“Here Grandpa, let me help you.” Phil lifted Daniel’s shrunken frame forward as the old man coughed.
“Oh Phil, good grief.” Daniel spat into the sheet, then shuddered. “Where’s that damn bowl?”
“Julia,” Phil called. “We’re waiting!”
“Coming!” She ran into the bedroom, the small plastic container dripping in her hands. “Gonna get the bedding wet.”
“Not gonna make any difference honey, I just spat into it.” Daniel heaved, but nothing emerged. “It’s over, let me lay down.”
Phil eased his grandfather onto the pillow. The bed’s angle wasn’t quite horizontal, and Daniel closed his eyes. “Dying,” he muttered. “What a thing. Sometimes I wish it was over already.”
Phil and Julia sat on opposite sides, Phil grasping Daniel’s withered hand while Julia clutched the vomit bowl. She looked into it, then set it on the open edge of the bedside table.
Daniel hadn’t wanted to die in a hospital. Between Phil, Julia, Helen, and some volunteers, he would get his wish. Julia stared at Daniel, then at his grandson; they shared the same oval faces, same noses, same… weariness. But Julia hoped to never see Phil this debilitated, at least not until he was an old, dying man.
Over the last year she had witnessed several moments when Phil longed to be deceased, but there he sat, in as much pain as last Thanksgiving, nearly a year since Sunshine. Julia sighed; he looked no better, if not worse. But the trembling man lying in bed was now much of the reason for Phil’s aching face, stooped shoulders, and stilled hands. Phil hadn’t touched his father’s guitar since Sunshine killed herself, taking another of Phil’s babies with her.
Julia considered that as two fathers spoke in hushed tones. Not that the men knew the same levels of pain, but the essence was similar. Daniel knew because Phil had told him. Helen knew as well, for Sunshine’s death and Phil’s other loss had gone hand in hand all over the tabloids. Stan Gideon’s tragic suicide stalked Phil nearly thirty years later, but this time, no offspring had been left behind.
It had been mawkish, sensationalistic, and crappy; Julia had wished to shield Phil, also this man and Helen. None of them had escaped The National Enquirer or The Star. Even People Magazine had noted Phil’s history. Guns N’ Roses had been mentioned, what with Axl Rose’s girlfriend the niece of Phil Everly, for whom Phil was named. But Phil’s best friend had managed to avoid the spotlight, for which all were relieved. If Julia Penn had been broached, Laura Riley would have too, providing Arthur and Claire a chance to raise their allegations. Instead it was all about Phil and Stan, familial suicides screamed from grocery store checkout aisles.
The Los Angeles house had been packed, all of Phil’s belongings shipped north. Sunshine’s possessions remained in an LA storage facility, Julia, Liz, and Diane having taken that task. As far as Julia knew, Phil hadn’t stepped foot in that house once crossing the street for Gordon’s place. She and Ray had arrived to police tape sealing Phil’s front door, a crowd of press and onlookers filling the street. No one knew Phil was fifty feet away, sitting in Gordon Decker’s recliner, or that Phil was nearly dead himself.
Julia gazed at two men separated by years, but like father and son. Phil had essentially been raised by Daniel and Helen, and after Jo-Jo’s death, grandparent and grandson were only titles. Stan rested in his son through green eyes and music, but Daniel had provided the constancy and love, and Julia wished to weep for them both. Instead she cleared her throat, stood, then kissed Daniel’s pointy scalp. “Gonna get rid of the, well, I think you puked a little.”
He chuckled. “More’s in the sheet.”
“I’ll change it before Grandma gets back,” Julia said.
Phil nodded and Daniel smiled. “You know, she loves hearing that.”
“What, that I’m changing the bedding?”
Julia giggled as she left, but Daniel’s small nod spoke the truth. Julia still had a hard time with reality, but since Sunshine died, it didn’t hurt as much as before.
“He asleep?” Julia asked as Phil stepped into the kitchen.
“Yeah. Grandma call?”
Julia nodded. “I told her to take her time.”
“Good. Hey, that really means a lot, what you said to him.”
She smiled. “I can’t help it. When I’m here, they’re Grandma and Grandpa. Makes Dad and Mom happy, you know?”
“I never thought about it. You call Lee Mom, you call my grandparents, well…”
“Always looking for someone to love me,” Julia smiled.
“Don’t have to look far in Columbus.”
“Phil, I’m sorry, you know?”
