The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (260 page)

He looks at me and laughs.

“What?”

“No, it’s just . . . That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think? Your stuff’s got plenty of violence.”

“Some of it has, yes. But—”

“I mean, when I was a little kid, some of it would kind of spook me. One of them, especially. The one where a little paper doll boy was being buried alive by a paper doll woman.”

I nod. “His mother. That piece was in my
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
series. I’d based it on a strange little story called ‘The Stubborn Child.’ ”

“Yeah, well, whatever it was based on, I’d go to bed and start thinking about it and then I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

“Oh, honey. Really? I’m so sorry. You should have said something.”

“I did. I woke up Dad and told him. A couple of times, he took me back to bed and stayed with me until I got to sleep. But hey, when I got a little older? I started thinking your work was pretty cool. Actually, it was Jay Jay who convinced me.”

“Jay Jay?”

“Yeah. He was over here at the house one rainy day. We were like, maybe, ten or eleven. We were bored, so we went down to the basement to play some darts. And Jay started looking at these sketches you had done that were taped to the wall. And he goes, ‘What’s up with your mom?’ And I was—no offense, Mom, but it was kind of embarrassing, you know? Because the drawings were of a woman cutting some dude’s head off. In one of them, she was slicing his neck with a knife, and in another, she was holding up his head.”

I nod. “Artemisia.”

“Say what?”

“Artemisia Gentileschi. She was an artist from the Renaissance. I’d discovered a painting of hers in a book about baroque art.
Judith Slaying Holofernes
, it was called. I was doing some studies of it. Planning to base a piece on it, which I never ended up following through on. But I can see how, taken out of context, those drawings must have seemed pretty strange. And I’m sorry they embarrassed you.”

“Yeah, but let me finish. Jay started complaining about how
his
mother was Mrs. Fuddy Duddy, and how it must be cool to have a mom who was an artist who did stuff like this. And after he said that, I started thinking that, yeah, your artwork
was
pretty cool. So who was Judith, anyway? And what did she have against the poor slob whose head she lopped off?”

“It’s from the Old Testament. I’d started reading up on the artist. And apparently this Bible story spoke to her. As a revenge fantasy, I guess. She’d been raped and then publicly humiliated. Blame the victim, you know? Which happened a lot back then.”

“Happens a lot now, too. This woman, Jen, that I knew back in basic training? She got raped by her sergeant, and she was afraid to say anything because of that blame-the-victim stuff. And when it did come out, he didn’t take the hit for it. She did. They ended up giving her a dishonorable discharge.”

I shake my head in disgust. “What I admired about Artemisia’s painting was that she was taking back some of the power. Symbolically, I mean. Using her palette and brushes instead of a knife.” Gunfire explodes on the television. I glance at the gory murder scene in progress but have to look away. “I guess the difference between me and your friend Tarantino is that I’m
exploring
violence in my work. Not, you know,
glorifying
it. But maybe that’s not fair. Like I said, I only saw that one movie of his.”

“
Part
of one,” he reminds me.

I smile. “Point taken. But what I’m saying is that when I take on the subject of violence, it comes from a different place. I’m exploring justice issues, not just, well, blood for blood’s sake. But who knows? Maybe that’s what Tarantino’s drawing on, too.”

“It’s personal for you, isn’t it?”

I flinch. “Personal? What . . . what do you mean?”

“Isn’t it about your childhood? That flood you were in? One time when I was poking around down in your studio, I found this magazine article someone had written about you—about how angry your art is. And one of the things you said in that thing, I still remember, was how ‘violent’ the water was that night. And hey, your mother and sister drowned. Why
wouldn’t
you be angry about a raw deal like that? I knew a little about your childhood, but I found out a lot more when I read that article.”

Not the worst of it, he didn’t. I remember how cautious I was with that reporter. What I did and didn’t tell her. “Like what, for instance?”

“Well, I knew your mom drowned that night, but I didn’t know your baby sister died, too. I didn’t even know you
had
a sister. Or that you got put in foster care after your father lost it. Left you in the lurch or whatever.”

Left you in the lurch with me.

Stop it! Shut up!

