The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (55 page)

I rolled over and gave her my back.

“Caelum?” she said. “Are you all right?”

I didn’t answer her.

Didn’t speak a word when, to my relief, she slipped her clothes on and went back upstairs. Alone again, I lay there, thinking to myself that maybe I should track down Paul Hay and call him up. Tell him I’d joined the brotherhood: guys who fucked other guys’ wives. What had they called it in anger management class? The cardiology, neurology, and endocrinology of rage? Well, I was enraged all right. I was fucking
furious.
They had goddamned lied to me, all of them: my grandfather, my no-good father, the mother who hadn’t been my mother. Even Lolly, the person I trusted the most out of all of them. They’d gone so far as to make up a bogus birth certificate. Who had done that? Which one of those fucking liars? …

She had had to kidnap me to spend a day with me….

Somewhere around three in the morning, I got up and got dressed. Walked down the driveway and headed up the road toward that empty field again, to the place where she once had been. Where she wasn’t.

Would you like something to eat before we start, Mr. Schissel?

Sure. How about a shrimp cocktail, a porterhouse steak, and some cherries jubilee for dessert?

Uh…

Nah, I’m just kidding you, Jake. You eat a steak at this joint, you’d probably get mad-cow disease. Maybe we should have a little something to wet the whistle, though. And by the way, you keep calling me “Mr. Schissel,” I’ll have to go home, put on a necktie. My friends call me Peppy.

Peppy it is then. What are you drinking?

Chivas and milk.

Excuse me?

Chivas and milk. I got a bum gut, but I can get away with a nip here and there, long as I keep it coated. Just don’t tell my daughter, will you? The Enforcer, I call her. Worse than her mother was. So what do I do now? Pick up this little microphone and talk into it?

No, it’s recording already. Just speak in your regular tone of voice, and it should pick you up fine from the table here. Let me just get you your drink.

Sit down, sit down. What are you having, Jake?

Just coffee, I guess. My name’s Caelum, by the way.

Gonna make me drink alone, eh? Well, let’s see if we can wake the barkeep up from his siesta over there. Hey, Jake! Yoo hoo! We’ll take a Chivas and milk, rocks, and a cup of coffee. You got any half’n’half back there? … Atta boy. Chivas and half’n’half then. And a coffee…. Did I already tell him the coffee?

Uh, yeah. Yup.

Memory’s a funny thing. Ask me what I had for breakfast today and I couldn’t tell you. But I can still name all the families lived on our street in the Bronx when I was a kid. Can still recite the ditties we learned in school. You ever hear this one?

You learned that in school?

Yeah, school o’ hard knocks. So, Shirley Nussbaum said you wanted to talk about my career at Rheingold?

Right—particularly your connection with the Miss Rheingold beauty contest. Mrs. Nussbaum said you used to chauffeur the contestants?

That’s right. I drove the Rheingold girls, not to mention quite a few of the Mets when they were a new team—Gil Hodges, Bobby Klaus, those guys. Drove Nat King Cole and Lionel Hampton around one summer, too, when the brewery was cozying up to the Harlem market. Nice guys, they were—first-class
gentlemen. Hey, you know how Shirley tracked me down, don’t you? Through the hoozy-whatsis.

The Internet.

Right. That and a matchbook cover. See, Shirley and I were in Public Relations together, and we were pretty good friends. No hanky-panky or anything, just, you know, office pals. So when my daughter Rochelle got married in 1966, we invited Shirley to the wedding and she kept the matchbook. Collects matchbooks, I guess. So that’s how she found me. Put my daughter’s married name—which is Skolnick—into her computer and got her number. And guess who answers the phone when she calls? Me! Because I’m living with Rochelle now, since my wife passed on. “Who?” I said. “Shirley
Nussbaum?
You gotta be kidding me.” Hadn’t talked to her in … well, let’s see. Pepsi Cola bought out Rheingold in ‘73, and they shut us down for good in ‘76. We all saw the writing on the wall, of course, but you know what the bastards did? Halted production right in the middle of a workday. Didn’t even bottle what we had in storage; they just dumped 100,000 gallons of good beer into the East River. Some of us old-timers stood there watching, holding our notices and crying like babies…. Well, life goes on, right? So what’s the story now, Jake? You writing a book?

Uh … just researching for now.

That right? What are you researching?

Well … the old breweries. Their, uh … their marketing.

