The Portable Veblen (33 page)

“The rejections I’ve received have been, by no means, definitive,” he mumbled to himself, hanging upside down, lulled by the rhythm of the declaration.
“The rejections I’ve received have been, by no means, definitive.”

Millie was abruptly taken out of South Humboldt High and sent to a private girls’ school in Tacoma, Washington. Paul sent many letters but received no reply. And to this day, the word
cheat
had the power to undo him. He even tremored at any word that sounded remotely like it, such as
cheetah
and
Chee-tos
. He never heard a word of what happened to her, until the information was digitized.

      16

N
EVER
THE
S
AME
A
GAIN

P
aso Robles was crisp and bright the morning Veblen and the squirrel ventured over to Sunny Hill to visit Rudgear. Up a quiet street, where the mad could free-range in pajamas. A trailer court and an underfunded animal shelter frowned from the other side of the road. Surrounded by a carpet of brittle oak leaves, the archipelago of lime green buildings for the mentally unbalanced had been built around 1965.

Skill-building groups, general activities, small therapy groups, community meetings, physical and recreational activities, were idealized ways to describe what Rudgear was offered there. Every year his psychiatrist received, from any number of pharmaceutical companies, including Hutmacher, several all-expenses-paid vacations at conferences in luxurious resorts. In between his vacations he’d come by and sign off, with a quick blink, Rudgear’s list of nineteen meds, a third of them redundant and unnecessary.

“Okay,” Veblen informed the squirrel. “I’ll leave the window open, and I might be awhile, but you’ll be all right, won’t you?
And then I’ll bring you back to Palo Alto where you belong. For all I know you have a family there.”

The squirrel settled back comfortably into the corner, radiating consent.

She removed the bags of supplies from the trunk and applied herself to her task, entering the building with practiced calm. In no corner of the complex was it possible to escape the aroma of institutional cuisine—creamed corn, tubs of sloppy joe, acidic apple juice, canned fruit cocktail, defrosted nuggets of fried chicken or fish sticks.

“Veblen, how you doing?” asked Bebe Kaufman, who always wore a running suit and a set of keys on a long black cord around her neck.

“Fine, how about you?”

“’Bout the same. Your father fell in the hallway yesterday, didn’t have his shoes on right. He bleeds and bruises; he’s lucky his bones are strong.”

“Any changes in the medications?”

“No, everything’s the same. His diabetes is under control, and no hallucinations in a long while. But when he’s scared, boy, do I feel bad for him. He’s been peaceful lately. He’s a real gentleman.”

Veblen held up her bags. “I brought all the stuff—two new pairs of pajamas, three pairs of drawstring pants, new socks, all the toothpaste and powder. Oh, and that coccyx pillow.”

“Nice girl,” said Bebe, whose approval Veblen mysteriously sought. “I’ll put it down on his inventory.”

She marched down the hall to see her father, past custodians in their whites on chairs in a break room, mops at rest against the door. Past a woman with chattering teeth in a purple velour robe
in a wheelchair. Past a small, round man peering from inside his room, wearing no more than a white undershirt and shorts and shin-high brown socks with holes at the toes. Around a corner with a lithograph of a beagle fetching a ball in a baseball diamond, past a woman who looked like an ancient contessa with sharp noble features, who always wore lipstick, to an elevator that descended to a floor of all men. An attendant paced the hall with a wad of keys on his belt.

Father.
It had a much more nebulous definition than
mother
. In this case it was a name, a shadow, aiming darts at her from the darkness.

She drifted in like a stray feather. No use startling him, deep in his chair, watching the History channel.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, kiddo.” He had green eyes like hers, but his skin was pinker, and he was bald and had scabs on his head, some of which were protected by gauze. His polo shirt, white with blue stripes, had been laundered so much it was see-through, yet stained everywhere, even on the sleeves, and his brown sweatpants had turned a sickly yellow color, probably thrown in with bleach. A framed picture of Veblen with her arm around him sat atop his bureau (she’d given it to him), and several versions of Van Gogh’s sunflowers on laminated placemats were taped to the wall by his bed.

