They must have ordered from the stained menus, foi food was brought. Mike Jr. had splurged and ordered beef Szeciwan-style and prawns in garlic sauce and General's Chicken. No liquor license so the old dad had brought his usual bottle of Gallo wine in a paper bag, poured into one of the teacups, would Mike like some?- thanks, Mike did not. After a moment's hesitation he'd declined buying a six-pack of cold beer up the street to drink with the meal. Explaining he had a long drive back that night to-wherever.
"Well. Good to see you, son."
"Good to see you, Dad."
Those eyes so like his own had been, once. A boy's eyes. Gazing at his dad in pity, misery, disbelief. Dad? My dad? That's my dad? Michael Mulvaney?
Polaroid snapshots were being passed across the table to the shaky-handed dad, or was it the air-conditioning unit that made everything seem to tremble? Dad picked them up, dropped them, squinting and grinning. Hard to see in this wavering light, his eyesight grown unreliable. Nor was it clear why exactly he was being shown these snapshots of happy strangers, why the transaction was important and what sort of response was expected. How seriously human beings took themselves!-it really became clear, when you're asked to examine pictures of strangers. Mike was identifying X, Y, Z. That girl with the name ending in y, and some others. Was Mike already married, and this was his new family? A pretty moonfaced girl with caramel-colored hair and bright lips smiling so happily you'd worry her face might crack. Cinched-in waist and heavy full breasts in a shimmering red dress that looked like liquid coalesced on her body. And there was Mike Jr. with this voluptuous girl, goodlooking Marine-Mike, arms around each other's waists and both grinning like they'd won the lottery. Other scenes at what looked like a barbecue, unknown men, women, children some of them with caramel-colored hair and moon faces, grinning happy as lunatics on a Sunday outing. "Mighty pret-ty," the ravaged old dad said, sighing. Pushed the snapshots back at his son after a discreet interval of trying to figure them out.
Son and shaky-handed dad were eating, or going through the motions. Salty-gummy food, tasting of something brown-scorched. Always at the Golden Pavilion they brought you tea in a tin pot though you'd as soon drink warm piss. Mike talked, and his dad gave every impression of listening, leaning forward, belly creased against the tabletop. In fact he was distracted wanting very badly to maintain his good mood in these try- ing circumstances. The good mood had been initiated early that day, as soon as he'd gotten out of bed in fact. An antidote to the other mood which was not good and which had a foul tarry taste. Hadn't worked in two weeks, his money about gone. Well, in fact gone. He'd had an accident, slipped and fell from a ladder onto a concrete drive practically smashing his kneecap, twisting his spine, his neck. Sure they claimed he'd been drinking and it was his fault, the sons of bitches. And the aching in all his joints, really bad in humid weather. And the spongy sensation in his head. But none of this was going to get him down, spoil his good mood he deserved. This evening with the only child of his marriage he guessed loved him any longer or at least tolerated him. So maintaining the good mood required concentration. Tricky as the performance of a high wire artist for whom the slightest misstep or even hesitation could be fatal. So he had to concentrate on the spacing of wine and food, food and wine, wine, food, and wine, mouthflils in discreet alternation and succession. Though it was only the liquid that mnattered: warm, tart, reverently swallowed, making its way down his gullet into what felt like the very cavity of his heart, empty, cavernous as the Grand Canyon, and yearning to be filled. Gab, red. Sour-sickish aftertaste but cheap, couple of bucks a bottle. Did the job.
Then these words sprang out, with no warning.
The way he'd grabbed the youngest kid, Judd-slarmned him against a wall.
"Eh, son-you're looking at your father like he's some kind of dog."
But he was grinning, chuckling at the kid's face. For Mike Jr., taken by surprise, looked guilty as hell.
Mike said quickly, "No, Dad! Hell-" his big-boned handsome face reddening, how like his mother, that instant blush, acknowledgment he'd been found out. Saying, shrugging, with a frowning glance at other customers in the restaurant, "-it's just that I have a hard time, sometimes, places like this, I mean the civilian world-not you, Dad, really. On the base you get used to a different atmosphere. Off base, things are-" staring at a couple close by, the woman obese, sallow-skinned, some sort of glittery rag tied around her head, laughing and swilling noodles out of a bowl, the man in a paint-stained undershirt, crinkly-haired, pigeon-chested, baring his gums and laughing loudly, drunk. In the booth behind Mike, an elderly Chinese man was coughing in prolonged spasms, rapid staccato barks that caused the Mulvaneys' booth to shake. "-kind of coming apart, you know? No purpose to them. Nobody seems to know what the hell they're doing, or why. Why they're even alive." His voice gave him away, quavering with contempt.
