Ring Game (38 page)

Carmen’s earliest memory of her father, Gerry Roman, was from when he had visited their home the day that picture had been taken. She remembered him as a cheerful man who had burst into their life with flowers and gifts and plans to buy a big house on a lake where they could all live together. He had been living in St. Louis, he told them, making it big in real estate, and now he had a deal going in the Twin Cities and he was about to get rich. After a lot of talking, Sophie had agreed to let him stay with them in Landfall, just for a few weeks while he put his big land deal together. It was a heady time. Carmen remembered going to the zoo, and to fancy restaurants, and to a lot of other places she had never been. Gerry Roman had got religion down in St. Louis, so they all joined St. Mary’s Catholic Church and Carmen began to attend catechism classes, where she had learned all about Adam and Eve and the ribs, and that men were made out of mud, and all about the Blessed Virgin Mary and the martyrs. Gerry had stayed with them for most of that summer until his land deal fell apart and he got into a drunken fight with Sophie and hit her and she stabbed him in the face with a paring knife and the cops came—that had been quite a night. A few months later they heard that Gerry Roman had died in an auto accident.

Carmen set the snapshot down on the table and stared at the image of her father. She hadn’t looked at the photo for a couple years, but it was true, what she had feared. He did look a lot like Hy Hilton. Not as if they were brothers or anything, but the same general format: tall, blond, and smiley. Carmen had once heard something about women marrying their fathers, meaning they married men who reminded them of their fathers. Maybe it was just something that happened, a fact of life over which she had no control. There were a lot of those things in her life. Usually she avoided thinking about them. Like the pregnancy test kit in the bathroom. Sophie had given it to her a week ago, and she still hadn’t got up the nerve to pee on the stick. Carmen let her mind spin off into areas having nothing to do with marriage or fertility. It landed on ice cream.

When Hyatt arrived home wearing his tuxedo, Carmen was sitting at the kitchen table wearing an apron over her wedding dress, drinking a bottle of beer, and eating French vanilla ice cream from a half gallon tub, and reading
Modern Bride.
She looked up at him.

“Look at you,” she said.

Hyatt said, “Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

“Is that the dress? That’s what you’re wearing?”

Carmen looked down at her dress. “This would be the dress,” she said. “Only without the apron. You’re not supposed to see it, you know.” She was feeling a bit more relaxed now, full of beer and ice cream.

“Stand up,” Hyatt said.

Carmen stood up. “Actually, we’re not even supposed to ride to the church together. We’re doing all kinds of stuff wrong, Hy.”

“That’s the wedding dress?”

“You want to know something? I don’t even know why we’re getting married.”

“That’s really the dress?”

Carmen plucked a cigarette from the pack on the table. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Hy.” She lit her cigarette. “We’re doing everything wrong.”

“You look like something out of a rock video. I thought we agreed that this was going to be a traditional wedding.”

“Traditional? What’s traditional? Getting married at an American Legion? You know what Sophie asked me? She asked me who was my maid of honor. I don’t
have
a goddamn maid of honor. I didn’t even get a freakin’ bridal shower.”

Hyatt couldn’t stop staring at the dress. It was white, but did not resemble a wedding dress in any other respect. In the first place, there wasn’t enough of it. The skirt was all but transparent, a filmy, ghostly dome of fabric sprinkled with small white explosions. Her midriff presented a startling expanse of uncovered flesh. Four thin white fabric chains ran from the waist of the skirt, crisscrossed her back, and ended at a two-inch-wide satin-covered choker. Two more fabric chains attached to the front of the choker provided structural support for a pair of jutting, conical breast cups somewhat reminiscent of a 1956 Cadillac bumper but looking more like a pair of space shuttle nose cones. An enormous white bow was anchored to the region of her tailbone.

Hyatt said, “I was kind of hoping for something more virginal, Carm. Something that would look sweet and innocent on TV.” He frowned. “I can see your underwear right through that thing.”

“I’ll wear pantyhose.”

Hyatt tried to imagine Carmen on TV. Maybe it would work. Maybe this outfit would look better on a twenty-six-inch color television screen. He imagined how it would look all torn and bloody. The rock video styling might turn out to be a plus. “I like the bow,” he said.

Carmen gave him her arched eyebrow, are-you-out-of-your-mind look.

