The Stories of Richard Bausch (8 page)

“Another woman?” Sibyl’s mother said. “You can’t save the world.”

“I agree,” Mattison’s father said.

Hayfield said, “I think it’s admirable, though.”

Mattison’s oldest brother, Eddie, said, “If you ask me, I think it’s stupid.”

Sibyl laughed. “Don’t pussyfoot around it like that, Eddie.”

He turned to Mattison. “Why give the money to strangers?”

“No man is an island,” Hayfield said.

Sibyl’s mother made a sound in the back of her throat. “You’re so big on quoting the Bible.”

“I don’t think that
is
the Bible, is it?”

“Why in the world are you so concerned about this woman with two babies?” Sibyl asked her husband.

“It’s got nothing to do with that,” Mattison said. “It’s just each individual case.”

“You feel sad for everybody lately. I swear, I think my husband wants to be Albert Einstein.”

“I think that’s Schweitzer,” Hayfield said gently. “Albert—uh, Schweitzer.”

“Give the lady a yacht,” Chip said. The eyebrow with the stud in it lifted slightly.

They all sat down to dinner, and Mattison’s father said the grace. “Lord, we thank you for this feast, and for the big bless-us-God jackpot, which has made it possible for us all to be together, from such distances …”
He paused and seemed to lose his train of thought, then shrugged and went on. “In thy name, amen.”

Sibyl’s mother said, “Every man for himself.” She meant the food. But Mattison’s father gave her a look.

“Marge,” Hayfield said, low. “That’s a strange sentiment to express.”

“I used to say it every Thanksgiving,” Sibyl’s father said. He had been very quiet, drinking his beer.

“You never said it,” Sibyl’s mother broke in. “That was my saying.”

“Sibyl, you remember, don’t you?” her father said.

“Let’s all just be thankful,” said Hayfield.

Sibyl’s father looked down the table at him. “You must be especially thankful. You hit the jackpot big-time there, didn’t you?”

Hayfield seemed too confused to respond.

“Well,” Chip said, addressing everyone, “I think at the very least we ought to be able to quit working. I mean eight hundred fifty thousand dollars. If it hasn’t all been given to the lame and the halt.”

Eddie said, “I’m not ashamed or too proud to admit that I’d like hair transplants and some liposuction, too. Get rid of this beer gut. Hell, Dad got forty thousand dollars.”

“You begrudge your old man?” Mattison’s father said cheerfully. “Look, the boy’s still got his salary, don’t forget that. He’s getting money like a freaking bonus baby.”

The caterers stood against the far wall, each with a bottle of wine. Sibyl’s father signaled them to pour, and they went around the table, asking if people wanted white or red. Sibyl’s father said, “Here’s to wealth.”

“I want a house in the Florida Keys,” Sibyl said, holding up her glass of wine. “And I want servants. A whole staff.” It was as though she were offering this statement as a toast.

“Maybe, in time, we could each have a house,” said her mother.

“The chicken’s good,” Hayfield said, rather timidly.

“It’s not chicken,” said Sibyl. “My God, how could you mistake this for chicken?”

“Did I say chicken?”

Sibyl’s father drank his wine, then finished the last of his beer. “It’s quite a feeling,” he said. “Economic power.”

“Nothing but the best,” Chip said. “For us and the lame and halt.”

Mattison said, “You got all you need, didn’t you?”

“I’d like a house, too,” said Eddie. “Why not? But I’m not begging for it, that’s for damn sure.”

“Who’s begging?” Chip said. He looked down the table. “Do you all know that right now there’s a bunch of old people eating a turkey dinner on us? Right this minute over at the firehouse?”

“That’s immaterial to me,” said Eddie. “I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not asking for any charity.”

“I always liked the skin,” Hayfield put in. “I know it’s not healthy.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” said Sibyl’s father.

“The chicken,” Sibyl said, and smirked.

“I make Thanksgiving better than this,” her mother said. “I must admit.”