Ravaged old dad said, chuckling, "You do, eh?"
Long as he had his Gallo in its upright bottle snug against his thigh. Mellow, riding the crest of whatever happened.
"That's right, sir! I do."
"Which is-?"
"A Marine fulfills his responsibility, basically."
"Which is-?"
"On a day's basis, his assignment."
"Which is-?"
"What his superior officer tells him to do."
"I'll drink to that." Laughter radiated upward through the ravaged old dad's fleshy torso, making it quiver. He raised his scummy teacup in shaky fingers. Seeing the tight set of his son's jaws, the Marine disapproval, he said, genially, "Always knew I should've been a Marine. At the age you went in, I had what it takes-hard ass, harder head. But I got married instead, and by the timne I was your age I was up to here in it." Drawing a swift crude forefinger beneath his chin.
Wondering suddenly how old his oldest child was, these days. Dear God, was Mike thirty?-thirty-two?
The son grimaced to signal perfunctory mirth, or shock and disgust at his dad's speech. He'd pushed his plate of indistinguishable lumps of food on gl.unmy white rice, two-thirds uneaten, slightly away from him, now nudged it an inch further as if to distance himself from even its memory. Half-pleading, "Dad? Like I started to say before, I was just visiting Mom, and-" Shrewd old dad had leapt ahead. "Look, son, say you'd been one of those servicemen sent to-where was it-Beirut?-Tehran? To rescue those hostages? Remember? Poor Jimnmy Carter issues orders from the White House-some `Joint Chiefs of Staff' palookas issue orders from the Pentagon-thousands of miles away in a godfor-. saken desert a dumb innocent American kid in uniform dies a horrible death in a flaming helicopter-fulfilling his assignment, eh? What his superior officer tells him to do? You'd have gone?" Words slurred as if clotted with phlegm but the point was valid, let the blustery kid deny it.
Saying, "Dad, those were special units. Of course I'd have gone if I was one of them, and qualified. A guy breaks his ass to get into one of those units, it's an honor. A secret mission like that, against the enemy, it's an honor." Mike spoke quickly, almost in embarrassment at having to explain something so obvious. "About Mom? Maybe you know she's back in Mt. Ephraim, in town? She's got ajob with-"
"No, no. Don't avoid the issue, son." The shrewd old dad was creasing his forehead as if this were a public debate, two political candidates on TV. Speaking loudly so that others in the restaurant glanced around. "Those Iranians had a right to be sore as hell, in my opinion. They'd had a revolution and overthrew a dictator, a crook and a torturer, what's-his-name--the `Shah.' And this character skips the country with millions of dollars and winds up in the United States and we protect him, of course-we're the saps! Exactly like in Vietnam we're the saps! All the Iranians want is this `Shah' crook returned to them, for a trial and an execution, maybe some torture beforehand he's got coming to him, plus the money he and his glamor-gal wife stole, in exchange for the hostages, right? I'd say they had a valid point, wouldn't you?"
Mike said, trying to remain calm, "Dad, the Iranians are our enemies. We don't have diplom
atic ties with them. They committed an enemy action, an act of international terrorism, kidnapping American citizens out of our embassy! You don't give in to terrorist blackmail, Dad."
"Yes, but look here, son: since the beginning of recorded history the rmlitary has been sending young men out to die for some cause or other and you can be sure it's always against `enemies.' Sure it's a big deal at the time, sacrificing your life for your country, honors and medals and memorial services and all, but underneath it's just politicians sounding their mouths, right? Can you deny this? Your enemy is your ally a few years later-look at Japan and Germany. Your ally is your eneniy-that's Iran! Maybe that's how it has to be, but when a man's got only one life, he's a fool to toss it like dice." How passionately Michael Mulvaney was speaking, his face heated, eyeballs bulging in their sockets. He who could go for days uttering no more than a few expedient words or epithets. But then spoiling the effect by fumbling for the Gab bottle, splashing wine into the little cup and drinking.
