The Road to Omaha (9 page)

Samuel Lansing Devereaux drove cautiously on the Waltham-Weston road at the height of the Friday evening rush hour exodus from Boston. As usual, he drove carefully, as though he were maneuvering a tricycle through a battlefield of opposing tanks closing in for their thunderous kills, but tonight was worse than usual. It was not the traffic; that was maddeningly standard. It was the pulsating pain in his eyes along with the pounding in his chest and the movable vacuum in his stomach, all the result of an acute seizure of depression. He found it almost impossible to keep his mind on the erratic rhythms of the surrounding vehicles, but forced himself to concentrate on those nearest him, hoping to heaven he stopped short of a collision. He kept the window open, his hand waving continuously until a truck swerved so close that he touched its sideview mirror; he shrieked and instinctively grabbed it, thinking for a moment he was watching his arm disappear over his hood.

There was nothing else for it, or, as the great French playwright phrased it—he could not actually remember the man’s name or the exact phrase in French, but he knew the words said it all. Oh,
Christ
, he had to get home to his lair
and let the music swell and the memories revive until the crisis passed!… 
Anouilh
, that was the goddamned playwright’s name—and the phrase … 
On ne pouvait plus que crier
—hell, it sounded better in English than in the lousy French he had trouble recalling:
There was nothing left but to scream
, that was it! Actually, it was pretty stupid, thought Sam. So he screamed and turned north into the Weston exit, only minimally aware of those drivers and passengers nearest his car who stared at him through their windows as if watching an act of sodomy between man and beast. The prolonged scream had to go; it was replaced by a wide grin worthy of Alfred E. Neuman as Devereaux pressed the accelerator and three cars crashed behind him.

It had all started within minutes after he left the office following an afternoon conference with a gaggle of related corporate executives whose single-family company was in deep shit if they did not take his advice. The problem was not in their criminality, it was in their stupidity, which could not be pried away from their stubbornness until Sam had made it clear that if they did not follow his instructions, they could all look for different representation, and he would visit each of them in prison, but only on a social basis. Although somewhat obscure, the law
did
make it clear that grandfathers and grandmothers could not place their grandchildren—especially those between the ages of six months and twelve years—on the company’s board of directors at salaries exceeding seven figures. He had weathered the onslaught of Irish indignation, accepted the eventuality of eternal damnation for shorting the bloodlines of the clan of Dongallen, and fled to his favorite bar two blocks from the firm of Aaron Pinkus Associates.

“Ahh, Sammy boyo,” the owner-barkeep had said as Devereaux slumped on the stool farthest from the entrance. “It’s been a rough day, it has, I can see it. I always know when one or two liquid remedies may lead to a couple more—you sit down at this end of the bar.”

“Do me a favor, O’Toole, and soften the brogue. I’ve spent damn near three hours with your crowd.”

“Oh, they’re the worst, Sam, let me tell you! Especially the two-toilet variety, who are the only ones who can afford
you fellas. Here, it’s early, so let me pour you the usual and turn on the tellyvision and you take your mind off business.… There’s no Sox game this afternoon, so I’ll turn on the all-day news.”

“Thanks, Tooley.” Devereaux had accepted his drink with a grateful nod as the solicitous owner turned on the cable news network, which was apparently in the middle of a human-interest segment, in this case depicting the good works of a supposedly obscure individual.

“
… a woman whose selfless charity and kindness keeps her forever young, a face the angels kiss with the gift of youth and clear-eyed perseverance,
” proclaimed the sonorous voice as the camera zoomed in on a white-habited nun dispensing gifts in a children’s hospital located in some war-torn Third World country. “
Sister Anne the Benevolent, they call her,
” continued the vowel-rolling announcer, “
but that’s all the world knows about her … or will ever know from her own lips, we are told. What her true name is or where she came from remains a mystery, a mystery wrapped in an enigma perhaps filled with unendurable pain and sacrifice
—”

“Mystery, my
ass
!” Samuel Lansing Devereaux had screamed, leaping and falling off the barstool as he roared at the television screen. “And the only unendurable pain is
mine
, you bitch!”

“Sammy,
Sammy
!” yelled Gavin O’Toole, racing down the length of the mahogany, waving his arms in a sincere effort to quiet his friend and customer. “Shut the fuck up! The woman’s a goddamned saint, and my goddamned clientele ain’t exactly all Protestant, do you get my goddamned message?” O’Toole had lowered his voice while pulling Devereaux over the bar—then he glanced around. “
Jesus
, a few of my daytime regulars are takin’ exception to your words, Sammy! Don’t worry, Hogan can handle them. Sit down and
shut up
!”

“Tooley, you don’t
understand
!” cried the fine Boston lawyer, close to weeping. “She’s the enduring love of my life on earth—”

“That’s better, that’s much better,” whispered O’Toole. “Keep it up.”

“You see, she was a
hooker
and I
saved
her!”

“Don’t keep it up.”

“She ran off with Uncle Zio!
Our
Uncle Zio—he
corrupted
her!”

“Uncle
who
? What the hell are you talkin’ about, boyo?”

“Actually, he was the
Pope
, and he messed up her head and he took her back to Rome, to the Vatican—”

“
Hogan
! Get over the wood and hold back the bastards!… Come on, Sammy, you’re leavin’ through the kitchen, the front door you’d never make!”

