Jernigan, page 19
“Jernigan.” Uncle Fred’s voice. “Stand and give the password.”
“I can’t go on I’ll go on,” I said.
“I know that’s something,” said Uncle Fred. “I’m just too God damn illiterate to know what. How the hell are you? Where the hell are you?”
“Jersey still,” I said.
“Well either you’re coming in here or I’m coming out there. What are you doing this afternoon?”
“I can’t this afternoon.”
“Bullshit.”
“Seriously.”
“Right,” he said, “you’re seriously bullshitting me. What’s the big deal this afternoon? Cleaning up a toxic spill in the old backyard?”
“Truly,” I said. “I’ve got stuff to take care of here. But let’s do it after Christmas, all right?”
“No chance,” he said. “Your Uncle Fred says today.”
“You’re a hard man,” I said.
“That’s what my—no, second thought, I’m not going to touch that one. My bride here gets chagrined when I talk dirty. Isn’t that right, dear? So you’re coming to our place, right? I hate fucking New Jersey.”
“In your will, my peace,” I said.
“Now you’re talkin’. I might not know what you’re sayin’ … So you bringing your sweetie along for inspection?”
“Pas de sweetie,” I said. “She’s got to work today.” This was probably even true; wouldn’t she be going in every day now until Christmas?
“A likely story,” he said. “Where does this alleged sweetie work that she’s got to go in on a Sunday? Some top-secret chemical plant?”
“Department store,” I said. “She’s just working there over the holidays.”
“What’s her name? Glendora? Jernigan, how do I put this delicately? This sweetie isn’t, like, inflatable? Wait a second, my bride is telling me I’m terrible. So listen, whenever you can get here. You remember about the buzzer, right? Top floor, bottom buzzer?”
“What can I bring?” I said. You offer to bring something.
“Just your long-absent self,” he said. “Those shrieks of anguish you hear in the background is the fatted calf getting slain.”
And when you’re told you don’t have to bring anything you bring something anyway.
2
First order of business was to get the old enthusiasm level up where it belonged. That one cup of shit coffee didn’t have enough caffeine to lift me a psychic millimeter, let alone to fight off four Pamprins.
Christ, the way I talk you’d think these were real drugs I was taking, and not just Jernigan micro-managing his consciousness. So I went down to the kitchen, dick-swinging naked, and put on more water. (One thing I will say, Martha had managed to get it warm enough in there so the linoleum wasn’t unkind to bare feet.) If the kids were in the house—which they must be, right? since Martha had in fact come nearer when I’d asked her if she wanted the kids to hear us—and they came in and caught an eyeful, that was their problem, not mine. For a long time I hadn’t understood the story of Noah naked in his tent, probably because I was never sent to Sunday school, where somebody could have told me what to think about it. I didn’t get why the son had to be punished: A, his father was drunk, and B, he did his best not to look at his father’s quote unquote nakedness. I read about it, I must’ve been about twelve, in the Vulgate my father kept, ostentatiously, on a little decorative bookshelf in the front room on Barrow Street with Grimms’ Fairy Tales and J. Edgar Hoover’s Masters of Deceit. (His real books were floor-to-ceiling in the bedroom.) The story both outraged me and made me afraid my outrage was punishable, since God was so irrational about anything that had to do with sex or nakedness or authority. These days I could see it God’s way.
I put three good big heaping teaspoons of instant coffee in a cup and poured in the boiling water. After Judith, I’d stopped buying the French roast Colombian beans she’d kept in the freezer and ground fresh for us every morning: Medaglia d’Oro would be good enough for the likes of me. Martha had started me out on Maxwell House with cinnamon; she had an old plastic filter basket kicking around, though instead of buying paper filters she kept washing out and reusing the same piece of cloth. But now we’d moved down to white-label generic instant. And you know something? It did you just the same. By trial and error I’d found that three spoons to the cup was the upper limit of drinkable, provided you put a little milk in. Although I suppose three spoons to the cup defeated the purpose of buying cheap coffee.