He sat across from her, clasping her hand. “Just a shitty deal Julia. Nothing else to say.”
She stared at him, he looked old. He was thirty, his birthday on Halloween marked by a cake Helen had baked and some chocolate ice cream. Ray had flown out, and Julia felt as if in a time warp, maybe how Phil had celebrated his birthdays after he was thirteen, and Jo-Jo was dead. From then onwards, Phil only had Daniel and Helen, and in turning thirty, he was losing… Julia squeezed Phil’s fingers, then wiped a tear. “So, what do you want for dinner?”
“I, uh, don’t care. Whatever you and Grandma decide.”
Julia squeezed again. She hadn’t heard the songs he wrote last summer in Berkeley, three of which he had told her about; were there others? Stan’s guitar wasn’t in Columbus; it resided at the Berkeley rental house that Lee and Chuck still monitored. Julia could imagine them driving through neighborhoods, arriving at Phil’s house. Chuck would get out, gripping his bottle of oxygen, grousing about hauling it everywhere. He would peer down the street, using years of experience to ascertain if the coast was clear. Not much to note in Phil’s neck of the woods, only that the mail was collected, lights turned on and off. Phil’s possessions and Stan’s guitar and memorabilia waited in that house, where Phil would live sometime in early 1990, which was just six weeks away. Phil and Julia would leave Columbus, flying west together. They would be back, as Helen was spritely and had no intentions of dying anytime soon. Between the women it was whispered that Helen wanted to hold a great-grandchild and she wasn’t expecting Julia to do the honors.
But Julia said none of that to Phil. He wasn’t over Sunshine, which was perfectly normal. Sandwiched alongside her death sat the aching man in the master bedroom, and Julia was content to let Phil take his time. He was only thirty, for God’s sake, and Helen wasn’t in any hurry.
Julia fought her smile. Phil’s face was drawn; he needed to get laid and he needed Berkeley. He could set down roots there, what with his quaint rental house, his competent shrink, his sunsets and corner grocery store. There were few reminders of Sunshine in the North Bay; she hadn’t made much of an impression, or at least not to Julia. She had been checking on Phil’s house for a time, and never felt anything of Sunshine Galveston in that place, but maybe Phil would. He said he hadn’t, not in the least. Julia wasn’t sure if he was lying; maybe her ease with truth had stolen some of Phil’s honesty. Maybe he would be the one with a need for fallacy.
“I’ll make creamed tuna on toast, that okay?”
“What?”
“For dinner, shit on a shingle,” Julia laughed. “That’s what Dad always called it.”
“What in the hell is creamed tuna on toast?”
She looked through the cupboards. Tins of tuna sat alongside cans of Folgers’s coffee, Campbell’s soup, all the staples of Phil’s childhood, Julia’s too. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve never eaten shit on a shingle?”
“Julia…”
“I know, doesn’t sound very appealing.” She set two cans of tuna on the counter. “Tuna in a cream sauce, spread over toast. It’s really very nice.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Actually, it’s Liz’s favorite. Call and ask what she had every year on her birthday. Well, until Mom and Dad started splurging, taking us to McDonalds. Tuna on toast, I bet you ten bucks that’s what she’ll say.”
&
nbsp; “Tuna on toast. Right.”
Julia grabbed the canister of flour from along the wall. “I just need some milk and salt and…” She turned to see Phil bent over the table, his arms supporting his head.
His sobs were muffled by his hands, and she sat beside him. “Hey baby, I love you. Oh Phil!”
“Julia, I, I…”
“Let it out honey. Just let it out.”
He didn’t break down often, but the oddest thing would set him off. Tuna on toast, what had that signified? Maybe Sunshine had eaten it, cheap comfort food. Betty Galveston had probably made it, the only solace Sunshine ever knew. “Phil, oh honey, c’mere.”
In Julia’s arms Phil began to wail, accompanied by hushed tremors, and Julia gripped him, but not with force. She couldn’t squeeze this grief from him, had to let it emerge however he was able. It wasn’t only Sunshine, or Daniel. It was Stan, Jo-Jo, and babies, everything Phil had calmly sorted and slotted. The great ease of Phil Gideon had been shaken, like a Pepsi, then opened to blow. Julia felt coated with sticky-sweet soda, but all she would have to do was wash herself clean. It was easy for her to set aside, except for how much she ached in Phil’s stead.
