The Royal Family (41 page)

Well, he said, should we call the hospital?

Let’s just go, said John. What’s the point of sitting around here? I’m drunk. I’m worried about Mom. You’d better drive.

They went north on Highway 160, passing the Chinese restaurant where less than half a year ago Tyler, John, their mother and Irene had come for sizzling shrimp and cashew chicken. It had been a round table they sat at, Tyler flanked on either side by his blood relatives (although since the table accomodated five there was, naturally, an empty place between the two brothers). By some coincidence he found himself directly across from Irene, who smilingly enjoyed the food.

You probably want another helping, don’t you? John said to her affectionately. You’d eat anything. You’re a vacuum cleaner. No wonder you’re getting fat.

Irene lowered her huge almond eyes.

John slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Across the table, Tyler, electrified with jealousy, gazed into Irene’s averted face.

It’s not serious, the doctor said to John, Tyler being the less well dressed of the two. Has she been following her diet?

I’m sure she has, John replied. She takes very good care of herself. But I’ll have a talk with her. If Mom’s been naughty, I guess I’ll just have to lean on her a little.

Well said, well said! I can see that Mrs. Tyler’s in very good hands. Now, you’ll want to keep the air conditioning going while this heat wave lasts. That will make it easier on her heart.

He turned to Tyler. —And you are . . . ?

The other son, Tyler said.

Oh, said the doctor, turning back to John. I can see she’s in good hands.

They passed the Chinese restaurant.

How are you feeling, Mom? said Tyler.

Not very well, honey. I want to lie down.

Nobody said anything. John looked gloomy and anxious. They got home and John insisted that their mother lean on his shoulder while he helped her into the house.

Can you make it upstairs, Mom? Tyler heard him saying.

Tyler poured himself a drink out of John’s bottle. Then, slowly, he went upstairs.

Can we go to the store and get you something, Mom? he said.

That’s already taken care of, said John sharply. Don’t tire her out.

Tyler leaned against the dresser, smiling sarcastically. Their mother was lying in bed looking at them both as if she wanted to say something.

You just lie there and rest, Mom, John was saying. We’ll take care of everything.

Have a good rest, Mom, said Tyler, a lump in his throat.

He went downstairs to wait for his brother. He finished his drink, which was very smooth and good; John of course bought nothing but the best. Again he wondered how much Irene’s coffin had cost.

John was still upstairs with their mother. Tyler stood up. He went to the kitchen to
wash his glass. There was a saucer in the sink with bread crumbs on it, and he washed that, too, remembering a night a year or so previous when he and John and Irene had all been here for dinner and Irene had gone out to the kitchen to do the dishes. John was telling their mother some story about work. Had their mother been telling John a story, Tyler never would have chanced it, but since John had no greater listener than himself, and their mother came in a close second in that department, hanging, as always, on John’s every word, Tyler got up quietly and passed through the swinging double doors to the kitchen where Irene stood over the sink with her hands in detergent lather, and he slipped his arms around her from behind. He had meant only to embrace her about the waist, and it shocked him to find his palms had opened and were grasping her firm little breasts. Her nipples were hard against his hands. Irene continued to wash the dishes, not pulling away, not saying anything. He stood there like that with her for a moment, and then he let her go. She went on washing the dishes.

Leaning up against the refrigerator, Tyler had said: I wish I could have married you.

You’re so sweet, said Irene.

I wonder what that means, Tyler thought to himself.

He got a bottle of fizzy water for his mother, and one for John, and went back into the dining room where John’s story was still going on. When it had finished, John pushed the bottle away from him and said: And how was Irene, Henry?

Later, when John was in the bathroom, Irene came to him and laid her head down on his shoulder, and he stroked her hair.

He finished rinsing the glass and saucer. He thought to himself: After Mom dies, I don’t want to come back to this house ever again. It hurts too much.

He heard John’s footsteps, quick and sure, coming down the stairs. The booze must have worn off. He heard the steps in the living room, then he heard them come toward him.

How is she? he said.

You’re not thinking about Mom, said John, unsmiling. You never think about her. I know who you’re thinking about.

Should we go buy her some groceries?

All right, said John, slugging down a glass of cold water from the sink. I’ll drive.

