Sex and Death in the American Novel (2 page)

My mother took another drag on the cigarette. “Your father loved you, Vivianna,” she said to move things back to her favorite topic. “He left you the cabin, and Oliver.”

Oliver was the Olivetti typewriter on which my father (as far as the public was concerned) composed
Ivy
. Several people and institutions had offered to
purchase it from my mother. I called it Oliver as a child and it stuck. That damn typewriter had its own personality in our family discussions. If it went anywhere it would be to the bottom of the lake. She still worshipped my father despite his philandering, despite never once apologizing for it, despite the divorce. Despite not calling for her before he died. I know for certain he wouldn't have been the big deal he was if he didn't have her to type up his manuscripts for him, leaving him free to think up, improve, and nurse his great ideas. Her hard work gave him more time to read, to imagine. To sneak around. She helped him much more than he ever acknowledged.

“I know that. I do.” I placed my hand on her arm to lend sincerity to my words. “You can still love a person and know they are flawed. Dad was an asshole.” I turned back to my brother again. “Tristan, you know I am right.”

“Mom, do we have to do this every time we get together?” he said.

I wouldn't let her answer. “Here's what I know: he loved me until I turned thirteen and started to bleed. After that he quit taking me seriously. I didn't get to go hunting. I didn't get to spend time with him in his office anymore discussing important manly shit. Forgive me for not wanting to remember him as a saint. I am the only member of this family that has any concept of what the truth looks like. I came on this trip to get my dear brother out of his room, and watch him meet Jasper Caldwell. That's it.”

Tristan's heavy hand rested on my shoulder for a second, I glanced back at him. That familiar look passed between us; he'd only heard me rail about this a million times. He was there when my father sent me away saying, “Vivianna, be a good girl and let me have some time alone with your brother.”

A good girl, I was twenty-six when he died. Tristan sat next to me in a hard hospital chair, an understanding look on his face, but I knew then he was still grateful our father chose him, as he always did. Tristan wouldn't have given up the opportunity to be with him in his last moments, neither would I if things had been reversed. I guess I am lucky that his new wife even called to tell me the end was near. The trophy, as I called her. She proved she wasn't all bad.

“Why did you come along if you were going to be in such a surly mood?” my mother asked.

Tristan made a clucking sound from the back seat. When I turned he let out a long breath before turning toward the window. He put one thick forefinger to the condensation on the window and drew a smiley face.

“Mom, is it absolutely necessary that I participate in the plot to destroy all pleasure reading?” I said.

She lifted her finger and opened her mouth, but I interrupted her.

“And I would be fine if you would stop trying to get me to talk about Dad. Okay?”

“Alright,” she said, taking a breath and letting it out with a grand raise and lowering of her thin shoulders. She turned on the radio and when Stravinsky's festive notes poured through the car speakers I opened my notebook again.

At dinner Saturday night we sat and hashed out the events of the day, the classes, the personalities, the scenery. Tristan spent most of the dinner reading or looking toward the table by the podium where Jasper—looking much less lively than his jacket photo—sat with several other people.

The dining hall had high, vaulted ceilings with uncut logs shooting out at angles above our heads. Giant picture windows afforded the view of the sun setting behind the snowy blue mountains to accompany our dining. All the tables were clothed in white and the candleholders were decorated with pinecones. Tristan worked one around in his free hand while holding a book open with his thumb and pinkie. His hair sat at the nape of his neck, tied in a loose bun, the way his mother, Dad's first wife, had worn hers in old photos. Tristan didn't do it as neatly; there were pieces of hair sticking out at odd angles. He wore jeans, his thick work boots and a crisp white shirt, red tie and black jacket.

After the pretty waiter with the long braided hair took my plate, I sipped my watery coffee and turned to my brother.

I reached out and pulled the book—Jasper's first, a book called
Filial
—away from him.

He sat back and let out a breath with his hands up. “Fine.”

