Honeymooners A Cautionary Tale (10 page)

Say what? Jim said. —What
has Alice Ann told me? Nothing. What would Alice Ann tell
me?

She’s always airing our
dirty laundry for you. Don’t try and tell me she
doesn’t.

Well, you’re just being
paranoid, as usual. She hasn’t told me a thing. Why, what’s
up?

Alice Ann found the
letters.

What letters? You’re talking
in code, old Ralph.

My girlfriend’s letters,
that’s what letters. Alice Ann found them. God knows how. Jesus.
She must have torn the house apart. She must have rooted around
like crazy. I had those babies hid, really hid, I’m telling you. If
I had buried them like bones in the back yard I couldn’t have hid
them any better.

So where were they
hid?

Oh, they were hid, all
right. I’ve got my places. My secret places not even those criminal
kids have found yet. I thought the place where I hid those letters
was my best secret place, too. Jesus. Nothing is sacred.
Nothing.

Right, especially your
girlfriend’s love letters. So what happened? What did she
do?

You really don’t know? Alice
Ann hasn’t already told you her side of the story,
really?

No, Ralph, I told
you.

She did plenty, that’s what.
She sprung them on me. She caught me off guard. Listen to this, old
Jim. She waited until today. She saved everything up. Then this
morning the, you know, so-called shit hit the fan. Breakfast in bed
for the anniversary boy is what she said. She was all smiles.
Good-morning kisses for the anniversary boy is what she said. I
should have known the jig was up. So she brings me this tray. It’s
got all my favorite breakfast treats on it. Three eggs sunny-side
up. Scratch biscuits with orange marmalade. Those tasty litde link
sausages done to a turn. Home fries. Cinnamon rolls hot from the
oven. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Coffee. You name it. I should
have known. The handwriting was on the wall. So I’m sitting there
in bed stuffing my face, happy as a clam. Then she says, I’ll bring
the paper and the mail in to the anniversary boy, sweetie-pie. No
bills, I say. Bury the bills today. I’ll deep-six the bills,
sweetie-pie, she says. So she brings me the paper and it’s turned
to the funny page. I like to read the funny page first thing. Then
she says, Hey, big anniversary boy, I’ve got a bright idea. How
would you like to play a little post office with your anniversary
girl? And she’s winking and blinking at me to beat the band. Well,
you can guess what I thought she meant by that. So I said, Sure,
why not. I mean, I was sort of looking forward to finishing that
swell breakfast while it was hot, but when duty calls ... So I put
on my best bedroom look, all sappy with smiles and bug-eyed with
feigned desire. And then she says . .. Through rain and snow,
through sleet or hail, we never fail to deliver the United States
mail, motherfucker, and then she tossed this fat pack of letters,
Lindsay’s letters, smack in the middle of the goddamn tray. Food
went flying everywhere. Eggs. Those tasty little sausages. Home
fries all over the funny page. Jesus. Where’s it all going to
end?

Damn, Jim said. —So then
what?

Oh, screaming, Ralph said.
—Yelling. Snarls. Lefts and rights. Some bloodletting. Although
minor so far, all things considered. You know, just the usual
heated discussion.

Oh boy, Jim said.

But it’s only the beginning,
Ralph said. —She’s saving her best, or worst, I should say, for
later. Whenever that’s going to take place. Take my word for it.
This affair is far from over. What’s more, she has suspicions about
this cute student of mine.

Are they true?

Well, sort of. But nothing
serious. Just a, you know, student. An A student, I might
add.

So you got those runny sores
around your mouth from eating out some A student, huh?

No! Ralph gasped, clomping a
paw over his mouth. —No way! he mumbled. —These are, you know,
fever blisters. Plain and simple. She’s a nice, clean girl, an A
student, like I told you. Please don’t breathe a word of this.
Please, old Jim.

You can count on me, old
dog. This business about you eating out your nice, clean A student
is buried. I’ll take this little conversation with me to my
grave.

And on top of everything
else, we’re going belly-up again, Ralph said.

Belly-up? What’s that mean,
old Ralph?

We’re on the verge of
bankruptcy again. No fooling. Belly-up. Broke. Busted flat. Just
like seven years ago, when we declared bankruptcy before. Jesus. It
has become a way of life. I read this article recently. It was that
kids’ Science Made Simple column in the Sunday paper. You know. And
it told about how at the end of seven years all the cells of your
body have changed over. They’re all new, see? It’s sort of like at
the end of every seven years you’re sort of this totally
transformed human being. Somebody new, in terms of cells, anyway.
Well, I’ll tell you this. I’m not a brand->new human being from
seven years ago. Maybe my so-called cells are new, but I’m the same
old sorry human being belly-up again. In California, after you
declare bankruptcy, you have to wait seven years before you can
declare it again. That’s the way I know seven years of my life have
gone by. It’s time to belly-up again. You know something? Ralph
said, and looked over at Jim and shook his old, woolly head.
—You’re the best friend I have on the face of this
earth.

Hey, listen, old dog, Jim
said, I love you, too, and I really wish I could give you a hand,
but I only have about fifty fucking bucks to my name.

No, Ralph said. —That’s not
what I’m talking about.

So, Jim said, what’s your
point?

I don’t know, Ralph said,
and shrugged. —I don’t know, I guess. Food for thought. Wonder
whatever happened to our waitress with that last round of drinks?
You know, there’s this passage in Dostoevsky. It’s about this
fellow who is given the choice to die or to stand on this ledge
throughout all eternity.

So what’s your point, Ralph?
Jim asked. —You’re sure being a cryptic fuck tonight. So how wide
is the ledge?

