Apologize, Apologize! (7 page)

“Didn’t you tell me you wanted to get your doctorate? What was it you said? Something about being attracted to the academic life . . . ,” Bingo said unhelpfully.

“That’s a lie and you know it.” Along with everything else, the old lady despised academia.

“Dr. Fancy-Pants needs to go to Brown to learn to ask people to pee in a cup,” Tom said provocatively—deliberate misunderstanding was his favorite form of interaction—while cracking the first of several eggs against the edge of the skillet.

“Not that kind of a doctor, you jackass,” Ma said, finally about to lose it, squeezing shut her eyes, her lips whitening, anger pumping through her bloodstream in incremental surges—like a balloon receiving helium, she was about to burst.

“Now that you say it out loud, ‘Dr. Flanagan’ does have a nice ring to it,” Pop said, chin in hand, newspaper bent, staring dreamily out the window; then, frowning, he abruptly interrupted his own reverie. “For heaven’s sake, Collie, promise me you’ll not become a pathologist . . . God knows what they get up to.”

“I’m not sure what I want to do . . . I’m just thinking. . . .”

“Remember, back home, the case of Annie Mulroney’s boy?” Tom interjected. “He was a pathologist and got caught photographing dead people’s genitalia. Turns out he had quite a collection, claimed it was an innocent hobby and educational. . . .”

“I was thinking of him,” Pop said. “Wasn’t there some problem with him performing prostate exams postmortem, alleging it was research done in the service of science? But you know, I still say curing athlete’s foot in Africa isn’t worth one-two-three compared to the building of a lovely suspension bridge.”

“If you mention bridges one more time . . . honestly, Charlie, you’d think you lived under a bridge, the way you romanticize them—” Ma was starting to sputter.

“Say,” Tom interrupted, using the same tone people typically reserve for sudden revelations. “Let me go on record as saying I’ll take you out and shoot you myself if you go ahead and become a priest.”

“A priest! Jesus, Lord, Collie, you’re planning on the clergy? Your grandfather would turn over in his grave,” Pop said, a look of horror on his face.

“Who said anything about being a priest? I’ve never even thought about being a priest. I don’t want to be a priest.”

“That’s not what you told me,” Bingo said, lifting himself onto the window seat in the dining room, his legs dangling playfully, his eyes shining.

“Collie, I’m begging you. I’m on my knees to you. Don’t waste your life in a Roman collar.” Pop finally put down
The New York Times
, signaling his level of commitment to the conversation.

“He’s going to wind up just like Francie Sherlock,” Tom said, expertly scrambling a pan full of eggs.

“Who the hell is Francie Sherlock?” I said.

“Language. Watch your language,” Pop said, frowning. “Anyone can curse, you know.”

Pop liked to compare swear words to termites. “They’ll bring down a man’s character in the same insidious ways as a termite works in secret to destroy a building.”

“Our first cousin, he was your second cousin,” explained Uncle Tom. “When he was little, the nuns warned him against biting into the Communion host, said it was the literal body and blood of Christ. Francie didn’t believe them, and when he was twelve he was showing off for some girls and he bit into the host and wound up with a mouth full of blood. I say he bit his tongue, but it made quite the impression on him, and he joined the Benedictine order. He was killed a week after getting his first parish, hit by a car while he was heading off to give Agnes O’Connell extreme unction.”

“I don’t get it . . . what’s it got to do with me?”

Tom sighed in exasperation. “Do I have to spell everything out for you, Noodle? He was abusing himself in the rectory when one of the ladies from the Catholic Women’s Society rushed in to tell him about Agnes having a heart attack. She screamed at the sight of him, and he was so flustered that he ran wildly out into the street, and that’s how he got killed.”

“Collie, please, masturbation is a sin of vanity, it’s a terrible waste of time, a drain on your manhood, and once the pedal and crank takes hold of a man . . . ,” Pop said.

Bingo shook his head from side to side. “Too late, Pop. Why do you think I screamed when I walked into Collie’s bedroom last night?”

“I’ll go mad if I have to listen to any more. Must you go on and on about this, Collie? Such narcissism—is every discussion in this house to concern only what you want? It’s too much. I can’t handle any more.” Ma clutched her head, her hands a helmet compressing her skull, which was threatening to explode.

Most conversations with Ma concluded on a similarly theatrical tormented note. Implicit in every encounter, however banal, was the threat of her suddenly evaporating, vaporized by the ubiquitous self-centeredness of others. The world, according to Ma, had nothing better to do than think up ways to drain her blood, a little bit every day.