Mike murmured, disgusted, "Christ, l)ad-you're drunk."
"That's an answer? A rebuttal? You call that a rebuttal? Ronald Reagan could do better than that, improvising."
"Look, don't you want to hear about Mom, for Christ's sake? Your w-/-?"
"That's private, son. That's personal. I don't discuss my personal life with anyone."
"You know she thinks about you all the time? All these years? Keeps track of you? Prays for you?"
"No, no! No." ftavaged old dad in his rumpled rayon sports shirt, three-day beard and sweaty gleaming scalp, made a blind, confused gesture -as if hoping to lift himnself by brute strength from the table, except of course he was in a booth, and fell back down onto the seat, heaving and wheezing. "I'm on furlough from all that," he said. It came out a strange scared laugh.
"Dad, my God! What's happened to you?"
The spongy grapefruit inside his head. The ache in his breastbone. The wavering vision he hoped was in fact his eyes and not the actual world beyond his fingertips.
Was the meal ended? The Gallo bottle was just about empty. Which meant the good mood would be starting to wind down, soon. The ravaged old dad was anticipating the embarrassment of his Marine son taking pity on him, offering him money he'd be morally obliged to refuse, but he couldn't very well refuse the offer of a drink, could he? But had one been offered?
"Did you want to leave here? Where'd you like to go, Son?"
"Leave? Go where?"
"Didn't you say-?"
"Say what?"
Oh, it was too much effort. Just pushing himself up out of the sticky-plastic booth was too much effort. Almost, he could lay his head down, face in his plate of gummy rice, and sleep.
Instead he surprised himself, as so often he did. As with a woman, striking up a conversation with a woman he didn't know, in a bar, or a park, even out on the street, he'd hear his voice unexpectedly fluent, even youthful. "Mikey, d'you remember that white horse you kids had? Long time ago, handsome fella, white horse, white mane, belonged to one of you boys, I think? I was trying to think the other night what was his name?"
Mike shook his head. "White horse? I don't think so."
"Sure! Sure we did. C'mon, name me some names."
As if this were a profound question and not another clumsy diversionary tactic, Mike frowned and cast his eyes to the flyspecked ceiling that looked as if it were made of cardboard and recited the names of horses long gone from High Point Earn-i and very likely from this earth. "Well, there was Crackerjack, my pony-then there was Junior Jones, then-" The names drifted past, confused with the rattling of the air-conditioning unit. Mike's dad gave every impression of listening hard, with that intent yet glazed look of a drunk holding onto his good mood as a drowning man might cling to the side of an overturned boat, but essentially Mike was going it alone. "-Prince, Red, Molly-O, Clover-you must've sold Judd's horse just before you sold the farm, didn't you? Who bought him?"
The ravaged old dad squinted at his son, bemused. "How in hell would I know who bought him? Ask your mom."
Time to say good night, good-bye. The meal was ended. A drink up the street was possibly forthcoming, the dad couldn't recall. He said, "Terrific meal, we'll be back," to the shy Chinese waiter hovering a few yards away, waiting to clear the table. This timne, screwing up his face with the effort, the dad did successfully heave himself up out of the booth, lurching sideways-oh God, what a jolt of pain running from the base of his skull to the base of his spine. He was a sick, sick man. Mike was on his feet with military alacrity, holding the old man erect. "Dad? Hey? You all right?"-but the old man was already recovered, muttering to himself, in swaying motion headed for the door. There was a vague sense of an audience, outright stares and a wish (unless imagined?) that the ravaged old dad collapse on the floor but that refused to happen. The son had to stay behind to pay the check; out on the sidewalk in the soupy gray air, wiping his damp face on his shirtsleeves, rubbing his eyes savagely, the dad had time to recover, or almost. But oh God-the good mood was rapidly dribbling away like piss down a pant-leg.
Once the kid, what's-his-name, was gone, back to wherever he'd come from, that would be a relief. Too damned exhausting to love them, even to keep them straight.
Mike trotted to catch up with him. Practically towered over him. Gripping both his anus with steely fingers-'i'd better take you back to your place, Dad? Just to make sure you're all right."