That innocent episode had brought on his acute depression, thought Devereaux, as he sped north on the less-traveled road to Weston. Couldn’t the unknowing “
world
” understand that the “
mystery
” was not unknown to one lovesick, adoring Sam-the-lawyer type, who had nurtured Anne-the-many-times-married-hooker from Detroit back into self-respect, only to have her slam the gates shut on their marriage to follow in the steps of crazy Zio?… Well, Uncle Zio hadn’t actually been crazy, he was only misguided where the life of Samuel-my-son-the-fine-attorney was concerned. He was also Pope Francesco I, the most beloved Pope of the twentieth century who had permitted his own kidnapping on Rome’s Via Appia Antica because he had been told he was dying, and it was better that his identical cousin, one Guido Frescobaldi from LaScala Minuscolo, be put on Saint Peter’s throne and take radio instructions from the true Pontiff somewhere in the Alps. It all had worked! For a while. Mac Hawkins and Zio for weeks on end would go up to the ramparts of Zermatt’s Château Machenfeld and over the shortwave radio explain to the less than bright, tone-deaf Frescobaldi what to do next in the cause of the Holy See.

Then everything fell apart—with a thud that had to sonically rival the first creation of planet Earth. The Alpine air restored Uncle Zio—Pope Francesco, of course—to his former healthy self, and, conversely, Guido Frescobaldi accidentally fell on the private shortwave radio, his bulk smashing it to smithereens, and the Vatican went into an economic tailspin. The remedy was painful but obvious; however, far more painful to Sam Devereaux—far,
far
more painful—was the loss of his one true love, Anne the
Rehabilitated, who had listened to all that crap Uncle Zio kept spewing quietly into her ear as they played checkers every morning. Instead of marrying one Samuel Lansing Devereaux, she opted for “marrying” one Jesus Christ, whose credentials, Sam had to admit, were considerably more impressive than his own, although the more earthly perks somewhat less so—immensely less so when one took into account the life that the glorious Anne the Rehabilitated had chosen. My
God
, Boston at its worst was better than leper colonies! Well, certainly most of the time.

Life marches on, Sam. It’s combat all the way, so don’t let yourself be boondoggled if you lose a skirmish or two. Get your ass up and charge ahead
!

Words from the lowliest lowlife in the universe, the ultimate, incontestable argument for sexual abstinence or stringent birth control. General MacKenzie Hawkins, Madman Mac the Hawk, scourge of sanity and destroyer of all things good and decent. Those fatuous words, that clichéd military psychobabble, were all the slugworm could offer during Sam’s moments of desperate anguish.

She’s leaving me, Mac. She’s actually going with him
!

Zio’s a damn good man, son. He’s a fine commander of his legions, and we who know the loneliness of command respect one another
.

But, Mac, he’s a priest, the big enchilada of priests, the Pope! They won’t be able to dance, or cuddle, or have kids or any of those things
!

Well, you’re probably right about the last two, but Zio does a hell of a tarantella, or have you forgotten
?

Nobody touches in tarantellas. They whirl around and kick up their legs, but they don’t come near each other
!

Must be the garlic. Or maybe the legs
.

You’re not listening to me. This is the mistake of her life—you should know that! For God’s sake, you were married to her, which hasn’t made me entirely comfortable these past weeks
.

Pull back your caissons, boy. I was married to all the girls, and none of them came out the worse for it. Annie was the toughest—and considering her background, maybe it was to be expected—but she caught on to what I was trying to tell her
.

What the hell was that, Mac
?

That she could be better than herself, but still be herself
.

Slugworm! Devereaux swung the wheel to the left so as to avoid an intruding guardrail on the right.
All the girls
, God, how did he
do
it? Four of the most entrancing and endowed women on earth had married the maniacal military delinquent and after each marriage had been—not amicably, but lovingly—terminated, the four divorcées had willfully, enthusiastically banded together to form their own unique club, which they called “Hawkins’s Harem.” At the press of the Hawk’s button, they all rallied around to support their former husband, whatever the time, and wherever he was in the world. Jealousies? None whatsoever, for Mac had set them free, free of the ugly chains that had bound them before he came into their lives. Sam could accept all that, for throughout the events that led up to Château Machenfeld, each former wife had succored him in his moments of hysterical crisis. Each had been not only compassionately—even passionately—warm in her efforts to extricate him from the impossible situations the Hawk had placed him in, but expert in the ways that led to his escape.

All had left their indelible marks on both his body and his mind, all were extraordinary memories, but the most glorious of all was the ash-blond, statuesque Anne, whose large blue eyes held an innocence far more real than the reality of her past. Her neverending stream of hesitant questions on just about any topic imaginable was as startling as her voracious appetite for books, so many of which she could not possibly understand, but understand she eventually would, if it took her a month on five pages. She was truly a lady making up for the lost years, but never with a hint of pity for herself, and always giving, despite what had been taken from her so brutally in the past. And, oh
God
, could she laugh, her eyes lighting up with mischievous humor, yet never mean, never at the expense of another’s hurt. He
loved
her so!

And the crazy bitch had opted for Uncle Zio and those goddamned leper colonies instead of a wonderful life as the wife of Sam Devereaux, attorney-at-law, eventually, inevitably, Judge Samuel Lansing Devereaux, who could enter
any lousy regatta he wanted to on Cape Cod. She was bananas!

Hurry
! Hurry home and get to the lair and find solace in the memories of unrequited love.
’Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all
. Who
was
that asshole?

He sped down the street in Weston and swerved around the corner into his block. Only minutes now, and then, with the aid of the grape and the swelling sounds of The Alpine Yodelers’ one and only recording, he would retreat into the cave of his dreams, his lost dreams.

Holy shit
! Up ahead, in front of his house … was that—was it …? Jesus, it
was
Aaron Pinkus’s limousine! Had something happened to his mother that he knew nothing about? Had an emergency occurred while he had been screaming at O’Toole’s television set? He’d never
forgive
himself!

Screeching to a stop behind Aaron’s outsized vehicle, Sam leaped out of his car and ran forward as Pinkus’s chauffeur appeared from around the hood of the limousine. “Paddy, what
happened
?” yelled Devereaux. “Is anything wrong with my mother?”