“Fine,” she wailed. “Have your own way. Do whatever you want. I haven’t the strength to fight you on it. I’ll pay for it, if it will just put an end to your interminable whining, but only if you go to Brown. You must go to Brown. You let me handle your grandfather,” Ma said, rising to her feet in a swirl of rising tides and cloudy consternation. Brushing past Bingo, patting him on the head as if he were a puppy, fluffy pick of the litter, she ducked into the hallway, Marty following her up the stairs.

“What’s her problem?” Tom asked as Pop shrugged.

“Girls only,” he said, raising an eyebrow, the unfastidious specter of female problems resolving the discussion.

“Hey, Collie . . .” Bingo stopped me at the door as I headed down to the beach to drown myself. 

“What do you call a guy that fucks models all day long?”

“Bing Flanagan.”

“That’s who I want to be.”

CHAPTER NINE

T
HE NEXT WEEKEND, THE FALCON AND I WERE IN NEW YORK CITY,
alone at last, a kind of nightmare honeymoon in June, just the two of us. A couple of times a year, he swept in and spirited me away to shop for a “decent bloody wardrobe.” The Falcon took clothes and appearance seriously, a characteristic he weirdly shared with Pop.

“The face you present to the world,” the Falcon called it. “Where the exterior eye leads, the inner eye will soon follow.”

It was ninety degrees, or maybe it just felt that hot. Rivulets of sweat ran down the back of my neck. I glanced into the mirror in the dressing room and tried vainly to batten down the curls. Jesus, the only thing missing was a Pan flute.

I took a quick appraising look and groaned—when it came to informal wear for young men, the Falcon was all about Barbour jackets, varsity cardigans, cashmere scarves, and moleskin trousers. I looked like an effete fugitive from Wallis Simpson’s id.

“What are you smiling about?” he demanded, standing at ease in a cream-colored suit, slim and straight, the salesman fluttering around him like a butterfly when I emerged from the dressing room.

“Nothing, I guess.”

“Do you always walk around grinning about nothing?” He seemed to be making an effort at levity, but his voice betrayed an arctic edge.

“Well, actually, right at the moment, I feel as if I may never smile again.”

“No one likes a wise-ass, Collie,” he said, moving toward me, adjusting the lapels of my jacket. I stood my ground, but psychologically I shifted a couple of steps to the side, unaccustomed to such intimacy with the Falcon. That kind of proximity to my grandfather made me feel as if I were stranded in the most isolated pocket of the earth and trying vainly to scale the volcanic cliffs of Tristan da Cunha. I took a deep breath—if good taste were a scent, it would have smelled like the Falcon.

“Hmmm . . .” He paused to consider, narrowing his blue eyes. “Stand up straight . . . there now. That’s better. I must admit, you do wear clothes well,” he said, both hands lightly dusting my shoulders. “You’ve got me to thank for that. You’re the image of me at the same age. It’s like looking in a mirror.” The Falcon shook his head as if he were trying to comprehend the idea that nature could be so generous, not once, but twice.

“Too bad about Bing—oh, he’s cute enough, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? Unfortunately, your brother is too diminutive to make much of an impression. That mop of hair and all those freckles are damned undignified for a man.” He patted me on the arm before stepping back to take a better look.

Appearing satisfied, he summoned the salesman with an all but invisible gesture—as if he were carrying around a silent dog whistle that only the pathologically subservient could hear. Despite daily exposure to high-profile types, the salesman was so intimidated by the Falcon that he performed an involuntary half-bow on approach.

“We’ll take the lot, and I want him measured for a couple of suits,” the Falcon said, his demeanor communicating a sort of generalized impatience, as if he had places to be and people to see.

“Thanks, Granddad, I appreciate it, but when am I going to wear this stuff? I’m going to be living in Rhode Island, not eighteenth-century Glasgow. I look like somebody shoved a skeet-shooting rifle up my ass, as if I should be hunting pheasants on the Scottish moors or something.”

The salesman gasped and erupted into a hiccuping fit of pedestrian conversational tics; visibly panic-stricken at this mild insurrection, he measured my inseam as my grandfather stared out the window and onto the street below. From his jacket pocket, the Falcon retrieved a silver cigarette case, which he slid methodically between his fingers before turning his full attention to the man on his knees in front of him. Terrified, the salesman started blithering.

“Young people today have their own ideas about how they want to dress. Blue jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps seem to be the order of the day. Oh well, youth will out, I suppose. I can remember wearing some pretty offbeat stuff myself, all part of the rebellious age,” he said cheerfully, his lips trembling.