“I hate the bow,” she said, cracking open another beer.

There were times when Crow would not have minded living a shorter life. He wished he could excise certain periods of time, such as most of the years he had spent playing policeman in Big River, or the last six months of his ill-fated marriage, or the times he had been sick with the flu, or hung over … or those last few hands in Las Vegas. If he could simply slice out the bad parts he would still be a young man. Maybe even a teenager if he were to cut out all the little dead periods between doing things he enjoyed and doing things he did not want to do. Like now, sitting out on the porch checking the time every five minutes waiting until it was time for him to pick up the limo and do his chauffeur thing for Axel. This was a part of his life he could do without. Milo sat on the railing staring at him, giving his tail a jerky twitch every few seconds.

Crow said, “I suppose you think I should be doing something productive, like feeding you.”

Milo’s eyes dilated slightly.

“Maybe I should open a pet shop. Sell cats. What do you think? What do you think you’d go for?”

Milo slashed the air with his tail.

“I’m talking to the goddamn cat,” said Crow.

Milo dropped softly from the railing to the porch floor and stalked back into the apartment.

“Now I’m talking to myself.” Crow heard the sound of clattering lifters. He looked down and saw a scarified blue Plymouth idling at the curb. The last time he’d seen that vehicle, his father’s rear end had been hanging out of the engine compartment. His perception was confirmed seconds later when Sam himself stepped out of the car wearing—Crow blinked—iridescent blue coveralls? No, it wasn’t coveralls, it was a suit. And what was wrong with his head? Crow experienced a moment of disorientation. Something wrong with his hair. No. No cap. Had he ever seen his father without a cap on his head?

He had now. Crow leaned over the railing. “Hey Sam! What’s going on?”

Sam looked up from the sidewalk, shaded his eyes with one hand, and grinned. “Son?”

“I’ve never seen you dressed up before. What’s the occasion?”

“Ax’s wedding.”

“You mean Carmen and Hyatt’s wedding?”

“Same thing.”

“It’s over on the other side of town. What are you doing here?” Crow asked.

Sam shrugged. He seemed embarrassed. “Got a
date
,” he said, setting his jaw in a way that dared Crow to contradict him.

Crow heard Debrowski’s door open. “Well, look at you!” he heard her say. “That is one handsome rag you got on there, Sam O’Gara. How am I going to keep the rest of the women away from you?”

It may have been a trick of the afternoon light, but Crow thought he saw his father blush.

Axel had seen Sophie in a tizzy before, but never quite like this. Bouncing from one end of the mobile home to the other, moving in short, sharp jerks like a wind-up doll or a character in a cheap animated cartoon. Her dress, a stiff, royal blue taffeta garment with pointy shoulders, seemed to be a fraction of a second slow—her body would move first, then the dress would have to do a frantic scramble to catch up. She stopped at the sink and washed the two dirty glasses, then zipped a few feet to her left and threw away the empty beer cans Sam had left on the counter. Axel could hardly follow her actual movements. She was doing this, then suddenly doing that, followed instantly by a swish of taffeta. She watered her coleus plant, examined her fingernails, talking the whole time but saying nothing, using her voice like a safety valve on a pressure cooker.

He watched her from his chair, hands clasping his knees, keeping his mouth shut even though he was about to explode himself. Axel looked at his watch, again. They were supposed to be at the church in thirty minutes. It was a ten-minute drive, but he liked to leave some extra time for the unexpected. Flat tires could happen anywhere, at any time. There could be a traffic jam. Besides, it never hurt to be early. Sophie knew how he felt about that, but here she was cleaning the kitchen and watering plants. Now she was looking at herself in the mirror. How many times had she done that in the last half hour? About as many times as Axel had looked at his watch. He wanted to say, “Let’s go,” but he was afraid that if he said it at the wrong moment, or in the wrong tone of voice, she would go
sproing
, and it would be all over.

Best to wait. Sophie wouldn’t want to be late for her daughter’s wedding. Any second now she would pick up that little beaded purse and look at him expectantly.

Axel had no longer had that thought than Sophie turned the full intensity of her narrow-eyed gaze upon him.

“What are you staring at?”

“Nothing,” Axel said.

“Nothing? Do you know how much I paid for this dress?”