Business book, then. Well, if you want to know about my career at Rheingold, I guess I better begin at the beginning. I was twenty years old when I started there. Now this was wartime, see? Nineteen forty-two. I had tried to enlist, but they wouldn’t take me on account of my flat feet and something else I didn’t even know I had: an inguinal hernia. That thing gave me trouble later on, but that’s a different story.

Actually, the time period I’m interested in is—

The Brooklyn plant, this was. The
main
plant. I’d been moping around for a while, kind of lost because most of my buddies had enlisted. But I had this cousin worked for Rheingold, see? My cousin Hyman. And he was always saying how Weismann Breweries treated their workers right. Sponsored a bowling league, a summer picnic, gave out turkeys at Thanksgiving, that kind of thing. It was a family-owned operation back then, see? The Weismann family. German Jews, they were. But anyway, I guess I better back up a little and tell you about the Weismanns, because anyone reading a business book’s gonna want to know how a family starts from scratch over in Germany and ends up with the top-selling beer in New York. So tell me something. You writers are smart guys. What was happening back in 1864?

Well, like I said, the time period I’m looking at is—See, you struck pay dirt with me, Jake, because I’m not only a thirty-four year employee of Weismann Breweries. I’m also a student of history. I read it, think about it, connect the dots between this thing and that thing. You ask my daughter what’s the two things I watch on television, and it’s either
Law & Order
or the History Channel. When I can get her away from the shopping channel, that is. All day long, those yentas with their junk jewelry, Joan Rivers and her face cream. Funny gal, but those plastic surgeons have stretched her face tighter than a sheet of Glad Wrap over a bowl of leftovers. Don’t look natural, in my opinion. Okay, so answer my question. What was happening in 1864?

Uh, well … the Civil War.

That’s right. Can’t argue with that. But listen, Jake. It’s a big world out there. The North and the South may be going at it on
this
side of the ocean, but over in London, Karl Marx is writing
Das Kapital,
and to the east, in Bavaria—where the Weismann family’s from—they’ve just crowned a new king. King Ludwig
II, his name was—eighteen years old. His old man kicks the bucket and
boom
! They stick the crown on his head and hand him the scepter. See, Germany’s not united at that point in time; it’s all these different states: Prussia, Bavaria, etcetera, etcetera. So, Ludwig’s the new king of Bavaria. Now you tell me what kooky teenager, past or present, is gonna be fit to run a country?

I’m afraid I’m not making the jump here.

Then
listen,
already. Okay, so Ludwig’s a young, good-looking kid—very popular with the people, like what’s his name, over there in England, Princess Diane’s son. The Swan King, they nickname Ludwig. The Fairy Tale King. There’s only one problem: poor kid doesn’t want the job. And he stinks at it. The politics are way over his head, he’s scared to death of the public. The only thing he’s really interested in is opera, see? You much of an opera buff, Jake?

Me? No, I’m not.

Well, Ludwig’s a goner for it, and you know who his favorite composer is? That no-good, Jew-hating son of a bitch Wagner, that’s who. Ludwig idolizes the guy. Knows his operas, memorizes the librettos. So one day he says to himself, “Hey, I’m the king, right? If I want to meet the maestro, I can summon him here.” So that’s what he does: has his ministers track down Wagner and bring him to the palace.

But Mr. Schissel? Peppy?

And the two of them hit it off: the teenage king and his musical hero. And the kid starts making promises: he’s gonna build Wagner a big festival theater in Munich, finance productions of his four
Ring of the Nibelung
operas. They figure they’ll start with the first one in the series,
Das Rheingold.
You know the
Das Rheingold
story, Jake? The golden treasure hidden at the bottom of the Rhine River, guarded by the beautyful Rhinemaidens? Then the dwarf steals it and the brave hero, Siegfried, has to steal it back?

Not ringing a bell, Peppy.

No? One of the most famous legends in Germany! Well, anyway, Ludwig and Wagner talk into the night, and they get so hepped up about their big plans for
Das Rheingold
that they decide to take a moonlight ride out in the country. They wake up the carriage driver, and two or three of the royal ass-kissers, and the party takes off. Only it starts snowing, see? It’s the middle of the night by now. So they pull up to this little roadside guesthouse. Zum Stern, it’s called—nice little family inn where they make their own beer. And who do you think owns the place?

Couldn’t tell you.

The Weismanns!

Ah, the family that—

That’s right! Now, at this point in time, you’re maybe saying to yourself, “Gee, you ask Peppy for the time of day and he tells you the history of the cuckoo clock.” But let me ask you something, Jake. When a contractor builds an apartment house, what’s he start with? The fifth floor or the foundation?

