Three-Martini Lunch (43 page)

75

A
fter the phone call with My Old Man, I was in no rush to hurry back to the apartment, where Eden would be surely waiting. Instead, I went looking for Rusty, and as I made the rounds of all the watering holes in the Village, sure enough I bumped into Swish. I hadn't seen old Swish in some time; he hadn't been present that terrible day when Gene bad-mouthed me at the tavern but I'd more or less begun avoiding the whole pack of 'em. My big plan had been to avoid them until my novel was published and then I had the idea I would invite them all to the fancy book party I was bound to have. I wouldn't let on that I knew how crummy they had been and instead I would be generous as hell as I basked in my success, and then they could all eat crow—Gene especially. But now that wasn't going to happen, not unless I could change My Old Man's mind or else come up with an alternate plan to get the book published . . . which was where Rusty came into the picture.

Anyway, I didn't find Rusty that night, but I did find Swish, and when I did we went right back into our old Heckle and Jeckle routine and we got
good and drunk and stayed out all night together. I crashed on Swish's couch and in the morning, while nursing a headache over Swish's strong black cowboy coffee, I got up the nerve to ask if I could crash with him on a regular basis. I told him Eden and I were having problems, which was the truth, or at least it was one part of the larger truth. Swish said yes of course, and to his credit I thought I caught only the tiniest gleam of smug satisfaction in it when he said it. I guess I could've gotten all bent out of shape to think that maybe Swish was glad to see Eden and I were having problems but I was grateful to have an alternate place to stay so I didn't say anything. The truth was I didn't want to see Eden if I could help it; it was obvious now in retrospect that she had known damned well what My Old Man's news was going to be and she hadn't had the decency to warn me before sending me off to go make that phone call. And maybe if I'm being very honest, another part of me didn't want to see her because I felt pretty lousy about the whole business, like I had let her down.

In any case, Swish said yes and I waited until Eden was bound to be at work and then I went back to the apartment and packed a little bag. I considered scribbling her a letter and leaving it on the table but I didn't know what to write so I decided it would be best to just leave it alone. She would figure out soon enough that I was staying away on purpose and had found some other place to sleep.

My biggest problem was that I also still wanted to hash things out with My Old Man or at least tell him my side of the story and argue my case but seeing as how I was now avoiding Eden, I didn't exactly want to call him at work, where she would be likely to pick up the phone. I decided to call my mother instead.

She answered on the third ring. I heard her diamond earring clatter against the phone, and then a brief pause as she quickly removed it.

“Hello?” She sounded tired and harried, but maybe this was only because she'd had to answer the phone. Usually the maid answered our calls.

“Mother?”

“Clifford.” Her voice was tight, and it was not a question. “What is it? I'm in the middle of setting up for the ladies to come over and play bridge. They'll be here any minute. Annabelle?” she cupped the receiver and called to the maid. “I said use the
crystal
pitcher for the lemonade!”

Of course, I thought. Like an idiot I'd gone and forgotten about her bridge club. This was not entirely my fault: There were too many goddamned social events on my mother's agenda to keep track of anyway.

“Look, Mother, I'll make this quick,” I said. “I was wondering if you could put me in touch with Father somehow.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, why don't you call him at the office? He's been spending a lot of time at work lately, and staying in the city most nights. I'm not sure what good I can do you.”

“Will you at least pass along the message that I'm trying to reach him?”

“Of course, Clifford. I know the two of you have had a little spat. I'm sure it will all blow over soon. Perhaps it's best if you just give it time.”

“Little spat”?
I thought. It really bowled me over sometimes how my mother insisted on minimizing things. I could tell from the tight, stretched quality in her voice that she knew all about the situation and about how My Old Man was canceling the publication of my novel and avoiding me on purpose and although my mother liked to play dumb the truth was she was sharp as a tack and very likely knew damned well how serious this cancellation business truly was. It was the kind of thing from which my writing career might never recover and that might cause a rift between me and My Old Man forever.