“Why do you have to suggest that I’m asking for a handout?” Chip said suddenly to Eddie. “You always put things in a negative light. You’re the most negative son of a bitch I ever saw.”

“I tell the truth,” Eddie said.

“I didn’t see it stop you from taking twenty grand for yourself when the time came.”

“Whoa,” their father said. “Let’s just stow that kind of talk. You got a new boat, Eddie, didn’t you?”

“God,” Mattison said, standing, “listen to us. Look what this has done to us. It’s Thanksgiving, for God’s sake.”

For a moment they all regarded him, the one with the money.

“It’s brought us together,” Sibyl said. “What did you think it would do?”

“A little family discussion,” said her mother. “We’re all thankful as hell.”

Chip said, “Did anybody say anything about not being grateful?”

Mattison’s father said, “Nobody’s being ungrateful. We just thanked the Lord for our luck. Your luck, son. God knows I spent most of my damn life trying to contend with bad luck.”

“But you had happy times, didn’t you? Sweet times.”

His father considered a moment. “Well, no. Not really. I worked my ass off is what it all amounted to.”

Mattison had an abrupt and painful memory of him walking down the long sidewalk in front of the house on Montgomery Street, bags of groceries
in his arms—a cheerful man with nothing much in the bank and a family that seemed to make him happy, a house he liked to come home to. It was what Mattison always wanted, too, he thought: a family. He gazed at his father, who was dipping a roll into the hot turkey gravy, and said, “Dad, remember how it was—those Thanksgivings when we were small—those Christmases you took us to see the big houses …”

But his father was arguing with Chip about twenty thousand dollars. “You begrudge twenty thousand dollars to your own father,” he said. “I’m damn glad
you
didn’t buy the winning ticket. None of us would see diddly-squat.”

They were all arguing now, Sibyl’s mother and father talking over each other about houses and how ridiculous it was to expect to be given one; Sibyl chiding Eddie about being greedy, how unattractive that was. “You should see how ugly it makes you,” she said. “Look at yourself in a mirror.”

Poor Hayfield sat chewing, a man unable to decide which conversation he should attend to, or try mediating. He said to Mattison, “Prosperity can be as hard on good spirits as anything else.” He turned to Sibyl and repeated this, even as she raised her voice to gain Chip’s attention. “Consumers,” she said. “That’s all either of you ever have been.”

“Excuse me,” Mattison murmured, standing. Nobody heard him. He went into the other room, past the caterers, who were smoking, standing at the open kitchen window, talking quietly. He went out and along the side of the house to the street. The caterers watched him, and when he looked back at them, they continued to stare. He got into the car, turned the ignition, and pulled away.

The sun was
low now, winter-bright through the bare trees. He drove to the main highway, then headed east, away from the Coke factory, toward Washington. There was almost no traffic. All the families were gathered around festive polished tables in warm light. No one in any of these dwellings was thanking the Lord for sixteen million dollars. He repeated the number several times aloud; it felt unreal, oddly harrowing. Driving on, he passed the road down to Arlene Dakin’s house and then looked for a place to turn around.

She was standing on the stoop in front as he pulled up, her coat held closed at her throat. He got out of the car and walked to her, hurrying, his
heart racing. This meeting was somehow his destiny, it seemed: a tremendously meaningful coincidence. Looking beyond her for her husband, he saw the open front door and part of a disheveled living room.

“What do you want here?” she said.

“Amazing—” he began. “Did you see me before—I came by—”

“He took them,” she said. “My babies.
He
took them. I don’t know where.” She began to cry. “I was trying to find a way—and he just rode away with them.”

“Here,” he said, approaching. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently guided her toward his car.

“Leave me alone,” she said, pulling away. The violence of it astonished him.

“I’m sorry.” He walked dumbly after her. “Let me take you somewhere.”

“No.” She was crying again. She made her way across the street, got into her little red car, and started it. He hurried to his own, watching her. She drove to the end of the street and on, and he kept her in sight. A few blocks down, she stopped in front of a small row of shops flanking a restaurant.

