The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (186 page)

Most everyone I’d invited showed up. Leo and Angie (minus the kids), Jerry Martineau, the Anthonys. . . . Sam and Vera Jacobs came. The Jacobses—husband and wife cooks down at Settle—had always
been good to my brother. Cards on his birthday and Christmas, that kind of thing. Thomas had kept them all. I found twenty or thirty of them, dated and bound together with an elastic in a box with his other stuff. So I’d put the Jacobses on my list. If he’d kept those cards, they must have meant something. Right?

Dessa was a no-show. Dessa and Ralph Drinkwater. Well, I told myself, what goes around comes around. Here’s your personal history coming back to kick you in the teeth, Dominick. You betrayed both of them. Gave him up that night at the state police barracks. Gave your grieving wife up every night you’d wake up and hear her sobbing down the hall and just
lie
there.
Not
get out of bed.
Not
go to her, because it hurt too much. . . . Survival of the fittest, Birdsey: this was what it got you down the line.

The priest was goofy—not one of the regulars over at St. Mary’s, but someone they’d had to dig up from Danielson. I felt bad for Ray. He’d been volunteering over at St. Anthony’s for more than twenty years—plumbing, electrical work, yard work every spring and fall. But not
one
of those three priests could wiggle out of his “previous commitment.” . . . Father LaVie, this guy’s name was. He reminded me of someone—I couldn’t quite think of who. He’d sounded young over the phone, but then, in person, he
wasn’t
young. Late fifties, maybe? Early sixties? Shows up at the cemetery wearing sandals instead of shoes and socks. What was
that
all about? Trying to play Jesus or something? Like I said, it was warm for April, but it wasn’t
that
warm.

It hurt, though, whether I deserved it or not: Dessa’s not being there. All during the service, I kept waiting for her late arrival—kept picturing in my head how I’d gesture her over next to me when she got there. Hold her hand, maybe. Because our history was
more
than just the crash-and-burn ending. And because Thomas had loved her, too. “Dessa’s my very, very, VERY best friend,” he used to say. He told me that lots of times. . . . A car door slammed in the middle of things, and I thought,
here
she is.
Here’s
Dess. But it was Lisa Sheffer, hustling down the hill, her trenchcoat flapping behind her. Good old Sheffer, late as usual.

Father LaVie. Father Life. . . . He performed that hocus-pocus they do with the incense, fed us the usual about ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Read us some Scripture. Anything special you’d like? he had asked me over the phone. No, I’d said. Whatever he thought might be appropriate. And what he’d come up with was that same psalm I’d heard Thomas recite a hundred times. “
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. In verdant pastures He gives me repose; beside restful waters he leads me.
. . .”

Father LaVie had asked me about Ma. Breast cancer, I’d said. Told him how she used to worry herself sick about what was going to happen to Thomas after she died. “They were close?” Father LaVie had asked. “Like two peas in a pod,” I’d said. Two peas in a pod, two coffins in the ground. Mrs. Calabash and Mrs. Floon. . . .

Near the end of the service, Father LaVie closed his prayer book and put his hand on Thomas’s casket. Made us a Walt Disney ending: Thomas and Ma, reunited in Heaven, all of their burdens lifted. He smiled over at me, and I smiled back, thinking: George Carlin.
That’s
who he reminds me of. . . . Thinking: Free at last! Free at last! They’re “playing nice” in Heaven!

You go downstairs now, Dominick. Tell us if Ray comes. I made a special treat for you in the refrigerator. . . .

I looked over at Ray. He was scowling, pulling on the tips of his pallbearer’s gloves. My teammate, my accomplice.

What goes on in this house is nobody else’s business. You hear me?

Aye aye, Admiral! Yes, sir! . . . My eyes found Doc Patel’s eyes. She gave me a nod, a half-smile. Can you read it on my face, Doc? That worst day—the one I’ve edited out of all our little powwows? Can you see our secret, Doc?

Go downstairs, Dominick. Watch out for Ray. This wouldn’t be any fun for you.

Yes, Ma! Sure thing, Ma! Will you love me then, Ma?

And she was right, too. It
wouldn’t
have been any fun up there. It was
stupid,
what they did. Ladies’ hats, ladies’ gloves, those tea parties up there. The older we got, the more their “playing nice” humiliated me. . . .

More tea, Mrs. Calabash?

Yes, thank you, Mrs. Floon.

