The Unfolding, page 18
The Big Guy looks up.
“Keyes?”
“Keyes to the city.” The man laughs and extends his hand.
The Big Guy stands up and gives Douglas Proctor Keyes, a retired judge from Texas, a warm welcome. “I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age. What brings you to Palm Springs?” The Big Guy looks over the judge’s shoulder expecting to see his family filing in after him. “Where are your people?”
The judge laughs. “I ran away.”
“From home?”
“From Las Vegas. A few years ago, my twin girls, Melanie and Melody, married a pair of brothers, Byron and Bruce. Somehow they decided we should all have Thanksgiving in Vegas—on me! You can’t make it up. We get there, and last night, as we’re sitting down to dinner, Byron and Bruce call me Old Man and offer me a seat at the head of the table. Old man? What the hell? I fucking made the table; I fucking own the hotel—along with Adelson. One of the grandchildren called me Gampy. I thought they said Gimpy, but does it matter? It was all I could do to get through dinner without blowing the two bustards a giant Bronx cheer and walking out. This morning I woke up thinking I don’t need this shit. I left. I told my wife to tell them that I was under the weather and staying in the room—so as not to infect anyone. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like I was trapped in Houdini’s box. Took me an hour and a half to get from there to here—door to door. I already feel so much better. I popped the bubble. I just needed to know I could get out. I’ll go back tonight—but for the moment, it is a joy. I am free.” The judge does a little jig.
The waitress, returning with a platter of deserts, says, “I see you met a friend.”
“An old friend of the family,” the Big Guy says, motioning for the judge to sit down. “Care to join me?”
The judge sits. “I’m going to pretend I’m not a little diabetic.”
“And I’ll pretend that I didn’t have gout last year. I just came out to get a little bite; my people are in DC today,” the Big Guy says, preempting the question. “So here I am.”
The waitress brings Keyes a set of silverware and a hot cup of coffee.
The two men dig in and between the pumpkin pie, the three-berry crumble, the pecan tart, and the melting ice cream, they talk about everything from the election to a particular kind of male depression that they believe is unique to men of a certain class and age. They talk about oil and tobacco and how the judge made his money—it had nothing to do with his early years on the bench and more about the “capture” of calls, natural resources, and real estate. “Vegas is a perfect example,” the judge says. “People come into town, stay in a hotel with marble bathrooms, eat a steak thicker than their hand, and believe that they stand a chance of coming away with a piece of the pie, but it’s a delusion. They don’t see us right there with vacuum cleaners cleaning up after them, sucking up every last nickel and dime. And for whatever deluded reason, they leave with a smile. ‘Better luck next time.’ It’s crazy.”
The men talk about their desire to do something more. “Despite having abandoned the bench in pursuit of greenbacks—I remain active behind the scenes,” the judge says, spooning the last of the pie into his gullet. “Not that I’m self-interested, but the trick is to keep your eye on judges, that’s where the action is. What we want over time is to control the bench—that means appointing Article III federal judges on our watch.”
“What is Article III?”
“The US Constitution,” the judge says, surprised that the Big Guy doesn’t know. “Article III judges are lifetime appointments, not just the Supreme Court but the US courts of appeals, the US district courts, and the Court of International Trade. At the moment, there are more than eight hundred of them.”
“I had no idea,” the Big Guy says, as he hands the waitress his credit card. “You and I need to spend more time together.”
“Indeed we do,” the judge says. “This day has turned a corner.”
After lunch the Big Guy heads back to the house, circling Betty Ford again on the way home. That Charlotte is in there is eating at him. He would go around again, circle a few more times, maybe even go so far as to beep the horn, but his stomach is hurting. He’s past the point of comfort. Distended. As he’s driving, it swells more. Even though he finished eating twenty minutes ago, his belly continues to inflate. How crazy was it that Doug Keyes was in Palm Springs? How crazy is it that he’s not the only man alone on Thanksgiving? He has no idea how many desserts they ate, but he has to unbuckle his pants as he’s driving; uncouth though it may be, he has no choice. He pulls into the driveway, quickly throws the car into park, and rushes into the house.
