West of Rome Page 6

  All, all had gone thataway. These weren’t my children. They were merely four seeds that got waylaid in some dark Fallopian tube. These were her children, sprung from a breed of English and German stock that arrived in California from New Hampshire and Germany. Protestants, too. An odd bunch, to say the least. Like her Uncle Sylvester, a justice-of-the-peace who played the zither as he sat on the bench and issued cruel and inhuman sentences to traffic violators who had the misfortune to take the wrong road through some half-forgotten town up in Amador County. And there was her cousin Rudolph in Mill Valley, mentioned only in whispers, who wrote regularly to Alexander Hamilton, warning him of an assassination plot by Aaron Burr.

  None of that among my progenitors. They came from the sunny Italian campagna, honest, God-fearing peasants. My mother was Maria Martini and my father Nicola Molise. Simple, uncomplicated folk harking all the way back to Julius Caesar.

  But who the hell were the Athertons of Rumney, New Hampshire, or the Steinhorsts of Hamburg, Germany? I had seen their names on tombstones in Placer County. Eben and Ezekiel and Reuben Atherton. Hans and Carl and Otto Steinhorst. Butchers, bakers, blacksmiths. Why had I heard so little about those ancestors? Was it because they bore a close resemblance to Uncle Sylvester and Cousin Rudolph? And, in all candor, weren’t Dominic and Denny like them too?

  I sipped the wine, lit a cigarette, and decided to do a little delving into the matter.

  “By the way, how’s Uncle Sylvester getting along?”

  It came from right field and surprised her.

  “Uncle Sylvester?”

  “You know—the crooked JP.”

  “How should I know? He’s probably dead by now, and he’s not crooked.”

  “Have you told the children about him?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  “It’s better to know than to be ignorant.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing. Not a thing. What about Cousin Rudolph? Heard anything from him lately?”

  She sensed the oncoming turbulence and rose from the table.

  “I’m going to the beach,” she said, peeling off her apron and walking out of there fast.

  “Wait for me.”

  She was waiting at the gate and I joined her. We started down the road, the heat from the distant desert in our faces. A reddish three-quarter moon pierced the eastern sky.

  ELEVEN

  Half a hundred people were scattered along the short beach with its high soapstone cliffs. It was ten degrees cooler down there, and the sound of the booming surf made it cooler still. Here and there were small fires and the music of portable radios. The sea was as grey as a shark’s back and the surf white as a shark’s belly. We pulled off our shoes and plowed through the sand to the cove where Tina, Rick and Denny sat around a driftwood fire. I felt something sharp beneath me as I sat down. It was one of Katy Dann’s boots. She and Dominic were somewhere out in the surf but we could not see them through the misting breakers. My first thought was the dog.

  “He went up the beach with Jamie,” Rick said.

  Harriet dropped down beside me. There had been conversation and laughter as we approached, but now there was silence as they froze us out. I saw that Rick and Denny were smoking pot. Harriet noticed it too.

  “Be careful,” she cautioned. “The Sheriff patrols this beach all the time.”

  They smiled like wise old men.

  “You want a joint. Dad?” Denny said.

  “No, thanks.”

  “How about you, mother?”

  It was ridiculous and he knew better.

  I said, “Your Mother isn’t a pot smoker, so stop being a wise guy.”

  “This stuff is pure gold, Dad. Sure you won’t try it?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “It won’t hurt you, man.”

  “Listen. I smoked pot before you were born, back when you could buy a full Prince Albert tin of it for four bits.”

  “Ah, the good old days!” he needled. ‘Tell us about it.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. Pot is a mind expander for people with shriveled brains. You need it because you’re a moron.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  He crushed his cigarette into the sand, pulled off his shoes and socks, and trudged toward the water. Harriet looked after him with soft eyes.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” she said.

  I got up and went after him. He turned as I came splashing up to the creeping tide, then continued on down the beach. I caught up with him and put my arm around his shoulder. He slapped it away.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There you go, sorry again. You’re always sorry after you insult somebody. You make sure you insult them first, and then you’re sorry.”

  “I try to be honest.”

  “Honest! You’re as devious as a snake, twisting and talking until you have it your way. You’re the most two-faced bastard I ever saw.”

  I was about to say I was sorry again, but I caught myself just in time. We splashed along for another fifty yards, our white feet in the thin embroidery of foam whisking across the dark sand, until we came to a skiff beached above the water line, seaweed and debris cluttered around it. He didn’t want me with him, but I hung in there stubbornly as he leaned against the old boat and lit a cigarette. I didn’t know what to say to him and he didn’t know what to say to me.

  “Let’s start back,” I said.

  “I’m fed up with you, Dad.”

  “Oh?”

  “I want you to stop calling me a moron. Ever since I can remember, all the way back to kindergarten, you’ve called me a moron. Why don’t you cut it out?”

  “Okay.”

  Maybe the pot did it. Maybe it was a break-through of his anger, the hot night and the curious circumstance that had brought us together at that moment. Maybe he had wanted to say it for years, but the right mood and moment had eluded him, but now he said it, and it sounded like a carefully prepared statement he had tucked away for a propitious time.

