Affliction (28 page)

Jack glowered and lunged into the cold to finish the well they had started the previous week in Catamount, and Wade, as instructed, pulled off his coat and, clipboard in hand, started to make an inventory of all of LaRiviere's material stock, equipment and tools. “I want to know my assets, Wade,” LaRiviere said in a confiding tone, “and I want
you
to know them too. I want to know what we need for a year's work and don't have on hand, buddy, and then I want you to sit yourself down and order it.” When Wade asked him if he could have Wednesday off, for the funeral, LaRiviere told him not to worry about it, and then added that from now on Wade was going to be paid a salary, instead of by the hour, same as if he were working a forty-hour week, whether he put in forty hours or not. And not
to worry, buddy, about being paid for Monday and Wednesday this week: it was done. Wade almost heard him say “partner.”

He wants something from me, Wade thought, and I won't find out what it is unless I smile and go along with him.

During his lunch break, Wade mailed his divorce decree and a check for five hundred dollars, borrowed the day before from Pop's modest savings account, to Attorney Hand, and afterwards, by telephone from Wickham's, he informed Hand that he would soon be getting married and was moving with his fiancée into his father's “farm.” He also mentioned, as if in passing, his discovery that Lillian was having an extramarital love affair with Hand's colleague Jackson Cotter, and Attorney Hand said that was a very interesting aspect to the case. “Tantalizing,” he said, and Wade could almost hear him smack his lips, the way he had almost heard LaRiviere say “partner.”

By Wednesday, the day of the funeral, so much had happened in Wade's life that it seemed Ma had been dead for months.

Out at the house, the freshly plowed driveway and a specially cleared parking area by the side porch were full of cars, as if a celebration were going on. I parked my Volvo behind what I assumed was the minister's car—a maroon station wagon with
REV
on the vanity plates—and got out and stretched and smelled the silvery wood smoke drifting from the kitchen chimney. I heard the sounds of distant gunfire crackle erratically against the wind in the pines, and I suddenly remembered that the forests and fields just beyond the house and in the hills and valleys for miles around were still dangerously populated by deer hunters.

There were a few cars and a blue pickup truck, LaRiviere's, that I did not recognize and several that I knew— Wade's Ford with the police bubble on top and Pop's old pickup, still covered with snow and parked in the deep drift at the side of the house, as if stuck there permanently. I spotted the VW microbus that belonged to Lena and her husband, their fifteen-year-old recidivist hippie van plastered with born-again Christian bumper stickers instead of peace signs. The emblem of the Rapture—a black arrow shaped like a fishhook descending in a silver field against a vertical arrow ascending—and the cryptic question “Are You Ready for the Rapture?” and “Warning: Driver of This Vehicle May Disappear at Any Moment!” along with the more usual crosses and fishes
in profile and mottoes like “Jesus Saves” and “Christ Died for Our Sins” were stuck all over the sides of the van, as if the vehicle were a huge cerulean cereal box promoting apocalypse and everlasting life and promising redeemable gift certificates inside.

Lena and her husband, Clyde, had made Christ their personal savior, apparently the result of a visit from Him—a type of house call was the way they explained it—one night of despair four or five years earlier, and while the chaos of their life had not changed one iota, it had gained significant meaning, since they and their five children were now devoted to the life of the spirit and the next world instead of to the body and this one. Their disheveled and deprived daily lives were now regarded as evidence not of incompetence, as in the past, but of their new priorities. I did not pretend to understand the nature of the conversion experience, of being “saved,” one way or the other, or the teachings of the Bible Believers' Evan-gelistical Association, to which they belonged, but it was clear to me that whereas before they had been depressed and frightened, for what seemed very good reasons, such as poverty, ignorance, powerlessness, etc., they were now optimistic and unafraid. Of course, according to the pamphlets Lena mailed to me from time to time, what they were looking forward to was the imminent end of the world, to earthquake and famine, to seas turned to blood, to plagues of sores, to legions of demons and the writhing demise of the antichrist, events that those of us who were not scheduled for rescue by the Rapture might find even more depressing and frightening than poverty, ignorance and powerlessness.

