CHAPTER EIGHT
ARTHUR DRUMMED his nails on the top of his mouse and wished his computer was properly hooked up to the Internet. He could get on, but the Agency blocked 90% of it and monitored the rest. He'd had two action items in his box when he arrived at work and he'd finished both of those by nine. All the weirdos, dictators, terrorists, and secret agents in the world and not one of them was doing a damn thing that needed his attention.
He checked the clock. It was still two hours until lunch. He was almost done with Tolkien's swing at Beowulf and had loaned Martin another couple of books on the sociology and history of food. They still didn't talk much, but since That Night the nature of the silence had changed, at least from Arthur's point of view. It felt more relaxed but heavier, like a warm blanket from the closet at the beginning of winter.
There was a buzz from inside his top desk drawer. The Agency would have preferred an absolutely no cell phone policy, but even they knew it was a losing battle. Instead, there were a stack of rules, tracking software, random checks, and phones had to be kept on vibrate in a desk drawer during business hours.
He pulled open the drawer with a hit of trepidation. No one called him. He flipped the phone over. 'Mom' flashed on the screen.
"Hello?" he said, tapping the green button. There was no reply. "Hello?" he tried again. There was the sound of some gasping breath, then a sob.
"Arthur," his mother choked out.
"Mom, what is it?"
"Your... Your father-- " She fell into tears and Arthur's heart froze. There were two things that could have happened: his father had left or his father was dead.
"Mom. Mom can you hand the phone to someone else? Is there someone there with you?"
His mother's sobs faded, then there was another voice on the line. "Hey, Arthur, it's Jennine."
"What happened?" he asked his mother's neighbor of many years.
She let out a long and heavy sigh. "I'm sorry Arthur but..." She trailed off.
"He's dead."
"Yes."
"Okay." Arthur felt his analytical mind start to disconnect from his emotions. He encouraged it. There was so much he was going to have to deal with due to his father's complicated life. He let the numb wave flow across him. He'd have time for emotions later. Right now, he had to be practical. It was going to suck.
"What happened?"
"He went out to get the paper and just collapsed, right there on the front walk. I saw him fall, called an ambulance, but they just couldn't get his heart going again."
"Okay. Where are you?"
"We're still at the hospital. There are all these people making your mother just sign paperwork."
"Okay." His mind was racing ahead. He had to get home, he had to plan a funeral because what his mom would want and what his dad would have wanted were two very different things. He had to call his sisters. "I'm going to get the first flight I can. Can you stay with my mom? Keep her... Yeah."
"Of course I can, dear. She'll be glad to have you home."
"Give her a hug for me and tell her I'll be home as soon as I can."
He tapped the disconnect on his phone then stared at it. His mind was running with all the things he needed to do but his body had frozen with the shock.
'Step one, get out of here.'
With a deep breath, he lurched to his feet and rushed to his supervisor's office. He knocked on the door and waited all of two seconds before popping his head in.
"Hi, I really need to talk to you."
Agent Collins looked around as if there might be someone else in the room. "Okay."
Arthur let himself all the way in but didn't sit down. "My dad just died. I need to take leave starting right now."
"HR has paper-- "
"I don't have time for that. I need to be on the fastest flight out." His boss just raised his eyebrows at him. "Look, the last time my mom and my dad's mistress, whom he'd been with a couple of decades before meeting my mother, were in the same room, blood was spilled. My blood, in fact, when I tried to split them up. The cops were called, there were arrests, restraining orders, court mandated anger management, and I needed stitches. Throw my three half-sisters into this and I cannot explain how ugly this could get. I've got my mother's neighbor sitting on her but-- "
"Okay, okay." Agent Collins cut him off. "Log into HR on your phone, fill out the paperwork and forward it to me by the end of the day and I'll pretend you're taking a half sick day right now."
"Thank you. You're the best supervisor here." That was step one checked off.
"No. I think I'm just the laziest. I like to deal with people's drama as little as possible. Paperwork before close of business."
"Promise."
"Are you still planning on organizing the Super Bowl pool?"
Arthur paused trying to follow the sudden leap in thought. "Yes. I'll set it up when I get back."
He rushed back down to his cubicle to gather stuff up. The required in-house Agency Wi-Fi would lock him out of any airline sales site. His best bet would be to drive right to the airport.
'Go home and pack clothes first,' a little voice in his head suggested.
'Good idea.'
He shoved his keys in his pocket preparing to sprint to the parking lot when he stopped and found himself staring at the back of Martin's head. He felt like he should say something. He'd twice criticized him for dropping off grid without notice and it would be hypocritical to suddenly not show up for lunch. He'd never spoken to Martin before at work outside of lunch or stepped foot in his cubicle since that first day.