Okay. So—

So start writing some of this stuff down already.

Well … the tape recorder’s on.

Oy!
You see that—what I mean about memory? The gizmo’s sitting here, staring me right in the face ! Okay, so there’s a bang, bang on the door at Zum Stern, and the Weismanns’ son, Otto, gets up and answers it. Tells them they’re closed for the night. Then the others step aside and who’s standing there, wearing his fancy frock cloak and fur hat?

King Ludwig.

Right. It’s a moment in history, see? The king and the commoner, probably about the same age, standing face to face. So Otto swings the door open and lets them in—the king, the composer, the royal
tukhes lechers.
Couple minutes later, the whole family hustles down and goes to work: start cooking up a feast
and pouring the
Weismannbrau….
Now, by the time the sun comes up, the bellies are full and the snow’s stopped and the whole world is beautyful white. The maestro, who’s half in the bag, tells everyone to grab a farewell glass of beer and follow him outside for a toast, and so they do: the king and his lackeys, the Weismanns, and I don’t know who else. And word’s leaked out by now, see? So there’s a little crowd out there—everyone waiting to get a peek at the Fairy Tale King and the big shot composer. Wagner raises his glass. “To Ludwig, Bavaria’s very own Siegfried!” he shouts. Now, you remember who Siegfried is?

He’s, uh … the character in
Das Rheingold.

Not just the character, Jake—the
hero.
So, it’s quite a compliment, see? “May King Ludwig forever rule in the light!” Wagner says. And everyone drinks up. Then Ludwig—who’s probably as soused and happy as he’s ever been
—he
steps forward and makes his own toast. “To Bavaria!” he says. “To Bavaria!” everyone answers. And just then, Ludwig happens to notice the way the sun’s caught his glass of beer. He looks at its golden color, twists the glass back and forth, then says, “To the best beer in all of Bavaria—the Weismanns’
Rhein gold.”
You get it, Jake? The Rhine river, the golden treasure hidden on the bottom? “To the Weismanns’ Rhein gold!” the crowd shouts. And with that, the king and his party chug-a-lug their beers and take off. Now, Mr. Business Book Writer, what do you think happens next?

Well, the Weismanns have just gotten a pretty big celebrity endorsement. So I’d say they probably cash in.

Correct! Word spreads about the king’s visit, and now everyone wants to stop at the inn where the Fairy Tale King stopped to taste “Rheingold,” the best beer in all of Bavaria. From then on, the Weismanns are in business. And speaking of business, I have to take care of a little myself. Excuse me a minute, Jake. Hey,
barkeep! Where’s the men’s room? And where’s our cocktail and our coffee?

Yeah, give me another minute, Pops. I’m just finishing up my inventory.

What? Your inventory’s more important than your paying customers?
Oy!

So, Peppy, that was quite a story. Where’d you hear it?

Hear it? Who heard it? I
read
it, before you came to pick me up. Reread it, I should say. When you said you wanted to learn about Rheingold, I dug around in my old stuff, found the book the company came out with on their seventy-fifth anniversary.
The History of Rheingold Beer,
it’s called. A lot of employees, when they got that memorial book, probably tossed it out, but not me. Because, like I said, I’m a student of history. I got it back at my daughter’s if you want to take a look at it.

No, that’s okay. Now, if we can switch gears to when you were involved with the Miss Rheingold contest—

Not so fast, Jake. There’s more. See, when Ludwig walked through the door at Zum Stern that night, politics walked in with him, and the Weismanns’ business got hitched to the king’s fortune. Which didn’t turn out so good after all. As king, the kid was a disaster! He pulled temper tantrums with his ministers, hit the servants, hid behind the potted plants at state functions. He was engaged to an Austrian princess for a while, but her family broke it off. Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?

You read all this in
The History of Rheingold Beer?

No, no, this I got from another book,
Roots of the Third Reich.
I connect the dots, see? That’s what us history buffs do. Then this crazy Ludwig starts raiding the royal treasury for his two cockamamie obsessions. One of them’s opera, like I already told you about. The other is castle-building. See, he commissions
these expensive, full-scale Wagnerian operas—costumes, sets, the best singers and musicians in Bavaria—but nobody can see them except him. Says when there’s an audience, everyone stares at him with their opera glasses and it ruins it for him. Worse than that are the castles—these medieval replicas he has built all over Bavaria, and when they’re done, they just sit there, empty. And Ludwig’s goofy make-believe is breaking the bank. He was like what’s-his-name—that
shmekel
with all the plastic surgery.