The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [98]
—You could always get someone to take care of that shit for you.
—I have an ex-wife, my boy, I don't need another.
—I was thinking more in the way of an assistant. Or a business manager. Didn't you used to have one?
He opened his book, turned a page, ignored the implication that he might once have been in the kind of business that would require a manager.
—L.L.
—Yes, I attend.
—Has it ever occurred to you, all these books, the alcohol, open flames?
He turned a page.
—Has it ever occurred to you, mother's son that you are, to mind your own business?
I snapped a stalactite of wax from the edge of the table.
—L.L.
—Web.
—I don't want you to die.
He pressed the back of his hand to the corner of his mouth and closed his book.
—I'm choked up, filled with emotion. Imagine, my son not wanting me to die. How many fathers can say the same?
—Shut the fuck up, Dad.
He turned his head, looked at me through the candlelight, and waited.
I threw the spear of wax over the rail.
—I don't want you to die. I don't mean just that I don't actively wish that you would die, I mean that I don't want you to die at all. I don't want you to trip and fall over that rail one night and break your neck. I don't want you to pass out on your back and vomit and choke to death. I don't want one of these candles to tip into a puddle of 101 and ignite a copy of Madame Bovary and incinerate you.
He touched his throat.
—I loathe Bovary. Wouldn't be caught dead with a copy in the house.
I stretched my arm and slapped the side of his head.
He looked at me through skewed glasses.
—You have my attention.
I stood up.
—You're a fucker, L.L. The champion fucker of the world. I'm never gonna take the crown from you. I concede, you have the throne all to yourself.
I showed my middle finger to him.
—But fucker that you are, that doesn't mean you can get rid of me, you pathetic misanthropic shit. I mean, I'm not saying you don't grow old after about the first five minutes I'm with you, but I can fucking take it. God knows I've had the practice. So.
I hooked a thumb at the house.
—I'll be here next week with a truck to start hauling away some of this shit and to get the lights turned on. And. Whatever.
He straightened his glasses.
—What's the matter, Web?
—Fuck you.
He stood up.
—What happened? What's been happening? What's this about?
I put a hand on his chest as he approached me.
—L.L., all this is about is how I don't want to get a call one day from someone, and find out your corpse has been rotting up here for five weeks and I have to come and smell it and see the stain where you melted into the carpet. I don't want to clean up after you when you're dead.
He nodded.
—Well, I didn't want to clean up after you when you were a baby. So I guess that's fair.
I nodded.
—King Fucker, L.L., that's you.
He dropped back into his chair.
—You hold your own, Web, you hold your own just fine.
—I have skills.
He turned his back, put his feet on the lower rail of the deck and picked up his book.
—Make the most of them.
I stood there.
—I'll be back next week with the truck.
He tugged a stained handkerchief from his pocket and waved it in the air.
—As you wish.
I went to the door.
—I found the money in Karenina.
—Did you read the book?
—Man, I know all I need to know about unhappy families.
He wiped his nose with the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.
—I guess you would.
I scratched my head.
—But I could use some more money.
He opened his book.
—Yes, I saw that you are wearing a towel in lieu of actual pants. One suspects you might need the odd dollar or two. As I said earlier, it's in the jar.
—I need a lot. For a fuckup I know. Someone pathetic enough to need help from someone like me.
He picked up his glass and toasted the sky.
—Help yourself. If you need more than what's there, let me know.
I started into the house.
L.L. called after.
—Delightful to see you, Web. Nothing like a visit from the fruit of the old loins to make a man feel his mortality creeping up from