The Nirvana Blues (37 page)

So they would spend several minutes shooting his toes with the BB gun, applying lit matches to his fingertips, and sticking hatpins into his buttocks, making sure he was deceased. Then Heidi would filch all the money from his pocket, split it three ways, greedily read aloud the benefits in his life insurance policy, and they'd dance around his carcass, shouting “Son of a bitch, we're rich! We'll bury Daddy in a ditch! We're
rich,
you son of a bitch!”

Yet suddenly he was struck a poignant blow. After all, if life was tragic, wasn't it also truly rich? And chock full of beauty and vitality also? Abruptly, Joe wanted to live forever! Come hell or high water he absolutely
must
acquire Eloy Irribarren's 1.7 acres of land! On it he would create a magnificent garden like the one Monet tended for the latter half of his life. Wisteria trellises and grape arbors! Japanese bridges over the irrigation ditch! Blooming orchards! Delphiniums! Eight-foot-tall sunflowers! Rose bushes! Poplar trees! From the mountains he would retrieve little aspens and make a grove. On transplanted spruce trees, come wintertime, he'd hang suet balls for the chickadees. A little nirvana on earth! He would build a bunch of birdhouses to specification and nail them up in the chinese elms: wren, starling, and bluebird houses, also flicker boxes. And beehives for honey. A backhoe would excavate a small pond; he'd plant cattails and lily pads, and stock a few trout, a handful of snail darters. Redwing blackbirds would warble in the rushes, a virginia rail would appear. Come autumn, ruddy ducks, mallards, and goldeneye would spend a few days on their way south. Muskrats would build a domed lodge. Wood ducks would nest in a box on a pole in the middle of the water. When it froze in December, they'd have skating parties. Long ago, he and Heidi had frequented Central Park's Wollman Rink: courting days. Joe flashed briefly on being young, madly in love, and loaded with dough … stroking around that rink, flaunting his hips at each stride.

For a beat, he felt soft and muted and lazy—tranquil and private. At the core of existence, despite all the heartaches and woe, lay such a private dream.

All his life Joe had wanted a pond. All his life he had hoped to see a bald eagle in the wild. All his life he had looked for bears in the forests. All his life he had fantasized about making love to a Hollywood sex symbol (female gender). All his life he had been a jerk.

Glumly, Joe reached over and picked up the telephone, staring at it. Then, of a giddy impulse, he placed the mouthpiece against his crotch, and, making his voice low and mollifying like a professional newscaster's, he said:

“Hello out there, sex fans, this is John Cameron Miniver bringing you exclusive interviews with erotic celebrities. Today, it's our good fortune to have with us here in the studios Mr. Paul Withington Penis, noted authority on cloacal spelunking and author of the well-known bestseller
Vaginal Troglodytes I Have Known.
Say hello to the folks out there, Mr. Penis. I'll have you know, by the way, that this broadcast is being beamed by satellite to over twenty-one different countries overseas including portions of Afghanistan and the Soviet Union, and is being carried live on all armed-services networks for our fighting boys
en outre.
So we are facing an audience even larger than the one that tuned in for the Thrilla in Manila, that last incredible Ali-Frazier fight.”

Adopting a high, prissy voice, Joe said, “Hello, folks. It's a pleasure to be here with you tonight, John … Doc … Ed … a real pleasure.”

“Okay, thank you, Paul. Now, as I was saying at the top of this show, we've got one of the largest audiences out there ever to tune into a program like this. And I'm sure a lot of those people have personal problems that fall within the sexual realm. So for my first question this evening, I'm gonna put it to you straight and hard and I sure hope you won't give me any limp answers.”

In a falsetto voice, Joe replied: “Tee-hee, tee-hee. Oh that's funny, John, that's a real gas. ‘Limp answers.' You'd really ‘prick' my balloon if you could, wouldn't you? Tee-hee.”

Assuming his newscaster's voice, Joe said, “Actually, Paul, I'm not out to ‘prick' any balloons. But when you came into the studio tonight and we were talking just before we went on camera, you seemed so ‘cocky'.…”

From the open doorway, Heather said, “Daddy, what in hell are you doing?”