“I'll be sure to tell him you want a word with him when I see him next,” she persisted, and hung up the phone to finish preparing the drawing room for her bridge club.

I was disappointed but not surprised, I guess. I sat there thinking, looking around at Swish's apartment. For an eccentric bicycle messenger and devoted anarchist, Swish's pad was surprisingly homey and had all the
comforts, even if he had found some of the furnishings on the street. Maybe he and Eden made for a better match than I'd have guessed. But anyway that didn't matter now because I had bigger fish to fry. I picked up a pencil on the kitchen counter and absent-mindedly chewed on it as I mulled over what to do next.

•   •   •

I
f I didn't want to go looking for My Old Man at his office, and he wasn't coming home at all, there was only one other place I might find him. I sure as hell didn't want to go there but it looked as if I didn't really have a choice. After a few nips of Swish's stash of whiskey for courage, I left the apartment and went to catch the subway.

The ride to Brooklyn was slow and terrible, and at every stop I thought about getting off and had to make the decision each and every goddamn time to stay on the train all over again. I cursed myself several times for not having thought to bring Swish's bottle of whiskey along with me. By the time I arrived in Bensonhurst my resolve had weakened considerably but I told myself I had come this far, I might as well see this thing through. I found my way through the streets, retracing the steps from so many years ago with that sensation of strange familiarity like the kind you feel in a dream.

The house looked smaller than I remembered it. I walked up the steps of the stoop and rang the buzzer. I couldn't help but notice my hand was trembling like a goddamn rummy in withdrawal. A few minutes passed and I rang the buzzer again. For a few seconds I thought maybe no one was home after all and I felt a wave of relief flood over me but this was cut short by the sound of footsteps approaching from inside. The door opened.

“Can I help you?” a woman with short black hair and full red lips asked. I recognized her immediately; I had found my way back to the right house.

“I'm here to see Roger Nelson,” I said, then added, “My father.”

She squinted at me and pushed the screen door open to get a better look.

“He ain't home yet,” she replied in a flat voice.

I don't know what I expected her to say, but not this. The words
He ain't home yet
made my stomach turn sour. I wanted to point out that My Old Man's “home” was Greenwich, Connecticut, not this goddamned row house in Italian Brooklyn, but I bit my tongue.

“So you are expecting him, then?” I said instead.

She shrugged. “When he's through at the office.”

“I'll wait for him here, in that case.” I stared at her and I could see she understood my expectation even if she wasn't exactly crazy about it.

“That so, huh?” She gave me a begrudging look. “Well, fine. I guess you better come in, then,” she said, and held the screen door open for me. Her voice was unwelcoming as hell but I didn't care. I was determined to see My Old Man and maybe if he came home and saw me sitting in Dolores's living room the shock of it would wake him up and make him realize what a lousy father he was and what I had been through as his son. I relished the picture of this as I imagined it, and my confidence grew as I stepped into the dark foyer that led into the house.

I watched Dolores's grotesque bottom switch back and forth as she led me into the living room. I understood she was exactly the curvy type of woman a lot of men like but I found her repulsive as hell.

“Have a seat,” she said, but her voice was so low and rude, she might as well have said
Drop dead.
I ignored her command and stood there looking around the room and inspecting the details with scorn. It was a plain, ratty living room, with a little run-down fireplace and a bunch of yellowing lacy doilies covering what was likely a series of holes in the upholstery of the sofa and armchair.

I went over to the mantel and picked up a photo in a cheap brass frame. I knew right away who it was in the picture without having to ask because
even though he was older and taller now he still had that same thick neck and thuggish nose and dark coloring I'd glimpsed at that Little League game all those years ago.

“He has Roger's eyes,” Dolores said. She said it in that rote, knee-jerk way people have when they've made the same comment plenty times over again and I knew this was likely the same remark she always made to anyone who happened to pick up that particular photo for closer inspection. Common sense told me she didn't mean anything by it, but I turned now and glared at her something awful all the same.