So of course I tried to drink the stuff right away and burned my tongue. Then I put in some cold water, which defeated the purpose of using three spoons, though it didn’t really. I made that same mistake trying to think about gin a while back. I drank that cup, then drank another one, then went back to the bedroom and picked my clothes up off the floor. Penny and Uncle Fred weren’t going to know they were the same clothes as yesterday—and the day before, come to think of it—and anybody else could go fuck themselves, meaning Martha. Save her some work, anyway. If you wore the same clothes for three days, it was the equivalent of having to wash a third as many clothes. In a way it cancelled out the coffee. I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, then blew against my palm to check my breath. Still not great. I’d have to stop off and pick up some Carefree peppermint gum. That was my brand. Chosen for its name—one more way to grind in some cheap irony—and its sugarlessness. Then I looked my face over. I’d probably gone without shaving long enough now so it looked as if I’d started a beard. Another week would have been better, but. I got my wallet and car keys off the dresser and forced myself to look at Martha. Still on her side, mouth pouting, lower lip fat. Probably asleep. I felt my dick stir; so much for sexual disgust. It was as if a body inside my body and coterminous, my astral body I guess is what I’m talking about, were calling me back to life. Or simply living its own life in spite of me. I mean, getting not one but two erections out of Jernigan in a single morning? Had to be some kind of hoodoo. Mystics describe the astral body as silvery; it was as if I’d wounded that silvery thing yesterday, shooting it in its silvery hand, and it was taking action in its own defense at the same time the grosser physical body was cranking up its production of, what, white blood cells. This was the sort of shit Martha actually believed in, though it had taken a while to find that out; she was no longer gung-ho about it, but she still had the books around. Said she’d tried a couple of times to travel in the astral plane, but it hadn’t really worked. I told her, keep trying and maybe she could project herself right into the bughouse. Believe me, if I’d gotten a look at those books … Right, I’m sure that would’ve made all the difference.
I walked past Clarissa’s door and heard her going Ooh ooh ooh. Something in the air this morning, boy. Maybe it was just that winter was coming on. Last chance for life.
I bought a Diet Coke and a can of Colt 45 at the E-Z Mart on Hamilton Avenue. Back out in the car I popped the Diet Coke, took a good long pull for just a trace of extra caffeine, then poured the rest out on the blacktop, refilled the can with Colt 45 and got rid of the Colt 45 can in the dumpster. This way I could drive and drink with absolute peace of mind. (Little joke.) Then off to New York! I felt so terrific what with the caffeine and the Colt 45 and about to see old friends and Martha not along that I dug out the Walkman. It still had the tape in it that Danny had been listening to. Something called Megadeth, and I figured why the fuck not. As the name promised, it was loud and destructive, and I was able to work it into my mood without thinking too much about what such music said about Danny. One way to think of it was just teenage hormones, so that’s what I ended up thinking.
I got off the highway before the tunnel and stopped at a gas station. The guy pumped as the law required, but I checked the oil myself: manly Jernigan. Since the slovenly fuckers were out of paper towels, it was either wipe the dipstick on my pants or use the cowboy jacket, which had ended up on the floor in the back. Fuck it: I hated the thing anyway. They had a pay phone mounted on the corner of the building, so I called 212 Information and asked for a Miranda McCaslin somewhere in the West 90s. What would make this day even greater would be to have a brand-new woman with you that you weren’t quite sure yet would go to bed with you. And bingo: an M. McCaslin on West 98th. I scratched the last four digits on the brickface with my ignition key—the 222 I could remember because of Uncle Fred—and dialed. Sixty cents, for Christ’s sake, just because of the fucking Hudson River. What I got was a guarded answering-machine message, just her voice (but it was her voice) saying what number you’d reached and please leave a message. “Miranda,” I said. “Peter Jernigan. Your fellow former—your former fellow Kelsey and Chittendener. Chittendenite. I was just in your neighborhood and I thought I’d give you a jingle to see if you were around. But I guess you’re not and”—I waited a few seconds for her to pick up the phone in case she was there listening, trying to decide about me. “Oh well. Another time. Hope you’re well, ta ta, whatever, I don’t know. Well, enough of this. Before I descend into total incoherence. ’Bye now.” I left the empty Diet Coke can on top of the metal cowl enshrining the phone, as an offering. The more I thought about it, the more I guessed I was actually glad her message was so unwelcoming: it would stiff-arm lesser men. I was bound and determined not to let this little setback ruin a really up mood. Let’s hit it, I told myself, and no more fucking around.