As if he couldn’t hurt enough, as if no pain could ease his heartache, one hurt had been exchanged for another, and Julia nodded, as if Phil had spoken. He merely wept, with no words. A few times he had dissolved like this and Julia stared at the tuna. Maybe they would have something else for dinner.
He pulled away, then stood, not looking at the cans. He took a Pepsi from the fridge. There was more soda in that appliance than Julia thought was good, but better Pepsi than beer. “Hey, listen, I’ll make grilled cheese instead.”
She started to put the tuna away, but he stopped her. “After he’s gone, I’m leaving.”
“We’ll both head west. You won’t be alone.”
Phil shook his head, then sipped the soda. “No, I mean, I need to be alone.”
“Phil…”
He chugged the rest, choked, then caught his breath. “I’ll be back, just need to, uh, find myself.”
He set the empty can next to the tuna, then pushed them all in Julia’s direction. “Make shit on a shingle. I wanna try it.”
“It’s not that great Phil.”
“Does it really taste like caca?”
“No,” she giggled.
“All right then. Grandma probably made it for me, just called it something else.”
“I can’t imagine Helen saying shit on a shingle.”
Phil had a small smile. “Neither can I.”
For the rest of Daniel’s life, Phil ate a lot of creamed tuna on toast. Helen had never made it, but Julia was an expert, and it was featured at least once a week, sometimes twice. It was never served as leftovers, but Julia could whip up a batch at a moment’s notice, often how their lives were lived. Phil slept on the sofa, Julia in the guest room, Helen on a small rollaway mattress alongside her husband. They spent Thanksgiving together, then Ray joined them for Christmas. In January of 1990, Daniel Reese died in his grandson’s arms, and by February, Phil had hit the road.
He returned to Los Angeles, spending time with Guns N’ Roses as the band recorded their follow-up to Appetite for Destruction. When those sessions turned rancorous, Phil traveled to Mexico, spending much of the spring along the Pacific Coast. His contact with family was sporadic, but a few messages snuck through.
“Hey Julia, Ray, just wanted to let you know I’m alive. I’m, uh, standing at a phone booth, uh, in the middle of some street party. I think it’s a party, maybe’s it a parade. Hey, I think I might stay down here, even though my Spanish is mierda. That’s shit, you know. Lately when people ask my name, I tell them it’s Mierda. They laugh, I laugh, we’re all having a whale of a time!”
“Hey there, it’s Mierda. Just calling to say I’m making a run for the northern border. Good thing I don’t need a passport. Hey Julia, make me some of that shit, you know, mierda on a shingle. I think I need to see a doctor. I don’t feel so well.”
“Hey, it’s me. Guess what? I picked up crabs, isn’t that cool? I’ve never had crabs before. Sort of like shit on a shingle. Well, not really. But not as bad as dysentery, at least not as messy. Sort of like, well, uh, you probably don’t wanna hear this. Ray, you ever get the crabs? No, don’t answer that. Julia’ll be pissed.”
“Hey, guess where I am? I’m standing in Gordon Decker’s living room, looking at my house. It looks like mierda. Willow tree’s dead, grass’s all brown, blinds are pulled. She loved those blinds, thought it looked so modern. Mo-dern, she pronounced it mo-dern, then she’d laugh, my God Julia. She shot herself in that goddamn house in the same fucking way that Stan did. Why’d she do that, I mean, not shoot herself, but was she thinking? Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe it was a coincidence, at least to do it like Stan did. She never knew, until I told her, that that was how he died, I mean, not big news twenty-some years later, not to a girl who thought creamed tuna on toast was big eating. I wonder if she ever ate shit on a shingle. Betty’s alive, I could go ask her, say: Hey Betty, after Dick got done molesting Sunshine, you ever fix her creamed tuna on toast, you know, just to make her feel better?”
“Hey Julia, I’m, uh, still at Gordon’s. He and I are going over to the storage shed in about ten minutes, gonna poke through her stuff. I know, I know: Don’t do that Phil. You’re only torturing yourself Phil. But I like torturing myself Julia. Been hanging around you for long enough.” Laughter. “Hey Julia, you realize we’ve known each other ten years now? Ten years, and I could’ve been a father twice over if Sunshine hadn’t been so fucked up. She was fucked up Julia, but I loved her. I really did. That’s why I’m gonna go through her stuff. I don’t wanna love her anymore. I love her, I hate her, about the same as Axl and Erin; I didn’t go to their wedding, now they’re already separated. Good thing I never sent them a present, would’ve been a waste. Sunshine was a waste of my time, of five years, no, six. Wait. Was it five or six? I met her in… ’83, was it ’83? Maybe. I can’t remember. A long time, too long to be hanging out with a junkie. I was just hanging out with a goddamn junkie, you realize that? A fucking stripper junkie piece of mierda. That’s all she was Julia. That’s all she ever was.”
