I'm with Stupid (34 page)

Manuel, not realizing at first that the music has died, continues to fake-play. When it dawns on him what’s happened, he lowers the bow but continues to stand in the middle of the stage, bewildered—he might was well have his pants down. He looks to his right but finds no help there. He looks to his left. Same problem. He looks down at the fiddle, probably hoping it will begin the melody of its own accord, like something out of a Grimm Brothers tale. He again touches the bow against the strings, then hesitates. He opens then closes his mouth, he looks up, he looks down, then back up again. His eyes widen. I can see that he doesn’t know what to do next. The spotlight is slowly being moved off him—it is a thief who, having robbed Manuel of his dignity, is now creeping away from the scene of the crime. Manuel takes two steps left. At first I think he is going to walk off stage. In fact, he is just following the spotlight. He is not yet done with it. He must know that if he does not make a decision quickly the spotlight will be turned off and the curtain will be pulled, clumsily ending his career as a misunderstood fake fiddler. But what decision is there to make? I have a feeling there will be no more music tonight. Manuel again begins fake-playing, without the benefit of music, and opens his mouth to the size of a pothole. What is he doing now, miming? As the spotlight begins to again sneak away, hoping no one, including the audience, notices, Manuel chases it to stage left, gives Libby a quick look, and starts to sing Ave Maria in Latin while continuing to move the bow inches from the strings. The stoplight has no choice but to surrender. It finds him once more. Oh for the love of God.

As Manuel finishes with Ave Maria the spotlight periodically bobs up and down. Whether this is a sign of anger or amusement on the part of the stoplight operator is unclear. He could be shaking with laughter or trembling with loathing. The curtain falls soundlessly. Even it is speechless. I look behind me at little Teddy, who’s managed to stuff the yo-yo into his mouth, like a gag.

Manuel runs over after the play and informs Libby that he panicked when the music cut out. Max stands up and stretches. “Yeah you did,” he agrees. Manuel breathlessly continues: “It was as though my entire life were passing before my eyes. It was a subconscious response, a primal instinct, a volcanic eruption of the id . . .” My father shakes his head. Singing Ave Maria during a production of
Fiddler on the Roof
is not part of any human instinct he can think of. That wasn’t acting, that was overreacting. I sit back down in my chair. Manuel must be so embarrassed. What a faux pas. “. . . What an invigorating moment,” he marvels, undeterred. “I feel as though I could fly. To save the production in such a manner, it was an absolute triumph. I am a true improvisator . . .” Well, I guess he doesn’t embarrass easily. Now, why am I not surprised?

The director storms past and tells Manuel never to show his face again. “I should have went with the schizo,” he barks, “it would have been more predictable.” When the director notices Libby he smiles. She, as always, looks great in a skirt and heels. Libby politely waves to the director. When Manuel sees that the director is flirting with Libby he gets jealous. He methodically peels off his mustache and tells Libby to excuse him for one moment. He follows the director and covers his back with curses as if from a spray-paint can. “You are an ungrateful swine,” he tells him. “You would have been a laughingstock had it not been for me. I saved your production. And now here you are coveting my dearly beloved . . .”

A man seated across the aisle tells his companion that he appreciated the director’s postmodern take on an old classic. He must teach at the community college, part-time. My mother, clutching her purse, gets up to go to the bathroom. My father goes with her. Libby turns to me as soon as they are out of earshot. She needs a cigarette. I’m right behind her. I ask if she has perfume in her purse. I can’t stink when we get back. She opens her purse and shows me two bottles. I guess that’s a yes. Now all we have to do is hurry up. I inform the boys that we are going to the little girls’ room. Max calls us cancer patients; he knows where we are going. Phillip takes Max’s hand and places it on his own crotch. Max jerks his hand away. “Whoop, daddy!” he calls out. “Didn’t expect that!” William opens the laptop and starts typing. Henryk leans over for a look. I wouldn’t do that if I were him. He’s liable to turn to stone.

“Well, that was priceless,” I say when we get outside. Libby puts a cigarette in her mouth and hands me one. We are making our way to the side of the building when I spot my parents. Shit. I impulsively stuff the cigarette in my pocket. She pees fast. My mother turns around. She is exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke when our eyes lock. My father notices me and smiles as my mother drops the cigarette. He extinguishes it with a crutch. I hurry over and ask what she’s doing. My mother shakes her head: Nothing. “What nothing? You smoke?” I ask loudly. The couple standing next to her turns around. I point a finger at my mother: “You do!” She puts her foot over the butt and tells me not to be so silly. My father steps up and advises her to come clean. It’s not nice to lie to children. My mother takes her foot off the cigarette. The evidence! I stare in disbelief. “You are such a hypocrite,” I say. “You have been tormenting me for years and now here you are smoking. What do you think you’re doing, Mom?”