"Hey," he finally said softly, wondering if Martin would even hear him. Martin swiveled in his chair, looking at Arthur with a tilt of his head. "My dad just died." It was strange to say that out loud.
Martin's eyes flicked back and forth as if he was reading down a list of appropriate responses. "I'm very sorry to hear that," he finally said.
"Yeah. I've got to get a flight. You can have my lunch, or give it to Carol. It's in the fridge."
Martin's eyes flicked again. "Thank you."
Arthur just nodded and left. He wasn't sure what exactly he had been expecting. Probably about what he got.
His mind continued to fill with a list of things he needed to do and fires he was going to have to put out and things he was going to have to organize. It was better than feeling. He didn't have time to break down. Sometime after the funeral he'd go out to his dad's old bar, put back a half dozen beers and cry a bit.
He was six blocks away from the office when he pulled over to make a call. He knew his calls were being monitored, recorded, and listened in on. He was low enough on the totem pole that he had no hope of privacy. His father's death was probably recorded in his file before he even knew about it.
He checked the time. Dinner prep would be on but lunch rush would be over. Not that Sonia was hands on in her kitchens anymore. She was running a little empire now, which got her out of peeling shrimp. It was still rude to call during rush.
The phone rang twice before she picked up.
"I know," she said before Arthur could even open his mouth. There was a flat efficiency in her voice.
"I wasn't sure."
"I'm still listed as a contact in his medical files."
"Does your mom know?" He couldn't imagine how Hanh might take the news.
"Yeah." Sonia didn't volunteer any more information.
"I'm getting the first flight out that I can."
"Your mother won't let us come and mom won't set foot in a Baptist church."
This was the nightmare scenario. The thing that made some small part of him hate his father, even in death. "I'll fix it. I'll make sure-- " He wasn't sure. He had to. His father owed that to his sister and to Hanh but it would be up to him to make it happen.
"He was a bastard." Her voice was still flat.
"Yeah."
She finally sighed. "This is going to hurt when I finally let it."
"Yep. It really will. "
THE PLANE bumped to a landing and Arthur tried to unclench his hands from the armrests. He wasn't usually a nervous flyer, but there are only so many airlines that fly to small regional airports and are able to sell you a ticket on an hour's notice. For the most part, those airlines did not have the greatest safety record. The woman sitting next to him told him it was her commuter flight and she'd been doing it every week for a decade and they only had one emergency and that was before they even took off. Then she smiled at him in a way that made him unsure if she was a little crazy or just fucking with him. Either way, he'd spent the flight trying to quietly recite all the words in Old English he'd learned.
It was another twenty minutes before one of the airport's four gates had an opening. He was already on his phone by then, looking up funeral homes, flowers, and if the VA hall was free to hold the funeral. It's what his dad would have wanted even if his mother was going to throw a fit. He'd never been so glad for the simple google search "how to organize a funeral." There were checklists available.
It wasn't until the taxi drove past the Silver Oak Estates sign, painted orange by the low winter sun, that it started to hit, like a brick slammed into his chest. He took long deep breaths, trying to push it all back down. He was home. He'd go up the two brick steps, put his key in the lock, and his father wouldn't be there. Not to greet him. Not to offer him a beer. Not to run interference between him and his mother. He took a few long deep breaths and tried to think 'what would Martin do'? That didn't help, as he'd been coming to the conclusion that Martin was a great swirling beast of emotion underneath the frozen alien exterior.
'What would Spock do?' Nope, no good either. Probably nerve pinch his mother out of frustration that he'd refuse to admit to.
"You okay?" the cabbie asked. He must have been muttering to himself or something weird.
"Yeah. My dad just died." It was the second time he'd said that and it still sounded strange. "And my mom is a bit nuts."
"Sorry to hear that."
"Thanks."
There were no more comments for the rest of the short drive. He handed over cash for the fare without waiting for change. He ran his fingers over the keys in his pocket as he approached the door. There was only one with a little rubber key cover that had dried and cracked over the years. Next to it was a simple key that opened the door to a barren apartment decorated only by a cancan dancer.
The key to his childhood home slipped easily into the lock. He pushed the door open slowly. The living room was full of older women in church pastels and the air was thick with a combination of perfume and casseroles.
His mother jumped up and ran to him. Her eyes were red, but at some point she must have redone her makeup. She never looked anything but proper in front of company. "Artie."
"Hi, Mom." He pulled her into a hug and she tucked her face into his shoulder. He squeezed her tight and felt her shake but beat his own emotions down hard.