He spills his lunch into the toilet again and again. To cover the stench of his stomach having run afoul of the holiday, he sprays an entire can of Lysol, which leaves him wheezing.
Wrapped in his bathrobe, he goes outside and lies by the pool. The air needs to clear. He needs time to recover. He tells himself that it was the soup, the richness of the chestnuts. He thinks of his lunch with the General, the venerable man with his EpiPen poised to stab himself in the thigh. He thinks he should get an EpiPen in case whatever happened should happen again and escalate.
He thinks of the prefix epi, as opposed to prix fixe dinner. Epi: over, before, near . . . Over, before, near death. He lies outside in the afternoon sun thinking that in his abrupt spill, the loss of his lunch, he has narrowly avoided death this afternoon. That’s how it feels in the moment.
The phone rings. He would say it scared the crap out of him, but there is no more crap left in him; he is empty, involuntarily cleansed. He hurries into the house, not waiting for the machine to screen the call. He’s sure it’s Charlotte or maybe Meghan calling to wish him a happy day.
“Are you all right out there?”
“Who is this?” he asks.
“It’s Godzich, your loyal employee. I’m calling to see how you’re doing.”
“Are you all right? You’ve never called me on a holiday,” the Big Guy says. “Is something wrong? Are you under arrest? Did you siphon my funds? Whatever it is, you scared the bejesus out of me.”
“I called to say we’re thinking of you and Charlotte. I’m not sure if you know it, but my wife went through something similar. If there’s anything we can do, we are at your disposal.”
A flush of shame and rage. Of course you are at my disposal, he thinks, but knows enough not to say, “You work for me.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “Nothing to worry about.”
Godzich has worked for the Big Guy for years, more years than he’d care to count. They have grown, if not old, deeply middle-aged engaged in the same endeavor. The funny thing is, he never liked the guy. Godzich trained as a lawyer and makes more than a decent living. Charlotte often teases the Big Guy that he’s surrounded himself with A+ minds that have C- lives. Godzich is devoted to the Big Guy. He’s been peculiarly effective over the years, managing and diversifying the Big Guy’s holdings, among them shopping malls, hospitals, residential apartment buildings, and more. The Big Guy was never into real estate but saw it as a parking place for some of his “winnings.”
“I’m fine,” he says again, lying to Godzich. “I’m back from a lovely lunch—with Doug Keyes who happened to be passing through town. All day I’ve been thinking about how wonderful it is—what we have done. We have provided food, clothing, shelter, and—with the movie theatres—pleasure to so many Americans. We made life good, better than it used to be. These are quintessential American experiences: being able to eat in the same restaurant no matter what city you are in and have the food taste exactly the same; being able to shop in malls and know exactly where each store is. It is full service; all your needs are met. We have made America rich and bountiful, and we have created the desire for more.” The Big Guy waxes poetic with such grace that he impresses even himself. He goes on talking, a split from the reality of the moment, and yet it is a strange but true story he’s telling. “These are the stories we tell ourselves when we are going to bed,” he says. “These are the stories that let us sleep.” There he is, an old whale in a bathrobe by the pool having eaten himself sick in an effort to blunt the pain. “I’m right here, Godzich, taking the day to myself. I’ve got a pad of paper and a stack of books. The Conservative Mind, The Conscience of a Conservative, and I dug out God and Man at Yale, and of course there’s the ball game, the Tennessee Titans against Detroit, that’s the first game of the day. All is well.”
“How is Charlotte doing?” Godzich asks.
“No idea.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“These things can take a while . . . And Meghan? Is she aware?”
