The Unfolding, page 29
“I’ll go with you,” Meghan says. “You can drop me at the grocery store.”
She starts a list: chicken, carrots, potatoes, biscuits, pie. She’s evidently spent too much time in the South.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Palm Springs, California
2:20 p.m.
Charlotte arrives just after lunch in a surprisingly good mood. He has no idea why and doesn’t want to question it. Neither he nor Meghan mentions the phone call or the New Year’s Day plan.
“Shall we?” Charlotte says, indicating that she’s keen to get to the dealership. She’s got a twinkle in her eye that he’s not seen in years.
“Yes,” he says. “They’re expecting us.”
The Big Guy can’t remember the last time he was at a car dealership—maybe twenty years ago? As soon as they are through the doors, a salesman descends like a vulture. “Is there something I can help you with?” The Big Guy pulls an index card from his back pocket; “Ask for Keith,” it says. When he says Keith’s name, he’s saved from the first vulture by another more sophisticated vulture.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Keith says, shaking the Big Guy’s hand as if they already had a done deal.
“Thank god.” There’s nothing the Big Guy likes less than to walk into a place and have to make himself known. He likes people to be waiting for him: doctor, dentist, accountant, whoever. He can’t bear the stress of standing there like an idiot. It occurs to him that maybe not everyone feels like an idiot, but he does. He always thinks that if he was a movie star they’d recognize him, but just being wealthy is not enough. That’s why some wealthy people show it off, like an indicator system—notice me, pay attention, see how many thousands of dollars I am wearing in watches, belts, shoes, purses. He finds that kind of display to be grotesque. He’s old-school. For men like the Big Guy, wealth is protection; it quells the anxiety of not having enough and the fear of not being in control.
Whatever else is happening, he doesn’t want to find himself in the showroom of a Palm Springs car dealer with a giant Sucker sign on his forehead while an old-school used-car salesman, gunning for a bigger end-of-year bonus, tries to sell him a piece of shit that’s been sitting on the floor for six months.
“Your assistant mentioned that you’re interested in two cars in particular. We also have a few others that you might not have seen. Do you want to take a look or do you just want to focus on the two?”
“What else have you got?” Charlotte asks. “I’m always curious.”
He takes her to a large computer monitor and clicks through some pictures.
“We need it today,” Charlotte says. “Wrapped and ready. It’s a gift.”
“I understand,” Keith says. “I’ve done as much of the paperwork as possible in advance. Your assistant, Mr. Godsend, was very helpful.”
Keith doesn’t realize that he’s botched the pronunciation of Godzich. Neither the Big Guy nor Charlotte says anything—but the Big Guy sees a thin smile cross Charlotte’s lips.
“Do we want to drive them?” the Big Guy asks. “I thought that was the point.”
“They’re both ready to go,” Keith says.
“Up to you,” Charlotte says.
“We’ll drive them,” the Big Guy says.
“They’re convertibles so I’ve got the tops down. It’s a bit chilly but you can put the heat on,” Keith says.
“Perfect,” Charlotte says. “I brought a scarf.”
They get into the red 220SE first and the Big Guy pulls herky-jerky out of the parking lot. They drive around Rancho Mirage. He’s tempted to circle around Betty Ford and tell Charlotte how many times he drove by while she was there, how he called her on Thanksgiving but they wouldn’t put the call through. He’s tempted to tell her everything but worries she’ll take it the wrong way—not as evidence that he cares deeply about her but as proof of his inability to understand that she has needs of her own and that he couldn’t even give her the space to go to rehab without him.
As they drive around, he feels a kind of excitement building. They take the red 220SE in and take out the cream-colored 190SL. It’s a beautiful machine, classic, elegant, inspiring. As they’re tooling around the area, there’s an unexpected and disconcerting energy between them. He’s loath to name it for fear that this would be going too far, although the words lust and exhilaration occur to him. He pushes those away and settles on enchantment or charm and optimism. The December desert breeze is skipping through the car; the heater is blowing clouds of hot air while the radio plays classic tunes. The sensation is like a meteorological phenomenon, a unique weather front of cold over hot. If he was to go out on a limb, he would say that it’s like they’re young again and on an adventure.
“I’m not sure it’s my job to remind you,” the Big Guy says. “But in case you forgot, I will. I hope that you know that you can have whatever you want; you don’t need permission. I mean it quite literally, whatever you want, whatever you need.”
“It’s a fiction,” she says, tightening her scarf. “Not possible.”
“Why not?”
“I’d need a time machine.”
There’s a silence.
“What I need is a new life,” she says. “A life I’ve made for myself.”
Then another long silence.
“All I can do now is start from here. That’s what I learned in rehab. There is no going back.”
“That’s all any of us can do,” he says. “From here forward.”
They drive a little longer.
“What do you think you’ll choose?” he asks. She looks at him blankly. “Which one is for you?” She still seems discombobulated, as though the question were too big, as though it carries the weight of the world. “Cars,” he says. “I’m talking about cars. Which one do you like best?”
“Oh,” she says, relieved.
There’s another long silence.
“We have been through a lot,” he says.