I
hated
them being up there.
Hated
being their stupid lookout, eating whatever bribe she had put in the refrigerator that day. Listening for Ray, watching out for the Big Bad Wolf. I
hated
it, Ma. I wanted you to stay downstairs. To love us
both
. . . .

I remembered everything about that day: the weather (gray and drizzly), the clothes I was wearing (dungarees,
Old Yeller
sweatshirt). Our supper—beef stew—was simmering on the stove; the kitchen windows dripped with moisture from the bubbling pot. Ma had left me pudding that day: butterscotch pudding and whipped cream in a squirt can. We’d been begging her for weeks to buy that canned cream. . . . We were fifth-graders now. It was
humiliating
. He was too
old
to “play nice.”

I made five of them, Dominick—four for our dessert and an extra one just for you. Not too much cream, now. One nice-sized squirt and that’s it. Save the rest for supper.

I lined them up on the counter, assembly-line style, and squirted: five puddings, five leaning towers of whipped cream. I ate them one after another—ate so fast, it gagged me. Why
shouldn’t
I? What was
she
going to do about it? Tell Ray? Squeal on me to Ray? I looked in the toaster at my cream-slopped face.
He’s got hydrophobie, son. You got to shoot Old Yeller because he’s got hydrophobie. . . .

I heard them laughing up there.
Why, Mrs. Calabash, these crumpets are absolutely divine.
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

The sugar canister caught my eye. I reached over, removed the lid, and knocked the canister onto its side. Dry rivulets spilled onto the counter, then onto the floor. A white sugar waterfall. I flicked my wrist, made sugar fly. Crunched sugar under my shoe.

More tea, Mrs. Floon?

Yes, thank you, Mrs. Calabash.

I picked up the flour canister next. Plop, plop-plop-plop onto the floor. A fog of flour swirled at my feet. It felt good, making this much of a mess. It felt like justice. Snatching the can of cream, I shook it until it blurred before me. Began at one end of the counter and finished at the other.
Thomasisabigstupidfuckfacejerk.
The spout
bubbled, gurgled; the empty can hissed. I lobbed it, as hard as I could, against the refrigerator.

“Dominick?”

I didn’t answer her.

“Dominick?” The clatter had interrupted their little game; she’d come to the top of the stairs. “Dominick?”

“What?”

“What’s going on down there?”

“Nothing.”

“What was that noise I just heard?”

“
Nothing.
I just dropped something.”

“Did anything break?”

“No.”

For several seconds, silence. Then her footsteps retreated back to the spare room.
Mrs. Floon, these crumpets are simply delirious! You
must
give me the recipe!
The door squeaked shut again.

I walked the length of the counter, my fist pounding through the whipped cream message. Pow! Pow! Pow! Fuck! Face! Fuck! Face! Whipped cream flew everywhere. I spotted our supper on the stove, pulled open the drawer and got the ladle. Ladled stew—our supper—onto the floor, onto the flour and sugar. Mixed up the mess with the toe of my sneaker. Stomped on it. Skidded through it. My head banged; my heart pounded. I felt powerful. As powerful as Hercules, Unchained. She’d cry when she saw it. They both would. Ma would be mad
and
scared. . . .

I turned back to survey the wreckage I’d made and there he was: Ray.

He was standing at the entranceway from the dining room. There’d been no car driving up the driveway, no warning. I had no idea how long he’d been watching me.

He didn’t yell. He just kept staring at me, studying me. We waited.

I felt weak-kneed, dazed. Relieved for my brother. Ray had finally caught me, red-handed, standing in my own evidence. It’s over, I thought; now he knows:
I’m
the bad twin.
I’m
the troublemaker. Not Thomas.
Me
.

He looked scared, not angry. And that scared
me
. “Where’s . . . where’s your mother?” he asked.

I touched my face. Felt whipped cream in my eyebrow, my hair.

“Answer me.”

Why wasn’t he screaming? Walloping me? Was the mess I had made somehow invisible? “It was an accident,” I said. “I’m going to clean it up.”

“Where’s your mother?” he asked me again.

He’d had car trouble that day—
that
was why I hadn’t heard him. He’d gotten a lift home, been dropped off in front. I stood there, the failed sentry.

I wanted to keep them safe from him; I wanted them caught. Ray stood there, waiting. “Upstairs,” I said.

“Upstairs where?”

“In the spare room. They’re playing their stupid game. They always play it there.”