“Hi Gordon, this’s Julia Penn. Listen, when you and Phil get back, would you call me? Not Phil, just you. Thanks Gordon, bye.”
Julia was washing dishes in Phil’s Berkeley kitchen when he returned from his appointment. He had gone, under duress, but Julia could be convincing. Or just a bitch if he didn’t do as she said.
Now that she was thirty as well, Phil had found her somewhat irritating. Maybe she was mad he had missed her birthday while partying in Mexico. He had sent her a large colorful sombrero, which now hung along the wall right around the corner from her bathroom, in an apartment across the bay. As Phil set his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter, he thought about that placement. “Thanks for doing the dishes. Hey, did you hang that hat outside your bathroom for a reason?”
“No, why?”
“I dunno.” He leaned against the counter, noting how clean it was. Julia came over every few days, and most of her time was spent scouring his house, although hers wasn’t all that tidy. “So, is Ray working?”
She nodded, then looked at him. “How’d the appointment go?”
“Oh, same old shit. Pokes and prods, nothing doing. I should stop going, just wasting my time and his. And my money, but there’s plenty of that.”
Phil sighed, staring at the peach pie on the counter. A slice and a half remained, he thought, or one big one. “You want some pie?”
“No, I don’t want some pie.”
Her tone was clipped, but Phil ignored it. “All right then, I’m gonna eat it all.” He leaned over, grabbing a fork from the drawer. “You know, it’s more a waste of time, his time. Not that I’m doing anything productive. Maybe I’ll just quit, free up that hour for some other basket case. God knows there’s enough of them up here.”
J
ulia continued washing the dishes.
“Yeah, I mean…” His mouth was full. “God this’s great pie. But what the fuck? Really, you know. What the hell?”
“I don’t know Phil. What the hell indeed.”
He laughed. “Shit Julia, what?”
She rinsed the last plate, setting in the drainer. Then she removed gloves only used when she visited. They were placed over the faucet, then she glared at him. “You are such an asshole.”
Her tone was smooth, and he smiled. “Yes I am. I’m the biggest fuck-up in the world.” He ate another bite, then set down the pie tin. “Actually, no, I take that back. Steven Adler is a bigger fuck-up than me.”
“Who the hell is Steven Adler?”
“You know, Steve, in the band. Axl kicked him out ’cause he was doing too much smack. He would’ve kicked out Slash too, but shit, you take Slash outta the picture, what the fuck’s left?”
“You’re not only an asshole, but a dumbshit Phil.”
“Oh really?”
“You have more talent in your little finger than those dickheads combined, and here you are eating my pie, wasting my time talking about shit-for-brains metal heads and I, I, I…”
“You what Julia?”
“I hate your fucking guts, that’s what!”
He laughed as she stomped from the kitchen, gathering her purse. “You’re fulla shit Julia. You love me, you always will.”
He picked up the pie, taking a large bite. She stood at the front door, and he heard her open it. Then she paused.
“Go ahead, leave,” he said. “I don’t care. What the fuck does it matter now?”
He couldn’t see her, but knew she was still there.
“Huh? What does it matter Julia? She’s dead, Grandpa’s dead, Stan’s dead, Jo-Jo, my babies, what in the fucking hell does anything matter?”
She poked her head around the corner, long blonde hair loose around her face, which was red, eyes wide, her mouth gaping. “You are just like Arthur and Claire, you little shitface.”
He had swallowed, then began to choke. Pie was wedged halfway down his windpipe and for the first time since finding Sunshine’s warm corpse, Phil was afraid. He didn’t want to die choking on pie, and he coughed violently, then bent over. Julia hadn’t moved, and Phil kept choking until finally he forced the pie loose, swallowing it properly.
He took several breaths, then stared at her. “Shit Julia! Weren’t you gonna help me?”
“You don’t want my help Phil. You don’t wanna do anything but wallow in, well, shit.”
“Fuck you bitch!” He stumbled into the kitchen, getting a glass of water.
