CHAPTER FIVE #2
Okay, so it was all about Scott’s bruised ego and how Carver was pressing a thumb into the bruise by standing there with a sheen of normative achievement.
Nothing to see here. Jesus Christ, was there not one drop of life he could suck from this place?
Must everything be tedium and lashings? Carver wanted to tell Scott to move over so he, too, could punch the hood of the van in anger.
He had no idea what he wanted from Scott in reality, except what he had always wanted deep within the hot core of himself, which was a chance to rewind the clock by eighteen years and go with Scott to California just to see what would happen.
Carver knew he would have regretted it, he knew he would have been miserable, knew the decision would have estranged him from his family and destroyed his future while he and Scott fought like dogs and cheated on each other.
But for some reason it made him sick that he would never know.
And he did not want to be sick. It rankled him that there would always be this door standing ajar so far behind him in the hallway of his life.
This was why he wanted to rip the bandana of his virginity from Scott’s arm.
He knew Scott had fucked a little bit of California into him that night.
They had done something to each other that Carver still couldn’t understand or explain.
And then Scott had picked up his guitar and played the songs he’d written for Carver, who realized how fucked he was as he lay there in the wet spot on the bed.
Carver had, in that moment, mentally lashed himself to the mast in defense against this siren, though he’d neglected to stuff cotton in his ears.
Now he walked around wondering if he should have just doomed himself and gotten it over with.
“I don’t know how much I actually made of myself,” Carver said, in a flat tone and without really meaning to.
Scott looked at him in curiosity.
Carver shrugged. “I’m not sure it was enough for my parents, at least.”
Scott’s eyes softened. “Yeah, I was kind of getting that impression last night.”
Carver’s heart throbbed. “Great,” he said with a mirthless grin of his own. “Glad it’s that obvious.”
“Nah, I just have the context. I mean, I remember you saying you thought it wouldn’t be enough.”
“Yeah,” Carver said, still grinning. “Yeah, I did say that, and yet.”
“I’m sorry, man. I think that’s honestly insane of them. You’re the most successful person I know.”
“You mean richest?”
“No, like… I see —” Scott looked momentarily embarrassed. “I keep up with you a little, online. I see you get mentioned in Bloomberg articles and shit. I know you’re actually out there changing the shape of the world, at least a little.”
“Yeah,” Carver said. “Well, I’m not sure how useful the changes are. And if it wasn’t me, it would just be someone else sitting at my desk.”
“But they wouldn’t make the same decisions you would.”
“No, at this level the decisions pretty much make themselves, trust me.”
“So you got promoted away from the work,” Scott said, nodding. “I’m familiar with the concept. Why not drop back down or go somewhere else?”
“Lillian and I came up together, we’re a team, so it’s tough. And I’m in golden handcuffs with my carried interest, and frankly I don’t want to take a pay cut.”
Scott nodded more, then took a pack of cigarettes and lighter out of his breast pocket. “Okay,” he said, sliding one out and lighting it.
“I always thought I might do something with the money, though,” Carver said. “I don’t know. Quit and just go do something else.”
“Didn’t you talk about med school, a couple times?”
“Ah… I think I was just trying to outdo my parents. Doctor beats lawyer.”
“I thought there was more to it than that.”
Carver shrugged. “I don’t think so. You know what the ironic thing is? My parents love you, now. They think it’s so fucking cool you had a radio hit and that you’re out there living the dream.”
Scott started laughing mid-puff, and blew out smoke, coughing.
“Oh, man. Yeah, they’ve been very kind to me.
It took me by surprise, honestly.” He took another drag, not making eye contact with Carver.
“I don’t think they’d be so welcoming if they knew about the shit I was doing to you in this house back in the day. ”
Carver leapt out of his body as all his blood rushed to his head. His lips and nose went numb and tingled; his eyes bounced off of Scott’s body and fixed themselves firmly on the wall behind him.
“Uh,” he said, several seconds later.
“Good, so you do remember,” Scott said.
Carver struggled to reenter himself as he stood there in gawping silence. “Remember,” he repeated.
“Forget it,” Scott said, and took a terrifying step toward Carver, then offered him the cigarette.
Carver took it and took an inappropriately hard drag like it was a joint. He handed it back, feeling like his lungs were singed.
“They’d also prefer I don’t smoke in here, I’m guessing,” Scott said. “Sorry. Honestly, it’s a better smell than burnt transmission fluid.”
