The Mt. Monadnock Blues Page 12

  “Earl will put me with a thousand partners a month for twenty years,” he said, facing up to it, mindful that he could run but he could not hide for long. “Every one of them sick unto death with the virus.”

  “Okay, let’s start there. You say you are not infected.”

  “I’m fine. In fine health.”

  “Not infected.”

  Barnes waited for confirmation, but Tim could summon nothing better than a shrug. He thought of the kids again, and of running away; quite naturally he thought about lying to her. All he could do however, was blush and shrug again when she asked it: “When was the last time you were tested?”

  “What?” she said, after half a minute more had passed in silence. “Don’t tell me you have never been tested?”

  “Hey, I’ll bet Earl hasn’t been tested, either.”

  “You haven’t been tested?”

  “No. So we can truthfully say I’ve never tested Positive.”

  “Sure, and pray the other side has an idiot for a lawyer.”

  “And argue that it’s better than if I did test Positive. Or had AIDS, for that matter,” said Tim, rallying. These were distinctions he had rehearsed for years.

  “Let’s move on from here,” said Barnes, more curtly, “and have a go at some of these charming adjectives. Irregular, dissolute, and so forth. Homosexual, even. Any chance there’s been a lady or two in the mix?”

  “Close friends. Dear friends. But I’d have to give them homosexual. I would argue against it being proof of evil.”

  “It is a statutory crime.”

  “Oh come on, the judge has been poking his clerk for years.”

  “I take that for gay humor,” said Barnes, with the new sharpness. Thus far, the facts had not helped them a lot.

  “Sorry. I can suppress it better when I’m not nervous.”

  “You have been gay since—when, Tim?”

  “Always, I suppose. Outwardly, actively? Since college. Since the time you could be. 1969?”

  “You were eighteen, nineteen. And then came the 70’s.…”

  “Oh Lord, yes.”

  “The infamous baths?”

  “All of it. Bath-houses and bars, mostly. The infamous warehouses in New York. The weeds.”

  “Rest stops, you mean?”

  “No. For me at least, that was always a joke. But what we call the bushes wasn’t. The weeds along the Fenway, summer nights. That became a very promiscuous scene.”

  “Are we a good deal more selective now?”

  “We are.”

  “Any chance we could argue constant? Monogamous?”

  “Not under oath, no.”

  “But we could argue selective, and with safe-sex precautions.”

  “We could. Much more selective, and mostly safe.”

  “Since?”

  “1987. Following a very specific occasion you do not want to know about. Don’t hate me, I’m just trying to be honest.”

  “Since 1987.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Perfect record since then.”

  “Ninety percent? A-minus?”

  “Which leaves unprotected—what? One contact? Two?”

  “A dozen?”

  “Oh.”

  “Nine? I’m only guessing.”

  “Nine in three years, unprotected.”

  To consult his memory too closely would surely inflate the figure, so Tim let it stand. “I try to eat lots of cruciferous vegetables. And get a good night’s sleep.”

  “And say your prayers, I’m sure. But this sounds more like promiscuous than not, to me.”

  “Earl doesn’t know any of it, though. Whatever he says is just an invention.”

  “There may be Interrogatories, questions you have to answer in writing—under oath—even if you never take the stand.”

  “One thing? Very few of my partners will be going on record. I mean, if I want to look like the average secretary, with an affair here and an affair there, I can look that way. There is a lot of anonymity that comes with the irregularity and promiscuity.”

  Her mouth went straight and her whole face flattened, as she scratched a note. Tim had taken the spin thing too far, but it was more than that. “You disapprove,” he said.

  “I suppose I do. I can’t help disapproving a little.”

  “But you’re disgusted.”

  “Only when I imagine the anonymity of it. Tall weeds, Tim? In the dark? You don’t see a face, or exchange names?”

  “It happens that way. It happens a lot of different ways, to avoid, you know, complications. Are you such a complete straightshooter yourself? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “You shouldn’t ask, though I suppose it does seem unfair. The difference is I need to know your secrets, and you don’t need to know mine.”