“Doing?”
Oh help, trapped again!

One of Joe's strongest childhood illusions had been that grown-ups were actually Grown-up People. In Control. He had believed, for example, that they had order in their lives, and that their personal worlds hummed along smoothly. He had firmly believed that come adulthood not only would he not be afraid of the dentist, but that when he did go,
it wouldn't ever hurt.
He had also suspected that grown-ups never cried. Most of all he had admired grown-ups and been awed by them because they weren't flawed and weak and confused like kids.

His children, anyway, wouldn't have that illusion to kick around when they matured!

“Heather, how long have you been standing in the doorway?”

“What are you doing to the phone?” she insisted. “Why are you talking to yourself?”

For a split second he actually fantasized that he could explain, in some rational manner, the fact that he was conducting an interview with his cock in front of a hundred million viewers worldwide. Then he opted for a more logical explanation:

“Actually, I was just sitting here being stupid.”

“That's a relief,” the precocious little brat said. “At least you weren't doing anything different than you usually do.”

“Come over here.” Joe hung up the phone. “I wanna knock your block off.”

“No thanks.”

“Come over here then because I wanna hug you and give you a kiss.”

“You'll just hug me and say sweet things to get in my pants, then you'll run away with somebody else,” she said crassly. “No dice.”

“Hey! Where did you learn to talk like that?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Oh, that sassy punkette! Flouncing her butt as she approached, Heather started to walk on by, heading for her room. But Joe reached out, fast as a rattlesnake, and grabbed one arm:

“Hey, Miss World Snootiverse—hold on a sec. This is your daddy begging for a smack!”

He swung her into a bear hug and went for a kiss. But she squirmed powerfully, twisting her head away. Joe persisted, until suddenly he realized that she meant it. In fact, Heather was crying. Horrified, he relaxed his hold. “Wait a minute,” he mumbled. “What's the matter, sweetie? I love you.”

“No you don't, you motherfucker! Otherwise you never would have run away!”

“I didn't run away.” Joe shook his head, vividly convinced that he was creating one of those indelible psychological scars on his daughter that would brand her an emotional cripple for life—she'd become a lesbian, an alcoholic, a photographer like Diane Arbus. “But watch the language, would you?”

“You say ‘motherfucker' all the time!”

“I don't call
you
a motherfucker.”

“Yes you do, you called me motherfucker plenty of times!”

“When I'm playing around, maybe I call you a motherfucker—sometimes. But I would never call you that when I'm serious.”

“Well, you're a son of a bitch then,” she sobbed.

“No I'm not, you don't understand—”

“Yes you are!”

“No I'm not, dammit!”

“Yes you are! I hate you! You stink!”

“Shuttup Heather, or I'll spank you!”

“Go ahead and spank me! I don't care!”

“But I don't
want
to spank you, sweetie. What's the matter with you, anyway?”

“You're chickenshit, then! Mommy says you're chickenshit!”

“Well, the next time you see Mommy, tell her to go fuck herself and keep her goddam opinions to herself.”

“Why don't you tell her yourself?” Heidi said calmly from the doorway. “Or are you too afraid?”

Joe let go of Heather: she roared away in a defiant, miserable bound.

“Hello, everybody,” Joe said morosely. “It was awfully nice of you to invite me into your happy home like this. But I'm afraid I can only stay a minute.”

“Oh Joey, Jesus, would you lay off the cute theatrics for once?” Heidi crossed the room and dumped groceries on the kitchenette table. “As maybe you noticed, some of us are a trifle edgy today.”

“Where's Michael?”

“How should I know? I think he ran away.”

“What do you mean, you
think
he ran away?”

“We had a fight. He called me a whore, took his BB gun, jumped on his bicycle, and pedaled off to who-knows-where?”

“You got to be kidding.”

