Not a Creature Was Stirring(28)

Maybe.

At the moment, he was in favor of it because grass had turned out to be the only not-immediately-lethal substance in the known universe capable of calming him down after his interview with his father. He was surprised as hell that it had worked. Actually, he would have been surprised if death had worked. He had this feeling he was going to go into eternity with that scene imprinted on his soul: Daddy in the wheelchair, the papers spread out on the desk, the tapping of the grandfather clock that stood against the west wall and hadn’t kept decent time since 1966. It could have been a tableau from a situation comedy about the joys of family life, except that Daddy had seemed so pleased with himself. And Daddy pleased with himself was never an appetizing sight.

“These,” Daddy had said, waving his hands over the papers on the desk, “are a communication from a man named Anthony Giacometto. He says you owe him $77,451.22. As of this morning.”

On the other side of the loft, Teddy was flailing in the straw, looking happy. On that score, too, this experiment had been a success. Chris had been surprised to find that Teddy had never tried marijuana. He had been delighted that Teddy had taken to it so well. Besides, the dope had made Teddy so spacey, he hadn’t been able to continue the conversation he’d started back at the house, which was all about how awful Chris looked. Chris thought he had every right to look awful. The last thing Daddy had said to him, before throwing him out of the study, was:

“Don’t forget. Anyone can get through that gate if I want to let them through. Anyone.”

Right.

They’d brought a brown paper grocery bag full of goodies from the kitchen when they’d come out. Chris reached into it, found a chocolate chip cookie, and ate the thing whole. Teddy saw him and came scuttling over, looking for dope.

“The thing is,” Teddy said, “I thought everybody in California screwed like rabbits. All the time.”

Chris took the joint back, inhaled, and blew a cloud of smoke into his nose. “Nobody screws like rabbits any more,” he said. “There’s AIDS.”

“When you came down to lunch today, I thought you had AIDS,” Teddy said.

“Jesus Christ,” Chris said.

“You look like you haven’t eaten for a year.”

“I’ve got an ulcer, Teddy. In fact, I think I’ve got two.”

Teddy nodded sagely and hit on the joint again. Chris had to take it out of his hands to get it back. He did it without rancor. He was by nature a good-hearted man. He hated Daddy, yes—and at the moment, he was scared to death of him—but the way Daddy was, he was practically required to. As for Teddy, Chris had never gotten along with him before and he was getting along with him now—and he thought that was nice.

Or something. He lay back against the hard slat of a broken feed crib and said, “So what do you think? Is Daddy finally going completely around the bend, or what?”

“Daddy?” Teddy jumped.

“Yeah. Daddy. Morgan came and picked me up in Newark, we drive through the gate, there’s a guy out there with a Uzi, man.”

“It’s not a Uzi,” Teddy said. “It’s a Springfield twenty-two. Anne Marie says she doesn’t even think it’s loaded.”

“If Daddy has some guy out there freezing his nuts doing sentry duty, the gun is loaded. Trust me.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s necessarily crazy. You’ve got to think about terrorists.”

“Terrorists.” Chris laughed. “Oh, hell, Teddy. If somebody’s going to kill the old goat, it’s going to be one of us.”

Teddy stiffened. “What for? What would we want to kill him for?”

“Why not? Don’t you ever think about it? Just walking into that room of his one day and sticking his penknife in his jugular vein?”

“I wouldn’t use a penknife,” Teddy said. “I’d use something I could break his legs with. Like a cane.”

“Oh,” Chris said. His mind skittered to thoughts of thumbs and then away again. “I’m not much for broken bones, to tell you the truth.”

“I’m not much for killing Daddy,” Teddy said.

Chris looked up at his brother, curious. Teddy hadn’t sounded convincing, but Chris hadn’t expected him to. What Chris didn’t understand was why Teddy wanted to deny what was perfectly clear to—and about—every one of them.

Chris nipped over on his stomach and propped his chin on his hand. In this position, he could see the kitchen yard and windows and one wall of the garages that had once housed Daddy’s collection of cars. It was dark, but the overhead safety lights were on. He could see the thick snow slanting in the wind and the gold and silver traces of outdoor decorations. Then the kitchen door opened and a slight figure came onto the porch, looking ridiculous in an overfilled down coat.