Flesh and Blood

  “We can't. I don't know what I was thinking about, we're late as it is.”

  As she would later tell her friends at home, the less said about Billy's apartment, the better. At first, she and Constantine believed they'd gotten the wrong address. The building looked as if it were about to emit one last dusty exhalation and tumble down into the weeds of its yard, leaving only a skeleton of rusty pipes and a crumbling chimney. Mary squinted at the slip of paper on which she'd written the address. “No, this is it,” she said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Constantine said. “Wouldn't you know it.”

  “Please don't start,” she said. “This is a happy day. There's no need to rain on anyone's parade.”

  He nodded grimly. “I hope it's safe in there,” he said. He kept his hand on her elbow as they crossed over the rough boards of the porch and mounted a set of stairs that were not much more than kindling, each painted a different garish color. “Christ,” Constantine muttered. The air was heavy with sweet, feral odors Mary couldn't name. Cats, certainly, and incense—she knew that smell from church. The building had the air of a deconsecrated chapel, a once-sanctified place given over to stray cats and the steady appetites of vermin. “Wouldn't you know,” Constantine said, and Mary, told him to hush.

  When they knocked at the battered door Billy called, “It's open.” They walked in and found him wearing patched jeans and a ragged flannel shirt, sitting with Zoe on a sofa that must have come straight from the junkyard. The apartment was, well, indescribable—it might have been the home of a lunatic, someone so lost to the fundamental principles of order and cleanliness that he'd drag any filthy piece of trash up from the street and display it proudly. As Mary and Constantine stepped inside she involuntarily touched one of her earrings with her fingertips.

  “Hey, folks,” Billy said. “Welcome to the House of Usher.”

  “Christ, will you look at this dump,” Constantine said. He managed a growlish laugh and Mary thought, Fine, they can get through it with banter. They can make this into a rough masculine joke.

  “I call it home,” Billy said.

  “It's sure colorful.” Mary smiled. To Constantine she added, “I like it. It's fun.”

  Again, her emotions rose in such confusion that she felt the moisture break out along her upper lip. She wanted to defend Billy from his father. She wanted to stand next to Constantine and demand to know who Billy had turned himself into. How had he gotten so lost? Her lungs clenched up and she struggled for a breath.

  “Goddamn rat's nest,” Constantine said. The grudging humor still hadn't left his voice. Please, Mary said silently. “What're you now,” he asked, “some kind of beatnik?”

  ''That's it, Dad,” Billy said. “Once again, you've hit the nail right on the head. I am, in fact, a beatnik. You've gone straight to the heart of the matter.”

  “Now listen here, friend—”

  “Come on, guys,” Mary said, though she could barely speak for lack of wind. The invisible metal bands pressed on her lungs and seemed to tighten another notch with every breath she accomplished. “It's a happy day, we don't want to fight.”

  Billy and Zoe sat together on the sofa, which looked as if it might be infested with something that would get into their hair. Mary shuddered, and pulled in a breath. She saw, suddenly, that Billy's and Zoe's hobo clothes—the costumes she'd considered foolish but harmless—were part of a larger perversity. There they sat, her son and daughter, heir and heiress to centuries of daily struggle, the recitation of prayers for luck and better weather, the husbanding of funds. There they sat in rags, hair unkempt, slumped like the poorest of white trash on a piece of furniture that had been dowdy and threadbare even when new. Mary's drunken father had had more pride. Her Sicilian grandmother, too poor to buy drinking glasses, had kept her jelly jars in immaculate rows. For the first time in her life, Mary knew her son as a stranger. As someone who might do anything, whose head was full of thoughts and desires she couldn't imagine.

  “Right,” Constantine said. He raised his arm and looked at his watch. The dark blue wool blend of his jacket, the crisp white line of his shirtsleeve, drew back to reveal his Rolex in all its placid certainty. At the sight of her husband's watch Mary briefly imagined him and her son as officers in two hostile factions: one strong and wealthy, armed with tanks; the other nimble and wily, anarchic, armed with little darts tipped in unknown poisons.

  “Better get your cap and gown,” Constantine said. “We've got to swing by the hotel and pick Susan up on our way.”