“Oh, that’s what that is,” Carver said, like a fucking idiot.
“Yeah.”
Carver handed the cigarette back. Scott puffed on it, looking at him with those terrible dark liquid eyes, so delicately fringed by those terrible long dark eyelashes.
“Uh,” he said, swelling with sudden bravery. “To be clear — I do, uh, remember. Yes.” His pride wouldn’t allow him to be thought of as a completely delusional and sinister closet case.
Scott’s eyes softened again. He tipped his chin up to blow smoke at the ceiling, his full lips slightly parted.
“So,” Carver said. “S — uh. I think my mom’s probably gonna be looking for my help soon, if she isn’t already.”
“Sure,” Scott said, nodding.
“So I’ll leave you to your… funeral here.” He tapped two fingers on the hood of the van.
“Hey, no funeral. I’ll get her back up and running.”
“Yeah. I’ll leave you to your hospital room, then.”
Scott smiled. “Right on.”
Carver walked away, then, in what he hoped was a dignified and cowboy-esque manner.
Though Carver expected that his family would press upon him some task he could busy himself with, he soon realized he wasn’t actually needed.
Letty and Sana were upstairs with Josie and Priscilla getting ready; Conway had already set up their long drop-leaf holiday table on the covered patio and was decorating it; his mother was coordinating the food delivery; his father was hauling chairs loaned by a neighbor from the front of the house to the back of it.
The only people who weren’t busy were Lillian and Chip, who were sitting in the wood-paneled den at the back of the house, watching PGA Championship coverage on ESPN.
Lillian was curled up on the tufted leather sofa in a chic black sheath dress, twirling a finger in her hair, while Chip sat in Doug’s Eames lounge chair, looking exactly like him except for the fact that he was wearing a t-shirt and drinking a Miller High Life.
Their father, who had grown up at the lower end of middle class, didn’t wear t-shirts or drink beer from cans.
He was primed by his childhood to see this as gauche: the behavior of out-of-work union guys sitting on a stoop.
Chip — and most of the people their age at the yacht club who were raised with money — thought beer in a can was a beautiful and convenient American invention, best enjoyed while operating a boat.
Both his wife and brother looked up as he entered. Lillian smiled at him, and Chip did not.
“Golf?” Carver said to his brother, leaning against the doorway. Lillian went back to looking at her phone.
“Nothing else on,” Chip said, spinning the remote in his hand.
“NBA playoffs.”
“I’m sick of the NBA, I only watch college now. Speaking of which — devastating what Michigan did to Duke this year, my condolences.”
Carver smirked. “You’re gonna be real quiet when Merrimack finally makes it to Division 1 and starts getting their teeth stomped in by real teams.”
“See, that doesn’t work, Carver, ‘cause I actually played football for Merrimack, and what did you contribute to Duke besides a hazing statistic?”
“The only season where you got real time on the field, you guys went 2-9,” he shot back.
“Oh, good, he’s feeling mouthy today.” Chip muted the TV. “Guess what I found earlier?”
“What?”
Chip reached over along the left side of the recliner and retrieved a football, which he tossed at Carver. Carver caught and examined it. It was the old football they’d practiced passing with in their youth.
“We should go toss it around,” Chip said. “I asked my kids, but they’re not interested. I thought Bailey might be, but no. Maybe she’ll join us if we look like we’re having a good time.”
Carver shrugged. “My shoulder’s been bothering me.”
“Are you gonna milk that for the rest of your life?”
“I’m just saying, I’m not gonna go full out.”
“I wasn’t asking you to.” Chip got up, and so did Lillian. He glanced at her and said, “Unless you want to sub in for him?”
“No, I’m good,” Lillian said. “I’ll watch, but I don’t really get playing catch.”
Chip looked amused. “What’s there to get?”
She shrugged. “Like, what’s the point, how do you know when you’re done?”
“I’ll play,” Carver said, more loudly than necessary. “I’ll play, it’s fine.”
“Good,” Chip said. “Let’s go, I’m bored.”
They all exited into the splendor of the backyard.
The house sat on three well-shaded acres — past the patio was the long rectangle of the pool, which would remain covered up until Memorial Day, and its stately little poolhouse.
The landscaping ended where the trees became dense, in a miniature woods that extended to the fenceline.
Carver and his siblings had spent a lot of happy hours playing in their little woods.
Conway was no longer out here, but the long table she’d been decorating sat ready and waiting, festooned with tapered candles and little floral arrangements.