  “I can tell you are happily married.”

  “That’s not a secret, actually.”

  Both of them were making an effort to restore good feeling. For Barnes, it never worked to mistrust or dislike a client. For Tim, being disliked was just one of the reasons he hated explaining himself.

  “I’ll need to process this conversation,” said Barnes, gathering notes, gathering herself, “and so better had you. In the meanwhile, keep digging on Earl. At the very least, he must cheat on his wife, no?”

  “It’s a safe bet. He gets around, and he does have this superficial saleman’s charm. But what do I do, get a list of his open-houses and go debrief all the women who showed up?”

  “If you have the time. He cheats on his wife, he cheats on his taxes—anything he would rather not be made public. One advantage we have is that Earl lives in a small town, where gossip matters. And you live in Boston.…”

  “Where God is dead?”

  “We’ll talk on Monday, Tim. Have a nice weekend.”

  “Attorney Barnes? I am sorry.”

  “Sorry for?”

  “Being dissolute and promiscuous. For making you hate me, and making your job harder.”

  “Worry about yourself, Tim. It’s my job, but it’s your life.”

  Barnes withheld the smile, wearing the shopworn desk between them like armor. She still seemed a schoolmarm, but now she was the one who would bat your wrists with a hazel stick.

  “You have a nice weekend too, Attorney Barnes.”

  Chastened in spite of himself and saddened by her visceral recoil, Tim struggled to let go of their conversation. He picked at it, recast it with new improved answers, for surely he was stupid not to have lied. There was something about Dee Barnes, however; lying to her had not been an option. Given this X-Factor, perhaps he should trust her. Barnes would “process” the meeting and she would come through the tough parts.

  Maybe.

  In the mews behind Tim’s building, a man in a frayed work shirt was pacing nervously. With gray fly-up hair, rattling a huge ring of keys, the man paced and muttered to himself. But the mews caught them like flypaper, the whole range from the bizarre overdressed dogwalkers to the crackheads and homeless drinkers. Not infrequently one would be pissing against the fence. Welcome Home, was the traditional significance. Lately, with Tim on red alert for any sign of Joe Average, they had all become suspects.

  Just last night a beggar had jumped them, barreling out of shadows toward them with his request for forty cents. (Why not a quarter, why not a dollar? He would accept a dollar, he allowed.) Cindy wanted to pay up. “You have quarters, Unk. You always have quarters.”

  True enough, he did. Quarters worked, they were the last coin in America that did, and it was Tim’s policy to carry a few at all times. But it wasn’t the milk of human kindness that made Cindy so eager to pay. She was scared. Stinking of liquor, the man was right in her face.

  Was he a random street cadge, though, or was he Average? Would forty cents purchase the man’s absence, or would it assure his ongoing extortionist presence? Tim was no stranger to paranoia, yet the fact remained that someone was Average. Someone who phoned them boldly, incessantly. If he
was bold, why wouldn’t he press his case in person? What was paranoid about expecting that?

  Now Tim stood at a distance—watching the watcher?—as the disheveled man kept fidgeting with his keys. Dozens of keys. Then a white Bronco came bumping down the mews and erased him: he was there, he was gone. This one had simply been waiting for a ride.

  Billy and Cindy were safe upstairs. They were oddly civil, though, eerily quiescent. And so tractable. It was nice of them to lie down at bedtime and from the darkness recite the names of new friends they had made. (And what an education their uncle was providing, for these were black friends, Korean friends, an Albanian friend for goodness’ sake.) Listening to Tim read, Cindy seemed as peaceful as he was in turmoil.

  Cindy’s story was the Little House—and the big loving family, all their days washed by clear pioneer streams. As Tim covered her shoulders with a flannel sheet, his heart was aching for her literally, unless he was having an anxiety attack. He stretched his arms over his head and exhaled; drank a glass of water. He got in bed and waited for the pain to subside.