Anxious Dad shaking his head, no thanks, no need. Ashamed of his pigsty room above the smelly restaurant and just possibly some female's things were there and anyway what business was it of the kid's? What business of any of them, if he wanted to crawl away like a gut-wounded deer and die alone in the woods?
At least Mike Jr. wasn't in his Marine officer's uniform, looking like he was arresting a citizen. Enough assholes gaping at them in the Street as it was.
So they argued for a while. Past nine o'clock and the sky was still riddled with light like pale capillaries in dark-bruised flesh. The dad who was in fact Michael Mulvaney, his own independent person and not just the father of some pack of kids, was mumbling he had a friend to meet up the street, had to leave, but thanks for the meal, son-"We'll have to get together more often." This made Mike laugh as if it were meant to be witty, a TV gag line. He'd taken out his wallet, was offering the ravaged old dad some bills, and the dad was protesting, "No! No thanks, son," almost convincingly, "-you're an old married man now, soon there'll be babies and you'll need all the money you can get." Breaking off then to cough, as if coughing were a signal of sincerity, but there was a cigarette in his fingers and he'd inhaled wrong and the coughing veered out of control. This is how you'll die the bulletin came puking up your lungti.csue. But Mike was insisting that his dad accept the money, the kid's big-boned handsome face dark with blood and eyes glistening with misery. Maybe they'd decided all this beforehand? Life was trickier than TV, it seemed so often to be veering in the wrong direction, yet sometimes it veered in the right direction as if by accident. Certainly it was the case, the ravaged old dad couldn't deny it, he needed to purchase some new, decent clothes, also shoes, have his hair professionally cut and not hacked with a scissors by a shaky- handed woman friend, yes and check into a cinic-promise? "Well, maybe-" he assented, seeing the logic of it, from the son's perspective at least. Giving in then amid the son in the tall muscled Marine- body slipped cash into his shyly opened hand.
"But only if it's a loan, Mike. That's understood?"
A black rushing-laughing sensation then like the wind in the chimneys at High Point Farm. As if you could be sucked up inside a chimney, blown up into the wild-windy sky and lost.
So in the end Mike did walk his ravaged old rubbery-legged dad up the filth-encrusted stairs to the furnished room above the Golden Pavilion Chinese Restaurant and Takeout. The pigsty room you wouldn't want to examine too closely. Poor Mike biting his lower lip, nostrils pinching. He pulled off his dad's laceless shoes, a few items of dirt-stiffened clothing, laid him onto the stained
rumpled sheets where at once he began to snore, snort, wheeze, his head lolling like the head of a broken-necked goose. Waking a long time later to discover only six twenty-dollar bills stuffed in his pants pocket-a hundred twenty where he'd had a wild hope of five hundred at least. So the ravaged old man had humbled himself in the eyes of his eldest son and in his own eyes for so little, after all.
The white horse. So much n-,ore alive, vivid, than Michael Mulvaney who was but smoke.
Breathless daring to climb atop the white ho-se's bare muscled back, grip its ,nan.e in his fists, its sides with his knees. Suddenly they were moving, lurch ing-behind what appeared to be the pear orchard, now into the lane. Yes, clearly it was the lane. The white horse snorted, shook its head, bucking, prancing, kicking-trying to throw Michael Mulvaney off? Or merely testing him, as a horse will test any new, uncertain rider? The children were riding beside him on their horses, saddled horses, beneath the tall trees. So beau t-ful on their mounts, smiling and grave, there was.Mikey-Junior no more than thirteen years old, there was Patrick about the same age, there was M'arianne, and at the rear, his face blurred, the youngest, Judd-why, Michael hadn't seen his children riding their horses in years. His perfect children! He'd been born into the world to be the father of those children, suddenly it was clear! And at the fence Corinne grinning and waving, holding a camera, dear Corinne in that straw hat that looked as if a goat had been chomping on it, he'd swear he'd stolen it from her and replaced it with an identical hat, bran.d flew. He was not a horseman like his children, yet there he was, on this amazing white horse-galloping after them in the lane. Pounding thudding hooves! The horse snorting, bucking! He saw that his children were outdistancing him, galloping toward the mountains. His heart was enormous in his chest, hurting him. He was gripping the horse's smoky white mane, gripping its heaving sides with his knees. He would not let go. He wo,.ild never let go. He would not be thrown ofl He was in full pursuit.