This part of town was already decked out for Christmas. There was a sign in the restaurant window:

OPEN THANKSGIVING; TURKEY FEAST; BOBBY DALE TRIO

She went in. Mattison followed. It was a narrow, high-ceilinged place. At the far end a man was singing with the accompaniment of a bass and piano. Some people sat at tables surrounding the bandstand, eating plates piled high with turkey, dressing, and potatoes. She had taken a table near the entrance to the kitchen. Apparently she knew someone here—a woman who paused to speak with her, then reached down and held her hands.

Mattison walked over to them.

“I said to leave me alone. Jesus Christ,” she burst out at him, crying.

“I—I just wanted to help.”

“I don’t want your help. I told you.”

The friend seemed wary. “Who is this character, anyway?”

“Oh, he’s the big
winner,”
Arlene Dakin said. “Didn’t you know?” She looked at Mattison. “Can’t you see I don’t want your money now? I don’t want anything to do with you.”

He moved to the other end of the room, where several people were seated, talking loud above the sound of the trio. He saw her get up and enter the kitchen with her friend. It wasn’t his fault about the money; he had ravaged no forests, taken no wealth by exploiting others, nor plundered anyone or anything to get it. He was not a bad man. If she would only let him, he could show her. He could make her see him for what he was. The idea seemed distant, faraway, as the idea of riches once had seemed. She came back from the kitchen and went on to the doorway and out.

He ordered a drink, finished it, and then ordered another. He would have to go back home soon. They would wonder where he’d gone. Bobby Dale, of the Bobby Dale Trio, was a compact man in a silvery-blue double-breasted suit. He ended a long, incongruously bright version of “House of the Rising Sun” and then, talking about his own heavy drinking and widely adventurous love life, launched into “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” It wasn’t very good singing. As a matter of fact, it was radier annoying—this bright, cheery rendition of a song about being lost and alone. Mattison had still another drink. When the song ended there was scattered applause. He stood and approached Dale, reaching into his pocket. As his hand closed on the first packet of fifties, it struck him that he had never felt more free, more completely himself.

“Yes?” said the singer.

“This is a thousand dollars,” Mattison told him. “I want you to sit down and shut up.”

“Pardon me?” Bobby Dale said, almost laughing.

“I want you to stop singing. I’ll pay you to shut up and sit down.”

“You asking for trouble, Jack?”

“Just quit for the day.” Mattison held the money out to him. “It’s real,” he said. “See? One thousand dollars.”

“Man, what the hell’re you trying to do here?”

“Hey, Bobby,” the bass player said, “Chrissakes take it if it’s real. Fool.”

Dale said, “Man, you think I won’t?” He snatched the packet from Mattison’s hand.

“Thank you,” Mattison said and returned unsteadily to his seat.

“Okay, folks. It takes all kinds, don’t it. I guess the show’s over for a time. The man with the money says we should take a little time off, and we’re very happy to oblige the man with the money.”

“That’s me,” Mattison said, smiling at the others, all of whom quite frankly stared at him. “Hi, everyone,” he said. He felt weirdly elated.

“I recognize you,” said one woman. Her lipstick was the color of blood. “You’re the guy—you won the big jackpot. I saw it on the news.” She turned to her friends. “That’s him. And look at him. Throwing money around in a bar on Thanksgiving Day.”

“Hey,” a man said. “How about letting us have a little of it?”

“I can’t think of a single solitary thing I’d rather do,” Mattison said. “Why not?” He began to laugh, getting to his feet. He stood before them, their frowning faces, the wrong faces, no one he knew or loved. He reached into his pocket for the other thousand.

That morning Allan
Meitzer had an asthma attack and was taken to the hospital. It disrupted the class, and Mrs. Porter, the teacher, edged toward panic. Her husband was in Seattle trying to save things. A once-big man in the airline industry, was Jack—gone a lot these days, even when home: money troubles, drinking through the evenings to calm down. She too. They drank separately, and he’d been violent on occasion. They were going to pieces.