  It did, finally, as he lay on his back breathing evenly, but soon his throat was dry and he began to feel warm. Tim was ready for this, however, he had been through this plenty of times. In a way, it was the price one paid for staying in denial. Denial provided fertile ground for the imagination, left room for hourly manifestations and symptoms. Given the tricks of pneumocystis, any sneeze could be the beginning of The End and in any room he entered, every pretty landscape, Tim could ferret out a cause for sneezing. His whole life had been an anxiety attack for years.

  Nonetheless his brow was damp, his throat was sore, so that when the phone pierced the air at midnight, it came as a relief. A distraction. It was Average, almost undoubtedly, yet Tim was ready to take the call. “Greetings, fellow sufferer,” he said, almost cheerfully.

  “It’s you, in person. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Who are you, you sicko?” said Tim.

  “Me? You know. I’m Joe Average.”

  “It’s not funny, and it’s not scary, so why don’t you just stop wasting your time.”

  It had become a conversation, between Tim and his tormentor. The conventional wisdom ran contrary: ignore them and they will go away. To date, however, the conventional wisdom had failed, and had left him feeling cramped and useless. Right now he felt upgraded to a better diagnosis. Chest pains, negative.

  “It’s nice of you to worry about my time. And I’m so glad that you have time to chat.”

  “I’m not worried about you, I’m worried about my kids, who may overhear your demented voice.”

  “Kids! I don’t think so. Is that why we’re having this chat? Because you worked out a new strategy? Talk to poor Joe Average, be kind to him. Don’t talk down, don’t say crazy—say kids. Well you aren’t kidding me.”

  “I did say crazy, and I do have two children living with me.”

  “God help the little suckers! You should turn yourself in to Social Services before there’s trouble.”

  “Two young children who do not need this weirdness in their lives right now.”

  “When will they need it? You need it, don’t you? A little weirdness in your life? Speaking of which, I was disappointed you changed your message. I liked the sexy one. Was that one of your weird boyfriends doing his Mae West impression, or was it you? Do you do Mae West?”

  “Where are you calling from, Joe?”

  “Me? Maybe I’m not calling at all. Maybe I’m just your conscience, calling you from within.”

  Suddenly it hit Tim how perfectly pointless this was. It was like arguing with a clever teenager who played by different rules, turning everything upside down and tossing it back at you sarcastically. He was feeding the nut straight lines! But he did want the last word. He wanted to come up with a real zinger, a walk-off shot, then hang up fast. He drew a blank, unfortunately—no zingers—and muttered something lame about sending regards to Earl.

  “I’ll bite. Who’s Earl?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Well, there’s my cousin Earl. Earl Average.”

  “Right. And my regards to your entire team of psychiatrists,” said Tim, lowering himself to the level of smartass teen repartee. Hanging up, he was humming to himself (insanely) “Goodbye Joe/ Me gotta go/ Me-o My-o.…” Watching the play of a street-lamp on his ceiling, he resolved to sign up for Caller ID on Monday.

  “Jambalay and a crawfish pie and a filet gumbo”—and then Tim realized he had learned a couple of things by humoring Average. The first was that Earl was not the nut. And whoever the nut was, he suspected a put-on when Tim mentioned the children. No sale, said Average, and this was great news; it meant they were not being watched after all. The next time Tim claimed not to be frightened he would almost be telling the truth.

  Billy and Cindy bounced out of bed as though they had just completed prison sentences. They had packed the night before. Rolling out of Boston before the long slack chains of traffic could form, they highballed into Jaffrey so early that Trumball’s hadn’t opened. As they studied the rich profusion of flavors on the signboard (purely for research purposes), theirs was the only automobile in a sunny two-acre lot.

  “Chocolate-chocolate chip, I guess,” said Cindy. “With extra sprinkles.”

  “Banana,” said Billy. “Or maybe pistachio.”

  “Toffee burberry grinch,” said Tim, and awaited Billy’s in-the-know smirk, Cindy’s facial protest of his disinformation.

  At the house, the kids sprinted ahead of him, without a trace of ambivalence. Today Tim was not surprised, for he had shared their eagerness to be here. Coming past the brick mill on the river, past the stone churches and the Monadnock Inn, he too had experienced a homecoming. Haunted, perhaps, but Jill’s house was also what they had left of Jill.

