The Failure (17 page)

46. GUY’S MOM COOKS AN IN-ORDINATE AMOUNT OF FOOD FOR NO ONE

H
e’ll be hungry when he wakes up, thought Laura. Those IV tubes can’t be giving him much nourishment, he already looks too thin. And he will wake up, and he’ll wake up soon, so I’d better have enough food. Good thing I convinced Robert to get that extra freezer for the basement. That will come in handy.

The kitchen was surrounded by pots and platters of either already cooked dishes or those in preparation for the oven or stove. The bounty overflowed the kitchen and had spilled to the dining room table, which was likewise covered in several Thanksgivings worth of turkey, mashed potatoes, squash, green beans, more turkey, ham (for those who don’t like turkey, and Laura couldn’t remember whether Guy did or didn’t), and tofu for Violet, who Laura seemed to remember was a vegetarian.

My hands are burned and scarred, thought Laura as she pulled both a pumpkin pie and a cherry pie from the stove without the aid of oven mitts, hoping by causing herself physical pain that she would forget, even for a moment, the psychic scars of her double loss. But what is that compared to the pain poor Guy must be in, somewhere in the recess of his brain, or the pain I saw on Robert’s face in his last dying moments?

I stayed married to a man I no longer loved, because after all who can love so well and for so long? That was my fault, not his. To the end, to his end, I think he loved me. In his way. Just like he loved Guy. In his way. He never treated me badly, he never abused me, he provided for me and for our children. He was, for all his faults, a good man. My children too. Marcus and Guy. I loved my children even when they disappointed me, or worse, ignored me, as if a mother’s love was something that could be taken or put back like the mealy apples I choose not to buy at Meier’s, because this is America and we do not have to buy mealy apples if we do not want them, although sometimes, of course, you do want mealy apples, for instance when you are making apple pie, they’re better for baking. I should have made an apple pie too. Who doesn’t love apple pie? With whipped cream or even better vanilla ice cream on top.

I’ve played by the rules and it’s time the rules started playing me back. One does not lose both a husband and a son in the course of one day, far away from each other, for separate and unrelated reasons. Guy was not a soldier, he had not been sent to a war zone to die, thus preparing his mother for the inevitable news, which is no longer delivered by telegram as in movies, I’m quite sure, but I don’t know how they do it these days. Maybe someone in a uniform still comes to your door, and you let them in, and perhaps he is accompanied by an Army psychologist, or better yet a grief counselor, which is very close to “consoler,” but I was given no such consolation. In part because my son is not even dead, I have been denied the reality of his passing, and am left with the brutal fact of his vegetable body, which Marcus insists cannot grow, or think, or act, and that I should unplug the machinery that feeds his vital functions, but how can you ask a mother to do such a thing, especially now?

Marcus is not cruel, I shouldn’t have said that. My one remaining link to the world, and I brush him off like a pesky fly. Does he really love me? Does anyone? Do I love myself? There are good things about both of us, Marcus and me, there are things worth saving, or at least preserving. I do hope he will come to his senses and stop looking for happiness in dark places.

I don’t know if I have enough tinfoil to cover all these dishes. That’s what happens when you don’t plan ahead.

47. WHAT HAPPENED TO THE VILLAIN SVEN TRANSVOORT

I
s anyone really wondering, I wonder? I mean, now that the reader understands that my role was perhaps more extensive than I had originally indicated. In your place—though I won’t presume to think for you, that would be arrogant—I would certainly assume that if I, Sven Transvoort, possessed even a modicum of shame I would spend the rest of my life in hiding, atoning for my many sins. But that would not be true to my nature, you see. Or perhaps you already see. It’s difficult divining the thoughts of a reader one has never met, and will most likely never meet: this is why most writers write to and for themselves, or more precisely for an ideal version of themselves, a reader capable of understanding all the abstruse allusions and hilariously funny personal jokes which no ordinary person could possibly appreciate. While I am new to the writing game, I do understand, I think, how this tendency accounts for the bitterness one unexpectedly encounters should one find oneself in the unfortunate position of talking to a writer at a cocktail party, for instance. Whatever the actual content of the conversation, the inevitable subtext is, “I’m not appreciated. I’m misunderstood. No one gets me. No one, not one reader, even the fanatics who send me articles of their intimate clothing, has ever approached the empyreal heights my prose dares them to climb, no one save myself has ever planted the flag of comprehension on the lofty peak of my mountainous accomplishment. And really, that was just a minor work, an aperitif. The storm brewing inside me, even as we speak about the rising cost of real estate here in Los Angeles, which has more significance than you, puny mortal, could possibly grasp, will rattle the gates of heaven with its wondrous insights, its lyric prose, and its consummately perfect form. And no one will ever know. Not for a hundred years after my death, when the shallow tides of popular culture have washed away the bitter taste of ‘relevance,’ will some enlightened scholar unearth my work, like a treasure trove of sea glass on a rocky beach in Maine, in summer, when the blackberries grow thick on thorny vines …”