Heidi sighed, snapped open a beer, and sank into a chair at the kitchenette table. “It's the truth, Joey. I was so furious I just let him go. I figured he'd return as soon as he shot a sparrow, or put a BB through somebody's chicken-coop window, or shattered a half-dozen pop bottles alongside the road. Then, when he didn't show up, I went out searching. I checked Eloy Irribarren's, thinking he went there looking for you—but no dice. Then for about half an hour Heather and I drove all around. We covered La Ciénega, La Lomita, Borregas Negras, and Lower Ranchitos, stopped for some groceries, and came home: still no Michael.”

“Did you check out Ralph's float tank? If that little son of a bitch snuck in there again and peed in the salt water—”

“It's the first place we looked. When I lifted the hatch, Ralph was inside, floating on top of a plump woman with an emerald in her nose.”

Joe groaned, “I don't believe it. What happens now?”

“I'm open for any suggestions. I'm tired and I'm really demoralized.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Not yet. I mean, suppose he's at a friend's house?”

“Did you call anybody?”

“Tribby and Rachel, Suki, the Baileys, and Jane Zuckerman. Nobody's seen him, nobody's heard a word.”

“I bet Michael went across town to kill
her
with his BB gun,” Heather said.

“Her who, Jane?”

“No,
your
her.”

“Heather,” Joe groaned, “do Mommy and Daddy a favor and don't talk until you're spoken to, all right?”

“I can talk if I want. It's a free country.”

“Free country?” Joe snarled. “Who feeds you that shit!” Something in his head went
ping!
“Is it a free country for all the millions of gay people that Anita Bryant's trying to burn at the stake? Is it a free country for all the blacks and Chicanos and Indians who can't get into law school or medical school or into a decent housing project unless they burn down a ghetto to prove they're sick and tired of being exploited and culturally genocided into oblivion? Is it a free country for our twenty-five million alcoholics, our ten million junkies, and the other one hundred eighty million of our people who are manic-depressive pill poppers that spend ninety percent of their salaries on psychiatrists? Is it a—”

“Joey, for God's sake, stoppit.”

“—free country for the millions and millions of people that we have incarcerated in one of the most extensive prison systems on earth? Is it a free country for the ten million New Yorkers who are afraid to go out after five for fear of being mugged? Is it a free—”

“Joey! Jesus
Christ.
”

“—country for all the people who get murdered in America, and for all the people who get robbed, and who get killed in car accidents? Is it a free country for all the kids that graduate from our lousy high schools as semifunctional illiterates? Huh? Tell me about this
free
country! Heidi, who feeds them this junk…?”

They were all crying: Joe, Heidi, and Heather. Shocked, Heather stood in the middle of the room, staring at her father, tears flowing down her cheeks. Head buried in her arms, Heidi's voice was muffled as she sobbed, “Joey, just shut the Christ
up, please.
”

“Look at you and me!” Joe wept hysterically. “Look at us! The beneficiaries of the best education money can buy, upwardly mobile middle class, every advantage on earth! Look at all this
freedom!
Look at Skipper Nuzum and Jeff and Suki and, and look at all
that
freedom! Everybody's so happy in this country with all their freedom! Freedom,” he spat, turning to aim his final invective at their only daughter. “Don't you believe it for a minute.”

“Joey, geez,
can it.
”

“'Cause it's bullshit!” he sobbed. “It's propaganda! Freedom to choose between thirty-seven different colors of car or flavors of ice cream
does not a democracy make,
little girl. And don't you ever forget it!”

With that, he ran out of steam. Nobody moved. Joe wondered: had he flipped out? Right before their eyes had he gone nuts? Apparently. Heather said, “You're crazy, Daddy.” Snatching an orange from the coffee-table bowl, she heaved it at her dad, galloped past him to her room, and slammed the door.

“She's right,” Joe whimpered. “I'm crazy. I'm sorry.”

“What about Michael?”

“I'll go look for him.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. I'll drive around. Do we still have that elk call? I'll go stand in the middle of a field somewhere and blow it until he comes arunning.”

“Joey, what's happening? This doesn't make any sense.”

“I don't know. Go read Gail Sheehy, I sure don't have a pipeline to any answers.”

“I'll come with you.”

“No, you better stay with Heather.”

“What if you don't find him?”

“Then we call the cops. No, actually, we can't call them.”