As I moved from my car toward the house, I passed the three younger of Lena's and Clyde's children, who were pushing huge snowballs through the soft wet snow of the front yard. Though they wore sneakers and thin jackets and were hatless and without mittens and their clothes were wet and their hands and faces bright red from the cold, they were evidently happy and, in spite of running noses, seemed healthy. They saw me coming along the driveway and waved, and I waved back.

A boy, the largest of the three, six or seven years old, smiled sweetly and said, “Hi. Who're you?”

“I'm your uncle Rolfe,” I said, and I smiled. “You don't remember me, eh?” In fact, we had never met, which fact
embarrassed me slightly. I did not know his name—Stephen or Eben, or maybe Claude—and did not care to ask it.

“Nope, but I heard of you,” he said.

“What are you building there? A snowman?”

All three laughed as if I had said something hilariously funny. “No!” the boy exclaimed. “A citadel!”

“Oh.”

His sister, her puffy cheeks chapped scarlet from the wet snow, said, “Are you here to say goodbye to Grandma?”

“Grandma's in hell!” the youngest one shouted. He appeared to be a male child but was wearing some kind of kilt made from an adult's woolen scarf, so one could not be sure.

The other boy somberly said, “That's why we say goodbye.”

“We're going to be in heaven with Jesus,” the little girl explained to me, “and Grandma's in hell with Satan, who is Jesus' enemy. That's why we have to say goodbye, Uncle Rolfe.”

“Grandma wasn't saved,” her brother said, a note of regret touching his voice.

“I see.”

“Are you saved, Uncle Rolfe?” the girl asked.

“No, I‘m not.”

“Then you'll be cast into hell with Grandma.”

“Yes, I guess I will. Me and Grandma and Uncle Wade and Grandpa. We'll all be there together,” I said. “And when we die, you'll have to come and say goodbye to us too, won't you?”

The older boy nodded his head up and down. This was a drag, families breaking up all the time. He did not understand it and wished that it could be different, but he did not want to spend eternity in hell, no, sir, he did not, no matter who was there.

As if bored by me, the three went back to building their citadel of snow, and I continued on to the house. Before I had a chance to knock, the door was opened by an attractive woman who introduced herself as Margie Fogg and shook my hand warmly. She gazed straight into my face, and I liked her at once.

Wade stood in the center of the crowded kitchen, looking competent and serious, if a little uncomfortable. He was wearing a white shirt and tightly knotted jet-black tie and navy-blue gabardine sport coat, with dark-brown slacks and shoes, and
his face and hands were red and seemed huge and constricted by his mismatched clothing. In one hand he held a can of Schlitz and in the other a cigarette. The room was hot from the wood stove, crowded and close. I saw faces I recognized— Lena and Clyde and their two older children, adolescents whom I had not seen in years, and in the corner by the stove, Pop—and I saw the faces of three strangers, everyone standing, as if waiting to be called to attention and given marching orders.

Wade first, I thought—the easiest. And I reached out with both hands and placed them on his muscular shoulders and drew him to me. We hugged, self-consciously, with our butts sticking out so as to keep light shining between our bodies from shoulders to toes. That is the way we men are, we New England men, we Whitehouse men, Wade and I: we want light between us at all times.

He said my name, and I said his, and we let go of one another and withdrew. Not ready yet to deal with Lena and Clyde and their strange-looking children—both the boy and the girl had modified Mohawk haircuts and resembled barnyard fowl with acne, Rhode Island reds, maybe—and certainly not ready to greet Pop, I first introduced myself to the strangers in the room, who turned out to be the Reverend Doughty, a slender blond man in his thirties wearing horn-rimmed glasses and an avocado-green double-knit suit, and Gordon LaRiviere, appropriately somber, mentioning that he remembered me from my high school days and offering gruff condolences as we shook hands, and a skinny young man in a black suit who was a representative of Morrison's Funeral Home in Littleton, on hand, I guessed, to escort the rest of us to the church on time.

It was unclear to me why LaRiviere was there or why he was behaving in such a solicitous manner toward Wade: “How you holding up, Wade?” he asked at one point, when Wade, after tossing his empty beer can into the trash, stood for a second with his back to the rest of us and stared after it.

Wade turned quickly and said, “I'm fine, fine.” He checked his watch. “Shouldn't we get this show on the road, now that Rolfe's here?” he asked the room.