Penny and Uncle Fred had the top floor of a brownstone on 102nd between Riverside and West End. Even though it was Sunday, when you’d think people would be out of town, I had to drive around and around and around looking for a parking place. Ended up on 105th or something. How I’d ever put up with this on a daily basis I couldn’t imagine. Not just the parking but all of it. Although if I was so much better off now, what was I doing with a bullet hole in my hand? I certainly hadn’t gone around shooting myself in the hand when I lived here, so therefore.
I pushed the bottom buzzer and Uncle Fred’s electric voice barked, “Stand and give the password.”
What was it I’d said before? It would be just like Uncle Fred to give me a bunch of shit before he got around to buzzing me in. Couldn’t remember. “I don’t know,” I said. “Allen Ludden.”
The thing buzzed and as I got the door open I heard him barking, “I’m sorry. Allen Ludden is dead.”
I stopped on the second-floor landing to get my breath. In addition to everything else, I thought, you really better try to do something about the shape you’re in physically. I patted my coat pocket to make sure I had car keys, and remembered I hadn’t brought anything the way you were supposed to no matter what they said. Well, look, they said not to and you didn’t, so really how wrong could that be?
Uncle Fred was waiting at the top of the murky stairs, standing in his open door, through which light was streaming. That corny effect where it slants through dustmotes. “Old Jernigan,” he said, giving me a one-armed lateral hug. “Income.” Uncle Fred had been saying “Income” for twenty years. From psychedelic sabotage of language to annoying mannerism to something you could count on.
3
Uncle Fred brandished a platter of tortillas backhanded, as you would a frisbee. “Better have some more eggs ranchers,” he said.
I waved it away. “Please,” I said, meaning Please, no more.
“Little more of the old Maria sangriente?” Uncle Fred was now a person whose wife served brunch.
I shrugged, and with my right hand twisted my left forearm.
“I thought as much,” he said. “Penny, ma chère. Would you be so kind?”
“You guys,” said Penny, getting up. “I’m going to go hide the lampshades.”
“Hell, better hide your dresses too,” he said. “No telling how merry this is gonna get. But first.” He snapped his fingers twice.
She curtsied, holding out an imaginary skirt, then opening her fingers to let it fall back against her blue jeans. “He’s actually pussy-whipped,” she said, screening her mouth with the back of her hand. “I just do this so I won’t look like a castrating bitch in front of company.”
“Enough girlish prattle, dear,” said Uncle Fred. “You’ll charm us another time.”
She went into the kitchen and came back agitating a cocktail shaker full of something red, but using only her wrists so as not to drop the bottle of Absolut under her arm. The shaker was decorated with tilted martini glasses and modernistic boomerangs. “Here,” she said. “I’m just going to leave you boys the wherewithal. I’ve got to work for a couple of hours or I’m going to be in terrible shape tomorrow. You can talk about broads while I’m in there. Mikey, you’ll clean up, won’t you?”
“Don’ worr’,” he said. “Zio Federico take care ev’ryt’ing.”
“Thanks, Penny,” I said. “It was delicious.”
“You know you’re welcome to stay for dinner.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Let me think about that. Right now, the very idea.” I patted my stomach.
“It’s taken us so long to get you here,” she said, “that we’re not going to let you go without a struggle. Mikey, why don’t you just get him too drunk to drive?”
“There’s a thought,” he said.