She came over to the chair and gave him a kiss. He gave her a kiss back. Then he continued with his show, about Normandy and D-day.

“They just showed a guy talking about the blood pooling under the trees, and now those trees are huge. Blood meal. He was run
over by a tank and lost his legs. Of course, those kids’ll never be the same mentally, they won’t be right.”

Veblen nodded. It was one of his manias to end nearly every story: “He was never the same again.” “She was never the same again.”

“So I came down with a squirrel in the car,” she told him.

“Oh, really?” He loved animals.

“Do you want to see him?”

“Okeydoke.”

“Okay. We’ll go look in a minute. I want to tell you something. I have some news. You ready?”

She sat next to his chair, on the edge of the bed, but he looked a bit scared.

“Yeah, what’s that? You win the lottery?”

“No, but it looks like I’m getting married.”

His chest caved in.

“Dad? Did you hear me?”

He peered at her sidelong. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. I only wanted to tell you.”

“Marriage is not my forte.”

“Maybe it’ll be mine.”

“I hope so, kiddo,” he said. “I didn’t have much luck.”

She got up and breathed deeply and walked a few times around the room. To change the mood, she retrieved the bag of treats and dangled the peanut-butter-filled pretzels and soft licorice before his eyes.

“Oh, goody,” he said.

He was not supposed to eat foodstuffs from the outside, but
Veblen always snuck in the licorice and pretzels because he loved them so much.

“Don’t let the warden see,” he said.

“Want some juice too?”

“Yep.”

She poured the juice into a coffee cup and watched TV with him awhile. More footage of D-day, GIs pouring from landing crafts onto the sand.

“There’s no such thing as a good war,” he said.

She nodded thoughtfully.

“You know what I did in Vietnam?” he rasped.

“What?”

“Killed women and children.”

“Tell me about your friend Ybahn and the Montagnards,” Veblen coaxed.

“They were the sweetest little people, but we ruined them—the whole culture. They were never the same, they lost everything.”

“But those stories about the big feasts they’d make you, I like those.”

“I think so.”

That was all he managed. There was a time when talking about the Montagnards, the tribal hill people of Vietnam who furtively helped the U.S. military during the war, provided relief from his more troubled recollections.

“Paul, the man I’m going to marry, is a doctor, and works with vets.” As soon as she said this, she felt sad. Was this marriage thing going to work or not?

“I can sure use some help,” said her father.

“I’m sure.”

Another stick of soft licorice went in, blackening his lips and tongue.

“Dad, do you remember your parents speaking Norwegian when you were growing up?”

“Nope,” he said.

If she could only ask the right questions, to unlock him!

“Did they ever tell you anything about their childhoods?”

He reached for another licorice stick, chewed awhile. “Nope. We had some kids in the neighborhood, got mixed up with some rough guys, talked them into robbing a store. They were caught, thrown in jail. When they came out, boy, they were never the same again.”

Veblen nodded. She patted her father’s arm, where he had a large shiny scar, and realized she didn’t know its origin. It was a puzzle to imagine him and her mother hanging around together, but according to records, they shared the same address in Sacramento for about six weeks in a newlyweds’ apartment full of useless wedding gifts, like fondue kits and lazy Susans, drinking and brawling into the night, all youthful and fecund and feral faced, cherry lipped and flushed, annihilating their woes in carnal plenitude.
They were never the same again.

“So, Dad, you’ve got some nice new pajamas and some new pants and socks. Anything else you need?”

“I could use one of those—those things, those long things.”

“What long things?”

“I don’t know what they’re called. They’re—very long.” He motioned with his hands.

She looked around the room for clues. “What do you use them for?”

“I don’t know, Veblen. I need some air!”

She stood up and paced the room. “Sorry, Dad.” She fiddled about, trying to make improvements for him. She opened the window for fresh air, pulled back the heavy curtain for more light. She straightened a picture she’d given him, of tigers. He loved tigers. She wandered into his bathroom and neatened it, wiping droplets of urine off the toilet rim and some hairs out of the sink. Back in the room, she hung up a few of his sweatshirts and placed his tired old caps on hooks. He looked at her then and jutted his hand. “More, please.”