And so on. Or maybe that’s just me, maybe I’m the only one who thinks unreasonably high of himself, and the rest of the ink-stained wretches, to use the cliché currently in vogue, are filled with such self-loathing that the mere thought of whatever it is they last published fills them with shame, and horror, and what drives them to keep writing is the hope against hope that maybe, by some miracle, the next effort will rise above worthlessness to attain, at least, some kind of adequacy. These, I imagine, are the kind of writers who read their reviews, all of them, and who spend most of their days Googling themselves to see if some obscure weblog chronicler has chanced upon one of their books and written something not entirely unkind. Which notentirely-unkind mention will be immediately discounted by a misquote, or an easily perceived complete failure to understand the point, the essence, the what-have-you of the book, whereupon our poor self-loathario plunges ever deeper into the slough of despond (
The Pilgrim’s Progress
, citation needed).

To answer your original question, then, Sven: I
am
in hiding, and as you may have guessed, in a small Northeastern town that gives on the ocean, battered in winter by gales of an almost unimaginable force, but which I find somehow comforting: God’s anger has a kind of majesty that nevertheless fails to touch me, or at least harm me. But I’m not in hiding out of guilt or shame or any of those writerly emotions described above. I’m in hiding, or perhaps more appropriately I have recused myself from the thrum of quotidian human affairs, because I do not like people, and people, in general, do not like me. The things I have done, while wider in scope than previously admitted, yes, I did because … for reasons that … well, if the reader requires any further explanation I would urge him (or her, I am no misogynist) to go back and consult my previous entries, all of which I stand by unreservedly. The Guy Forget episode remains for me, will always remain for me, an enchanting parenthesis. The root cause of my hatred may not be as rational as mere jealousy, but reason is overrated in the affairs of men. Or women. I hated Guy from the moment he walked out of the Smog Cutter, and later, still, into my gallery, and I resolved to destroy his life. To steal his girlfriend, to convince him that a bogus technology was the key to his future, and to watch in glee as he was arrested for a crime that he was driven to commit by his absolute conviction that he had stumbled upon a figurative goldmine. That I failed in all of these aims is, I think, not a failure of execution but a bad joke by the gods of chance. I also perhaps underestimated Violet’s capacity to love, or at any rate to love Guy.

In any case, I win. My objective has been accomplished, and I am in the clear. The technology I pretended to show Guy that night at Caltech does not work, could not work, is not even physically possible. Any attempt by his idiot friend Billy to sell that technology will result in complete embarrassment, which to be honest is the best one can hope for a simpleton like him. Any further punishment would be gilding the lily. I would like to see his face when he presents his “invention” to the venture capitalists in Menlo Park, but we can’t have everything we want, otherwise Violet would be here right now, filling my pipe, bringing me a sherry, stoking the fire in my hearth and my heart.

We can’t have everything we want. Some people don’t get anything they want. I have, at least, the satisfaction of partial satisfaction.

A funny thing. Today’s my birthday, you know. I’d almost forgotten. I’d almost forgotten to celebrate. Because the birth of Sven Transvoort, adopted Taiwanese orphan, raised and then well provided for by two well-meaning but let’s face it ultimately fatuous and condescending parents—I mention this only because no one knows my real birthday, and picking today, April 1 … I mean, that’s not really very nice, is it?

At that moment a knock on the door. Who on earth, thought Sven, it’s eight o’clock at night and I don’t know anyone …

-Domino’s Pizza! announced a voice from behind the heavy door, in answer to Sven’s query.

Cautiously, he opened the door. -I didn’t order …

-No sir, this was bought and paid for long distance. Said it was a birthday present. Very specific instructions.

-Who? How?

-Among these instructions there were several provisions insuring complete anonymity on the part of the purchaser.

-Are you by any chance studying …

-Second-year pre-law at Bangor College, sir.

-Okay. Sven reached into his pockets, came up empty. -I’m afraid …

-No gratuity will be necessary, sir. All that’s been taken care of.

He accepted the pizza and closed the door. Set the box down on an ottoman and stared at it for perhaps five minutes, considering.

With one swift movement Sven reached over and flipped open the cardboard box. He froze. His eyes widened in fear, a position they would maintain for more or less the rest of his miserable existence.

48. BILLY VISITS GUY IN THE HOSPITAL WITH HIS NEW GIRLFRIEND, JULIA

-You should say hi at least. He’s never met you.

-But he can’t … Hi, Guy. I’m Julia.

-Isn’t she great? You’ll never believe, she’s the girl I was telling you about, remember, the leader of the Moped Marauders? But she’s also a venture capitalist in her spare time.

-More like the other way around.

-Anyway, where do I start? First of all, I took the money that was left to you, and therefore to me, and thanks for that, that was really very sweet, by your dad, and I had some guys cook up a beta thingy according to your specs—they kept telling me it was nonsense, there was no way it could work, but I had the money so they had to do what I said. Which is, I think, the first time in my life that’s ever happened. Then I scheduled a meeting with a VC group up in San Francisco …

-Menlo Park.