I don’t know, Ralph said.
—Some choice. Here comes your wife.

4

Where’s Alice Ann? Ralph
asked when Judy sat down at the table.

She’s still in the little
girls’ room, Judy said.

She must be doing one of her
marathon number twos, Ralph said. —Did she leave her cigarettes? he
said, and slid the little lantern around looking. —Holy moly, she
must be drunk. She left her bag on the chair, he said, and placed
the lantern on the table’s edge while he rummaged through the
handbag. Ralph looked up quickly when the waitress approached the
table carrying a tray of drinks.

Here you go, folks, the
waitress said, and placed the drinks around. —Are you sure there
won’t be anything else tonight, folks? she asked.

No. No, thank you, Ralph
said. —I believe that will be the last round, like my wife said.
Thank you. Everything was nice. Very nice.

Cool, the waitress said, and
placed a small tray with the bill on the table.

Ralph picked the bill up and
looked it over. He held it up to the lantern and looked it over
again carefully. He returned the bill to the tray and then after a
moment picked it up and studied it again, his lips moving as he
read it over.

Jaysus, Ralph said, and
placed the bill back onto the tray.

Steep? Jim asked
him.

Oh, just another nail in my
coffin, Ralph said, and gulped his drink, which was a double
bourbon.

Hey, old dog, let me grab
the tip, Jim suggested. —Here goes, Jim said, and took out the
little spiral notebook and pen he always carried in his shirt
pocket in those days. He wrote on a page and then tore it out and
placed it on the tray. —There you go, old dog, Jim told Ralph. —The
tip is covered.

Ralph reached over and
picked the notepaper up and read it out loud: Plant com
early.

That there’s a valuable tip,
Jim told Ralph. —My old redneck daddy gave me that tip, and one
year it saved the farm.

Ralph rolled up the tip and
tossed it over his shoulder. He tapped his coffee spoon lightly on
the tabletop and gazed around the dark room.

You wouldn’t recognize a
good tip if somebody stuck it up your ass, Jim said. —Stay in
school, now that’s a good tip.

Ralph rolled his eyes and
picked up the last of his drink and shook ice loose in the glass.
He tossed the ice into his mouth and began to crunch it slowly. He
began to make little overlapping patterns of damp circles on the
bar napkin with the bottom of his glass. Suddenly Ralph laughed out
loud. It was like a bark. Then he covered his mouth with a paw and
coughed. Then he turned in his chair and began to rummage in Alice
Ann’s handbag again.

I have some of these
Vantages, Judy said. —They’re not very strong, but you’re welcome
to them. I’m trying to quit.

Never mind, Ralph said.
—Thanks, anyway.

Feed pigs popcorn, Jim said.
—That’s another one of daddy’s tips that saved my bacon.

When Alice Ann finally
returned to the table, Ralph flashed her a broad smile.

We got the bill while you
were otherwise engaged, Ralph said.

Terrific, Alice Ann said,
and shrugged. She swirled her margarita.

You know, Ralph said, I
thought my sirloin tasted like an old piece of boiled
goat.

I adored my meal, Alice Ann
said.

I sort of liked whatever it
was I had, Judy said.

You had pastitsio with kima,
hon, Alice Ann said.

Well, I adored my moussaka,
Jim said, smirking at Ralph.

Moussak-a is more like it,
Ralph said. —I hate this so-called restaurant like I’ve never hated
an establishment before.

Ignore him, troops, Alice
Ann said. —He’s just getting into one of his little snits. He
didn’t have the imagination to order ethnic, so he wants to
pout.

Ralph picked the bill up off
the tray and examined it again in the lantern light.

Nope, Ralph said, and put
the bill back on the tray.

Nope, Ralph? Alice Ann said.
—Fucking nope?

Nope, sirree, Ralph said,
and chuckled. —Nope, I’m not going to pay it.

Very funny, dear, Alice Ann
said. —I just forgot to laugh.

I mean it, Ralph said. —I’m
not going to shell out.

Well, er, who is, then? Jim
was real curious to know. —I don’t see old John Cheever
anywhere.

I don’t know, Ralph said.
—Not me, that’s for sure. That’s not my bill. I don’t see my name
anywhere on that particular bill.

Hey, old dog, Jim said, this
was supposed to be your treat. Alice Ann said so!

I don’t care. I’m not going
to shell out. I hate this restaurant. This restaurant stinks. This
restaurant smells like Zorba’s armpits.

Don’t pay any attention to
him, troops, Alice Ann said, and lit a cigarette. —Our anniversary
boy has just gotten plastered per usual and peevish.

My sirloin tasted like goat,
Ralph said. —I’ve got my standards. It’s not my bill of
fare.

Don’t worry, gang, Alice Ann
said. —I’m the keeper of the plastic in this so-called
family.

Not tonight you’re not,
Ralph said.

Come again, sweetie-pie,
Alice Ann said.

Look and learn, Ralph
said.

Alice Ann stubbed her
cigarette out slowly. She slid her billfold from her handbag and
opened it to her card folder.

Very clever, Ralphie, Alice
Ann said. —I just don’t believe you sometimes. And this time you’ve
achieved a new low-rent level. All right, Ralph, is it a scene you
want? May I help you with a scene, is that it?

Hey, you two, Jim
said.

Why don’t we all just chip
in? Judy suggested, and opened her own purse.

I think Ralph has his little
heart set on a public scene, Alice Ann said. —I would hate to
disappoint the anniversary boy. After that amazing six-second mercy
fuck, I feel I owe the boy something. Ralph just lives for public
scenes, see. They give him something to write about, after all.
After all, if all Ralph could depend upon for his writing was his
imagination, where would he be?