“Well, Andrew, reporters ask a lot of questions, but some of your answers get lost in translation.” Change the subject! Change the subject! “But anyway, my childhood is ancient history. So tell me. What do you think about your sister’s big news?”

He looks momentarily confused. Then he frowns. “Ariane’s you mean? I don’t know. Seems more like a Dr. Frankenstein pregnancy than God’s plan. In my opinion anyway. But hey, it’s her life. Right?”

“Uh-huh. I just hope she doesn’t regret it down the line.” I repeat what Viveca said over the phone: that Ariane is grounded and levelheaded, despite the decision she made. “So she’ll make it work, whatever the outcome. I guess both of my twins are in transition, huh? She’s having a baby. You’re getting married. It’s just too bad your fiancée couldn’t make it. I was really looking forward to meeting her.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He clunks his empty down on the table. Pulls another beer from the carton at his feet. “You know, now that I think about it, Oliver Stone directed
Natural Born Killers
. But Tarantino had something to do with it. Wrote the screenplay, maybe.” He points his beer bottle at the TV screen. “Okay, this part’s cool,” he says. “Watch.”

In the movie, a couple is at a nightclub. They’ve just announced a dance contest. The man doesn’t want to compete, but his date insists.

“Isn’t that John Travolta?”

“Yeah. Him and Samuel L. Jackson are hired killers. They’re hilarious.”

Hilarious hired killers? John Travolta and his girlfriend get up to dance. “I like his little ponytail. He’s a good dancer, huh? Did you ever see
Saturday Night Fever
?”

He opens his new beer and takes a swig. “Unfortunately.”

“That’s an old Chuck Berry song they’re dancing to. Uncle Donald had the forty-five. He and Mimsy will be here tomorrow. Did I tell you?” He nods. “That’s the twist they’re doing, by the way. Oh, and now he’s doing the swim. Who’s playing the girlfriend? She looks familiar, too.”

“Uma Thurman. She’s his boss’s wife, not his girlfriend. There’s a great scene coming up where she ODs on something and Travolta starts freaking out. He’s supposed to be looking out for her, and if she dies, he’s going to be up shit’s creek with his boss.”

“Oh. But anyway, it’s too bad Casey-Lee couldn’t come. I was looking forward to meeting her.”

“Yeah, you just said that.” He grabs a pillow and holds it against his chest. Okay, message received. But when I look back at the TV, a commercial’s come on. He grabs the remote and turns down the volume. “I hate it the way they jack up the sound when these stupid ads come on.”

In the quiet, I hear Marissa snoring. “Boy, she’s really out. Isn’t she?”

He glances over at her and shakes his head. “Not surprised after what she put away today.”

“Oh, I know. It seemed like every time I looked down at her end of the table tonight, the waiter was refilling her wineglass. And then those tequilas on top of that?”

“Yeah, and she was already feeling no pain when we got here this afternoon. Knocked down a couple of Bloody Marys before we left the Cape this morning, ordered herself a double Jameson at the place where we stopped for lunch.”

“Oh my god. Do you think her drinking’s becoming a problem?”

“Duh,” he says.

“Maybe this acting thing is taking its toll. She’s always joking about those auditions she goes to, but it must be pretty stressful.”

“Yeah, well. If you want to see stressful, you should see what some of the soldiers I work with are up against. Next to that, going to a bunch of auditions is nothing.”

“No, of course not. But still, it can’t be easy. Getting her hopes up and then waiting for calls or callbacks, whatever they call them.”

“Yeah, and you know that insurance commercial she was in? She said they stopped running it, so there goes that little gold mine of hers. She said she’s waiting to hear back on a couple of things now. From casting agents or whatever. When we were up at Dad’s, she must have checked her cell about a thousand times an hour. And then, she’s such a ditz that she charges the thing and forgets to take it with her when we left. On our way down here, when she realized she forgot it, it was like this big catastrophe. We were in Buzzards Bay by then, just getting off the Cape, and she goes, ‘We have to turn around. I left my phone at Dad’s.’ She got royally pissed at me when I said no. And then she was pissed at Dad when she kept trying to call him on Ari’s phone and he wouldn’t answer. I was like, ‘You know what, Marissa? Maybe he’s busy. Maybe the whole world doesn’t revolve around you.’ She calls me a motherfucker and pouts for the next hour or so. Didn’t snap out of it until she got that Jameson in her. Nice language, huh? I guess that’s the way New Yorkers talk to each other.”

