Authors: Jack Womack
The four house guards-Barney, Biff, Butch, and Scootercame with us. We walked to the chapel, a small building boasting
a Wrenish steeple. The chapel, built of pink Italian marble left
over, I suspected, from some Roman bordello of Mussolini's day,
stood a thousand feet or so from the main house. We passed the
garage, which held thirty cars. Jimmy was inside, working on
our Castrolite. The Old Man owned thirty cars, mostly blat from
Gorky-Detroit: Redstars, Lenins, Zils, Marx deVilles. He also
had several timekeepers: an Olds Rocket 88, a black '49 Mercury, a '57 Chevy, flame-decked across the hood, a purple and
yellow Hudson Hornet, and a beautiful old green Cadillac which
he claimed once belonged to Jerry Lee Lewis.
We trailed Barney and Scooter; the Misters Dryden walked
ahead of Avalon and myself. The youngest Dryden and his
mother-apostates-remained at home. A patrol copter dipped
over the trees; caps flew off and their wearers bounded after them.
During the ruck Avalon took my hand. Her breasts swung beneath her sweater; the long brown hair she wore fluttered in the
now-gentle breeze.
"How're you doin'?" she asked.
"Low-key," I said. "Everyone was certainly quiet on the way
up.
"I know," she said. "Felt like I was in a casket on wheels.
Fuck if I was gonna say anything."
"Not with Jimmy there-"
"What about Jimmy?"
"Mister Dryden's sure that Jimmy's working cover on us for
the Old Man. "
"That's interesting," she said.
"How so?"
"Pops thinks he's running cover for Sonny. Hush, Shameless,
we're here." She let loose my hand; the feel of her skin still
warmed my palm. We entered the chapel's threshold. The minister greeted us, resplendent in his gold suit, glowing like a dashboard saint. Avalon sat between father and son; I sat behind them.
The others tumbled slowly into the pews. The chapel had salmonpink stucco walls threaded with gold, offset with dark oak woodwork. The interior remained shadowy within-little sunlight eked
through the abstract patterns in the bulletproof stained glass-and
one's eyes adjusted but slowly in the gloom.
The minister stepped to the altar, beginning the ceremony; the
organist tootled softly. The service was patterned-possibly by
accident-after the Mass; there was an introduction, a kyrie, an
invocation, a blessing; all but Communion, which was pointless
in either event. Mass was easier to sit through without laughing.
When I was young I went to Mass only under threat; these days I went by choice, sometimes, for the ceremony. It is more impressive since they began giving it solely in Latin. That was one
of the changes thought essential by Pope Peter after his ascension
to the chair, after the murder of John Paul, after the discovery of
the Q documents, after the papal seat was moved to Zurich. It
was reasonable that Godness should use a language that none of
Its followers understood.
The minister reached the penultimate stand and deliver.
"All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely
players," he called; we responded. Tears softened the Old Man's
eyes. Avalon yawned. Mister Dryden scratched at his skin.
"And now the stage is bare," said the minister.
"I'm standing there," we replied.
"With emptiness all around."
"Are our hearts filled with pain?"
"Shall I come back again?" He paused, and then: "Tell me,"
he said, "Are you lonesome tonight?"
The organist laid his paws on the buttons, banging out "Big
Hunk O'Love." We opened our hymnals and made joyless noise.
The minister raised his hands in supplication; turned to face the
altar and the statue of E. The statue began revolving as we sang;
to see it left one wordless. It was a life-size simulacrum of E,
feet spread manfully, microphone in hand, wearing tinted glasses
and a spangled jumpsuit with high collar and cape. An eagle was
reproduced in rubies-many rubies-over the stomach. On the
wall behind the statue was a colorgraph of E shaking hands with
Nixon; the One and All circumspect, he whom my parents called
the Great Satan cold with smiles and delight.
"Adios," said the minister, tossing his scarf into the congregation. No one moved until the Old Man looked to see who had
been blessed; then everyone lunged to grab it.
"Like E," concluded the minister, "let us leave the building."
The male Drydens had belonged to the C of E for so long as I had worked for them. The group's central belief and ground of
being-I had doubts, frankly, but claim no expertise on dogmawas that E, dropped off by Godness, walked with man for a time
and returned to other spheres when man proved callous. E would
return one day-Judgment Day, I believe, to lessen confusionand lead his people to a better world. How the Old Man's world
might improve remained a mystery of the faith.