“O Gentlest Heart of Jesus, have mercy on the soul of Thy departed servant, Thomas,” Father LaVie said. “Be not severe in Thy judgment but let some drops of Thy Precious Blood fall upon the devouring flames. O Merciful Savior, send Thy Angels to conduct Thy departed servant, Thomas, to a place of light, and peace. May his soul, and the souls of all the faithfully departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”

“Amen,” we all said. “Amen.”

The noon siren blew. False Teeth stepped forward. “This concludes our graveside service, but at this point in time, the family of Thomas Birdsey would like to invite you to the home of Mr. Raymond Birdsey, 68 Hollyhock Avenue, for a luncheon and a continuation of fellowship and remembrance of the deceased.”

I had driven over to Ray’s that morning like I’d promised—had vacuumed, set everything up. He was already up and out of the house. No note, nothing. He’d brought metal folding chairs down from the attic—that was it. The guy from Franco’s delivered the food while I was there: Fiesta Party Platters number 4, 6, and 7, enough to feed a
turnout six or seven times what we were going to get. I realized, as soon as I saw those trays, how ridiculously I’d overordered. . . .

Ray and I stood a moment longer at the coffin than the others. Neither of us spoke. From the corner of my eye, I saw Ray’s fist reach out, hang in the air above Thomas’s casket, knock softly against it. Once, twice, three times. Then he walked away.

I couldn’t think of any profound farewells for my brother. How do you say goodbye to a polished box? To the half of yourself that’s about to be covered over with dirt?
I’m sorry, Thomas. I was mean because I was jealous. I’m sorry.

Back by the cars, people shook my hand, hugged me. Told me I’d been a good brother—that now I could take care of myself. As if, now, everything was over. As if his being put in the ground meant I
wasn’t
going to keep carrying his corpse. Angie said she had talked to Dessa that morning—that Dess had
said
she was coming. I shrugged, smiled. “Guess she remembered she had to wash her hair or something.”

Father LaVie approached me. Father George Carlin. I thanked him, slipped him the fifty bucks I’d remembered to put in my pocket that morning. Two twenties and a ten, curled up as tight as a joint. From my nervousness. From my hands needing to do
something
during that service. I should have put the money in an envelope or something. Should have uncurled it, at least. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble for you to get here,” I said.

“No trouble at all,” he told me. “No trouble whatsoever. We men of leisure have flexible schedules, you know.”

“Yeah?” I said. “You retired?” Which, asking him, was a big mistake. He was one of those needy guys—one of those ask-him-one-question-and-he-volunteers-his-whole-life-story types.
Semi
retired, he said; he’d just recently relocated in Connecticut after twenty-three years out in Saginaw, Michigan. Great Lakes country. God’s country. Had I ever been out in that neck of the woods?

I hadn’t been, I said. No. What was Three Rivers? Godless country?

“I’m a cancer survivor,” he said.

“Yeah? No kidding?” My eyes darted around for Leo—for anyone who might get this priest away from me.

It had been exactly a year ago—a year
to the day
—since the doctors had found a tumor in his groin, he said. Malignant, inoperable, the size of an orange. They’d advised him to get his things in order. Had given him six months to a year. So he’d resigned his parish and come home to be with his mother, who was eighty-eight but sharp as a tack.

People were always doing that, I thought: comparing tumors to citrus fruit.

But then, he said, a miracle. A medical mystery. He’d refused chemo, special diets, etcetera, etcetera; he’d accepted his disease as God’s will. But to everyone’s surprise, his tumor had started shrinking all on its own—had gotten smaller and smaller with each examination. Had diminished, in nine months’ time, down to nothing at all. It had baffled all the test-takers and technicians, he said. “But doctors are Doubting Thomases. There’s mystery in the world. Either you accept that or you don’t.”

“Huh,” I said. “Wow.” Where the fuck was Leo?

Cancer had
enhanced
his life, Father LaVie said—had challenged his complacency. Had, as a “for instance,” made him much more sympathetic to AIDS sufferers, and to the poor, and to the oppressed. To people who fought against bigotry. To bigots.

“They got bigots out in God’s country?” I said.

He laughed. “Indeed they do. I’m afraid bigotry is everywhere.” But back to his cancer, he said. It had
clarified
things for him. Humbled him. Reminded him that the Good Lord’s challenges—hard as they were sometimes to bear—were also opportunities. “I’d lived an entire adult life of religious contemplation,” he said, “and it
still
did that for me.”