I, Frank Fanoflincoln, being of sound body and mind, hereby bequeath all right, title and interest in my worldly possessions as follows: To the Monroe County Chapter of the Ulysses S. Grant Society, I leave my guns, my collection of Matthew Brady photographs and all of my rayon sweatsuits for use as ponchos in future battle reenactments.’ ”

“He gave them the guns?” Ted asked in disbelief. “I wanted those,” he whined.

“Shut up, Ted,” Ned demanded.

“‘To the Queer Nation, in honor of my hero, Abraham Lincoln, I leave three hundred thousand dollars for the establishment of a scholarship fund in his name.’ ”

“No waayyy!” Ned shouted in agony.

“I
told
you Lincoln was gay!” Fred jumped up from the couch and pointed his finger at his brothers. “I told you! But you wouldn’t listen!”

“I don’t believe it.” Ned was defiant.

“Neither do I. Where does it say that in the will, M.C.? I want to see that,” Ted demanded.

The three Fanoflincoln brothers stormed toward M.C. and surrounded him at his desk, daring the executor to point out the provision.

“Son of a bitch! It’s right there. I see it,” Ted conceded.

“Three hundred grand. Right down the shooter,” said Ned.

“More like
up
the shooter.”

“I told you Lincoln was gay, but you wouldn’t listen to me.”

“We’re named after a gay guy. This is total B.S.!”

“Boys, you have to get back on the couch so we can continue,” M.C. implored them.

Ned, Ted and Fred, collectively stunned, slowly stumbled back to their respective seats of orange vinyl while M.C. continued.

“Let’s see what else we have here. (Pause) Well, well, well. Sky, let me be the first to congratulate you. It looks like your ship has finally come in.”

An audible chorus of gasps came from Ned, Ted and Fred as they contemplated the impossible: the loss of their inheritance.

“I mean it has
literally
come in.”

“What did he leave me?” I asked excitedly, financial independence mere moments away.

“Settle down now. Let me read the will.”

Shufelbarger ran his finger down the yellowed document until he found the desired passage.

“ ‘To Sky Thorne, in gratitude for keeping my spirits and my company afloat more times than I care to remember, I leave my beloved boat Bastard Boy and...’ ”

M.C. paused.

“Hold on a moment. I seem to have lost my place.”

There was still a chance. Anything could follow the word “and.” Cash, stock, jewelry. I could still be taken out of servitude. I could still walk away from all of this with a pile of
fuck you
money.

“Okay, here we go,” M.C. continued. “It says, ‘I leave my beloved boat
Bastard Boy
and my collection of adult films that I keep down below in the main cabin.’ ”

“He got the boat
and
the films? Didn’t he leave
anything
for us?” Ned wondered bitterly.

“Yes, he did. He left this video,” M.C. shot back, holding aloft a black cassette.

M.C. stood and opened a cabinet behind him housing a large television and VCR. As he popped in the tape, my mind drifted off to what could have been. Still, I had the boat, something I could sell for a fair amount. I had no right to be the slightest bit disappointed.

“Hello, boys, this is your father speaking.”

The Link’s fat face lit up the television screen. He was dressed in a purple sweatsuit (his favorite) and appeared to be eating strips of bacon.

“Just finishing breakfast here and thought I’d make this tape. I’m not getting any younger and I want to talk to you, father to son.”

The Link paused to wipe grease from his mouth with a paper towel.

“First of all, you get the old homestead. It would have killed me to sell Gristle-Vale while I was living, but now that I’m gone, I want you to get rid of it. I’d die twice knowing my family was there having fun without me. I’m sure you understand. (Pause) Sell it and split the proceeds one-third each. Actually, on second thought, Ned and Ted, you take forty percent each and give Fred twenty. He needs to shape up a bit.”

“Aw shit,” Fred moaned dejectedly.

“Neddie, (Pause) Teddie, (Pause) Freddie (Pause). These are troubled times we’re (Pause), I guess I should say you’re living in today.” The Link’s face turned visibly more somber.

“You’ve got all these crazy activists from PETA and Green-peace and the Junior League. You’ve got those Jackie Chan movies and that stupid
Survivor
show. You’ve got people spellin’ ‘woman’ with a ‘y’ and that guy from
Inside the Actor’s Studio
with his asinine French questionnaire. There’s this whole lattice, I don’t know what else to call it, covering the country like a sheet of cellophane on top of a casserole, and you can’t get out from under it.”

The Link ate another piece of bacon, swallowing it quickly.

“See, I never told you the whole truth about the American dream. In America, we love to build people up. We build ’em up and up and up. Higher than they ever thought they’d go and higher than they ever
wanted
to go. Why? (Pause) So we can tear ’em down. Bill Clinton. Clarence Thomas. O.J. Simpson. Newt Gingrich. Pee Wee Herman. Successful men America tore down. Everybody’s a target. Everybody who’s willing to stick their nose up above the pack and say, ‘Hey, I’ve got something special to offer— something nobody else has got.’ Now there are folks who think they can get out from under the cellophane—master-of-the-universe types like Larry Ellison and Bill Gates and that little red-haired chick on the Pepsi commericals—but they can’t for one simple reason. America’s out there waiting. Just waiting for the slightest screwup, the smallest crack, that one piece of information that’ll begin the process of destruction. And if it doesn’t exist, America will manufacture it, make it up out of thin air. Used to be you had to be a big star for this to happen. You had to be president or heavyweight champion or Frank Sinatra. America wouldn’t waste its time with Congressmen or talk show hosts or those kids from
Diff’rent Strokes.
But now it doesn’t matter. We’ll rip down any
one
who’s built up any
thing,
including me, your old man.”

The Link shook his head, conveying his disappointment.

“Take a look around. They’re coming after Tailburger and they’re coming after her hard. The animal rights cabal, the food safety freaks, the fitness fanatics, SERMON. And
that’s
just for starters. Sadly, the list goes on and on and on. (Pause) So I’m doing what an officer does for his infantrymen. I’m leaving you all my shares in Tailburger, a fifty-one percent interest in the company, on one condition: that you get out of the business right now and dump the stock—when it still has some value. Ten-dollar shares of Tailburger won’t be worth ten cents in two years. Mark my words. (Pause) This is an order. If you don’t sell the securities within two weeks of my death, the shares go to Joey Puma’s campaign fund. I don’t care if his wife
does
have a beard, I don’t want to see Thickens in the governor’s mansion.”

The Link stopped talking and looked wistfully into the camera.

“Boys, you know I love you. More than I ever said when I was alive. (Pause) And I’m damn proud of you. (Pause) Remember that.”

M.C.’s office was silent with the exception of the sniffles emanating from the Fanoflincoln brothers. They had the approval every child seeks, and I had a buyer for Cal’s business.

The Link finished with his favorite words.

“So for the final time, I ask you, as the great Abraham Lincoln once asked Congress, ‘Can we do better? The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise to the occasion. As our case is new, so we must think anew, and act anew!’ (Pause) Good-bye.”