No one knew. We all looked to him for an answer.

He shrugged. “Pointless to stand around in the church with nothing to do, I guess.”

“What about Jill?” I asked. “Is Lillian bringing her?”

In a low voice, Margie said that they would be at the church.

Wade walked quickly to the refrigerator and pulled out another beer. “Anyone else want one?” he asked. “Rolfe?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I don't drink.”

“Yeah, right. I guess I forgot.”

Indeed. My question about Lillian and Jill had irritated him. He knew better than anyone else in the family that I had not drunk anything alcoholic since college and in fact had drunk almost not at all even then. We never discussed it, Wade and I, any more than we discussed his drinking, but I think we both knew that they were equal and opposite reactions to the same force.

I nodded to Lena's and Clyde's children, both the girl, Sonny, and the boy, Gerald, noted their matching dark-red tufts of hair, gray scalps, crosses dangling from their earlobes and around their scrawny necks, and passed them by swiftly on my way to Lena, huge as a purple tent in her muumuu, with a black scarf covering most of her hair, which, to my surprise, had turned almost completely gray. She looked shockingly older than when I had last seen her: how many years had it been—seven, eight? I could not remember, I suddenly realized, how many years it had been since I last stood in the same room with my father, brother and sister. I knew that I would never again stand in a room with them and my mother, certainly not in heaven and not in hell, either.

Lena wore no makeup or jewelry, and her hair was chopped off bluntly at shoulder length. There was nothing about her person that was designed to disguise, or to distract one from, her girth and plainness, and she showed no signs of being either happy or sad to see me—merely grim acceptance. Embracing her was like hugging a barrel, and I instantly let go and stepped away and almost with relief shook the hand of her husband, Clyde, which felt like a piece of firewood, dry, heavy, dead to the touch.

Clyde is a tall thick-hipped pear-shaped man with a large pointed Adam's apple and small shoulders and chest, so that his body seems to be constructed of the lower half of a fat man and the upper half of a thin man welded together at the waist. Clyde' appearance, too, surprised me, for he now looked a full decade older than Wade, whose age he was. His face was
drawn in and tight, puckered around blue eyes and a flat red-lipped mouth. He said, “Hello, Rolfe. It's good you came now. We were about to pray. Will you join us in prayer, Rolfe?” His eyes blazed intently into mine, and I looked to Wade, whose expressionless face seemed to be saying, No help here, buddy, you are on your own, and on to Margie, who looked sharply away from me, as if embarrassed.

“Well,” I said, “I just got here. Give me a minute, will you?” I tried to smile graciously, but Clyde did not meet my smile. I stepped to my father then and found myself actually glad to see him there—small, silent, inattentive, like the only child in a room full of angry adults.

“This is nuts,” Wade muttered.

“Wade,” Margie said sharply.

When I hugged my father, the force of my embrace caused his head to bob like a puppet's, and I drew away from him, afraid. Wade was right—it was nuts.

Clyde was already down on his knees, and his two children had followed with alacrity, like acolytes, earnest assistants at the rite.

“Dear Lord Jesus,” Clyde began, his eyes jammed shut, head tilted toward the ceiling. “O my Lord Jesus in heaven! We come to thee on our knees today begging forgiveness for our sins and thanking thee for the blessing and the undeserved gift of thy salvation. We thank thee, Lord Jesus. For everlasting life by thy side in heaven, we thank thee, O Jesus, Lord of the Heavenly Hosts, whose blood was shed so that we may live!”

The boy, eyes tightly shut, moaned, “Praise the Lord!” and the girl followed, as did Lena, who was still positioning herself on her knees, not an easy job, given her bulk and awkwardness. Behind me, the Reverend Doughty, in a quiet shy voice, added his more restrained Praise the Lord, and I turned and watched him get down on his knees too, somewhat reluctantly, perhaps, but obediently, just in case.

What were the rest of us to do but follow suit? First the young man from the funeral home—more accustomed, perhaps, to scenes like this than we were—got down on his knees, and then Margie and Gordon LaRiviere, and finally Wade got down—all of them watching Clyde warily, as if playing Simon Says and expecting the next command to be a trick. That left only Pop standing, and me.