'Not yet.'
She yanked herself away and brushed at his jacket. "Oh, I've smudged your coat."
"It's okay." He pulled her into another hug which she eventually left far more slowly. "How are you doing?"
She took a tissue from her pocket and dabbed carefully at the corner of her eyes, avoiding any more smudging of makeup. It always amazed him how much of her habits and simple mannerisms seemed to come from a completely different era. "Oh, you know. Not sure it's properly hit yet."
"I know the feeling."
She brushed at his shoulder again. "Why don't you put your bag in your room then come into the parlor." It was always the parlor. Not a living room or family room. Again, a holdover from an age she was never a part of.
"Sure."
His room was now one of two guest rooms, the posters and dented furniture long gone and replaced with tidy end tables and doilies.
He dropped his bag in the middle of the bed but was careful not to sit. He knew if he did, he wouldn't want to get up. He'd just sit there staring at the embroidered psalm hanging on the wall.
"Fuck you, Dad," he said quietly to the room. It was that last time he'd be able to cuss in the house.
When he got back out to the parlor, his mother instantly jumped up. "Oh dear, I didn't ask, did you eat on the plane? You should at least have some coffee."
"I'm fine Mom, really."
"Oh, it's no bother, Mary DeMill brought by a lovely quiche." She bustled into the kitchen before he could remind her that he hated quiche even though he could cook a damn good one.
He looked around at the other women. He knew most of them. They were as much into Jesus, not cussing, and behaving properly as his mother was, but were a little more practical about it. "How's she really doing?" he asked the room at large.
"Trying to keep busy, but better now that you're here," Jennine answered.
"Has she made any plans yet?"
"Not yet."
"Good." There would be less fighting if he could just make the plans instead of unmaking ones his dad would have hated. He'd read that funerals are more for the living than the dead, but the living involved would prove a complication.
His mother came back out with a slice of quiche on the good china, the stuff that only ever came out for Christmas and Easter.
"Sit down, Mom." He took the quiche, which had pulled away from the crust and looked to be filled with overcooked bell pepper and undercooked ham.
'Don't be a food snob,' he reminded himself.
"So, how is your work going?" One of his mother's friends asked. Looked like it was his turn to hold up the awkward conversation.
"Fine, not much new. Spend my day processing paperwork, really."
"Insurance, right?"
"Yep." That seemed to be the go to lie for half the Agency. "For international shipping."
"That's interesting." It was a full lie, but these were women with Master's degrees in making Polite Conversation under any circumstances.
"Not really. Get a big enough storm and those big shipping containers can fall off the side of a ship, then someone files a claim for 40,000 rubber ducks, or 200 computers, or whatever was in it."
"Does that happen often?"
"About 10,000 a year." He'd read an article about it a while back. "In the early 90's, 28,000 rubber ducks got lost in the middle of the Pacific, they're still washing ashore."
"How fascinating."
Arthur nodded and shoved a forkful of sub-par quiche into his mouth. He knew about twenty minute's worth of factoids on international shipping. He had to ration them.
"My Johnny's in life insurance. Doing quite well for himself," one of the pastel clad women said. And there was the start of the passive aggressive 'my son is doing better in business than yours' and 'my daughter has squeezed out more grandchildren for me than yours' competition. He knew from experience that his mother's good silver forks weren't sharp enough to drive through his own skull to make it stop.
While the ladies gossiped, Arthur choked down three more bites, which was what was required to be polite. There was a knock at the door and his mother jumped up before anyone else could. He was sure that over the next few days there would be a steady stream of church ladies stopping by to lend support, as well as quiches and casseroles. Somewhere along the line there would be a Jell-O mold, but those take a bit of time to set up.
"Arthur."
He turned around to answer his mother but anything he might have said just froze up in his head because Martin was standing next to his mother. Sort of. The man standing there more or less had Martin's face but he was dressed like Mr. Rogers and had a polite sympathetic smile.
"Martin?"
"It's so nice, your friend coming all the way here to help out."
"Uhhh..." All brain functions that might have been used to form words had shorted out.
"When I heard what happened I just had to." Martin's voice was sweet, modulated with just the right level of sympathy. "He was so helpful to me not that long ago and my job is mostly organizing complicated events on short notice. So really, Mrs. Drams, anything I can do to make this difficult time easier for you."
"Aren't you just the nicest young man." Arthur felt his eye twitch at his mother's words. "Would you like some coffee?"