The slap emerged just as he took the cup from his lips. Phil spat water all over his shirt and the sink. “What the hell?”
“You, you, you asshole, stupid shithead! I hate you, I really hate you!”
“You hate me? Oh, that’s rich. Fine. You hate me, I hate her, whatever Julia, whatever!”
“I hate you Phil Gideon or shall I just call you Arthur, C and A, Mr. Riley, Mr. and Mrs. Hold Everything Over My Head. Move to Florida Phil, you’ll love the weather.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“You hate her, well, that’s great. You’re no different than Arthur and Claire. They hate Dad, they hate me. You hate Sunshine, you turn into an asshole. You already are an asshole Phil, and I hate assholes!”
“Julia…”
“No, it’s the same fucking bullshit. They say Dad killed Laura, you believe Sunshine killed the baby. And herself, and yeah, she did, but Stan killed himself and you never say that Grandpa or Grandma blamed him. Maybe Jo-Jo did, we’ll never know, but they didn’t. Now maybe it was because they had you, but now you don’t have anyone so you feel like you can just hate her all you want. But let me tell you this, you keep hating her, you’ll never recover. You’ll be just like Arthur and Claire, plastic fucking covers on your sofa, on Stan’s guitar. You’ll never play music again, you’ll never feel anything Phil. How the hell can you feel anything when all you feel is hatred?”
“Shut up Julia!”
“No, I will not shut up. I know it was shitty, Christ! No fucking duh Phil. But Sunshine loved you, she did. Stan loved your mother too Phil, and he loved you. He didn’t kill himself because he hated you, Helen told me so. She told me…”
“Shut up Julia!”
She stood back, Phil’s arm wavering in the air. One more second and he would have struck her, probably could have knocked her to the floor. He had bruised her once, when Sunshine left, small scattered marks along Julia’s backside caused by deep sorrow. Now he exuded fiery rage. “Get the fuck outta here before I hurt you Julia. I’ll do it too.”
“Will you Phil? Would you really hit me?”
He dropped his arm to his side. “Maybe. I dunno. Maybe I would.”
“You won’t. I wouldn’t let you.”
She remained within his reach and he laughed. “Oh yeah?”
“I’d kick you so hard in the balls you wouldn’t move for a week.”
“Do it. I need it, I don’t wanna feel anything.”
She didn’t reach for him. “I know you don’t. So much easier to hate her that way.”
“Fuck you,” he shrugged.
“We can. Maybe that’ll be the end of us. We’ll have sex and I’ll never see you again.”
He stared at her, realizing she wasn’t completely kidding. “Just go home. Ray needs you.”
“Ray’s at work. You need me.”
“I don’t need to fuck you.”
“You need to stop hating her.”
“I can’t, shit!” He threw up his hands. “Leave, please. I don’t wanna end up hating you too.”
“Phil, it’s okay to be angry. She really fucked you over, no joke. But honey, she wasn’t any more in control of herself than my mother was, standing on the sidewalk. She had no time to get outta that car’s way, she wasn’t any more than a sitting duck. How can they blame my dad? How can you blame her Phil, how?”
“She was pregnant Julia! She was pregnant with our baby and she fucking shot herself in the goddamn head! How do you think?”
“She was wired Phil, the autopsy…”
“The autopsy! You wanna know what the autopsy said? It said she had a four and a half month old fetus inside her, a daughter. We were gonna have a daughter Julia, but she killed that baby, she murdered her. Sunshine killed herself and murdered our daughter. That’s what the autopsy said Julia, I’ve got a copy of it in my bedroom.”
“Phil, she was high. She was so high baby.”
“She was coked out, yup she sure was. Wired and knocked-up and how would you know how that feels, huh? You don’t even want kids!”
Phil stepped around her, or he would knock her down. He stood in the middle of the tiny living room. “Get out now and don’t come back. Don’t fucking tell me how to live my life, don’t stand there and tell me not to hate her fucking guts. She was a cunt, a lying, thieving bitch. You want more? I’ll tell you whatever you want but I want you outta here.”
“Phil, don’t do this…”
“She did this Julia. She killed her own goddamn self just like my father did, Christ! Now get the fuck out!”
Julia stiffened, then went to say something. Instead of speaking, she tossed back her hair, then headed for the door. It didn’t slam behind her, but the certainty with which the latch caught signified to Phil that another death had occurred.
Chapter 8