“You look great,” Axel said. “You’ve never looked better.”

Sophie said, “Huh!” and turned away, but she looked pleased. After another minute or two of nervous puttering, she grabbed her purse.

“What are we waiting for?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said Axel. “Not a thing.”

In the future, physical aging will be considered an eccentricity, an embarrassment, a form of pointless self-destructive behavior. Perhaps even an art form.

—“Amaranthine Reflections” by Dr. Rupert Chandra

“
I’M NOT WEARING THE HAT,
” Crow said.

They were standing beside one of Bigg’s white limousines. At ten o’clock in the morning the air was already uncomfortably warm and moist. Crow was wearing his only suit, a navy-blue tropical worsted he had bought last summer for Tommy Fabian’s funeral. Tommy, one of Sam and Axel’s old friends, had been the only other man at that small gathering to be wearing a suit. This was the first time since that dreary day that Crow had worn the thing. A year ago it had fit him perfectly. Now it was tight around the chest and shoulders, but it looked great next to the thing Bigg was sporting—a gray herringbone sport coat with black leather detailing on the lapel points and pocket flaps, buttons made from Mexican coins, and a red carnation pinned to the lapel. It fit him so snugly that his every movement was accompanied by the faint sounds of threads parting.

“You want to drive an Arling Biggie limousine, you wear the hat.” Bigg set the navy-blue chauffeur cap on Crow’s head. “This is a class operation. I got a reputation.” He laughed.

“Yeah, right. Speaking of class, how’s Beaut doing?”

“He’s limping along. You sure you got a chauffeur’s license?”

“I got one,” Crow growled. He slid onto the driver’s seat.

“Mind if I take a look at it?”

Crow said, “Yes.” He slammed the door.

Bigg knocked on the glass; Crow lowered the window and raised his eyebrows.

“Watch those right turns,” Bigg said. “I’m holding you responsible for damages to this vehicle.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Crow said. He only had to drive the thing a few miles. Pick up Carmen and Hyatt, deliver them to the American Legion, and then drop them at the Radisson after the reception. What could go wrong?

Driving out of the parking lot, he missed the curb cut with his rear wheels and nearly clipped a utility pole. He heard Bigg shout something.

“Watch those right turns,” Crow muttered to himself. He tossed the chauffeur cap out onto the street.

Chuckles laughed. Even from fifty yards away he could see the vein pop out on Bigg’s forehead as he shouted at the guy in the limo. The man had no self-control—yelling and shaking his fist even after the guy was long gone; nothing much he could do. Chuckles pushed the last of the longjohn into his mouth and smiled as he chewed.

One of the things that had helped him do his bid in Stillwater was the fact that he was slow to anger, especially if he had a full stomach. A guy bumped him in line, or gave him some shit, or looked at him wrong, Chuckles wouldn’t lose his cool. He wouldn’t even
feel
angry. Not right away. For Chuckles, anger began as a dull ache, barely felt, that would get bigger and hotter until it filled him up, swelling his throat and turning his eyes red at the corners. It sneaked up on him. Sometimes he didn’t even know he was mad until he saw himself in a mirror, or noticed that his lips hurt from being squeezed tight together.

That morning, when Bigg had been pressing the barbell down against his chest, Chuckles had felt fear and discomfort, but he had not been angry. He had seen Bigg as a force of nature, a sudden thunderstorm, or an earthquake. It was all about understanding one’s own psychology. No point in getting upset.

But that was then. Now, as Chuckles watched Bigg from his Corvette, he let the anger begin to flow. His mind became a flickering catalog of jailhouse revenge: the sharpened spoon handle between the ribs, the hand in the license plate press, the lightbulb up the ass. He allowed himself to imagine each of these acts, like watching TV, and felt the heat in his throat. That was how it had been in prison, coming on slow, giving him time to plan, to channel that sweet, hot energy.

He watch Bigg get into the white limousine, back it out of its parking stall, pull out onto the street. Chuckles dropped the vette into gear and followed.

Rupert Chandra heard a woman’s voice: “Now Mister Chandra, you behave yourself.” He felt sharp nails digging into his wrists. Everything was black, and he did not know where he was, and his entire body ached. He tried to speak, but his mouth wasn’t working. He heard a noise like a moan coming from his throat.