  Billy said, “I'm not wearing a cap and gown.”

  “Huh?”

  “I'm not wearing a cap and gown. I'm willing to go through commencement and everything, the works. But I'm not wearing the monkey suit.”

  “Don't be stupid,” Constantine said. “C'mon, go get it, we're gonna be late.”

  “There's nothing for me to get,” Billy said. “I didn't order a cap and gown.”

  “Oh, Billy,” Mary said.

  Constantine swallowed. Mary could hear the juice of him, the thick angry inner workings. She wanted only to lie down somewhere clean and safe until she could catch her breath.

  Constantine said, “So. You want to go to commencement in your beatnik suit? You want to just stroll in there looking like a deadbeat?”

  “I want to go in my own clothes,” Billy said. “Why should it be a big deal?”

  “You've gotta be different, don't you?” Constantine said. “You've got to stand out.”

  “Hey, guys,” Mary said, but she knew her voice was barely audible.

  “Look,” Billy said, “I've got friends who are laughing at me for even doing this. Sitting there listening to speeches about this grand old institution, brought to us by the folks who helped invent napalm.

  You know what napalm does? It's like fire that sticks to you. It eats right down to the bone.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” Constantine said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Harvard has big research contracts with the government,” Billy said. “Did you notice how nice the campus is, how well maintained? Where do you think all that money comes from? Tuition? Sweatshirt sales?”

  “Mister, I could tell you a few things about where money comes from—”

  “Guys,” Mary said. “Come on. Susan's waiting for us.”

  “Dad, I'm happy you and Mom are here,” Billy said. “I'm very pleased we can share all this. But there are limits. Get my drift?”

  “I don't know what you're talking—”

  “It's my show. It's my life. And I won't wear the goddamned suit.”

  “Right,” Constantine said. “It's got to be your way, huh? You don't care that your mother and Zoe and Susan and I drove all the way up here.”

  “No. I do care. I honestly thank you for driving all the way here to my graduation. Which I'm attending for your benefit. In my own clothes.”

  “Forget it, then,” Constantine said. “Don't do anything for our benefit. Don't strain yourself.”

  Billy shook his head. Mary felt herself beginning to cry. She watched through a hot film of tears as Billy stood and said, “There are two ways to do things, aren't there, Dad? Your way and the wrong way. We've got to take advantage of all the photo opportunities in Harvard Yard, and then after the ceremony we've got to get into the car and drive to some horrible fancy French restaurant. You're not here to see me graduate. You're here to see the son you want graduate. I've got news for you. They're two different people.”

  “Nice speech,” Constantine said. “Very nice. Where's your goddamned heart, mister? You know what you're doing to your mother here?”

  “Mom and I can talk about whatever it is I'm doing to Mom. This is about you and me. Right? You want to come up to Harvard like a big cheese and pose for pictures with a guy in a cap and gown. Listen, I can set you up with half a dozen guys. Big strapping guys, short hair, on their way to law school or business school. I've got connections, bring your camera a
nd we can go straight to the Yard—”

  “Shut up,” Constantine shouted. “You shut up, mister.” His face was dark, his arms rigid at his sides. Mary knew that in another second, with another quarter ounce of provocation, he'd lunge.

  “Oh, Con, Billy, please,” she whispered.

  “Mom doesn't care what I graduate in. Do you, Mom?”

  “I don't know,” she said. “I just—please. Don't fight.”

  “Don't do this to her,” Constantine said. “Don't you dare.”

  Billy nodded. “This was a mistake,” he said softly. “Mom, Dad, I'm sorry you came all the way up here for nothing.” He stepped carefully around his father and walked to the door.

  “Where do you think you're going?” Constantine demanded.

  “For a walk. Maybe I'll go to the movies later. What do you say, Zo? Want to come? Midnight Cowboy is playing at the Orson Welles.”

  Zoe blinked, as if she herself had forgotten she was present. Mary thought, Everything has failed. All the effort, all the love, the careful stitching of the days, has added up to nothing.

  Zoe said, “I can't. I'm sorry. I've got to stay with Mary and Constantine.”

