She left the room. I put on my clothes and went down to the kitchen. She was sitting at the table with her coffee cup, looking pretty good what with the vaseline on her eyelashes and the sun coming in through the orange curtains. I poured myself some coffee.
“Clinton.”
Beware. Soft voice. She may decide to weep.
“Yes, Annabel.”
“Why is it I have never got used to being called Annabel by you boys? You’d think after years and years—but it was never my idea, this first-name thing with this family. It’s all part of your father’s contempt for the family unit. He thinks Mother is a dirty word.”
“That’s because some mothers blackmail their kids about the birth trauma and all that. It makes good sense.”
“That’s right. If you’ve got a weak board,” she said, “then by all means burn the house down, Heil Hitler, and away we go. Ooooh! (A noise of distaste; very hard to spell.) —I hope you don’t believe every word your father says is gospel!”
“I don’t.”
“But on the other hand, you should respect him for what he was.”
I looked at her.
“Don’t think you can poo-poo your father, or be condescending to him. Not by a long shot, mister fourteen-years-old-and-don’t-forget-it.”
“I wasn’t!”
“Because he was as brilliant a man as I’d ever met—before he started committing suicide. Sweetheart, I wouldn’t lean on that stove in those nice trousers; it’s impossible to keep it that clean, clean enough to just lie down and go to sleep on.”
I moved over to the cupboard and leaned against it. “What did you mean about suicide?”
“It’s no secret. Your father’s been committing systematic suicide for the last thirty years. Bourbon. Ever hear of it?”
“That must not be a very effective method of killing yourself. I mean if it takes that long. Now if he really wanted to do the job . . . !”
“Whoah! Just whoah!” She took a big drag on her cigarette. I love the way Annabel smokes, she always fills up her whole body with the stuff. I had a sudden very strong urge to light up about a dozen of them and smoke myself blue.
“I realize,” she said, “you’re educated to the point where it’s no longer necessary for you to attend the tenth grade. Oh heavens yes, there’s very little you couldn’t teach any college professor. But it happens that the literature I have read on alcoholism was written by a college professor.”
“Has he met Ralph?”
“He doesn’t need to.”
“Has this college professor ever seen Ralph passed out drunk? Because I never have.”
“Clinton,” she said quietly, “I have a new word for you. It’s ‘contrary.’ Now listen, how often have you admitted to me that your father makes more sense when he’s not drinking? Just answer.”
“More sense, but that doesn’t mean the minute he takes a drink he’s gone nuts or killing himself.”
“Thank you. I have canvassed the family attitude and found myself as usual a very lonely minority.”