“Want to go outside for a little while? It’s a beautiful day.”

“Not really.”

“Let’s go outside for five minutes, the sun will feel good.”

“All right.”

He rose abruptly, pretzel crumbs powdering the floor, the dandruff of food. “I’m quite a sight.”

“You look good,” she said, gently taking his arm.

She moved him slowly toward his door. “Straighten up,” she reminded him. He pulled his chest up. “Good.”

Arm in arm they took the hall, heading for the serviceable garden courtyard. Outside they sat on a concrete bench in the shade. Primrose and four-o’clocks and a small burbling fountain did what they could to lend some cheer.

“This is a pretty nice place,” he said. “Did you hear we had some excitement?”

“No, what happened?”

“We had a van parked across the street for weeks, and my buddy down the hall, Bob, called the police, couldn’t get a word out of ’em. And Bob has a friend whose daughter is a secretary over there
and he finally calls her, tells her about the van, gives her the license number. She looks it up. California plate, by the way. Turns out it’s registered to something called the ABC Key Company in Washington, D.C.”

Veblen knew his way of thinking. “How strange.”

“You bet it’s strange. He saw a scope coming up through the roof one night.”

“What did you do next?”

“What could we do? The cops were in on it. We were careful what we talked about after that.”

“You know what, Dad? They like you here a lot.”

He was breathing heavily. “Do I have to stay here?”

“No. Do you want me to find out about a new place, nearer to me?”

He thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

“Will you come to my wedding?”

Venturing this request, she felt a surge of anxiety.

“I don’t think I’m presentable enough.”

“But, Dad, you’re fine. Paul’s family is casual and relaxed. They even used to be nudists!”

“Holy mackerel,” said her father. “They’ll call me a baby killer and tell me I’m going to hell.”

“Everyone will be impressed with your service.”

He was quiet for a while. “Was that what it was?”

“Yes, of course it was.”

He rocked a little.

“What would I wear?”

“We can shop for a new suit if you want.”

“A new suit.”

He was quiet again.

“I can’t give you away. I have a shaking problem and I also have to wear a pad.”

“That’s okay, Dad. It won’t be a traditional wedding.”

“I don’t do well in crowds. I need air.”

She sighed, but her cheerful side told her that a challenge could lift a person up sometimes.

“Let me think about it,” he said.

She kissed his cheek. “Really! Thanks.”

“Thanks, kid. I’m feeling a little shaky now. Maybe we better go back in.”

“But want to see the squirrel?”

“Maybe next time.”

“I won’t bring him next time, Dad. Just for a second.”

“I don’t think so. I gotta go.”

She couldn’t insist. She’d never owned him, the way some girls owned their fathers, and for that matter he didn’t own her. She helped him up and they shuffled inside through the glass doors, down the long hallway, into his room, where he plopped back into his chair and synced up with the History channel. She sat on the bed and for the next hour they watched a documentary on the Mexican War of 1846–48, one of the lesser known wars on the list maintained by the Department of Veterans Affairs.

“Dad, I’ll call you next week, okay?”

“Thanks,” said her father, crunching a peanut-butter-filled pretzel.

“You’ll keep thinking about my wedding, about coming?”

“That I will, daughter,” he said.

She stood in the doorway for a few minutes, watching him dig
around his molars for the mashed-up pretzels that clung to them, and soon realized he’d forgotten she was there.

She moved away, down the hall with the spongy carpet, installed to cushion falls.

•   •   •

O
N HER WAY OUT,
she found Bebe.

“So it’s possible I’m getting married in May, and if I do, I’d like my father to come. You think he’d be okay?”

“
Possibly
getting married? Don’t you know?”

“I mean,
am
. Yes.” She became clear right then on everything, the whole thing, that it would be at Cloris Hutmacher’s house, which would be good for Paul’s career and make him happy. It didn’t matter
where,
after all. Why had she been so stingy?