  She had begun to insist on calling them by their Christian names. No discipline or persuasion would stop her.

  “Okay,” Billy said. “See you.”

  He left. The door clicked shut behind him. Mary thought Constantine would run after him but he didn't move. No one moved.

  “Unbelievable,” Constantine said. “Unbelievable.”

  Tears were running down Mary's face now, hot heavy ones that ran to her jawline. She took a handkerchief from her pocketbook. “What do we do now?” she said in a small voice.

  “We're going to the goddamn commencement ceremony, is what,” Constantine told her. “Come on. We got to get Susan from the hotel, she's waiting for us.”

  No one moved. Zoe remained on the sofa, looking down at her shoes, and Mary had all she could do to keep from striding over to Zoe and screaming, What's wrong with you? What's going on?

  “Come on,” Constantine said.

  “Con.”

  “Nothing. Not another word. Susie's waiting for us. We're on our way.”

  “I've got to use the ladies' room,” Mary said.

  “You okay?”

  “I'm fine. Just wait for me a minute, all right?”

  She crossed the living room and walked down the hallway. She passed an untidy yellow-tiled kitchen, a closed door, another closed door. She didn't need to use the bathroom; she needed to be alone, if only for a minute or two. She needed to concentrate on filling her lungs with air. When she found the bathroom she locked the door and took a pill from her purse. She swallowed the pill and stood for a while at the sink, breathing. In the sink lay a long dark hair, curled like a question mark. There was a spotted mirror; there was a ceramic cup that contained three toothbrushes, Billy's and those of his two roommates, whom she'd never met. Mary didn't know which toothbrush was Billy's. The yellow, squashed-looking one? The newer one, stubbier, bright green, with bristles stiff as a hairbrush? The clear one with a little half-moon of toothpaste stuck to its lip? None of them spoke obviously of her son, and none was unquestionably alien. She saw, suddenly, how entirely she'd lost track. Her own life, the rhythms of the house, its maintenance and upkeep, had seemed so real, so quintessential, that lives lived elsewhere, even the lives of her children, had taken place along the margins, in a realm singular and immutable as a photograph. Although she thought of Billy constantly she thought of him in faintly abstract terms, the way she'd think of a character in a television show when the show wasn't on. But here was this bathroom, with its sour mildewed smell floating under a scrim of chlorine. Here were these toothbrushes. Looking at them, she was stricken by a wave of anxiety so powerful she had to sit on the edge of the bathtub and lean forward until her forehead nearly brushed her knees. Breathe, she told herself. Relax. Let the air in. It seemed no time at all had passed before she heard Constantine knocking at the door, demanding to know if she was all right. “Fine,” she called cheerfully. She reached over and flushed the toilet. As she stood she was taken by an impulse to slip the toothbrushes, all three of them, into her handbag, so that she could examine them later and try to sort out which one belonged to her son. But that would be crazy. Everyone would know who'd done it. Constantine knocked again.

  “Mary? I'm coming in.”

  “Don't” she said, too sharply. She added, in a softer voice, “I'm fine. Really.”

  She took one last breath. Then, before opening the door, she took a faded pink washcloth from the towel rack and put it quickly, almost thoughtlessly, into her bag.

  When Susan heard they were going to the ceremony without Billy she said, “Well, really, what's the point?” She wore a green A-line dress covered with white flowers. It was shorter than Mary would have liked, but, otherwise, Susan was impeccable. Her lips were glossily pink, her hair fell only to her shoulders. She looked straight at Constantine when she spoke. The hotel room, like Susan herself, gleamed with cleanliness and rectitude.

  “We're going,” Constantine told her. “Come on.”

  “That's silly,” Susan said. “If Billy's being a brat, let him be a brat. There's no reason for us to sit through commencement with a bunch of strangers.”

  Mary couldn't help marveling at her elder daughter's fearless shoulders, her staunch certainty, the crispness of her dress. She knew to call Billy a brat. She knew the word that would render his bad behavior small and transitory. Mary couldn't imagine why she so often felt irritated with Susan for no reason, and why Billy, the least respectful of her children, the most destructive, inspired in her only a dull ache that seemed to arise, somehow, from her own embarrassment.