“We have.”
“We will always have that.”
“What?”
“The lot.”
Back at the dealership, they defer to Keith when it comes to deciding which car to get. Keith says that despite the red being the “zingier” of the two, the cream is a better car and will hold more value over time.
“I’m all for value over time,” the Big Guy says, searching for a punch line. The road test has been an emotional roller coaster.
“I’m going to have the mechanic give it a good going-over,” Keith says. “How about we deliver it to you at the end of the day?”
“Done,” the Big Guy says. “Godzich will give you any additional information you need.” He scrawls his name on the dotted line. “It’s a hell of a Christmas present,” he says to Charlotte. “I hope this Trixie is a good friend.”
“Terrie,” Charlotte says. “And thank you. It means a lot to me. A vote of confidence.”
They pick Meghan up at the supermarket; she’s standing outside with bags and bags of food. On the way home, they stop at the health food store. Charlotte wants to introduce them to a date shake that she discovered in rehab.
“We went on field trips,” Charlotte tells them. “We tried all the date shakes. This one was my favorite—they use crystallized dates.”
The Big Guy can’t remember the last time Charlotte wanted to consume anything other than vodka. He sucks on his straw. “It’s like a milkshake.”
“Yes,” Charlotte says. “Only it’s vegan. This one is all about the dates, which are a good source of potassium.”
“I bet we could make them at home too,” Meghan says.
“For me,” Charlotte says, “it’s all about getting out.”
In the afternoon, the house is filled with holiday music and the rich woodsy scent of the Rigaud candle. Meghan is holed up in the kitchen preparing her feast. Tony arrives in the late afternoon, and he and Charlotte immediately go out to the pool.
If one didn’t know any better, one might think all was as it should be, as it always has been. There is a lightness to the mood; is it relief or delusion? Can one drop a bomb of the magnitude they did yesterday and carry on as if nothing has changed? Does the Christmas spirit trump all else?
The Big Guy can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s too literal-minded, too much like a Labrador. That’s what Charlotte used to call him—her dog.
With all the others taken care of, the Big Guy retreats to his office and starts making plans. He’s on the phone with Godzich about flying to DC on the twenty-sixth and needing hotel arrangements for him and Meghan; he’ll keep her close until she goes back to school just after the new year. There are some invitations to deal with, dinners in advance of the inauguration, meetings that have been requested.
And he has a few plans of his own that need to be put into motion.
The holiday scent expands to include the delicious hints of the Christmas dinner to come: roasting chicken, bread baking. He goes into the kitchen to take a look. “It’s impressive. How do you know how to do all this?”
“I cheated,” Meghan says. “I bought almost everything already cooked. I’m just assembling.”
“Call it what you will. To me, it looks like you know what you’re doing.”
“We cook a lot in the dorm, mostly baking. The old dorm head, Miss McCutcheon, felt it was her duty to teach us how to prepare simple meals; she said the tradition dated back to the idea of girls’ schools as finishing schools, which prepare young women for the demands of marriage. ‘A roast chicken is the most basic; it’s humble, yet classic. You can serve a well-cooked chicken to your husband or your husband’s boss. It’s not uppity like a roast and can’t be construed as sucking up. Garlic. Garlic under the skin and lemon in the cavity.’ ”
“Sounds like you picked up a thing or two.”
“Yes,” she said. “You know it’s only in recent years that they have higher-level math for us. Used to be the girls all took a course in business math, which was code for balancing the family checkbook. But now we go through calculus and trigonometry. I can’t tell if they think we might become mathematicians or just need to help our children with their homework.”
“I don’t suppose that’s what you want.”
“To be a mathematician? Definitely not. I want to do something substantial.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure, maybe be a colonel.”
A colonel. That wipes him off his feet. An audible crack and sputtering sound pop out. He pretends he’s coughing on an almond. “It’s quite a big job. A lot of responsibility.”
“I’m not afraid of responsibility,” she says.
“Have there been any women colonels?”
“I don’t know. But there will be. I don’t want to just be someone’s wife. No offense, but I can’t think of anything worse.”
“Yeah,” he says. “It seems to be a problem.”
Charlotte and Tony are in the pool playing catch with some kind of inflatable beach ball that someone must have left at the house or that blew across the golf course from another house. It’s got the logo of a local real estate venture; did they do an air drop of beach balls?
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Charlotte playing like that; she’s jumping up and down in the water, throwing the ball back and forth.
He raps his knuckles on the glass. “Are you stoned?”
She hears the sound, looks over, and shrugs. Can she even hear him through the glass?
He goes back to his office and a little while later looks out and sees Charlotte and Tony sitting on the lounge chairs under multiple heavy towels, unmistakably passing a joint back and forth.
He nearly rips the handle off the sliding glass door as he whips it open. “You cannot do that. That cannot happen here. I don’t want to get a letter from the homeowners’ association informing me that you’ve been seen smoking dope just off the ninth hole. Take it somewhere else.”
“Can we come inside?” Charlotte asks.
“Go in the garage.”
“It’s cold in the garage and there’s no light,” she says, as though she’s explored the idea.