“Yes, she’s been informed. She’s spending the day with Tony in Washington so she’s in good hands. Listen, Godzich, thanks for reaching out. I appreciate it. Don’t worry. The ship isn’t about to sink; in fact, the ship is in good form. I’ve got a lot of ideas, nothing I want to talk about right now, but suffice to say, I’m taking the time off to reflect and shape a future. Always good to step back and evaluate. Don’t worry about me, I am optimistic, energized, excited for what comes next.” He’s blithering and realizes that he might sound half out of his mind, but he’s not going to back down. “So thanks for the call and we’ll check in again on Monday—during regular business hours.” He doesn’t wait for Godzich to reply. He hangs up the phone.
He pauses. And then he calls the Betty Ford Center. “Just checking in to see how my wife, Charlotte, is doing. Do you people need anything? A pie?”
“We appreciate your call and the offer. We’ve got everything we need. All is good here. We’ve got a full day scheduled, lunch, some meditation, football, a movie later in the afternoon.”
“I was thinking maybe I should come by and visit,” he says, testing the waters.
“What a lovely thought, but we discourage any kind of visit on a holiday. It can be a difficult time for some; ill will may get ignited, dashed dreams, guilt, anger, the pot is stirred. Imagine if some guests got visitors and others didn’t. How that might feel.”
“Guests?” he says, not even realizing he’s speaking out loud.
“Yes,” she says.
“Honestly, it’s weird for me.”
“Try to be with friends,” the woman says.
“I don’t have friends, I have people who work for me. My ‘friend’ is in Washington with my daughter. I thought of flying there this morning, but it felt too last minute.” There’s a pause. “I find it odd that no one checks to see how I’m doing.”
“Have you ever thought about going to a meeting?” she says. “I can give you a link to locate one near you.”
“What kind of a meeting?”
“Al-Anon. There are lots of Al-Anon meetings today. You’re not alone. You may feel alone but you are not.”
A meeting, spouses of drunks. “Not going to happen,” he says. Most drunks are men, so the spouses are women. The last thing he’s going to do is sit in some folding chair in a moldy church basement listening to women bitch about their drunk husbands while avoiding the box of powdered donuts someone was “generous” enough to bring. No thank you.
“How about putting on the TV?” the woman says. “Watching the parade?”
“You know Gerry and Betty were old friends of ours,” he says.
“Very special people. I hate to let you go, but I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Not a problem. What did you say your name was?”
“Shirley. Shirley Jackson.”
“Well, Shirley Jackson, you have a good Thanksgiving.”
“Thank you, same to you.”
He sits with that for a while. It went well, or at least good enough. He wonders what to do about his second Thanksgiving dinner. Is he up for it? Has his stomach sufficiently recovered from the first? He bought himself some frozen turkey dinners earlier in the week—just in case. He didn’t know which was the best, so he bought them all, Stouffer’s, Hungry-Man, Lean Cuisine, Marie Callender’s. With no one cooking Thanksgiving, there will be no leftovers, the best part, so the frozen ones will get eaten one way or another.
He sits around for a bit, contemplating all things, flipping through a few of the books that he’s been “studying.” It’s gnawing at him. Charlotte. He needs to talk with her. It’s not right, her not being home. What if she’s not happy? What if she feels she’s being held against her will? What if she feels she’s being brainwashed and turned against him? He calls Betty Ford again and asks to speak to Charlotte.
“I’m sorry, sir; that’s not possible.”
“Why is that not possible?” he asks.
“We’re not able to put calls through to patients without prior authorization.”
“Authorization from whom?”
“The team leader. I don’t see that Charlotte has any calls authorized.”
“I’m the one who authorized Charlotte to be there and I’m the one who authorized paying you however many thousands of dollars it costs to be there. So I should be able to authorize a phone call with Charlotte.”
“I’m sorry, sir, that would have to come from her team leader.”
“Great, put the team leader on the line.”
“Unfortunately, the team leader isn’t here today.”
“Then give me the assistant team leader,” he says, assuming it’s like football or any sport. There’s always an assistant.
“Not possible.”
“Terrific, then how about you put my wife on the line.”
“I’m not able to do that.”
“Is Shirley there?”
“We don’t give out that kind of information.”
“She works there, Shirley Jackson; I spoke with her not that long ago.”
“Shirley Jackson isn’t a person.”