“Talk to me,” I said putting my hand out. “I haven't seen you since Christmas.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to finish this before I meet Jasper. I thought maybe I could talk to him about it.”

“Likely he'll be very busy, dear,” my mother said.

“I can be quick.” He ran his hand over the tablecloth. “These conferences are such a joke. You know, I've been listening to people talk.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Half the people here don't even write every day. That lady in the buffet line yesterday, she thinks she's going to be on
Ellen
with this sappy memoir about watching her mother die of cancer. Like no one else has ever done that.”

“Try to relax,” my mother said.

Tristan scrunched up his nose and cocked his head, then let out an irritated sound.

My mother eyed the empty podium and looked at her watch. She pursed her glossy cream-colored lips, clasped her hands in front of her and stared at them, waiting for his attitude to blow over. Tristan made another face, but kept silent. I could see by the way he held his mouth he could have said something, but was no doubt trying to make an effort. All weekend his
anger came from nowhere, and each time he was apologetic. My mother looked like she was getting used to it.

“Which one is he?” I asked to change the subject.

Tristan pointed toward the group of people at the table. “I told you, Jasper's over there, the one between the slick-looking guy in the dark suit and that other dude that looks like he escaped from the seventies.”

“That's Robert Conner,” my mother said. “He runs the conference. He was an acquaintance of your father's.”

“Wasn't everyone?” Tristan said.

“That pale, bored-looking Jasper looks like just the right guy to write
Forests
,” I said.

Tristan turned to me. “So you did read it!”

“Um, yeah. I just posted a review on my blog in fact. I definitely recommend the book if someone needs a sleep aid.”

“What? That book was brilliant…his use of color, imagery, word repetition. It was all so well thought out. I could read it again…I will read it again and I'm sure I'll find even more to love about it.” Tristan stared.

“What can I tell you? All the stuff you love was the stuff that made it insufferable.”

“No accounting for a person's interpretation of art,” my mother said.

“I read the first page three times trying to figure out what was going on. After I got used to all the effects, the colors, I gave up trying to enjoy it, and just pushed through so I could say I read it. For you. Give me some credit. I tried in a big way. At least your precious Vollmann handles topics I can get excited about. He gets it; this guy is just too…too, perfect.” My brother tried to interrupt and I said, “Those are hours I will never get back. A Brazilian wax job performed by a newly released sex offender would have been less painful.”

I thought I heard my mother giggle, but when I turned to her she wore a serious expression with an arched eyebrow. “He's very talented, that must have been obvious to you Vivianna. I raised you to at least—”

I jumped in, “Oh, I do see that. Imagery like that, of course it takes time to think up. Figuring out what words will fit and make the right chimes or notes or whatever. Sure. It probably took him as long to write that opening paragraph as it took me to write my last short story, shop it around and see it published. That kind of makes the whole thing even more depressing, doesn't it?”

“So tell us, Vivianna, how come you need to write smut for the vaginally challenged?” Tristan asked.

“No need to get defensive, I'm just being honest. Sorry if I offended the honor of your true love.”

“That is a good question. I had hoped that you would grow out of this and turn your attention to something more meaningful, more fulfilling,” my mother said.

“Who says I am not fulfilled? I have people who write to me on my blog, who come to see me when I sign books—”

“At the dirty bookstore,” Tristan piped in.

“Anyway, does it matter? I am doing what I want. I have fun. I would rather have that than a stuck-up Book Award or precious Fellowship any day.”

Both of them were looking at me like they didn't believe me. They still thought the only reason I wrote what I did was to piss my father off. Neither one got why I still did it after he died. Never mind the contract. Never mind getting paid. Never mind what I wanted.

“Look, I don't just write gay erotica anymore. What can I say, I made a name for myself. And why does it matter if the characters are gay, or straight or whatever. Even Dad would agree that writing about love and all that shit is just as important as anything else. There are no authors out there, except for a very few, like Marco Vassi, that even come close to addressing the way people can be together without making the subject of sex sound like a dirty secret.” I gave Tristan an exaggerated look of triumph. “You gave me
The Stoned Apocalypse
. This is your fault.”