Where are you parked?

Down by Mrs. Antoniou’s house. I left the driveway for you. There’s not enough room for both of us.

Tyler waved at Mrs. Antoniou, whom he saw peering at them from behind her tiny window in the front door. Her lawn was as unhealthily dry as always, and marred by crab grass. The Rosens next door always complained, worrying, perhaps, that crabgrass was as catching as crabs. Domino had had crabs. They got in the car, and John inserted the key. Something chimed, and their shoulder belts slowly whirred down. John fastened his lap belt, but Tyler didn’t. John frowned but didn’t say anything. Resting his chin lovingly upon his own left shoulder, John backed out of the driveway and swung the car’s hindquarters west. Then he shifted and let out the clutch.

How’s work? said Tyler.

Fine, said John.

You still working on Brady’s new company?

Oh, I told you about that? said his brother, surprised. That’s right; you were one of his clients.

No, he was one of my clients.

That’s what I meant, Hank. He came to us right after the Peterson case was resolved.

Pretty lucrative?

The Peterson case?

No, I meant Brady.

Very.

Listen, John. There’s something you ought to know.

Sour grapes, is it? said John with his usual quick intuition of Tyler’s worst motives. You want to backstab Brady because he fired you? I’m going to take us to Priceway.

Okay, fine, said Tyler.

So what should I know?

You know what Brady’s business is?

Of course I know. Are you saying I don’t do my homework?

It’s virtual girls, right?

Well, that and a lot of other things. Slot machines, restaurants, a family arcade. So what?

He may be riding for a fall. I’ve heard from at least one source that those girls are real, although I haven’t verified it. It’s forced prostitution and maybe worse, do you understand?

Yeah, you’d know about that, said John, steering. Look, Hank. Don’t worry your head about that. You’re way out of your depth.

Okay, John. I just don’t want you to get in trouble.

His brother laughed and laughed, so that Tyler could see the adam’s apple jerking and twitching. —That’s news, he finally said.

There was a long silence, and then John finally said in a tentative voice: About Brady, I. . .

You what?

Oh, forget it. Forget the whole thing.

There was another silence, and then John said: Well, are you willing to check him out for me?

What do you mean?

You’re a private eye, Hank. What do you think I mean?

We have access to this stuff, yeah, we’re licensed, and I maintain a lot of insurance. I really think if we don’t self-regulate the government’s going to come along and do it for us.

In other words, no.

Oh, I’ll do it. I’ve already done it. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. What do you want to know?

You’re telling me you won’t do it. You’re saying you won’t help out your own brother.

I never said that at all.

Then what’s all this crap about self-regulation? You think I don’t know a euphemism for
no?
You don’t have the guts to say no outright, do you?

You know, John, I’m tired of your crap, Tyler was shocked to hear himself say. I’m really tired of it. How long are you going to hold Irene’s death against me?

Let’s leave my wife out of this. Don’t ever let me hear you mention her name. You have no right to mention her name, do you understand me?

If you want me to leave her out, then don’t keep bringing her up. You’re the one who keeps making insinuations.

They sat there with trees and houses and street signs slowly passing them, and John’s throat jerked, and John said: You’re right. I admit it. Now tell me this. Did you ever go to bed with Irene?

No, John, I never did. I won’t deny that I kind of envied you . . .

You crooked bastard, his brother laughed.

What does that mean?

You know what it means, Hank. Hank the prick.

So you’re calling me a liar, John?

You were a liar before you came out of Mom.

I’ll let that one pass. Now, John, for the last time, I’m telling you that I never slept with Irene. Do you believe me or not?

Forget it, said John. We can have this out after Mom—after Mom’s better. We can’t stress out Mom.

No, I’m not going to forget it, Tyler said. We’re going to have this one out right now. Either you believe me or you don’t. If you believe me you’ve got to stop making those remarks, because I can’t tolerate them anymore. If you don’t believe me, John, then I guess I, uh, I don’t want to see you.

Is that a promise? I should be so lucky.

We can work out Mom’s care so that we don’t have to meet.

You feel pretty strongly about this, don’t you, shithead?