We returned to the main house for dinner. At dusk the sport
would begin; once finished, I could start my work. On the way
back Avalon caught my glance, smiled, and turned away. That
look assured me that I would do all that needed doing.
Once out of sight of the chapel, everyone lit spliffs and tossed
down reckers. At the house, the Old Man returned to his Jack
Daniels. He was fond of remarking that he'd never used drugs
but had only supplied the demand according to free market dictates. Even now the circulation of kane and other reckers accounted for a good percentage of Dryco exchange, notwithstanding that such drugs were illegal. The government-at Dryco's
urging-made certain such laws stayed booked, to ensure healthy
profits.
I strolled through the living room as everyone prepared to dine,
eyeing the surroundings for signs of anything untoward. All looked
as ever; the long white couches stretched along the walls, the low
tables gathered their daily allotment of dust. There were few books
in the room, or anywhere in the house; the Old Man was of an
illiterate generation. No art hung from the walls; a large portrait
of Susie D looked out from above the fireplace. Terribly cenotaphic, I thought, though had they wished to do so at the time,
she could have been cremated in it, so huge was its vault. I stared
at the portrait for a moment, remembering her, standing in awe
of how closely the painting showed her as she was: short, squat,
cold, and scheming. She'd never said two words to me in eleven
years, feeling it beneath her to acknowledge help; any help. I think the only person she trusted-and he, not overly so-was
Mister Dryden. The painting showed her sitting, fists clenched in
her lap, her trousered leg tossed over one arm of the chair, her
hair in a gray crew cut. One suspected that she was to the Mack
truck born, but became somehow sidetracked, and so wound up
here.
We ate in the dining room, the largest room in the house. In
the center of the floor, surrounded by large soft cushions, was a
wide white panel. Biff pressed a button; the panel sank through
the floor to the kitchen below. Once loaded by the maintenants,
it again ascended to the dining room. As all toppled down onto
the cushions, the Old Man blew his whistle; the tasters entered
the room. I lowered myself carefully, to prevent my knees from
going out.
"Gimme the lowdown," he said to the tasters, who tried
everything. The Old Man ate fried chicken, mashed potatoes,
white gravy over bread, and sweet potatoes; Mister Dryden picked
at raw steak and raw onions; the rest of us eyed a variety of
colored things in interesting shapes. The tasters stayed upright,
gave approval, and waddled away.
"I could stand hearin' a few tunes," said the Old Man, motioning to Scooter. "Slap somethin' in the tape deck, would you?"
Music resounded throughout the high room, music from the
longaway: songs by Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, the Band, E
himself. The Old Man reclined on his cushions, holding his drink
and-his phrasing-a big old chicken leg. His lalas comforted
him; they had perms and painted nails, were heavily made up,
and wore tiny red panties with black zippers running down the
front. They were about nine years old.
"Sex. Drugs. Violence. Rock and roll," said the Old Man,
raising his glass. "Something for everyone."
"Toast the birthday boy," commanded Mister Dryden. No one
demurred.
"Where is he?"
"Boy!" the Old Man yelled. "Get your ass out here."
At the entrance to the dining room appeared Thatcher Dryden
III. Since the days he'd attempted to strangle his first-year tutor,
we'd all called him Throttler. He sauntered to the table with his
usual panache.
"Ho," he said, flicking out his switchblade. "Let's cut."
"Seat yourself, boy," said the Old Man. "You're missing your
own party."
"Hi, Stella. Hi, Blanche." The Old Man's lalas smiled at
Throttler, blushing so red as their undies. He pinched them; they
wiggled. "Unhand, gran. Lemme roll and thunder."
"Hell, no," said the Old Man.
"Strazh, Dad," he said, pointing the blade at his father. Mister Dryden beamed. Throttler reached across with his blade and
speared a sweet potato. He bit off half and then spat it onto the
white panel. "Terminate," he said. "Weenies we want." He sat
down by his mother and kissed her on the cheek; she didn't seem
to notice.
"Well," he said, "Go on."
From where I sat what I saw of Avalon was lovely but expressionless. She lay on her stomach near the fried chicken, facing
away from me, her long legs spread out behind her. Her sweater
pulled over her bottom as she reached for food. Mister Dryden
sat beside her, idly fumbling his fingers between her legs as if
searching for something out of reach. She paid him no mind, and
I felt no jealousy; he seemed to be doing it out of habit more than
anything else. His wife and son faced him, across the panel.