My mother passed looks across the table to Tristan. Once again I ignored them and made my case, it gave us something to do. A familiar routine.

My mother spoke up, “You've been writing for a while now, Vivianna. Don't you think it is time to move past this need to write so explicitly about something most people don't really want to read about?”

I gave her my most crooked stare. “Most people? Really? How come my last e-book sold five hundred copies in the first month?” Her face registered no understanding. I was going to give up, keep quiet, be good, but the familiar frustration with my mother's unrelenting disapproval got the better of me as always. “How can I move past something that makes me happy, that I do well?”

“I'm proud of you,” Tristan said, with a too chipper sound in his voice. He had sent stories to hundreds of magazines, taken two years out of his life to study writing and taught for several years after that, and had only published four or five pieces in all that time. I knew he probably hated me for doing something in so little a time that he'd been laboring to do for years.

My mother leaned behind me to Tristan and said, “There's a big difference between the sort of people who publish experimental fiction and those that publish,” she paused, “other things.”

My mother took a long drink of her wine. “Vivi, you're going to be the end of me. What do you think the people who knew your father think? I keep hoping this will be something you give up, and you continue to push it; I imagine you persist just to get under my skin. You have no concept of what it's like in my world, how people talk.”

I smiled, enjoying the image of those discussions. I had actually seen a fair amount of them in my time. I knew exactly what they said about me. The way they said the words
commercial
or
mainstream
with contempt—and underneath, an envy they tried and always failed to mask entirely.

“Hello, Francine.” Robert Conner stood before us, sporting the bushiest sideburns I'd ever seen. “How are you all this evening?”

My mother extended her hand and he sat in an empty chair next to her. “We are lovely. Just lovely. How are you? How is the guest of honor over there?”

“Not a big talker…that one,” Robert said, looking toward the table where he had just been sitting with Jasper. He turned back to us. “Glad everyone could make it out for this. We're very excited to have him here.”

We all nodded and smiled. Robert pulled up a chair next to my mother. I turned back to Tristan. “You should go over and talk to him. He's right there, not doing anything.”

Tristan acted as if I'd suggested he go over there and take a dump right on the table. “Oh, no. I bet he's trying to prepare…or something…” He started working his hands into fists and shook his head.

“Yes, dear.” My mother leaned past me. “Now might be a good time to approach him at that.”

My brother's only response was to shake his head, look down at his book and frown.

His reaction was intense and out of character. My brother was generally the most self-assured person I knew, or had been when he was in a band. Too many years alone with his books and his laptop must have fried any sense of connection to the real world.

My mother gave me a confused look, and I shrugged. Robert frowned as well and we all three sat there a moment while Tristan no doubt hoped we'd move off the topic.

For some way to get the conversation going again, I said to Robert, “Don't you still teach at the U of M?”

“Yes, a poetry course and a study in the work of some of my favorite authors: George Bataille, Celine, Andre Breton, ee Cummings, Kafka… Burroughs. I'm sure I'm missing a few here.”

“What about Henry Miller?” I asked.

“Of course, of course. I knew I left out someone important.” Robert smiled.

I smiled back, glad to be part of the conversation. “I'm so glad to hear that. I think he's gotten a bad rap.”

“Indeed.” Robert gave me an approving look. “For some reason the survey isn't as popular as I would like.”

Nods around the table, and an apologetic smile was all I could offer.

“Glad to see you aren't limiting the study to the French.” My mother sipped her wine. “My son is working on something experimental,” she said, addressing Robert and smiling at Tristan.

I said, “I thought we were going to come up with a category that sounded less
important
, more
cool
. Like Mind-bending Speculative or Hipster Linguism, or some other ism…”

He rolled his eyes. “Still the only description that sounds right.”

“What's this now, the great author's son is following in his footsteps?” Robert asked Tristan.