  “Dad, you’re a lousy writer.”

  That couldn’t be my son Denny. It had to be the marijuana, just as it had been the wine with my father when I was twenty. He had bullied me for years and on Christmas Eve, hostile with wine, I had challenged him. We had fought it out in our front yard in North Sacramento, rolling in the dirt, kicking and gouging and cursing until the neighbors separated us.

  So it was Christmas Eve again.

  “I think Mother writes better than you do. I’ve read your novels. They’re corny, sentimental cop-outs, and I’m not even talking about your screenplays.”

  “The screenplays aren’t much,” I admitted.

  “Why did you ever become a writer, Dad? How the hell did you ever get published?”

  “Oh, shit. I’m not that bad! H. L. Mencken thought I was pretty good. He published me first.”

  “You stink, Dad, you really do.”

  “The Tyrant isn’t a bad book. It got great reviews.”

  “How many copies did it sell?”

  “Not many, but it made a pretty good movie.”

  “Have you seen it on TV lately?”

  I passed that one. “Anything else?”

  “One more thing. You’re a prick.”

  “That figures.”

  He flipped away his cigarette and we started back to the others.

  “Sure makes a man feel good to have the respect of his children,” I said. ‘Thanks for all the nice things you told me tonight.”

  “My pleasure, Dad.”

  TWELVE

  We got back to the fire just as Dominic and Katy Dann came dripping from the surf, naked and holding hands. Harriet’s presence startled Dominic and he cupped his hands over his jock and circled behind her to his clothes and quickly pulled on his pants.

  Katy sauntered to the fire and gathered the warmth of the flames in her outstretched arms. She had an incredible body, lithe and thinly mu
scled, beads of salt water clinging to her fuzzy little crotch. Harriet tried not to look at her, and Katy laughed at her shyness.

  “Look at Mom. Why, she’s embarrassed. Aren’t you, Mom?”

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  “Not if you’re anything like your son Dominic,” Katy laughed.

  That scorched Harriet. She got to her feet and brushed sand from her dress, her fury deadly and held back, her voice cool and precise.

  “I think I’ll go back to the house.”

  I started to follow her just as Stupid came romping out of the darkness, his coat drenched with water and sand. He flopped at Rick’s feet, out of breath and gazing adoringly at him. Then Jamie came running up, agitated and alarmed.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Stupid dog. He just jumped a guy.”

  “Bite him?”

  “No. Just jumped him.” He glanced backward. “Here he comes.”

  Harriet saw the man.

  “Here we go again,” she said, walking away.

  The man was in trunks and a Hawaiian print shirt. He was fifty, thick-set, with hairy legs big as logs. And steamed. He glared at Jamie.

  ‘This your boy?”

  I nodded.

  ‘That your dog?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name, mister?”

  “What’s yours?”

  “John Gait’s my name. Who are you?”

  “Henry Molise.”

  “You new in this neighborhood, Molise?”

  “We just moved in, twenty years ago. What’s the trouble?”

  “I’m filing charges against your dog.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “He tried to fuck me.”

  “Aw come on. He does that to everybody.”

  “He does, eh?”

  “He’s just playful.”

  “A two hundred pound dog jumps me, and that’s playful?”

  “He only weighs a hundred and twenty.”

  “I don’t care what he weighs. I’m going to have him locked up.”

  I scanned him, the hairy legs, the knotty knees, the heavy paunch, the silly print shirt. “Did he bite you? Show me the teeth marks. I don’t see any blood. Are you in pain? Did he actually hurt you?”

  “No…”

  “Then there’s no problem.”

  ‘The hell there isn’t,” John Galt said. “I’m a lawyer and I know what I’m talking about.”

  That cooled me. I looked at him again and he was bigger than I thought. “Mr. Galt, I’m sorry this happened. I always keep the dog locked up, but tonight he got away, and we’ve been looking for him for hours.”

  Galt smiled as he sensed his power.

  “You better get him home, and lock him up.” He folded his arms.

  “Right.” I turned to Jamie. “Get him home, boy.”

  Disgusted with me, Jamie went after the dog. I put out my hand to Galt. “Sorry about this, Mr. Galt.”

  He refused to shake, and my hand was out there like a dead bird. Each of us grasping Stupid’s collar, Jamie and I started up the path to the road. Looking back, I saw Galt watching us, his arms folded. He looked like a bulldog who had won all the fights and driven the other dogs away.

  “Chicken,” Jamie said.

  ‘That’s my name, Henry Chicken Molise.”

  THIRTEEN

  Back at the house I found Harriet in the darkened bedroom, restless and miserable. I sat down at the bedside.

  “That black bitch,” she said.

  “Forget it.”

  “Why? What did I ever do to her?”

  “She was putting you on. It’s a game they play.”

  “And Dominic let her get away with it. He didn’t say a word. I’m sick of him, sick of all my children.” She fretted and rolled away. “My poor lasagne! I worked all day on it.”

  “Forget it. Take a pill.”

  “Give it to the dog. Ill never cook another dinner again, so help me God.”