-Whatever. And I showed them Pandemonium, and they loved it! They’re investing like five million into … into …

-Into a working company that we can then bring to market, finished Julia. -Initial estimates of our public offering, which is less than a month away, indicate that Billy is going to be worth somewhere between half and three-quarters of a billion dollars after the IPO.

-Yeah. Which is a hell of a lot of dough, and I owe it all to you. I want you to know, Guy, I’m going to set aside a substantial sum, like at least ten million, or at least five, or something, to try to find a cure for … comas, or whatever.

-I don’t remember discussing …

-Hey, it’s still my money, darling. At least until I make an honest woman of you. And also, Guy, I tracked downViolet. Which actually was a little hard, because she changed her name. And she’s moved up to Portland. She’s been going to art school and, well, I guess obviously, painting. Anyway, she was very happy to hear about the success of your idea, but she didn’t want any part of your share of the money. She really looked good, though, Guy. I mean, she was always totally hot …

Julia eyed him disapprovingly.

-If you’re into that superficial beauty thing. Not my type at all. But she looks healthy, Guy. I think she’s quit all that junk you guys were taking. I thought you’d like to know that. She asked about you. I … I didn’t really know what to say. I kind of couldn’t say anything, you know how I get sometimes. Anyway, she smiled this kind of sad smile and nodded. I’d swear there were tears in her eyes, Guy. Well, maybe not tears, real tears, but she was close to tears. You know how when girls get close to tears, their eyes go really shiny? It was like that. I think that’s a good sign, Guy. I think she really did like you. A lot. And I think that would mean a lot to you, is why I’m telling you.

-Oh! And I found out where Sven Transvoort is. That took a little more digging, but it’s amazing what you can find out when you have money. Okay. I know you’d probably rather I have him, you know, killed or somehow crippled for life, but I’m a responsible guy now, I can’t just think of myself, or at any rate think of myself thinking of you. So I decided it would be more fun, as well as more sort of psychologically terrifying, just to send him a pizza every year on his birthday, which by the way is April Fools’ Day, how great is that? And on the pizza I have them spell out
EPIC FAIL
. This year I used pineapples, but I don’t want to be limited by pineapples. I want to get creative with this shit.

-I wish you’d just report him to the police, said Julia.

-That’s the thing about Sven. He was very slippery. There’s no proof of his involvement in any stage of what happened. When Violet told me all that stuff, I couldn’t believe it. But there’s no way she’d come back here and testify, and otherwise there’s no way we’d get a conviction. That’s what my people say, anyway.

He turned back to Guy. -I think my way is more Guylike anyway, right?

-It’s too bad he can’t hear you.

-We don’t know that. We don’t know what he can and can’t hear.

-Actually, we do, said Julia softly.

Billy pulled a laptop out of the bag at his side, went over closer to Guy’s head, and booted up the computer.

-I wanted to show you this. First fruits of your labor, so to speak. Here we have a typical sports website. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least at first. Until you look closer: no ads! No banners, no URLS saying,
Click here to win a football!
or whatever they usually say. Nothing. A completely ad-free site. Or so the visitor thinks. I programmed this one randomly, so even I don’t know what the ad is really for. I’m telling you, I still have no idea if this thing actually works or not. I refreshed the site for like twelve hours in a row last week, and I haven’t developed a craving for anything obvious.

-You started smoking, said Julia.

-I’m under a lot of pressure! And the smooth, rich taste of Camel Lights sacrifices none of the pleasure but cuts harmful tar and nicotine to almost negligible levels.

-What?

-What? My point is, Guy, the genius of your little invention is that no one will ever really know if it works or not. But they will pay, and they will continue to pay, and by the time enough scientific studies have been commissioned to decide whether or not it in fact does or doesn’t work, well, if it works, wonderful, and if not, we’ll still have the money. It’s a … what do you call that, Julia?

-Win-win.

-Oh … oh … you never saw my YouTube. This is the thing that made everything else possible. For whatever reason, the guy in San Fran … Menlo Park, the head guy, was really impressed by this YouTube video of me fighting a mountain lion, which happened after you left me down at the bottom of that hill. Obviously I’m not angry about that, because if you hadn’t, I would never have fought the mountain lion, and then … well, you know …

Billy clicked play on the YouTube video and the sounds of the mountain lions growls intermingled with Billy’s pathetic yelps.

As he watched, fat, clownish tears began to roll down Billy’s cheeks.

-I wish you weren’t in a coma, Guy. I wish you were still my best friend, laughing at my stupid mountain lion fight. If you were here, forget the money, the success, any of it, you would be rolling on the floor, literally rolling, with laughter. Nobody laughs like that anymore, Guy. I’m rich and successful and nobody dares laugh at me. It’s awful. It’s so, so awful.

Julia came over to Billy, gently held his shoulder with one hand, gently shut the lid on the laptop with the other.

-It’s time to go, she whispered.

-Okay, said Billy, weakly, drying his face with the cuff of his expensive shirt. -Okay. Bye, Guy.