“Ciao for now,” she said, wiggling her fingers goodbye.
When she was gone, I said, “You’re a lucky son of a bitch.”
Uncle Fred thought about that. “Yes,” he said.
“You know, I actually like the dining table in here,” I said. “Cozier.” Since the last time I’d been here, Penny had taken the dining room for workspace. Now they ate in a corner of the living room.
“Yeah, I think so too,” he said. He mashed his last few crumbs of scrambled egg into the tines of his fork and ate them. “So what did you really do to your hand?”
“I told you,” I said. “It’s a gunshot wound.”
“Christ, it probably is,” he said. “Fucking crazy bastard.” He lifted the vodka in one hand and the shaker in the other. Those proportions seemed about right.
“Half and half,” I said. He mixed one for me and a weaker one for himself.
“Ice?”
I shook my head. “I try to stay away from that shit,” I said. “Turns to water on you.”
“Hear hear,” he said. He tasted his. “Hmm,” he said. “Not too shabby. So tell me about this Glendora. Did you get lucky?”
“Not particularly,” I said.
We both waited.
“Tell Uncle Fred,” he said. “That is, if you’re in the mood for it.”
“It’s not all that interesting,” I said.
“Fuck a bunch of interesting,” he said. “Is this thing ongoing? Offgoing? On-and-offgoing?”
“As of today,” I said, “I guess it’s ongoing.”
“Although you’re not too happy about it.”
“How does he know these things?” I asked the ceiling.
We waited again.
“So,” he said. “Who do you like for the Super Bowl?”
“It’s a real mess,” I said.
“Who is this person, anyway?”
“Well, see,” I said, “originally Danny was going out with her daughter and he was spending a lot of time over at their house. And they decided, I guess, the kids did, to introduce us. Because she was divorced, and I was, you know, whatever I was.” Widowed. “Which was actually pretty irresponsible, that she and I hadn’t even talked on the phone when the two kids were spending so much time, but I guess you get busy and stuff. At any rate, long story short I ended up with the mother, and now we’re all, like, there.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“Sounds a little weird to you?”
“No,” he said. “No, I’m just sitting here being nonjudgmental.”
“Funny,” I said, “I could’ve sworn you thought it was a little weird.”
“So is it?”
“It’s getting there,” I said.
“Hmm,” he said. “Can you get out? Is that an option? That is, it’s obviously an option, but is it something you’re seriously thinking about?”
“Problems with that too,” I said.
“Danny and the girl.”
“Among others,” I said.
“Do you like this woman?” he said. “She have a name, by the way?”
“Martha,” I said. I thought a little and said, “I guess not really. I mean, I should.”
“Well, then it’s simple, no? Rule One: Don’t be with somebody you don’t want to be with. Bad for you and bad for them. Right? Fuck a bunch of should.”
“Right,” I said.
“Do you think she loves you?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “She’s, I don’t know … Anxious to please.”
“Except you’re not pleased.”
“When did you ever know me to be pleased?” I said.
“There’s that,” he said. He took a sip of his Bloody Mary. Then he set it down and said, “Nevertheless.”
“Look, Danny’s only got another two years of school,” I said. “Year and a half. Then he’ll be off to college or something, and then who knows. In the meantime—”
“In the meantime you’re going to rot yourself,” he said. “Or is that too harsh?”
I took a good gulp of Bloody Mary.
“I’m not trying to be Mr. Work Ethic here,” said Uncle Fred, “but what do you do all day?”
I shook my head. “Think and get into trouble,” I said.
“Your?” he said.
“I do watch some television,” I said.
“I’ll bet,” said Uncle Fred. “You have the money to move someplace else, right?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Sort of. Not really.”
“Like to clarify that a little for the folks back home?”
“Well, see, there’s the money from the house,” I said. “But a lot of that is for Danny’s college, and the rest of it, if I just stick it in a checking account or something, it’s going to get eaten up in taxes.”
“So where do you have it now?”
“Well, right now it is in checking, but—”