“Pardon me. I spoke with a lady named Shirley Jackson; are you telling me she isn’t real?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that . . . I meant she isn’t part of our therapeutic staff. There’s someone named Shirley who is part of the cleaning crew. She may have been answering phones while someone was on a break. We’re a little understaffed due to the holiday. Do you want me to put you in touch with your wife’s team leader?” the woman on the phone asks.
“What is this, high school? Her team leader?”
The woman says nothing. The silence extends.
He hangs up then immediately calls back, punching the now-memorized number into the touch-tone keypad of the kitchen Trimline.
“Charlotte,” he insists.
“One moment.” He thinks he’s made progress until he hears, “This is Grace Underwood, team leader. I’m not here to take your call; if this is a medical emergency, hang up and dial 911; if not, leave me a message and I will return it when I am back in the office on Monday.”
He hangs up and calls again. “You sent me to voice mail. I was calling to talk with my wife. I wish to speak with my wife.” His voice is escalating.
“I’m sorry, sir; that’s not possible.”
“I’m not sure why that’s not possible. Do you know how much I’m spending a day for my wife to be there? Are you sure you’re the person whose job it is to tell me it’s not possible?”
“One moment, please,” she says, putting him on hold again. And this one is a long one. Finally, someone picks up.
“Good afternoon.”
“Yes,” he says. “I’m calling for Charlotte Hitchens, my wife.”
“I understand and we appreciate that, but this is a therapeutic community and we can’t just put people on the phone because someone calls and says they want to talk with them. Maybe it’s not good for your wife right now. Maybe she’s working through things and a phone call, however well-intentioned, would disrupt that process. It’s interesting that you keep calling back. Escalating. Each time you’re more agitated when we’re not able to do what you want. Take a moment. Ask why. Ask how can you meet your own needs.”
There is a long pause.
“Who exactly are you?” he asks.
“I am the on-duty leader. You were sent to your family member’s team leader’s voice mail and I can transfer you to that number again and you can leave a message, but for now I’m going to encourage you to go about your day and not keep dialing this number. If you continue to call, I will file a harassment claim, which could result in a referral for a restraining order.” There is a pause, a silence. “Goodbye.”
The line goes dead. He hurls the mustard Trimline across the room toward the window and the pool. The only thing that stops it from smashing through the plate glass window is the cord, which jerks the receiver back to earth. The phone is old, from the days when things were built to last. The hurl has no impact on the device, no crack, no sign of damage. The receiver lies on the gray and white terrazzo floor bleating with the off-the-hook sound.
He is disconcerted. Shamed. Who talks to him that way, reprimanding him like a child? He works hard. He has earned the right to get what he wants. He has earned the right to demand to speak to his wife. “Bitch,” he yells. “Goddamned son of a bitch.” His voice brings the house to life like a shock treatment. The window vibrates. He feels the glass shaking and is tempted to do more, to throw more, to smash it all. He feels like he’s been smacked down, as if he were a child. It’s embarrassing, confusing. Now he’s flush with rage, energy that he can barely contain. Is it time to go to dinner—again?
This time he wears the tie; this time he orders the roast beef. It’s a different place, more crowded because it’s later in the day. Lots of families, lots of children in high chairs and grandparents with walkers parked in the aisles. He gets a table near the bar, which has two large televisions, sound off, football on. The chaos is a relief. The television an old and familiar companion. Thanksgiving football is the best; there’s a specific joy that comes with the crisp snap of autumn. Despite thinking he’s not hungry, he eats a lot, gets cranberry sauce on his shirt and gravy on his tie. This time he has apple pie for dessert, no ice cream. He doesn’t mean to go nostalgic, but all he can think about is how much he loves being an American. He can’t imagine being from anyplace else. This is the country he was bred into; this is the country that made him and that he is determined to preserve. He is a man whose eyes water when the national anthem is played. The phrase “O’er the ramparts we watched” swells him with pride. One thing men of his age and older have going for them is national pride, a passion for something larger than themselves.
