The Grievers (21 page)

O
ver a dinner consisting of two chicken breasts split five ways, Sean outlined the game plan. We’d show up at Greg’s house and invite him out for a friendly night on the town. Very casual, Sean explained. The key was to make it sound like a fun evening out with the guys at the restaurant of his choice. We weren’t going to lie to Greg, of course, and the second we all sat down and placed our orders, Neil would tell him in no uncertain terms that the reason we were meeting with him was to voice our collective concern that his grasp on reality was tenuous at best.

We were not to raise our voices, Sean said as if our original plan had been to kick Greg’s door in, wrap him in duct tape, and drive all night until we found a nuthouse that was crazy enough to take him in. And we were not to level accusations. We were simply to state facts.

“So, this is what?” I said as we all piled into Dwayne’s Toyota. “About the drinking? The pills? The fight with his mother?”

“Take your pick,” Dwayne said.

“But an intervention is usually about a single issue, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Sean said, scanning his pamphlet for evidence to support his case.

I looked to Neil for a sign of affirmation, a shrug that said yes, I was right, but that tonight was Sean’s moment to shine, his chance to show us all that we could take him seriously, that three years of grad school weren’t for nothing, and that, above all, we respected him enough to let him take charge. Instead, Neil avoided my gaze as he picked up his cell phone and called Greg to inform him that we were all in the neighborhood and were hoping to meet him for dinner.

“One last question,” I said after Neil ended the call. “What happens if we actually convince Greg that he needs help?”

“What do you mean?” Sean said.

“Aren’t we supposed to take him somewhere?”

“I hadn’t really thought about that,” Sean said. “But I’m sure we can work something out.”

“We can still do the forcible commitment,” Dwayne suggested. “Get him in the car and head straight for Philly. If the bastard gets violent, I break out the pepper spray. Easy as pie.”

“It won’t come to that,” Neil said.

“So you say.”

“We’ll be in a public place.”

“Didn’t stop him last time.”

“He’ll be fine,” Neil said. “No pepper spray.”

I waited for a joke, a line from the Marx Brothers, but all Neil did was bite the hair on the back of his hand as Dwayne wove in and out of traffic.

“R
EMEMBER
,” S
EAN
said as Neil rang Greg’s doorbell. “Nice and casual.”

“Right,” I said, jerking a thumb at Dwayne. “That’s why we brought the police.”

Greg’s mother opened the door, and her eyes went wide with delight. It had been years, she sang, since she’d been called upon by so many handsome young suitors.

“Mother!” Greg shouted from somewhere upstairs. “Stop playing the strumpet and show my associates up to my living quarters.”

“His majesty beckons,” Dwayne muttered.

“He’s angry at me because I took back my Christmas room,” Greg’s mother whispered, covering her mouth with four fingers to suggest that she’d gotten away with something naughty. “But I don’t care. It’s
my
Christmas room, not his base of operations or whatever he calls it.”

“My
war room
, mother!” Greg bellowed. “
It’s my war room!
”

Greg’s mother rolled her eyes as her son glowered down at her from the top of the steps in full Nazi regalia. Decked out in a spiked helmet, gray topcoat, and black leather jackboots, he explained that Anthony Gambacorta knew a guy who knew a guy who sold, traded, and collected Nazi memorabilia.

“Rifles, daggers, medals, uniforms,” Greg said as he descended the stairway and the steps creaked under his weight. “The topcoat and helmet are genuine. As are most of the props that Anthony intends to employ in the production.”

Apparently we wouldn’t be visiting Greg’s living quarters, I thought as his mother gushed about how dashing he looked in uniform and, again, how lucky she was to be surrounded by so many striking young men.

“My friends are far from striking, Mother,” Greg huffed, herding us out the door. “They’re average at best. But as we all know, beggars can’t be choosers, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll bid you adieu until morning.”

“The regular breakfast?” his mother asked.

“Yes,” Greg said. “The regular breakfast.”

“Toast?”

Greg paused in the doorway, the spike of his helmet giving his gray silhouette the contours of a Christmas tree.

“White,” he said and pulled the door shut behind him. “I apologize, gentlemen, for that embarrassing display of emotion. Mother clearly needs to get out more.”

“She’s not the only one,” Dwayne said. “Would you take that goddamn teakettle off your head? It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s hardly a teakettle,” Greg said. “It’s a vintage Wehrmacht Pickelhaube.”

“I don’t care what it is,” Dwayne said. “You’re not wearing it in my car. It’ll tear the hell out of my ceiling.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg said. “But I need to stay in character until curtain call.”

“That’s fair,” Sean said, clutching his pamphlet. “Isn’t that fair, guys?”

“Christ,” Dwayne said. “You expect me to drive around with a Nazi all night?”

“I acknowledge your consternation,” Greg said. “But I can assure you that I’m no Nazi. Rather, I’m playing the role of a Nazi in a stage production set behind enemy lines at the height of the Second World War.”