  I left her staring in misery at the darkness and walked into the dining room. The huge lasagne was like a collapsed cake, the sad souvenir of a busted evening. I carried it out to the back lawn and called Stupid. He sat down with his paws around the dish and put the lasagne away in big chunks.

  It was eleven o’clock, still hot and too early for bed. I went to my work room and turned on the light over the desk. I had seventy pages now, around twenty thousand words on yellow pages neatly stacked before me. Not once in the writing had I looked back, relying on instinct. Now I decided to read what I had done.

  I got a terrible jolt. I could feel the blow in my gut and kidneys, sheer panic, creeping up my back and riffling the hair on my scalp. It wasn’t a novel at all. It was conceived as a novel but the wretched thing was actually a detailed screen treatment, a flat, sterile one-dimensional blueprint of a movie. It had dissolves and camera angles, and even a couple of fadeouts. One chapter began: “Full Establishing Shot—Apartment House—Day.”

  Twenty-five years ago I would have seized that mass of yellow pages in my two hands and courageously torn it to pieces. Now I didn’t have the guts, or, for that matter, the strength in my hands.

  So, as it must to all men, death had come to Henry J. Molise. The cop-out was complete. Molise would never write again. Molise, cheered by the critics for the four novels of his youth, now more dead than alive on Point Dume.

  Reputed to be insane, suffering from ulcers, no longer attending Writers’ Guild meetings, regularly observed at the liquor store and the State Department of Employment. Or walking the beach with a large, idiotic and dangerous dog. Tedious bore at parties, talking of the good old days. Boozes it up every night watching talk shows on T.V. Quarrelled with agent and currently unrepresented. Talks obsessively of Rome. Wanders aimlessly in his yard, chipping balls with a nine iron. Scorned by his four children. Oldest son rejects white race and will marry Negro. Second son on relief trying to become an actor. Third son too young to add to the disintegration of family. Daughter in love with beach bum. Loyal wife tends his personal needs, preparing wholesome meals of custards and soft-boiled eggs, frequently assists him to bathroom.

  I lit a pipe, wandered out to the patio, and flopped into a chair. The hot night was very quiet on the surface, but beneath was the violent uproar of the battering tide, the hum of crickets, the twitter of restless birds, the barking of squirrels, the howl of twinkling jet planes, the crackling of pines and the eerie sense of fire in the air.

  Again the insoluble and most fundamental question of my life began to haunt me. What the hell was I doing on this small planet? Fifty-five years, for this? It was absurd. How far to Rome? Twelve hours? Naples was nice too. Positano. Ischia. Was this the end of my life, in a Y-shaped house on Point Dume? I couldn’t believe it. God was pulling my leg.

  Out of the darkness on noiseless paws Stupid appeared. He looked at my dangling leg and at me, considering the possibilities. Then he tried to straddle the leg. I pulled it out from under him. Disappointed, he rested his chin in my lap and I rubbed the back of his ears. I needed help. Oh God, if that dog could have talked! If I could have talked to my beautiful Rocco, how different my life might have been!

  Rocco. I need your advice.

  What’s the trouble, boss?

  I’m not happy. I want to change my whole life. Start fresh. Leave the country.

  Do it, man. Listen to your heart. Go where it tells you.

  What about my wife and children?

  Leave them. Take the high road. It’s your last chance. There’s no second time around.

  Wish I could take you, my boy.

  I’ll miss you too.

  I’ll send you something. Some taralla. An Italian bagel, only sweet.

  Be free, boss. That’s all that matters.

  There were voices from the other side of the house as the kids returned from the beach. Stupid ran to greet them. A moment later there was a scream, the only one of its kind in the world, Tina’s. I hurried through
the house to the front door, knowing what was taking place without seeing it.

  You would think that a Marine Corps combat veteran who had prowled the jungles of Viet Nam, been decorated for bravery at Pleiku and Binh Dinh, wounded at Qui Nhon, would know how to repel the affectionate embrace of a fun-loving dog. Not Sergeant Colp. There he was again, pinned to the gate, as Stupid climbed his frame.

  Again it was Denny, and again he enraged me as he kicked Stupid in the stomach, not once but three times. I cursed him and ran to help my dog. It was not necessary this time. The tormented animal swerved in pain and his jaws sank into Denny’s leg. He howled and went down on one knee as the guilt-stricken dog hunched up and drifted into the shadows. Denny lifted his trouser-leg and we gathered around and examined several holes incised at the calf and shin bone.

  “Nothing serious,” I said. “Does it hurt?”

  “Drop dead, will you?”

  He stood up and limped into the house, Rick and Dominic assisting him, the others following. Jamie stayed with me as I rolled Stupid over and examined his belly for bruises. He was okay.

  “You saw it,” I said. “It was self-defense. The dog had no choice.”

  “I don’t know. He jumped two people tonight.”

  Something else troubled me.

  “Why can’t Rick Colp deal with this dog? What’s he afraid of?”

  “What he’s afraid of, is that he’ll blow his stack and kill Stupid. He told me so.”

  A chastening thought. We walked into the kitchen. Harriet was in her robe, holding Denny’s foot in her lap and attending the bites, washing them with soap and water. I watched her apply Neosporin and adhesive bandages.