My father answers on her behalf. Obviously she needs a spokesperson, possibly a lawyer. He explains that she didn’t want to get me addicted. She meant well. My mother seems frazzled. She bites her lip. “But I was right all along,” she says, trying to deflect attention from herself. “You do smoke.” I put my hand back in my pocket as Libby smokes her cigarette. I begin to lie. No, I don’t smoke. She challenges me: “Then why are you out here in the cold, without a jacket no less, if you don’t smoke?” I gesture in Libby’s direction: She smokes; I just came outside to keep her company; I’m trying to get her on the patch; I read that it works.

For some reason I can’t bring myself to admit to my mother that I smoke. Lying about not smoking is a habit, like smoking, that I can’t easily break. Our relationship is built around it. Lying about not smoking is the first thing I think about in the morning. I think about it after a meal, I think about it after I’ve had a few drinks . . .

“I would never lie to you,” I lie to my mother. “I have never even tried a cigarette. But you . . . you are . . .”

She nonchalantly informs me that my father smokes, too. He’s the one who got her hooked. She’s not going down alone.

I lean into my father: “Now you smoke?” He tells me that that’s a bit of an exaggeration. He rarely smokes. I accuse them both of being liars. Why didn’t they tell me this sooner? He answers that I never asked, which means it wasn’t a lie. It was more of an oversight on my part. I should be more inquisitive.

My mother clears her throat. “Here comes your brother,” she says, putting her foot over the butt. “Don’t tell him that your father smokes. He would get the wrong idea.” She is as good at denying the truth as I. We have so much in common. We are peas in a pod.

My brother pushes open the glass doors, his cap pulled low over his eyes. He isn’t wearing a jacket. As soon as he sees us he stuffs something into his pocket and strolls over. Are you kidding me? These people are ridiculous. Do I even know them anymore? He comes up and nervously asks what we are doing outside. Libby takes a drag off her cigarette while I explain that we are getting fresh air and discussing life’s coincidences. My brother glances at Libby. “Libby, I didn’t know you smoke,” he offers. I didn’t know you smoke, Henryk, I think to myself.

My brother looks at me.

My parents look at my brother.

I look at my mother.

My entire family came outside to smoke cigarettes but none of us can smoke cigarettes because we are all trying to hide the fact that we smoke. Libby discards her cigarette and asks if we’d like to go back inside. She’s a little chilly. My father puts his arm around my mother. “Let’s go,” he says with a smirk.

Back in the auditorium the fake author is still glued to his computer screen. We collect our coats and the rest of the posse and make our way toward the doors, where an angry Manuel is now standing with his uncle. Unless we crawl through an airshaft there’s no avoiding our buddy. Manuel’s uncle, who really does look to be a kind man, puts his arm on Manuel’s shoulder. Manuel throws it off impatiently. The uncle shakes his head. “Manuel, you must accept that you have been disinherited,” he tells him. Manuel shouts that he is to be called Bob Apple from now on. Max perks up. “Disinherited?” he repeats before racing over to them. He puts his hands in his pockets and stands on tiptoes. “Whacha talkin’ ’bout?” he asks. A flushed Manuel instructs him to mind his own business. Well, that’s not going to happen. My mother and father leave. They’ll be in the car, running the heat.

Max pushes on, mentioning that Manuel told us that his father was busted for drugs. Is that related to him getting disinherited? A deep wrinkle forms between the uncle’s eyebrows. “He said that?” he asks. He turns to Manuel and begins to lecture him. How could he say such things about drugs? As a Mexican he should be more responsible. Manuel counters that he never said that. In fact, he said the opposite. His father did not stuff socks with cocaine. His father was not a weapons attaché. The uncle grows impatient. “This has to stop,” he tells Manuel and begins berating him. He refuses to contribute to the stereotype that Mexicans are criminals or worse, druggies. “For the sake of your mother,” he urges, “please make your peace here and now. Stop inventing. It is not healthy. You must move on. Do not be ashamed.” Manuel snaps that he is not ashamed, the uncle should be ashamed after what he did. Max pipes up: “What are we ashamed of? Can I know?”

