Just as she goes silent, Chip reappears. I have a feeling he's been listening through the kitchen door.
"Time for David to go now, Ma. Time for you to rest."
He tenderly extends her legs so she can lie full length on the couch.
"In half an hour, I'll bring you dinner. Lamb chop, salad, baked potato."
"You're a good boy, Chip," she says, closing her eyes. Then to me: "Good-bye young man. I've enjoyed our chat. Come again if you want to hear more, though I doubt I've got more to tell…"
Saturday
3:00 p.m.
I pull up in front of Robin Fulraine's house in Gunktown. The dried dog turds decorating the browned-out yard give off a particularly pungent aroma this summer afternoon, while the old machinery scattered about exudes the stink of gunk.
Robin, wearing just a pair of baggy jeans, greets me at the door. His skin is dark like Blackjack's, his chest is sunken, and his ribs show prominently through his nearly hairless flesh. There's a piercing in his navel and an elaborate tattoo of abstract Celtic design that mounts his right shoulder then descends down his shoulder blade to the center of his spine.
"Since you're going to draw me, I figured I should show some skin," he says.
I set him half-reclining on his decrepit couch, one dog curled at his feet, the other stretched out parallel on the floor. I'll have no trouble sketching his mutts, I tell him, so they're free to come and go. But I ask him to please lie still a while, at least until I've roughed him in.
He's looser today than when I visited him with Mark. Perhaps our exchange of hugs assuaged his guilt over threatening to pulverize my hands. We converse easily. He seems to appreciate my attention.
"I liked you for what you did the other day," he says.
"What was that?" I ask, outlining his shaven skull.
"Turned down my check."
"Oh, yeah, the reparations check. I told you, I didn't suffer serious damage. A little psychological and spiritual pain, that's all."
"That really shook Mark up." Robin grins. "He's not used to people refusing money."
"He should get used to it."
"He thinks we can buy off anyone."
"Isn't that kind of immature?"
"My father was like that too."
"Tell me about your father." I start work on his eyes. I want to get the hollows right.
"He didn't have Mom killed if that's what you're asking. I know that was a theory going around. Sure, he wanted custody, but he would never resort to violence. His method of getting his way was to bring a lawsuit then fight it out in court."
"How did he die?"
"Heart attack. I shouldn’t say this, but I don't miss him much. He was an okay dad, I guess. Not his fault he was the way he was. Mom, on the other hand – I do miss her. Not a day goes by I don't think of her."
"What about your father's second wife?"
"Margaret – she's okay. Their kid, my half-sister Cassie, she's finishing up med school next year. Wants to be an obstetrician. More power to her. About time a Fulraine did something useful in the world."
"I gather you're not all that keen on your family."
His eyes, I'm finding, are uncannily bright today. Perhaps he's high on something, heroin or coke.
"My paternal grandparents were rich snobs. Dad's uptight crap was hard to take. Look, I'm not complaining. Thanks to the Fulraines I've got plenty of money, more than I'll ever need. And I'm grateful to Margaret and Dad for all their efforts. Mark and I were in pretty bad shape. Funny how things worked out. Mark did everything to please them, while I upset them every chance I got. Like flunking out of school – except hard as I tried Hayes wouldn't flunk me. After graduation, instead of going to college, I signed up with the Marines. Got discharged for drug abuse. That's a dishonorable discharge. Sent Dad up the wall. All part of the rebellion, as is living here in Gunktown. That really drives Mark nuts. He shits in his pants every time he stops by. He despises my choices, but he's afraid to confront me, scared that if he pisses me off I'll sell my FSI shares. He knows if I do, he'll last about fifteen seconds. He's a lousy CEO. If anyone else gets control, they'll bounce him out in a Calista minute…"
Listening I get the impression that his choices have been determined more by contempt for his brother than anything else.
"Mark's like Mom in one respect. He enjoys hurting people sometimes."
I tell him I'm surprised to hear that since everyone I've spoken to has praised his mother for her kindness.
"She was kind, but on her own terms, nice with servants, especially gentle with horses. She was a great hostess. Had incredible charm. But she had a mean streak, too. Not that I suffered from it. I was too small, too cute, her darling little second son. Mark bore some of the brunt of it, I guess, and, of course, Dad took it from her full force.
He pauses, glances at me, grins.
"I'll tell you a little secret." Is he finally going to broach the diary? "Concerns you, David. Want to hear?"
"Sure."
"But you won't ask me straight out?"
"I won't grovel for it if that's what you mean."
He smiles. "That's another thing I like about you. You don't kiss ass. Anyhow, here's the secret. I don't think you'll like it much. But you earned the right to hear it the day you fought Mark at Hayes. Remember that mean cartoon you drew of him?"
"Sure."
"It not only infuriated him, which is the side you saw, but when he brought it home and showed it to Mom, he wept."
Even back then my pencil hit the mark!
"He sobbed over it, couldn't take your mockery. Mom tried to comfort him, told him he didn't have to take it. ‘why don't you march into school tomorrow,’ she told him, ‘and poke that little Jewboy in the nose!’"
"She called me that?" I'm outraged.
"Yeah." Robin grins. "See, it was Mom who put Mark up to provoking you. It was like she wanted him to fight you, bloody you up. That Friday night when we came home and told her how the fight had gone, there was this lewd gleam in her eye, especially when she heard Mark won. She followed him upstairs, hugged and kissed him. It was too much. I think even he was embarrassed."
This is too much. I call for a break. When Robin goes into the kitchen to fetch beers, I sit there reeling with anger.
Barbara Fulraine wanted Mark to provoke me! Was thrilled to hear he'd bloodied me up, that her beautiful brave blond boy had beaten her Jew-shrink's son!
By the time Robin returns, I'm calm again, realizing I was but a sacrificial-pawn in the complicated game she was playing with Dad – a realization, however, that does not warm the cockles of my heart.
Robin, beer in hand, examines my drawing.
"You caught me all right."
"Not much more to do."
"Can I have it when you're finished?"
"Of course. I'm making it for you."
"You're a nice guy, David. Hope what I said didn't upset you too much. It happened so long ago."
"It's okay," I tell him, as he resumes his position on the couch. I start shading his face and upper body, working to give the drawing a proper finish.
"I feel we share something," he says, "on account of how we both lost a parent at an early age. Not to mention that our parents were involved."
"When I pointed that out to Mark, he didn't seem to like it much."
Robin nods. "Of course not."
Drawing his torso, I note the scrawniness of his build, the thinness of his arms. No wonder his belly punch didn't hurt me. He's really in lousy shape.