“Well, honey, I imagine you hear that kind of talk at the barracks, too. I don’t think it’s exclusive to New York.”

“Yeah well, I’m just sayin’.”

“And you know. She hangs on those callbacks because it’s how she makes her living. Even with tips, she can’t make much at that waitressing job.”

“Then maybe she should change careers. Give up this pie-in-the-sky acting fantasy of hers and get a real job. Stick with something for a change. How many semesters did she have left when she bailed on NYU? After you and Dad shelled out all that money so she could go to school in New York?”

“Two semesters, I think.”

“See what I mean? At least if she’d stuck it out, she’d have a degree by now. I mean, yeah, I kind of took the long route, too, but we’ve all got to grow up sometime—even the twerp. And as far as her drinking?” He repeats what he’d said about his other sister: that it’s Marissa’s life, her choice to make. That’s another thing that’s different about Andrew now: this stand-off attitude when it comes to his sisters. They could both get under his skin, but when push came to shove, he was always protective of them—Marissa, especially.

“Maybe before we leave for the wedding tomorrow, you and I should sit her down and talk to her about her drinking,” I suggest.

Andrew shakes his head. “You can if you want to, Mom, but I’m staying out of it. When we were up there visiting Dad, I teased her about those bruises she’s got and she practically bit my head off.”

“Bruises? What bruises?”

“The ones she’s hiding under all that makeup. She claims she bumped into something in her kitchen and I said, ‘Yeah? In two different places? What really happened? Somebody pop you one?’ I was just kidding, you know? But she got pissed and stormed out of the room.”

I get up and walk over to her, but I can’t see anything in the dim light of the TV. Why hadn’t
I
noticed these bruises? “You think someone hit her?”

He shrugs. Says I should ask her myself. “Or Ariane. The two of them had a deep, dark discussion about something after she got all huffy with me. Maybe Ari knows. But you know what, Mom? If she’s got an alcohol problem, she’s the one who has to deal with it. Not you and me. That’s one of the things I learned dealing with the guys who are coming back from the wars—the ones who are numbing themselves with booze or Oxys or whatever.
They’ve
got to want to stop. You can’t make them if they don’t want to.”

He thinks about something and chuckles. “What?” I say.

“No, I was just thinking about this one guy I work with at the hospital? Pete? He’s a maintenance guy—funny as hell. So one time, me and this other psych nurse had just gotten finished subduing a patient who had gone nuts on us? In the middle of a tough withdrawal? And Pete tells us, out of the blue, that he’s been sober for twenty-something years. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘Wow, good for you.’ And he goes, ‘Yeah, I had to because I’m allergic to booze. Every time I got soused, I used to break out in handcuffs.’ ”

I smile. Gallows humor, I guess. “Well, honey, your sister isn’t
that
bad.”

“I’m not saying she is. But like I said, she’s the one who’s got to want to quit. You can’t force recovery on someone.”

“I’m not talking about forcing her, Andrew. But maybe if I talk to her about it, let her know I’m concerned. And if you want to stay out of it, fine. I guess I should talk to your father. See what he thinks.” As if on cue, Marissa scowls and mutters something in her sleep. Her dress is so bunched on one side, I can see her underwear. “Maybe we should try to get her up to bed.”

“Nah, just let her sleep it off.”

As I sit there watching my daughter, a memory of my father flashes before me: he’s in the kitchen, seated at our old dinette set. Slurring his words, whimpering to my aunt about how he should have saved them, how it should have been him who drowned, not Mama. “It runs in the family, you know.”

“What does?”

“Alcoholism. My father was a drunk. Did I ever tell you that?”

He shakes his head. “You used to talk about your mother, what she was like. But you never said much about him.”

“No? Well, he died before you and Ariane were born. Earlier that same year, in fact. I remember being out to here with you two at his funeral. His drinking wasn’t a problem until after . . .”

“The flood?”

I nod. “He felt responsible for their deaths because he couldn’t save them. But
I
hadn’t died. He could have saved
me
.”

Uh-oh. Watch it, Annie.

“From what?”

Not what. Who.