It was uncommon for Mrs. Dryden to dine in company anymore. She was about five ten, and couldn't have weighed more
than eighty pounds. Gossip I overheard implied that wives of
other owners considered her paunchy. Owners married only so
that they might have legal heirs, but few owners had heirs of any direct sort; their wives were remarkably thin and, because of it,
remarkably barren. Mrs. Dryden had fulfilled her duty when she
was younger, and a hundred-pound tub.
Mrs. Dryden wore shades-it was impossible to gather at whom
she was looking-and never spoke. The last phrase I heard her
utter was some years before, idle muttering about the help being
allowed to sit in the same room as she. Periodically a tear rolled
down her cheek; the drugs made her eyes water. Her hair was
swept above her head, held in place by a gold tiara. She wore a
brocaded purple caftan with long sleeves and so many jewels as
the statue of E. During dinner she motioned toward her works;
Throttler pushed up her sleeve, took the hypo, and filled her up.
I remembered when she hadn't done drugs. She and Mister Dryden met while he was at Yale. She'd attended Wellesley. Like
all owners' wives, she didn't work.
As we ate, the strains of "Love Me Tender" came over the
speakers. The Old Man's eyes misted. He began to frown and
shook his head, as if he'd gotten a chunk of hot sweet potato
caught in his throat and wanted to draw attention to that fact. He
readied to reminisce, and we all knew about whom. We heard
the story he prepped to tell perhaps six times a year, for so long
as I'd worked for Mister Dryden.
"Did I ever speak of the time I met E?" he said, lifting his
eyes upward to assure himself that we paid attention. "While he
was on this earth?"
We shook our heads, muttering; stared into our plates.
"Forty times overtold, gran," blurted Throttler, slipping his
hand down the back of Blanche's panties. The Old Man looked
at him, his eyes encrusted with benevolence's paste, ignored him,
and continued.
"When I was sixteen," he said, "Me and some old boys headed
out to Oklahoma that summer to see 'bout gettin' jobs workin' in
the oil fields useta be out there. Stopped in Memphis on the way
to spend the night. We drove over to Graceland to see if He was home. There was a few guards and a buncha people hangin' round
outside the gate. It was fuckin' hot. Boys I was with wanted to
go back to the motel. I said I wanted to stick around awhile.
Couldn't say why. Just did. They left. Said I could walk back to
the motel when I got tired. Dumb fucks. "
Mister Dryden slid forward, closer to the food, closer to his
father-he never tired of hearing this tale-pulling himself over
the cushions as if through the trenches.
"I sat down on the curb there. Funny thing. Longer I stayed
the more I wanted to stay. Night came and most everybody else
left. After so long even the guards shut the gates and went into
their little houses. Started rainin' fuckin' hard but I couldn't leave,
somehow. It was like God's hand was holdin' me there so that I
might stay and meet His son. I musta looked like a fuckin' asshole, though, cause by that time I was soakin' wet."
A certain air about Mrs. Dryden made us suspect that she had
relieved herself. Barney came over, stood her up, put her over
his shoulder, and carried her upstairs to her room, where the maids
could clean her and put her to bed.
"A big old black car pulled up 'round midnight and I waved.
The car stopped. I walked over to it, stood there by the side. The
lights inside came on. The window rolled down. Inside there it
seemed the most lavish thing. Two big old boys sat next to Him,
pointin' guns at me, just in case, I figured. It was Him, in there.
He was a glory to behold. He wore dark glasses and a dark cape
covered His raiment. In His hand He held a long silver flashlight.
His hair was black as a raven's wing and swept back. He turned
and looked at me and then he spoke. "
He paused, waiting to see if we remembered our cue. "What'd
he say?" half of us asked, loudly.
"Gettin' wet, aren't you? That's what He asked me. I said
yeah. He smiled and there was a glorious look to His face. There
was a big bag of cheeseburgers on the floor of the car and I was
hungry and I almost asked Him for one but I didn't. He asked me my name and I told Him. He nodded and reached out His hand
and took mine. As I held it for that moment I felt the electricity
go right through me and all the power of God. I saw He had a
gun pointed at me, too. Even God can't be too careful, you know.
He said don't do anything I wouldn't do, brother-"