“If I was interested in your theory concerning the apotheosis of adolescence, I would ask for it,” the Falcon said to the salesman, who appeared to be shrinking before my eyes. “Do you always insinuate yourself in the private conversations of clients?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the salesman responded, laughing uncomfortably, clicking into instantaneous robo-servant mode. I felt my liver shut down, my insides shuddering in response to what seemed like an obnoxious historical extract—it was like being present the moment before the start of the French Revolution.

“Yes, well, enough of your fumbling exegesis. Just do your job. Does my grandson look like some teenage street riffraff? Don’t waste his time with your silly chatter.” The Falcon strode past me, pausing just long enough to tell me he was going down to the first floor to speak to Michael, his driver.

“Hurry up. I don’t want Collie waiting any longer than is necessary,” he ordered the salesman as he left.

“Sorry about that,” I said to the salesman, who politely dismissed my concerns.

“Some of this stuff isn’t that bad,” I said, trying to make amends. “I like the pea coat, and you can throw in a couple of pairs of cords, too, with all the other stuff, while you’re at it.”

Although I’m not one of those rich guys who assume that everyone I meet is after my fortune, I learned early that when you’re loaded, money is the only form of apology that matters to most people.

“Certainly, whatever you’d like,” he said. “Thank you.”

After that, we both relaxed a little and wound up talking about baseball, until the Falcon reappeared and the salesman began to struggle with his train of thought and we both lapsed into an uncomfortable quiet.

The silence persisted most of the way home in the car, until the Falcon finally spoke:

“I’m going to make a prediction about your future, Collie, and you won’t like it. I regret to say that you’re not going to amount to a hill of beans. Do you want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you suffer fools gladly.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to people,” I murmured into a cupped hand.

“What did you say?” the Falcon said, leaning forward in his seat, his hand on my knee.

“Forget it,” I said, unwilling to elaborate.

“No, I won’t forget it. You made an accusation, now you must defend it.”

“Well, I don’t think that money and power entitle you to treat other people badly, especially people who lack privilege. I don’t notice you being unpleasant to the people who attend your parties. It’s obvious what you think. Someone has to have a lot of money before you take them seriously.”

“How much money do you think that salesman back there makes?” he asked me.

“I don’t know. Maybe twenty thousand. . . .”

“That’s right. Think about what type of person would be content to settle for so little. What in God’s name would such a person have to offer someone like me? Why would I be the least bit intrigued by anything such an individual would think or say?”

“Not everyone is interested in accumulating wealth and power. People have other priorities. . . .”

“Like what? Watching hockey games?” Sometimes the Falcon demonstrated an almost demented aptitude for belittlement.

“I’ve met a lot of famous people and important people. I’ve gone to school with their kids and been in their houses, and most of them are pretty disappointing.”

He sighed. “Well, of course they are. Who would argue otherwise? There is an old saying, Collie: ‘Get a reputation for rising at seven and you can safely sleep until noon.’ It’s only by acquiring wealth and position that you can truly derive the benefit of reputation—it’s a form of protection against the vagaries of life. I’m not interested in life’s victims.”

“You know, you and Ma come at this stuff from opposite extremes, but you’re really not that different in the way you view things. I’m starting to think that it doesn’t matter what people believe in—it’s the way you treat people that counts.”

The Falcon settled back into the leather seat and looked straight ahead.

“Collie, if a mockingbird can change its tune dozens of times over the course of a few moments, surely you can find a new song to sing.”

I started classes at Brown that September unsure about what I wanted to do, so I kept my options open by taking mostly arts courses and a few science courses. Unimpressed, Uncle Tom told every tradesperson, merchant, and deliveryman on the Vineyard I was majoring in hieroglyphics. Even now, more than twenty years later, I occasionally run into someone who asks me how long I think it will be before hieroglyphics catch on again.

Bingo, finally kicked out of Upper Canada College, went from there to Exeter, but not for long. He wasn’t exactly focused on schoolwork or issues of character building. First semester, he and a bunch of friends sneaked home and hijacked the Falcon’s vintage Bentley—everything the old guy owned was vintage; Bingo once semi-innocently asked him if he drank vintage milk—and drove it off the pier and into the Boston harbor.

A few months later on a school-sponsored skiing trip to Colorado, he entertained his friends by ducking behind a tree, stripping off all his clothes, and flying naked down the slope in subzero temperatures. He was promptly sent home and suspended for the rest of the semester.

