This … this … was this the connection Grandfather had with Graves. Distant, respectful, enduring, and somehow necessary for their survival. A link on which to anchor their lives.
The Old Black Man with the white mustache departed, closing the door behind him gently. For the last time.
"What happened to Graves?" I asked.
There was a long silence.
"W'dya mean?"
I didn't understand why that was a complicated question. Did he wind up in jail? Have a heart attack? Was he run over fixing his tire on Highway 50? What did Palmer mean w'dya mean?
My lack of response seemed to deepen Palmer's concern.
"Son, d'ya not know what happened?"
"Am I supposed to?"
Palmer remained quiet. This was exasperating. I'd had enough cryptic conversation with one Puerto Rican Sicilian let alone this hick from asscrack California.
Suddenly it dawned on me why Palmer's hesitancy was completely substantiated. What memory lodged in my brain could I not drum up? What had I buried?
I stuttered, "I … can't … there's nothing … I can't remember … anything … "
"Huh."
That was his only response. No deep launching into the exploration of psychosis. No forthcoming volunteering of information. Just a brief, trailer park "huh."
Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Are you going to tell me?"
"I'm thinkin' … eh … you forgettin' might be good."
"I'm not thinkin' that."
"Son … " he began with a tone of resolution, taking a swig of what sounded like the entire drink he'd poured and placing it on the table. "I wish I could I forget too."
All at once it occurred to me that Palmer had participated in whatever needed to be forgotten. That my request for him to expound was asking him to account for his own guilt, or neglect, or shame. That a trailer park edging a man-made pond in a pocket of the foothills of the Sierra Mountains would provide its inhabitants with little to nothing to do but think and brood. There'd be little but evening frog croaking and cricket stridulation to draw you away from lugubrious thoughts and hand wringing regret. My request for him to refresh those nightmares was an unfair knife-twisting and would naturally encounter resistance, even from a warm, tolerant soul like Palmer. If anyone could relate to obsessive thoughts imprisoned in isolation, I could.
"Son," he began, "I want to ask you something … "
I knew he was evading the question, but I chomped down on my impulses.
"You … eh … never asked me how your brother died. D'ya wanna know?"
I closed my eyes, hesitating. "I don't know."
Palmer's message to me was very clear. If my psyche could barely handle the image of my brother's death, it'd be overloaded by the image of whatever the fuck happened to Graves … and perhaps others involved. He was asking me to trust him on this. He was asking me to trust that his understanding of what I should and should not know was more innately wise.
Bullshit! Since when was less information better for someone ultimately than more information? I live in fucking New York City! Too much is never enough!
But then …
What was my resistance to obtaining the details of Paul's last days?
Certainly I was beyond the denial stage that any concrete fact would crack.
Right?
In the pause I began to conjure up the myriad methods in which a person ends himself-rope, pills, blade, impact, poison. Wouldn't isolating one nightmarish image of Paul offing himself condemn me to obsessively recreating the event in my gloomy cave? Was suicide an attempt at freedom or punishment of those left behind? Was freedom so entirely necessary? Was punishment so entirely necessary? Had I been a more present and attentive older brother, would I have been able to offer him a key to a different kind of freedom? Give a man a life sentence in a cell and a photo of a beach and a cup of sand and you've set up a recipe for a downward spiral of obsession and madness. The details of Paul's last breaths would send me into a freefall to which there'd be only one kind of landing.
Palmer continued, "I don't suppose knowing would change the fact. So … "
He trailed off to a silence that needed no bookending.
If we had anything in common, it was being comfortable with silence between two people.
I appreciated Palmer's pragmatism. When we lived with Grandfather, I'd developed an impression the folks in his world had simplified reactions to complicated problems. Like a fruit syrup reduction-evaporate the whole complex mess over a hot flame until you're left with something less voluminous and far more palatable. Swallow it with a chaser of whiskey and you're good to go. No brooding. No psychosis. No prolonging. What a silly complicated freak he must think me to be! And yet, I respected his respect for whatever the fuck process I had to go through. And he was patient. And he was compassionate. And he called this forty-year-old child son.
"It's late over there," I offered. "I appreciate … "
"Eh … anytime."
He hesitantly said goodnight, and we hung up. I did not know when I'd talk to him next. I did not know if I'd ever talk to him again.
A low rumble of an approaching ancient sixteen-wheeler began to crescendo down our block. Its inappropriate rough roar bounced off our shadowed courtyard walls and into the dim apartments.
Mrs. Perfect held the tumbler of bourbon against her cheek and slid the thick cool smooth glass down her skin to her neck, staring into the drain of the sink. She placed the tumbler in the sink and turned toward the living room where she lay down on the couch, pulling a thick copper-colored quilt over her. Was she avoiding her husband? Or merely the bedroom?
The broad-shouldered man emerged from the Princess's bathroom after having thoroughly inspected her medicine cabinet for an inordinately long time. So long, in fact, that the Princess had begun to pace and wring her hands. She froze apprehensively as he approached her. He paused before the Princess, and, rather than bending forward for at least a peck on her cheek, he put his hand out. He made no attempt to go for second base. Didn't appear to even be a ballgame anymore. The Princess regarded the officious salutation and cupped the top ridge of his hand gently. She bravely maintained a warm smile through the brief up-and-downs. Whatever he discovered in her medicine cabinet put a double bar on tonight's date, with no da capo. The gentleman departed. She closed the door. Her eyes watered and her face reddened as she collapsed onto her bed, wrinkling the white quilt in her delicate, white, clenched fists.
The Little Old Man remained sitting on his maroon sheet at the edge of his bed in front of the painting propped up against the television. His expression was tense, emotional, and focused. A profound aura surrounded him, leaking its glow onto the hedges and patio cement towards the rest of us.
The ancient sixteen-wheeler shifted gears with harsh metallic scrapes and slowed to halt somewhere toward the end of the block. The low, echoing, rough rumble died a slow diminuendo to silence, finally leaving our courtyard in peace.
Chapter Eighteen
Mr. Layworth emerged from the walk-in closet holding a measuring tape, retracting more than seven feet of its yellow length with a snap. He jotted some measurement on a piece of paper, then dialed a number he read off his laptop screen. He began a conversation with the listener about the measurements.
His body language exuded impatience and irritation. Clearly he was being required to repeat himself and clarify his requests. Apparently the person to whom he was speaking couldn't give a shit about whatever the King needed, and the King really needed this person to give a shit.
Rich, educated, white folks have the carpet rolled out for them in almost every aspect of life, so they inevitably lose their aptitude for adapting to landscapes in which the natives could give a flying fuck about their needs and their entitlements. Plumbers. union card bearing Comcast technicians. Chilangos from Mexico City. Puerto Rican nail salon girls. Airport security screeners. And added to that list, it seemed, was whomever Mr. Layworth was presently talking to. Therefore, I could only assume the King was addressing the kind of lowly nincompoop blue-collar peasant he'd ordinarily ask his subordinates to interact with. Conclusion: if the King himself was undertaking this task, it was urgent but not work-related. I could not for the life of me conclude any more that, or narrow down what it was.
Regardless, it was delicious to see the King get his gilded panties in a wad over this conversation. He showed his escalating irritation in the reddening of his cheeks and forehead and the clenching of his fist. His need was strong enough that he opted to remain as vocally cool as possible; otherwise he'd hit the resolute brick wall of a dial tone.