  “I'm going,” Constantine said. “The rest of you can do whatever you want.”

  Susan looked at Mary, who offered a wan smile. Susan shrugged dismissively. Mary knew the gesture: Forget about Momma, she'll do whatever's easiest. Mary's face burned but she knew that if she spoke, if she said one word, she'd start crying again and this time she might not be able to stop. She hated her family, every one of them. No one had any idea what it felt like inside her skin, this tightrope sensation, the terrible hunger for air.

  “All right, fine,” Susan said. “Let's go to Billy's commencement without Billy. Todd went to see an old friend of his, he's going to meet us there.”

  They went to the commencement ceremony. They took seats toward the rear of the field of wooden chairs. Now that she was here, among the mothers in pastel dresses and the fathers in dark suits, Mary felt a sense of foolishness that turned quickly to rage. Billy had made them look like idiots. He'd humiliated them in front of all these people; these men with hearty, successful faces and these cool, talkative women with lacquered fingernails. Mary's irritation at Susan vanished and was replaced by a skittish gratitude. She felt grateful to Susan, who sat on her left, and to Todd, sitting beside Susan, handsome and grave in a suit the same inky blue as Constantine's. Mary touched her earring, shifted her weight toward Constantine, who sat in a cold fury to her right. She tried not to let her irritation turn itself on Zoe, sitting beside Constantine in her baggy muslin dress, her disordered hair, and the old-fashioned lace-up shoes she'd insisted on. Zoe had taken to dressing like a figure in a daguerreotype, one of the frizzy-haired women who stared out of old brown-and-white pictures with harsh-eyed solemnity, who looked stolid and afraid and insanely formal and who were, by now, all dead.

  “I think Billy's going to show up,” Mary whispered to Susan. “I think he's bluffing.”

  “Don't hold your breath,” Susan answered. “He's got all of you-know-who's stubbornness.”

  Mary nodded knowingly, although she seldom thought of her husband and son as resembling each other in any respect. They inhabited different spheres of air, subscribed to different systems of logic.

  “I still think he'll show up,” she said. “Why on earth would he want to miss his own graduat
ion, after all that work?”

  “Well, don't hold your breath.”

  Mary wondered, briefly, with a flush of fear, whether Susan had guessed about her breathing trouble. No, it was only a figure of speech. She laid her hand, gently, on the taut stockinged curve of her daughter's knee.

  The ceremony began. It was all speeches, delivered in voices rendered deep and hollow by loudspeakers mounted in the trees. Mary didn't listen. To distract herself, she picked out a boy sitting toward the front, in the students' section. He looked a little like Billy—he had the thin, broad shoulders that made Mary think of wings, and he had the wide jaw that seemed slightly too large and heavy for his thin, graceful neck. This boy's hair, though, was neatly trimmed, and he was, well, present. She wondered who his parents might be. Directly in front of her sat a man who looked too old to have a son graduating from college but who was clearly married to a much younger woman, one of those round-faced, tiny-featured women who were touted as beauties though they were not in fact particularly beautiful. They were simply the daughters of wealthy families powerful enough to demand that the concept of beauty be expanded to include them. A knot of envy and admiration formed in Mary's stomach, like wet fabric bunching up. Their son was probably the product of the old man's second marriage, and Mary thought she could imagine the embattled, aging woman (was she barren? was she poor?) who had been set aside for this gunmetal blonde with her pert chin and her fertility, her miniature nose and her trust fund. Mary looked from the couple in front of her to the boy who resembled Billy. She watched him whisper to the boy who sat beside him as a deep male voice crackled from the loudspeakers, saying something about the long but rewarding work that lay ahead.

  When Mary and her family filed out with the others after the ceremony, she tried to locate the boy who resembled Billy.

  “I can't believe we did that,” Susan said. “I can't believe I've just spent two hours of my life this way.”

  Todd held her hand and managed to arrange his face in a way that was at once optimistic and sympathetic. Zoe moved inside her shapeless dress, thinking whatever it was she thought.