“Not to worry. I understand that when Lenin was a young man he liked to do the same thing in the Urals,” the Falcon commented dryly to my mother, who had no sense of humor.

Bingo got the boot from Exeter on Holy Thursday. My second year at Brown, Deerfield sent him packing on Thanksgiving Day. My third year, the Falcon enrolled him at Rugby in England, where he achieved an A plus in swinging from chandeliers—they gave him the heave-ho just before Valentine’s Day.

“I’m like my own special occasion,” he joked as he alternated studying from home with brief erratic stints at a local high school.

“There’s nothing left,” the Falcon said, sounding helpless for the first time in his life. “We’ve run through every good school and several countries.”

“There’s always Miss Porter’s,” I joked, but he didn’t see the humor.

Bingo celebrated his expulsion from Rugby by making headlines—the name Bing Flanagan was splashed in crimson like a bucket of spilled paint all over the English tabloids. They delighted in pointing out his relationship to the Falcon, which made Ma giddy with happiness. Reports were he’d had sex with some girl in a public place.

I called him from a phone booth on the beach in Rhode Island.

“Hello,” I said, my voice conveying a whole lot more than simple greeting.

“So?” he said.

“So? So, interesting headlines.”

His silence was a shrug.

“Bingo. You rogered some girl in a bar?”

“Yeah. No. We made out. It’s gotten so exaggerated.” His offhand manner was designed to deflect my accusatory tone. “Anyway, it’s not like it wasn’t consensual.”

“That’s hardly the issue.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Come on. What are you, an animal? Thanks, by the way. It’s really been a pleasure fending off all my friends.”

“Oh yeah, I know how easily offended the Andover and Brown crowd is,” he snorted.

“Give me a break. You sound like Ma. You don’t need to have a trust fund to be disgusted by what you did.”

“You couldn’t even tell. We were standing up. We were at the bar. Anyway, it didn’t go that far.”

“Well, apparently you weren’t quite as discreet as you thought.”

“Look. I’m not happy about it, but I’m telling you, nothing major happened. I was drinking. Things just got out of hand. I can’t help it if people in England are uptight about sex.” I couldn’t believe how casual he was being. Jesus, he didn’t even have the grace to be embarrassed.

“So this was a socially motivated act of civil disobedience? Score one for the revolution. . . .”

“In a way. Yeah.” He was obviously warming up to the idea—I envisioned him curling up in the nearest fuzzy armchair.

“Then it’s a proud day for the Flanagans. . . . Don’t you think maybe you’re pushing the irrepressible factor a little?”

“How’s the Falcon taking it?”

“Well, publicly he’s not dignifying the matter with comment, but privately he’s ready to dip you into a vat of burning oil. He summoned me to Cassowary, and I had to spend the whole weekend listening to him rage. Why don’t you come home and deal with him yourself? Why should I have to take all your flak?”

“Really? He’s that pissed?” Bingo wasn’t sounding quite so chipper. “What about Pop and Uncle Tom? Are they mad, too?”

“Well, it’s really fun listening to them review the teachings of the catechism by the hour. The two of them are hung up on the premarital sex part. Pop says it’s a venial sin—Tom’s arguing it’s a mortal sin and you need to go to confession or you’re going to go to hell.”

“What do you think?”

“I think I’m sick of listening to them tell me off instead of you. I’m not the one living like some low-rent playboy. Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of your life? It seems like every time I talk to you it’s because you’ve pulled another stupid stunt. Why can’t you just do what you’re supposed to do? You can start by coming home.”

I got off the phone with Bing, and first thing I did was call Pop.

“Pop, don’t you think something should be done about Bingo? He’s completely out of control. Where’s it going to end?”

“I agree with you, Collie. But what can I do?”

Faced with the throbbing bass line of Pop’s obliviousness and the perverse pride Ma took in Bingo’s antics, I decided it was up to me to talk to Bingo about his future. I was pretty earnest in those days.

It was midmonth, one of the warmest March days on record, and he was just back from England. We were on the beach with the dogs, and Bingo was riding Lolo, walking him along the shoreline, cooling him down. I was on foot, trailing alongside them, chirping ineffectively, struggling to keep up.

He was wearing jeans and sandals with work socks, miscellaneously topped off by a white T-shirt with a red plaid flannel shirt over it and Uncle Tom’s crazy old wool sweater tied around his waist. Bingo practiced a wayward form of cross-dressing—one part tony frat boy, the other part a jumbled paean to the nursing home.