Dolores caught the sentiment behind my look and merely shrugged again. She knew her son was a sore subject for me but the shrug said she wasn't about to apologize for it.

“I know,” I replied in a flat voice to her remark about the eyes. “I've seen him before.”

I was satisfied to see this made her jump with surprise.

“When I was eleven,” I continued, “I followed My Old Man on the train. He went to watch a Little League game.” I put the photo in its lousy frame back on the mantel with a thud that was less than reverent.

“Oh, Little League.” Dolores nodded. She took a cigarette from her apron pocket and lit up and I watched her eyes through a veil of smoke. “Yeah, Johnny did all the sports. Good at all o' them, too. A regular Babe Ruth at bat, his father used to always say.”

The stink-eye I'd been shooting her a few minutes ago intensified. Dolores was certainly rough around the edges in a lot of ways but it dawned on me now that there was a sharpness to her despite her obvious lack of education. She had a mean streak; she knew exactly what to say to kick a fella where it counted. She chatted to me, as casual as anything, and yet you could see in her eye that spark of intelligence and cruelty. And she was tenacious. The damn bitch refused to wilt under my terrible gaze.

“Well? You can act all bent outta shape, but what do you want?” She
shook her head to show her indifference. “You want his father should ignore him? Pretend he ain't his own flesh and blood? Real heart of gold you got there. Sure.”

“What do I want?” I echoed. I knew she hadn't meant the question in earnest and anyway it was rhetorical and full of sarcasm, but suddenly I wanted to answer it.

“Look,” I said, “I'm all for a man living his life any way he damn well pleases, but it's the dishonesty.”

I could feel my mouth puckering and taking on an ugly shape in disgust, but Dolores only shrugged again in that damned infuriatingly blasé manner.

“Dishonesty? Hah. You're one to talk about that. Anyway, your mother knows,” Dolores said in a dry voice. “Oh, I'm sure she doesn't talk about it at bridge club with her girlfriends or nothin' like that, but she knows.”

It was rotten as hell of her to say it, but nonetheless I didn't have a comeback for this, because I knew it was true. I thought back to the time I'd snuck out to Brooklyn on the train, and how my mother had come alone to pick me up in the Hudson, and how she hadn't sounded a bit surprised on the phone when I told her where I was.

“That's the thing about you rich people,” Dolores continued. “You think you're too good to ever play second fiddle, and you can go on a hundred years pretending that's not the case! That's called arrogance, and it's like a bad tooth, only you rich folk are too hoity-toity to notice it in the mirror. At least down here when you got it, people take the trouble to knock it out of you.”

I was pretty sure Dolores had just called my mother second fiddle, but I brushed it aside.

“How did you meet My Old Man, anyway?”

“Huh,” she guffawed, her bow-tie lips puckering with scorn. “Shows how much you know. Roger and I've been sweethearts since we was kids.
He may stray, but he always comes back to me. The question you oughta be asking is how Roger met your
mother
.”

I shot her a wary look. She lifted an ashtray off the mantel and smiled.

“She was pregnant. Country club boyfriend of hers wouldn't marry her, and I guess she didn't want to have to ‘go away to visit her aunt' for nine months. If you ask me, Roger did her a favor. They was foolin' around some at the time, sure, but he don't even know if the baby was his.”

I looked at her, my stomach suddenly in my throat.

“That's right,” Dolores said, narrowing her eyes and lowering her lousy voice. “You heard me.”

I could feel myself losing my cool, and I began to sweat. It was just like that telephone call with My Old Man all over again. I'd barely had anything to drink that day but I was still goddamn hungover and I thought maybe it was really taking its toll now, because the walls of the room were moving, just like they had all those months ago when I had passed out cold at the Sweet Spot. I stumbled away from her and headed for the front door.

Dolores called after me, spite brimming in her voice, “Roger ain't even sure you're his, and now after that monkey business you pulled, it looks like he might be losin' his job over you. He said to me the other day, the way he sees it, he only ever had one true son. And guess what? It ain't you.”