Page 64 - WTP VOl.VII#5

The Couch (continued from preceding page)
“This is a pretty important thing I’m taking care of, Russ,” Dominic said. “Don’t you think this is a good idea?”
“Your time and your money, dad, so if you think it’s a good idea, that’s all there is to say. But for the record, I think your plan is solid, yeah.”
“Last year his car needs an eight hundred dollar brake job, and had to borrow three of the eight from me. My son, the writer, who graduated from Brown,” Dominic said.
“The Ivy League,” Albie enthused.
“Dad, I’d ask for, please, this conversation to stop, but I think y’all would probably refuse. So, given that, let’s not pretend you’re just now telling Albie about the three hundred bucks for the first time. Passive- aggression is to be expected. You can’t help that. But let’s not bullshit each other.”
“My son, with the Ivy League masters degree, who must, therefore, be wicked smart, will now resort to saying mean, childish things. That’s the fancy elo- quence he learned in Providence.”
“Screw the both of you,” Russ muttered.
“All this, because my genius son hates hearing dis- patches from the real world, which is located in the galaxy of personal responsibility. This is offensive to him. Hence, the attitude, best described as fuck it all.”
“Can’t believe I let you talk me into doing this on my day off. I could’ve been doing anything else. Picking my toenails. Committing ritual seppuku. Anything.”
“Here’s the place, coming up on our left,” Albie said. The home was set close to the road, beside a small apple orchard—Russ counted fourteen trees—and a knee-high wall of irregularly-sized rocks, with birch and maples growing in a small brace of trees on its other side. Lucien, according to the reports that had drawn them there that day, was living in an old Buick that was parked, keys lost, tires flat, behind the barn. The property belonged to a Navy buddy of Lucien’s, the only one he ever had also from Maine. Albie idled in the road, the Toyota’s directional clicking away at the edge of the driveway.
Their arrival had distracted Dominic from the conver- sation, and Russ was glad for that, but his father’s ver- bal shots had found their mark. Sitting there, slumped in the backseat, Russ felt like he was falling in upon himself, as if his body were a sandcastle dissipating under wave after wave of surf; thousands, perhaps
millions of grains were slipping away, form dissolving into nothingness, and that was fine. That was great. Given his situation, and how Russ felt about his life, nothingness was a concept, a condition, to be de- sired. Not in a Buddhist sense, either.
His father was discussing their approach to the con- versation with Lucien. Despite being too lost in a self- pitying reverie to listen to his father’s actual words, something about Dominic’s specificity made Russ think, right before I got to Mousam this morning, I bet he and Albie went over how he was going to broach
his funeral plan, just like he’s doing now about Lucien. From there, a thought-association fuse in Russ’ head ignited, charting this course to explosion: funeral installments remind me of Celine; I always hated that French bullshit, Proust and his fucking cookies, too.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that Celine was a fascist col- laborating bastard while the Nazis occupied France. My dad isn’t a fascist, but he’s sneaky and pushy, even when he has valid points. Especially then, actually. I don’t have to collaborate with him, though. Fuck no, I don’t. Actually, I feel like resisting.
A seatbelt clicked open, interrupting Dominic’s train of thought. “God damn. Where in holy hell? There’s plans getting discussed here. Hey,” he bellowed, as the Toyota’s backdoor opened. “Will you please wait one fucking moment, Russell?”
Russ picked up his pace, trotting towards the barn. The ground was spongey, wet from recent rain. He came around the corner and nearly ran right into his cousin, Lucien. Russ recognized him immediately, de- spite not having seen him in three years. The changes Lucien had undergone—the weight; the mountain man hair and beard; the way that his hands were so dirty and cracked; the missing teeth, obvious in Luc- ien’s surprised, open mouth—were transformational. If Russ had seen his cousin on the sidewalk from a passing car, he would have never recognized him. However, having nearly knocked Lucien over, Russ was close enough to see Lucien’s eyes, and those, despite everything else, were the instantly familiar eyes of childhood campfires, fishing trips, and holi- day dinner tables.
Lucien sputtered, “Russ. Why the fuck you in Par- sonsfield?”
“How are you, cuz? Last time we saw each other, weren’t you sore at me?”
“Was, wasn’t I?”
“Ayuh. Can’t recall just what for. Just that you were hot. You ain’t still, are you?”
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