"Oh, please, Mrs. Drams, allow me." Arthur watched as Martin took his mother's hands and led her back to her seat on the couch. It was like watching community theater. Martin's movements were just a little too stiff, his smile not quite right. Close. It was good acting if you didn't actually know Martin, but it wasn't winning any Oscars.
Arthur got up. "Martin. Why don't you help me get everyone more cake?" He didn't know if there was cake but he was willing to make a guess.
Once they got to the kitchen, he looked Martin up and down. "First, you're dressed like Mr. Rogers and it's freaking me out." Martin tilted his head slightly. "Don't tell me you don't know who Mr. Rogers is because I will start telling people you're an alien. Second, you showing up here is a little on the creepy side but I pretended to be your boyfriend to acquire confidential medical information so I don't have a leg to stand on here. Third, what are you doing here?"
Martin's face settled into a more familiar one. The one he wore in dumpling shops and Mexican bakeries on Saturday afternoons. "I have a strong skill set in organizing complicated events involving people with disparate personalities on little notice. From what is listed in your personnel file, I thought you could use the assistance."
There was a flash of anger at Martin's assumptions, that he wouldn't be able to handle the coming disaster, that his father's fucking around would only lead to some public display for the ladies to gossip about for years. He was angrier at the fact that Martin was right. He was going to need at least one person on his side because everyone would assume he was on the other.
"Thank you."
IT WAS a few more hours before the last of the ladies cleared out. Not that Arthur payed much attention. The whole time he was watching Martin work on his audition for the role of Normal Human. Not that anyone else noticed, though. Martin fetched coffee and cake and made polite conversation and they all just thought he was the nicest young man they had ever met. Only when he was asked about his own family did he pause for a moment as if he was quickly reading down a script trying to figure out where he was in the show. Arthur wasn't sure what hurt more, the idea that what Martin said were lies or the truth. He had parents in Des Moines, he said, and a younger sister who was a nurse and just had her second child, a little girl this time and he was sorry he didn't have pictures, but Arthur had a feeling that by morning Martin could produce a whole phone full of happy family photos out of thin air.
They reheated one of the better-looking casseroles for dinner. He wanted to cook. It relaxed him and helped him think, but he knew it would just upset his mother. What he was planning on doing tomorrow would be bad enough.
Only once the dishes were washed (Martin insisted) and his mother was sent to bed, insisting Martin take the other guest room, did Arthur collapse onto the sofa and actually curl into a ball. Martin stood over him.
"Please tell me you brought your suits because, honestly, the zip up knitted sweater is a weird, weird look for you."
Martin's lips quirked up. "Yes."
"Oh, good. I wonder if my mom has already dumped my dad's stash of gin. Probably. Probably the first thing she did. Demon gin." Arthur slowly sat himself back up. "We need to have the funeral as soon as possible. Mom is going to want it in the church. Dad refused to set foot there; he always said he wanted it at the VA hall. There will be two big battles and that will be the first."
"And what will be the second?"
"Hanh." Arthur leaned forward pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead. "Some guys try to smuggle their service weapons out of the army. My dad smuggled out his seventeen-year-old French Vietnamese mistress. Brought her home, used his inheritance to set up her house, then help her set up a little noodle shop. Three-seater place. She wouldn't marry him for reasons I don't know. They had three kids. Every so often they'd have a fight, she'd chuck him out of the house for six months to a year. Last time that happened, he went to a bar and met a pretty young thing who was trying to bring drunks to Jesus and my father's a charming-as-fuck fucker. He was 45, mom was 25 and there was actually a shotgun present at the wedding. I've seen the pictures." Arthur flopped back and stared at the ceiling. "Every Friday evening my mother would leave dinner in the freezer and get into her car to spend the weekend spreading the good word of the lord out in the wilderness. Once she was at the end of the block, dad would put me in the car and we'd drive across the county line. My youngest sister, who's eight years older than me, hated me because she felt I was the reason daddy didn't come home. Hanh put me to work in the kitchen with my sisters by the time I was five and... My mother may be a bit ditzy at times but there was no way she didn't know what was going on. Fucking everyone in town knew what was going on. It has to be at the VA hall because Hanh and my sisters deserve to be there and Hanh is Catholic and hates my mother and won't step foot in a Baptist church and my mother would throw a fit and never let her in anyway. And frankly, my father loathed going to any kind of church and the first, last, and only time my mother and Hanh were in the same room together I ended up needing stitches trying to break up the fight." Arthur rolled his head to look at Martin, who hadn't moved. "And you can put all that in my personnel file if you like."
"No need."
"Yeah, probably all there already."
"I am very good at organizing difficult events on short notice."
"This one might be your masterpiece."