inside
information. For
the past twenty years or so, he had been more or less a professional
board
member and social butterfly.
I
called the
number he left. The static told me he was in the car.
"Yeah."
"Pat.
It's
Leo."
"Don't
you
check your messages?"
As
usual, his
voice held an underlying tone of dissatisfaction. Sort of a "you cur"
understood. And, as usual, it annoyed me.
Pat
and I had
never gotten along well. My mother used to claim it was because Pat had
never
married and wasn't accustomed to dealing with children, but in my
heart, I'd
always known better. It was more than that. On some fundamental level,
we saw
the world in completely different terms. And unable to identify the
source of
the friction, we'd allowed it to slop over into all our dealings,
creating an
air of discord which, for the last thirty years, had drifted over the
field of
our linked lives like cannon smoke.
"I
unplugged the phones. It's a fucking circus over here."
He
was silent
for a long moment. We both knew what came next. God knows we'd run
through the
scene enough times. Somehow it always happened when I talked to Pat. I
knew he
hated profanity, and although I had no conscious desire to offend him,
something inside of me always had the uncontrollable urge to swear like
a drill
sergeant.
"Must
you?" he intoned.
"I'm
having a bad morning."
Above
the
static and road noise, I heard him sigh.
When
I was younger,
Pat and I used to compete for my father's attention, acting more like
feuding
brothers than like uncle and nephew. It took me twenty years of that
foolishness to figure out that the old man fostered the rivalry between
Pat and
me as a means of controlling us, the way he controlled everything else
in his
universe, but by that time, the bones of contention were buried too
deep to be
exhumed.
.
"Yeah.
They've been all over me, too," he said. "I'm on my way back from the
airport. I just put your aunt Rochelle on a plane to Portland. Sent her
down to Ed's mother's
place until this is over."
"Probably
best," I agreed.
"She
hasn't been the same since Ed died."
Roughly
translated, this meant that I'd know about what was going on with my
father's
youngest sister if only I kept in better touch with the family, which I
don't
You cur.
After
my
father's death, Pat slid noiselessly into the role of family patriarch.
He was,
after all, the sole living Waterman brother and, as such, the heir
apparent to
the mantle. For reasons I can't explain, something deep in my heart
sorely
begrudged him that role. Maybe it was because, in my family, the
patriarch is
the keeper of the family story. At least the one we tell in public. And
Pat
never told it the way I remembered it. That's why I stopped going to
most of
the big family gatherings. I was afraid that right in the middle of
some
otherwise joyous holiday moment, he was going to start holding forth
about some
Christmas or Easter past and I was going to lose it, spring to my feet
and
shout, "That's not it. That's not how it happened," and the whole
slack-jawed multitude would gaze at me as if I'd just dropped my pants
and
crapped in the corner. Better to stay home, I figured.
I
dreaded the
next act, so I tried something noncommittal.
"Sorry
to
hear that."
I
should have
known better. It didn't matter how I responded. I could have said, "I'm
on
my way to the Polo Grounds to fuck Hitler's mother," and his response
would have been exactly the same. With Pat and I, it was as if our
conversations
crouched behind our lips like predators, silently marking time until
the moment
of the kill.
"She
was
terribly upset when she saw the story on the news. She's not strong,
you
know." You cur.
What
came next
was the part where we worked out who was suffering more. Prizes were
awarded in
this category. Winner got a crown of thorns, and the right to assume
the
position; loser got the hair shirt and self-flagellation rights. I
figured
martyrdom was a dying business, so I cut to the chase.
"What
do
you need from
information. For
the past twenty years or so, he had been more or less a professional
board
member and social butterfly.
I
called the
number he left. The static told me he was in the car.
"Yeah."
"Pat.
It's
Leo."
"Don't
you
check your messages?"
As
usual, his
voice held an underlying tone of dissatisfaction. Sort of a "you cur"
understood. And, as usual, it annoyed me.
Pat
and I had
never gotten along well. My mother used to claim it was because Pat had
never
married and wasn't accustomed to dealing with children, but in my
heart, I'd
always known better. It was more than that. On some fundamental level,
we saw
the world in completely different terms. And unable to identify the
source of
the friction, we'd allowed it to slop over into all our dealings,
creating an
air of discord which, for the last thirty years, had drifted over the
field of
our linked lives like cannon smoke.
"I
unplugged the phones. It's a fucking circus over here."
He
was silent
for a long moment. We both knew what came next. God knows we'd run
through the
scene enough times. Somehow it always happened when I talked to Pat. I
knew he
hated profanity, and although I had no conscious desire to offend him,
something inside of me always had the uncontrollable urge to swear like
a drill
sergeant.
"Must
you?" he intoned.
"I'm
having a bad morning."
Above
the
static and road noise, I heard him sigh.
When
I was younger,
Pat and I used to compete for my father's attention, acting more like
feuding
brothers than like uncle and nephew. It took me twenty years of that
foolishness to figure out that the old man fostered the rivalry between
Pat and
me as a means of controlling us, the way he controlled everything else
in his
universe, but by that time, the bones of contention were buried too
deep to be
exhumed.
.
"Yeah.
They've been all over me, too," he said. "I'm on my way back from the
airport. I just put your aunt Rochelle on a plane to Portland. Sent her
down to Ed's mother's
place until this is over."
"Probably
best," I agreed.
"She
hasn't been the same since Ed died."
Roughly
translated, this meant that I'd know about what was going on with my
father's
youngest sister if only I kept in better touch with the family, which I
don't
You cur.
After
my
father's death, Pat slid noiselessly into the role of family patriarch.
He was,
after all, the sole living Waterman brother and, as such, the heir
apparent to
the mantle. For reasons I can't explain, something deep in my heart
sorely
begrudged him that role. Maybe it was because, in my family, the
patriarch is
the keeper of the family story. At least the one we tell in public. And
Pat
never told it the way I remembered it. That's why I stopped going to
most of
the big family gatherings. I was afraid that right in the middle of
some
otherwise joyous holiday moment, he was going to start holding forth
about some
Christmas or Easter past and I was going to lose it, spring to my feet
and
shout, "That's not it. That's not how it happened," and the whole
slack-jawed multitude would gaze at me as if I'd just dropped my pants
and
crapped in the corner. Better to stay home, I figured.
I
dreaded the
next act, so I tried something noncommittal.
"Sorry
to
hear that."
I
should have
known better. It didn't matter how I responded. I could have said, "I'm
on
my way to the Polo Grounds to fuck Hitler's mother," and his response
would have been exactly the same. With Pat and I, it was as if our
conversations
crouched behind our lips like predators, silently marking time until
the moment
of the kill.
"She
was
terribly upset when she saw the story on the news. She's not strong,
you
know." You cur.
What
came next
was the part where we worked out who was suffering more. Prizes were
awarded in
this category. Winner got a crown of thorns, and the right to assume
the
position; loser got the hair shirt and self-flagellation rights. I
figured
martyrdom was a dying business, so I cut to the chase.
"What
do
you need from
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