  Tim uncoiled slowly, stretching in the sunlit yard. He pulled off his shoes and socks to free his toes in the warm grass. If all you asked of life was a pretty garden and a peaceful spot to sip your favorite whiskey, Cedar Street was unquestionably a fine choice. What about the world, however? That was the question they liked to hash over: could you achieve a life of ease without surrendering the quest for something better?

  Such as? That was Pete Weissberg’s ready reply. He and Peter Clippinger would retire to Truro in a minute, if they had the money. A garden, good restaurants, friends and the beach nearby? To the Peters, there was no something-better. But they had love; they had one another. And apart from their happy “perversion” they were terribly normal. The joke was that when they moved to Truro they would instantly find themselves with a golden retriever, 2.3 children, and that stuff that makes your toilet water blue.

  What if one did not have love? What, asked Tim, if one did not even wish to have it? Pete argued that all you surrendered was the freedom to suffer, always inviting Tim to name the something-better. Tim could neither name it nor defend it. There was good to be done, of course, but the Peters did their share of that, they were activists on any number of fronts. Tim could hardly claim he was making the world safe for Democracy by making reservations for the bourgeoisie in Cancun and Acapulco.

  “The house smells bad, Unk.”

  “It stinks,” said Cindy, smushing her features together by way of corroborating her brother. The smell was real, though—not symbolic of anything—as Tim discovered upon investigating.

  “We closed up too tight,” he said. “We just need to air it out. Open the windows.”

  “There’s a can of spray in the bathroom,” Billy suggested.

  “Throw it away. That junk just makes it worse.”

  But this was nothing less than the new regime proclaimed, for the can of spray had to be Monty’s. Monty’s tendency to fight odor with odor. As he saw Billy hesitate, Tim started to retract his rash command. Rehabilitate the noxious spray-can.

  To Billy, though, the can had nothing to do with his father, it simply stood for action, which he was always reluctant to forego. Quickly
he worked his way to a solution, an alternate action, namely slam-dunking the can into the wastebasket. Then, taking the stairs three at a time, he raced to throw open the attic windows.

  Tim was racing nowhere. He dragged the lawnmower from the garage, inhaling the perfume of grass and oil. He felt a burgher’s ease spread through him. It never crossed his mind that here was Monty’s mower, only that the grass needed cutting.

  Yesterday, when Ellie asked him when the house would be listed, Tim had balked. Nothing was decided, he said; he and the children might even live there. Yet until she asked, Tim had assumed the house would be sold. Why had he argued the contrary? Now as he scraped clumps of packed grass from the deck of the mower, he realized that he was not ready to sell this house. Whatever that meant.

  Braving mildew, the kids settled into their rooms. Someone from the church called to solicit them all for a chicken supper that evening. “We miss them,” said the voice, “and we worry, of course.” With wild expressive sign language, the children said no to the chicken supper and Tim earned their gratitude by politely declining. They rushed back upstairs, and he returned to the lawnmower.

  He freed up the blade, topped up the gas and oil, then yanked twenty times on the cord without a ripple or cough from the engine. Mechanically challenged, Tim was crouching over the machine in puzzlement when a neighbor materialized at his side. “It’s going to be the spark plug.”

  Tim looked up at a face narrow at the temples, but with Howdy Doody smile-lines bracketing the lower half like parentheses. “Monty always fouled the plug on that mower.”

  “So how do I unfoul it?” asked Tim, standing.

  “Let me,” said the man, actually pulling a wrench from his back pocket. “If this doesn’t work, you can always use mine.”

  “I’m Jill’s brother. Tim Bannon.”

  “Al McManus. Father of the twins.”

  “Hi. I need to thank you—both you and your wife.”

  They shook hands, each with a facial apology for the sundry besmearments. Tim’s fingers were grass-stained green and smudged black. “You know,” said McManus, “she’s taking the twins over to the skateboard park in an hour. If your two have any interest in going.”