Charlotte and Tony get out of the chairs and come inside. The Big Guy looks at Charlotte in disbelief as if to say, I thought we were having a nice day.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “This is too much for me. It’s very difficult for me to stay present.”
“Fine. But you can’t do that in full view of the rest of the world. Go down in my war room if you must.”
They roll their eyes at him.
“Really,” he says to Tony. “Are you a pothead too?”
“I was doing it to be companionable,” Tony whispers.
“Are you going to say that you didn’t inhale?”
“Sometimes, in order to get people to open up, you have to give a little something.”
The Big Guy shakes his head and goes back into the kitchen.
“What was that all about?” Meghan asks.
“I wish I knew.”
“Did Mom and Tony just go somewhere to get high?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I guess it’s just us,” she says. “Do I put this in my diary?”
Again he says nothing.
There’s a shout from the war room.
“What exactly goes on down here?” Charlotte calls out. “It looks like you had some kind of party where you were the only guest.”
“I had a big battle on Thanksgiving and I don’t want the cleaning lady messing it up.”
“What’s the orange stuff?” Tony wants to know.
“Jell-O,” he says, “masquerading as Agent Orange.”
“Well, there are mouse turds in the Jell-O.”
“Maybe they’re not mouse turds,” the Big Guy says. “Maybe they’re unexploded ordnance or hand grenades. Don’t mess up my scenes.”
“It’s not exactly historically accurate,” Tony says.
“Open to interpretation,” the Big Guy says. “But it’s my idea of fun.”
While Charlotte and Tony are in the basement, the Big Guy sits in the kitchen with Meghan.
“You’re very tolerant of them,” Meghan says.
“What choice do I have?”
“You could just say no pot smoking in my house. That wouldn’t be unreasonable.”
“It’s your mother’s house too.”
“She just got out of rehab. She’s actually not even really out; she’s in a halfway house. I’m sure they have rules.”
“There’s one thing I’ve learned over many, many years.”
“What?”
“Sometimes it’s better to do less. When you’re a person who has a lot of power, unless you have a very specific and profound point to make, it’s better to steer the ship with a light touch. Persons in power don’t realize how much weight their voices carry.”
“Be more specific.”
“Today isn’t the moment for me to assert my will, my rules, or my desires over your mother or Tony. We should just be glad we’re all together. You are home; your mom is home; and Tony is here.” The Big Guy looks off into the distance. “I hope this isn’t telling tales out of school—I’m going to tell you something to illustrate that many people you know and admire have had lives that are more complex and challenging than you might realize.”
“Okay,” Meghan says.
“Has Tony ever talked to you about his family?”
“Maybe a little bit about his grandfather’s farm down South and how he liked to spend summers there.”
“Tony’s father was a drinker, very measured and buttoned-up until he got drunk. Then all bets were off. He used to beat the crap out of Tony and call him a sissy. It was a pretty shitty childhood. One time, while they were all visiting the grandparents’ farm for the holidays, Tony’s father drove his car right through his parents’ house in a drunken rage. He had a 1955 burgundy-colored Chrysler Imperial, and as he came down the driveway, he just gunned it, stepped down on the gas, and went barreling into the house right through the kitchen, then he claimed the brakes had failed. As Tony used to tell it: ‘Luckily, the good china was already on the table and the turkey was cooked.’ Tony’s grandmother, a true ole Southern girl, tried to make things seem okay. It’s a Southern habit to try to make shit smell like roses if one can. When her son climbed out of the wreckage, she reportedly said, ‘Why, thank you. You did for me in one minute what I couldn’t do for myself in forty years. I always wanted a new kitchen.’ Tony’s father could do no wrong in his mother’s eyes and maybe that was part of the problem. ‘He tried to kill us and you’re thanking him,’ young Tony reportedly said. ‘Always a prankster,’ his grandmother said. ‘If he wanted to kill us, he would have driven through the back. He knows we’re never far from the back of the house.’ The accident did, however, leave a nasty wound and a scar on Mrs. Washington’s leg.”
“Who was Mrs. Washington?”
“Their housekeeper.”
“Did she quit working for them?”
“The police and the insurance adjuster came out to the house—after supper, because they didn’t want to disturb anyone. Tony sulked all through dinner and refused to have pie until the doctor was called to attend to Mrs. Washington’s leg.”
“But did she quit? That counts as abuse.”
“She was taken care of, as they say. Good insurance. Tony’s grandmother got the kitchen she always wanted, and everyone else just shook their heads in disbelief. What I’m trying to tell you is that Tony is a complex person who has taught himself to keep what is most valuable to him hidden and to adjust, to pivot as needed, in order to get by.”
“That’s certainly one version of it,” Tony says, coming into the kitchen. “After the holiday drive-through, as we called it, my mother didn’t leave me alone with him. She was frightened for my well-being. My father liked to say, ‘Give me a weekend with the boy and I’ll make him a man.’ That’s when Mother and I started planning my escape to boarding school, which wasn’t exactly cushy, but there were times at home that I thought he might accidentally on purpose kill me.”
