Alchy raises his glass toward Salome. “I’m always the beast of your burden of blame.”
Salome sticks her tongue out at Alchy. “Many years ago I told a snarky little boy that he needed to grow some balls to become the Sancho Panza my son needed.”
“Of evil,” I yell. “Sancho Panzer of evil. I had to ask Alchemy who he was.”
“Yes, yes, I did say that. I was wrong. You were not evil, just splenetic and misguided. And you became a great Sancho. Alas, you have been replaced by another …” She gives a sideways twitch at Laluna and we’re all waiting for Salome to compliment her. Uh-uh. Alchemy looks like someone just barfed in his soup. “Ricky, you’re not society’s stereotypical ideal of a husband, but hell, I’m not society’s ideal of a mother, so … Carlotta, you are blessed with the good fortune to have found a courageous and loyal partner who will always watch over you.”
After the toasts and before dessert, my slobbering and soused dad starts poking Alchemy about Vulter. “She’s one smart lady. Make a damn good president.” He thinks this proves he ain’t no sexist even though he says, “I’d sure like to give her ‘a Real McFinn’ night.” Alchemy’s so slick at playing drunks, he treats their moronic postulations like no one ever uttered them before. “You’re right about her. Louise loves a good party, and she’s smart and warm underneath.”
Salome’s antennae goes berserk and it’s uh-oh time. She gets right in Alchemy’s face.
“Underneath what? You can’t trust her. She talks out of both sides of her mouth and she’s lying from each side.”
“How the hell would you know?” My dad is gearing up his nasty. Salome can match him nasty-for-nasty no problem.
“Nathaniel scouted behind enemy lines and listened to her radio program. I watched her on TV with Alchemy. Complex ideas confound her and her supporters.”
“We all can’t be a gen-ie-us and a crazy bitch like you. Or a millionaire commie like your son.”
“Your simple-minded insults prove my point. You’re a parasite who lives off your son, who Alchemy rescued from his misbegotten life, which, in effect, means you live off Alchemy the commie.”
Alchemy slings his arm over Salome’s shoulder and edges her away, which don’t stop Mr. Must Have the Last Word. “Ya gotta be dumber than a Flushing cockroach to spend a dollar on that crap you call art!” Me and Alchy exchange frustrated sighs. I say, “Dad, shut the fuck up or you’ll be on a plane in two hours.”
Just as they’re serving the cake, Laluna tells me that Persephone isn’t feeling well so she is leaving early. Alchemy is sticking around. I got an idea that ain’t the only reason she’s gotta hop. Laluna gets that Salome was jabbing her as much as complimenting me, and she’s PO’d ’cause Alchemy don’t back her up that she is a great Sancho, which is the trap Salome set. No matter what he says, he can’t win.
Carlotta walks Laluna out to the driveway. Alchemy is off in the corner of the yard with Salome, who says real loud, “She’s now the leader of the Salome defamation league.” I start to go toward them. For once, I’ll play peacemaker.
Lux cuts me off. “Don’t, bad move.”
“Yeah,” I says.
Then he teases me, “Who would’ve thought a once skinny little shit like you, with two bucks and a torn T-shirt to his name, would one day land such a great woman as Carlotta?”
“Who you callin’ ‘once’ skinny?”
He pinches my belly through my shirt. “Okay, okay.” I say, “but I know the real reason you shaved your head, and it ain’t just for the look.”
He says real stern, “What’re you implying?” Then he cracks up. But he got me thinking, since I left home, I do got one wonderful fuckin’ life.
76 THE SONGS OF SALOME
Say the Secret Word
My ancestors deserted me when I most needed them. To complete or abandon my Margarita mission was my question. Why? Why must I be the one? Yet, although I could not reach him through my DNA, I had sensated that night in the office that he was my son — and Margarita was right, his reappearance boded ill for Alchemy. I forced myself to drop by a few political or foundation events at the house. He was never there. I made an effort to be more solicitous of the entity known as “LAlunamy,” hoping to glean more insight. When they rehearsed and recorded their album Chansons, often with Persephone by my side in the studio, I offered only kudos. I never criticized or asked if I could contribute. Or admitted my hurt when Alchemy allowed Laluna to choose another artist to do the art accompanying the text after I offered to help. I began to think that never seeing him again was no coincidence, and the completion of the mission might be unnecessary.
That changed after Mindswallow’s wedding. Before we dressed for the festivities, I went to fetch Perse for a morning constitutional. Laluna was in the kitchen talking on the phone. I got a cup of coffee and sat across from her at the butcher block counter. She pulled at her lip piercing, her anxiety tell. “Okay, Got to go, Jack. Send me the download.”
Sometime back, Laluna had come to my studio with Crouse and Godfrey Barker. Barker was a bloated-cheeked, potbellied blowhard whose uniform of silver-gray silk kurta and white pajama pants gave him the look of an irony-free ’60s TV sitcom hippie, an unctuous purveyor of airy-but-not-airy-enough “science.” I faked serenity as I showed them around. He paused in front of a Baddist Boy collage of the Pretender and Malcolm. “Ah, yes, I remember seeing them at your Hammer retrospective. I don’t remember this particular one. Is it for sale?”
“I didn’t exhibit it. And no, not to you.”
He bared his teeth and smiled haughtily. “It’s not for me.”
“Who?”
“Someone I think you would approve of. Can I take a cell phone picture?”
He did. I never heard from him and never gave him another thought — not until that morning in the kitchen on the day of the wedding. Sounding a bit defensive, Laluna told me that Crouse wanted her to try scoring his new film.
“That’s nice.” I said. “Where’s my granddaughter?”
“Alchemy is driving her to Mose and Jay’s for the night. She loves being with them.” She sounded far too self-satisfied. “Alchemy will drive us to the wedding.”
I let it drop.
Except for the petulant Laluna, who left early to pick up Persephone, and maybe Ambitious’s Neanderthal father, everyone had a swell old time. Alchemy beamed, elated for his true brother. In the car ride home, I broached the necessary topic. “I’ve been considering, maybe, that night in the Nightingale office — I may have let my myopia overtake my empathic impulses, with, you know”—his name choked in my throat—“him.”
“You mean my brother, your son, Mose?”
“Yes.”
Instead of compassion at my suffering over the turmoil of my lost child, my attempt at making peace elicited an accusatory question. “And now, years later, how do you intend to correct that myopia?”
“You and he are close. His wife seems to be friendly with Laluna. He spends time with Persephone. Maybe a family get-to-know-you session.” My tactic was clumsy — I hate clumsy — my words sounded like someone else was speaking them. I backtracked. “I’m sorry. Maybe this is the wrong time. We can talk again and I’ll explain how, from the moment of his conception, his life affected mine in only the most excruciating ways.”
No sympathy. Only a lifeless, “I’ll talk to him.”
Alchemy never spoke his name again in my presence.