“Do you always have to talk down to me?” Dwayne said.

“Talk down to you?” Greg said. “I’m merely explaining the art of theater.”

“Well, art is art, isn’t it?” Neil said, quickly stepping between Dwayne and Greg before their exchange could escalate into the realm of the physical. “Still, on the other hand, water is water. And east is east, and west is west, and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does.”

Duck Soup
? I wondered.

“Whatever,” Dwayne said, shaking his head as he unlocked his car. “Wear the damn helmet. I don’t care. But you’re sitting in the back with Schwartz and Sullivan.”

It could have been worse, I told myself as the bulk of Greg’s body pressed against me like a parade float. Instead of
Down in the Stalag
, Greg could have been starring in an all-nude production of
Hung Jury
and I wouldn’t have had the heavy wool of his gray topcoat to save me from getting lost in the doughy folds of his gut.

W
HEN WE
arrived at the Wednesday Club on Route 611, the hostess took one look at Greg and sat our party in a dimly lit corner of the restaurant, far from anyone who might, for whatever reason, find his sartorial preferences offensive.

“I wonder if we’ll have the same waitress as last time,” Greg said as he lowered himself onto his seat. “I think she had a thing for me.”

“Last time?” Dwayne said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“When we met to raise money for Billy,” Greg said.

“That was a different restaurant altogether,” Dwayne said, though, to be fair to Greg, both establishments had the same rusty street signs, the same ads for motor oil, the same fading sports memorabilia, the same banged-up musical instruments, the same sleds and bikes and hammers and saws, the same photos of dead celebrities, and the same nostalgic vibe as every chain up and down the Pennsylvania Turnpike. “How the hell could we possibly end up with the same waitress?”

“Keep it casual,” Sean wheezed, trying desperately to sound as if he were clearing his throat. “Nice and casual.”

“Nice and casual my ass,” Dwayne said. “I’m sick of this bullshit. Greg, the reason we brought you here tonight is that we think you’re off your rocker, okay? A total fucking nut job.”

“I see,” Greg said. “Should we order a pitcher of beer?”

“I’m not sure that’s the best of ideas,” Neil said as Sean unfolded his pamphlet to see what our next move should be. “The thing is, Greg, you’ve been acting a little strange over the past few months, and we’re worried about where you’re going to end up.”

“We’re not here to level accusations,” Sean said, glancing at his pamphlet. “We’re only here to talk.”

“So this is what?” Greg said. “Some kind of intervention?”

Before anyone could answer, the waitress came to take our drink order, and Greg instructed her to bring a pitcher of sweetened iced tea with a twist of lemon and to leave it without further comment. Five minutes later, he said, she was to return to take our orders for supper. Thinking ahead, he speculated that he might be in the mood for meat loaf, but he couldn’t be sure, so it would be best if she checked with him before placing the order. We were apparently in the middle of an intervention, Greg explained officiously, so it was important that she follow his every command to the letter. Otherwise, said intervention might not work.

The waitress nodded and left us alone.

“See, Greg, there’s part of the problem,” Neil said. “You’re always bossing people around.”

“You say that as if you want our waitress intruding on our privacy every five seconds,” Greg said. “I’m only trying to expedite the healing process, if you don’t mind. I’m starring in a musical a few days from now, and I need to work on my lines. By the way, Charley, would it bother you too much if I spoke in a German accent while we discussed my mental health? Given your heritage, you’re perfectly within your rights to stop me.”

I looked up from my menu.

“Maybe a pitcher of beer isn’t a bad idea,” I said.

“Fine,” Greg said, signaling the waitress. “But there’s still the issue of your Jewish heritage to consider.”

“I’m not Jewish,” I said. “Not that it should matter.”

“My sources say otherwise,” Greg said. And then to the waitress, “A pitcher of your finest ale, please.”

T
WO PITCHERS
of the Wednesday Club’s finest ale later, we were picking at the greasy remains of burgers and fries as Greg rambled on about the eternal battle between good and evil, the peculiar relationship between mothers and sons, and his need to procure an heir at all costs.

“Have you thought about maybe getting a job first?” Dwayne asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Greg said. “My goal is to find a woman who’s either independently wealthy or gainfully employed. I’d prefer the former, of course, but I’m more than willing to settle for the latter. Needless to say, money isn’t my only criterion, but it
is
an important one. I’m also considering such variables as teeth, hips, posture, fingernails, and, in the event of a tie, bosoms. They don’t have to be big, but they have to be firm. By the way, Charley, did you ever mention my proposal to Karen?”

“Can we please not bring my wife into this?” I said.

“Frankly, I’m disappointed that she didn’t take part in tonight’s proceedings. A woman’s touch is exactly what this intervention is missing—the efforts of our buxom waitress notwithstanding.”

“And I thought Charley was nuts,” Dwayne muttered.

“What?” I said.

“What do you mean
what
?” Dwayne said. “That whole episode on the bridge.”

“What episode?” Sean asked. “Did I miss something?”