thought of the world without one. Without one’s miraculous uniqueness ! That is the infinity.” He looked down at the board, suddenly aware of it, and moved his bishop out to the middle, foolhardy, a move Ram would make. “Oh, why ask you , Charles, my metaphysical friend,” he said. “I think all is glorious to you, right now .” May moved closer. Preston saw, and smiled—and I felt a rush of relief. Yes, finally. Name it! Tell the world! Truth and love!
I looked at him ready for the warmth I never stopped expecting, and maybe his blessing (oh we’re fools), and met instead a strange, off-kilter glint. “I think you are waist deep in the present right now,” he said. “Or should I say cock deep?”
“Daddy.” May stood up. Preston gave me a triumphant smirk.
“Am I wrong?” he said, turning to her. “Are not you and young Mr. Garrett here buried deep in the glorious mud of the mundane? Wallowing in the peccata mundi ? The exquisite flight of young love, etcetera, et cetera? And you think that it will always last? That you will live forever? Making the beast with two backs?” He wheeled back to me and raised his arm, pointing a long finger. “Charles Satterthwaite Garrett. You shoeless piece of trash. Do you think I do not know what goes on in my house? ”
It was like a fairy tale, a myth, where the name is the locus of power, the true name, and the good guy literally disarms the bad guy by calling it out—or vice versa. But I, of course, had gamed the system.
I started to speak, but May was ahead of me. “That’s not even his name,” she snarled. “You don’t even have his name right.”
He looked at me, caught off guard. “It’s true,” I said mildly. “I’m Charles Spooner Garrett.” I shrugged: It’s all right, old man . “Not Satterthwaite. That’s my stepfather.”
“You said … stepfather?” He looked from May to me. “Spooner?”
“After my mother. Anita Spooner. It’s a family tradition.” I glanced at May, saw the tears standing in her eyes, and stood up. How was I actually happy, just moments ago? “Come here, sweetheart,” and she came inside my arm, close to my side.
“May-May.” He looked back and forth, between us. His face was oddly askew. Out of the corner of his mouth, a thin string of drool. Back to me. “You said. You said you said.”
“Maybe we should get you to bed, Preston,” I said.
And then his arm comes down on the board; the pieces fly. “Do not patronize me!” he roars, or at least I think that’s what he wants to say, to bellow; but it’s gibberish, and all the words that come next are gibberish too except for May-May, May-May . She goes to him but his arms are still stretched past her. For a moment, I even think he is reaching for me. One hand is a claw, his mouth drooping, and as May sinks to her knees, her arms around him, I go for the phone. “Daddy, it’s okay. It’s okay,” she croons, but over her shoulder, his still-wild eyes on me, he is shaking his head.
THE IDYLL WAS OVER; the family descended in earnest. Preston, who could no longer speak, became agitated whenever he saw me, and so I began to keep my distance. May came more often to my place, but even though she said she was glad for a break, she was distracted, and I was distracted in turn, for my job was to hide the euphoria that persisted, even though I knew a man was truly dying. Isn’t a man always, somewhere, dying?
I was lurking around at the Bankheads’, trying to see May, trying to stay out of the way, and one afternoon I walked into the study, which I’d thought was empty. But on the loveseat Florence was sitting sideways, knee to knee, with Laird, who I now knew was herfavorite. She was crying, moaning really, “I’m not a bitch ,” in a way that I knew was not a response to anything Laird had said. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but as I began to back away, she opened them and saw me.
Florence and I didn’t meet each other’s gaze for some time
I looked at him ready for the warmth I never stopped expecting, and maybe his blessing (oh we’re fools), and met instead a strange, off-kilter glint. “I think you are waist deep in the present right now,” he said. “Or should I say cock deep?”
“Daddy.” May stood up. Preston gave me a triumphant smirk.
“Am I wrong?” he said, turning to her. “Are not you and young Mr. Garrett here buried deep in the glorious mud of the mundane? Wallowing in the peccata mundi ? The exquisite flight of young love, etcetera, et cetera? And you think that it will always last? That you will live forever? Making the beast with two backs?” He wheeled back to me and raised his arm, pointing a long finger. “Charles Satterthwaite Garrett. You shoeless piece of trash. Do you think I do not know what goes on in my house? ”
It was like a fairy tale, a myth, where the name is the locus of power, the true name, and the good guy literally disarms the bad guy by calling it out—or vice versa. But I, of course, had gamed the system.
I started to speak, but May was ahead of me. “That’s not even his name,” she snarled. “You don’t even have his name right.”
He looked at me, caught off guard. “It’s true,” I said mildly. “I’m Charles Spooner Garrett.” I shrugged: It’s all right, old man . “Not Satterthwaite. That’s my stepfather.”
“You said … stepfather?” He looked from May to me. “Spooner?”
“After my mother. Anita Spooner. It’s a family tradition.” I glanced at May, saw the tears standing in her eyes, and stood up. How was I actually happy, just moments ago? “Come here, sweetheart,” and she came inside my arm, close to my side.
“May-May.” He looked back and forth, between us. His face was oddly askew. Out of the corner of his mouth, a thin string of drool. Back to me. “You said. You said you said.”
“Maybe we should get you to bed, Preston,” I said.
And then his arm comes down on the board; the pieces fly. “Do not patronize me!” he roars, or at least I think that’s what he wants to say, to bellow; but it’s gibberish, and all the words that come next are gibberish too except for May-May, May-May . She goes to him but his arms are still stretched past her. For a moment, I even think he is reaching for me. One hand is a claw, his mouth drooping, and as May sinks to her knees, her arms around him, I go for the phone. “Daddy, it’s okay. It’s okay,” she croons, but over her shoulder, his still-wild eyes on me, he is shaking his head.
THE IDYLL WAS OVER; the family descended in earnest. Preston, who could no longer speak, became agitated whenever he saw me, and so I began to keep my distance. May came more often to my place, but even though she said she was glad for a break, she was distracted, and I was distracted in turn, for my job was to hide the euphoria that persisted, even though I knew a man was truly dying. Isn’t a man always, somewhere, dying?
I was lurking around at the Bankheads’, trying to see May, trying to stay out of the way, and one afternoon I walked into the study, which I’d thought was empty. But on the loveseat Florence was sitting sideways, knee to knee, with Laird, who I now knew was herfavorite. She was crying, moaning really, “I’m not a bitch ,” in a way that I knew was not a response to anything Laird had said. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but as I began to back away, she opened them and saw me.
Florence and I didn’t meet each other’s gaze for some time
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