Manuel looks at Libby. I tell William to go work on his book. “I’ve been working so hard,” he complains. “I’m going to need a quickie soon.” An old lady walks by. She stares at William, her lower lip trembling from age, and perhaps emotion. William glances at her. He’s not sure what the problem is and smiles, then goes to find a seat.

Manuel begins to explain that his father is not involved in drugs—and stresses that he never actually said that, Max did. Tube socks are in fact big business. You don’t need to stuff them with anything but feet. When we met him in South Africa he was getting ready to inherit the business—socks, not drugs. He was going to be set up for life: peacocks, heliport, and so on and so on.

“Right,” Max says. “And then the factory burned down, we know.” Manuel shakes his head. “It didn’t?” Max asks.

Manuel clarifies: “It did, and that was certainly devastating. But of course we had insurance. What business doesn’t? That is not quite the whole story.”

Manuel explains that the day the family returned from South Africa, Manuel’s father, already eager to retire, began the process of turning over the business. But there was one formality. A mandatory DNA test. Manuel had his blood drawn then went poolside to count his chickens before they hatched. Three days later the factory burned down, and on the same day the test results came back. The problem was that the test showed that Manuel’s father was not really his father, he couldn’t be. Learning this, the man who thought he was Manuel’s father approached his wife, Manuel’s mother, for answers. And that’s when the shit hit the fan. After Manuel’s mother made her confession her husband sent her and Manuel on a one-way trip out of town. The factory is being rebuilt, bigger and better, rising from ash at this very moment. The only thing that permanently went up in smoke was Manuel’s mother’s credibility, not to mention her only son’s identity. She had had an affair nearly eighteen years ago and never told her husband, who thought the child she delivered was his.

“I received the news about the DNA results just as I was returning from the site of the fire,” he says. “That’s the part I failed to mention at Leona’s.”

I glance behind me at William, now sitting on one of the folding chairs in the last row, busy staring at the computer screen. This might be something he’d like to write down; Manuel’s biography seems back on track. Libby puts her hands on her curvy hips. She admits she doesn’t get it: What’s going on? Max poses the next question: “So, then, your father is not your father?” Manuel shakes his head and points at his uncle the failed entertainer failed dishwasher failed restaurant manager. “This,” he says, “is my father. He is my uncle’s brother.” This admission seems to melt the uncle’s heart. Finally Manuel is coming around. He puts his arm around his son. When Manuel again pushes it off he tells Manuel that he’ll wait outside and reminds him that he needs to accept his fate. “Your mother and I love each other very much. We always have,” he adds. “We plan to be together for the rest of our lives now that this is all over.” Manuel calls him a ne’er-do-well.

Max pipes up: “So, the bottom line is that you are . . .” Manuel touches the bow tie of his tuxedo. “Yes, that is correct,” Manuel says, raising his chin in a dignified manner. “I am a bastard.” I look at Henryk and shake my head. He was right, there was more to Manuel’s story. Hearing this from Manuel’s mouth, Max begins to laugh like I’ve never seen him laugh before. He can’t even stand. He’s doubled over. His cowboy hat falls off. “Cheer up, Manuel!” he snorts. “Everyone already knew you were a bastard. This is not even news!” Libby hits Max. She tells him to be nice. “I am being nice,” he says. “This actually redeems Manuel as far as I’m concerned.” He shakes his head. “A bastard,” he repeats to himself.

Libby walks up to Manuel and gives him an unexpected kiss on the forehead, leaving a red lipstick mark. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” she says. “But you’ll be okay.” Evidently she’s been moved by the fact that Manuel is now, officially, a poor bastard.

He takes a step back and touches the spot where Libby kissed him. “You kissed me,” he says. “Can I have your telephone number?”

Libby dismisses him. “You’re too young for me, no.”

“I’m eighteen now,” Manuel protests. “Allow me to take you flamenco dancing in Saint Tropez. We could—” She cuts him off. She doesn’t want to go to St. Tropez. Or Acapulco, or anyplace else. “Then we’ll partake in an American activity. I shall purchase cholesterol-ridden foodstuffs from a local take-out emporium. Whatever is your desire. We can dine with plastic utensils and consume unhealthy volumes of condiments. I believe I am allergic to mustard but it is a risk I am willing to take.”