Okay, John, one week off, one week on. I’ll take the rest of this week being on call for Mom. If she needs me, I’ll come up. You take next week. She’ll like it better that way. It’s not good for her to see us—

Tell me about it.

So, will that fit into your schedule?

John made an illegal U-turn. —Let me drive you back to the house then, Hank, he said. You can get in your car and go back to the city right now. I’ll call you if there’s an emergency.

Oh, so you’ll take the rest of this week then?

That’s right. I’m already up here, and unlike you, some people have to work.

Let me give you some money for Mom’s groceries, said Tyler. Is forty bucks enough?

You can keep your goddamned stinking money, said John. Let’s make it Monday to Sunday. That way we each get a weekend.

Sure, John.

And another thing. Don’t let me catch you down at Irene’s grave anymore.

Tyler said nothing, but he reddened with rage.

Did you hear me?

I heard you, John. Why don’t you let me out here? It’s only a few blocks to Mom’s house. I’d really rather walk it.

John accelerated. He was doing almost fifty in a thirty-five mile an hour zone. He went through a red light. His face was the color of brick. Tyler felt extremely hot, and there was a hurtful tightness inside his ribs.

I said, did you hear me?

Cemeteries are public places, John, said Tyler with a deliberately goading laugh, and watched John grip the wheel harder with his right hand while his left hand became a fist and began to swing toward him as John’s face turned away from the road, and just then
there came a yowling of horns and John’s eyes flicked rapidly back to the view ahead; they’d just driven through an intersection, and a police car was already coming with full siren.

You don’t want to hit me now, John, said Tyler. Not in view of a cop. That wouldn’t be good for your career.

John pulled over.

Not here, John, said Tyler. This is a bus zone.

He opened the passenger door and leaped out. John, murderous-eyed, began to reach toward him, so Tyler slammed the door on his hand. He heard his brother scream with pain, and instantly his gloating, furious joy became anguish.

O George Eliot with your garden parties, formal dinners, long leisurely meetings, family discussions; O Dostoyevsky (beloved of Mrs. Tyler) with your glittering-eyed train-companions listening to each other’s life stories, your wretched, teeming flats inhabited by souls intoxicated by quarreling and religion; I ask you, where have all the interlocutors gone? For there are more people than ever; and more strange worlds in San Francisco, which does itself comprise a world, than can ever be plumbed! And yet Tyler cogitates alone, as does his brother. Is it television that’s done it? Or is there some other reason why people just don’t talk to each other anymore? Granted, Dan Smooth is eager to talk; he has a longing to defecate his soul’s excrement upon the consciousnesses of others; and Mr. Rapp and Mr. Singer will both likewise unburden themselves to John if they are in the mood; Celia yearns for John to communicate with her; Mrs. Tyler checks in regularly with both her sons; Irene, perhaps, seeks to explain something from beyond the grave; all the same, when I peer into the sky-blue screen of the computer on which I compose this, I see all the way down to San Francisco where Henry Tyler himself sits alone. And so many people, too! Old Chinese with bowed, capped heads, wearing jackets the color of smoke, passed slowly, occluding the gratinged streetwall as Tyler sat wearily inhaling the scent of green tea, and static distorted the white legs of television baseball players into wriggling shrimp. Less rudely than indifferently the red-jerseyed waiter set his dinner down. Snow peas, miniature corn, and white chicken pieces shone with oil. Ten dollars. Outraged, he under-tipped. Although he had been to Chinatown with Irene, it force-fed him no sad associations, unlike all the worlds of coffee shops in Noe Valley, each with its own devotees and sidewalk benches, its courtyard cafés and restaurants, to several of which he had taken Irene, its liquor stores whose virtuously learned salesmen could unblinkingly explain the palate-differences between Caol Ila and Ardbeg; on those foggy, chilly summer days, women strode along rapidly with lowered heads; boys with boyfriends walked the dog. People were talking there; he was all wrong; there were no silences. A sudden rattle of a startled pigeon’s wings, and then a family gathering of smiling Chinese punctuated the day, above which the faux Jurassic terrariums of trees reflected in the watchful bay windows of two- and three-storey Victorians provided spurious greenery. A paramedic sat in his ambulance truck, the engine idling. He, or someone like him, had probably sat just like that while his colleagues brought Irene out.