I don’t like the sound of women talking to women, especially on the telephone. They just seem to natter away in a sultry manner, getting absolutely everything they know out. I hate the tone of their voices when they try to out bore each other. Maybe it’s not all women; maybe it’s just my wife. Yes, I was married. I thought for the longest time that no one would ever get to know the wonder of my uniqueness, marvel at my animal-like table manners, or shudder at the sound of my bed farts. But sure enough along came ol’ Matty, the woman who became my bride. The women who drove me crazy for the past thirty-five years with family invitations, lousy Christmas music, wardrobes of cheap fashion, and approximately 1,820 (35 years times once a week) over cooked pot roasts. The woman who has over nursed me and under nourished our many (as in had many) house plants. The woman who was an absolute saint to know but a penance to live with.
We met like most couples of the 1950s, under a porch looking for frogs. She was thirteen, freckly, pudgy, and ugly, and I was fourteen, freckly, pudgy, and ugly. I basically had nothing going for me—not looks, not smarts, not talent. I could never attract the cuties I wet-dreamt about as a kid. I couldn’t even attract ol’ Matty back then.
Matty’s father was an old-time alcoholic. Man, that son-of-a-bitch could drink. One time at the lake, he downed a complete forty-ouncer and proceeded to beat the living shit out of his shadow. I was always afraid of that man. And I was most afraid when he said, “Lyle, on behalf of all the Tillman’s, I’d like to welcome you into our family. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” Fit right in! Kiss my ass! I married their daughter and moved her 2,000 miles away as soon as we got back from the honeymoon. Ol’ Matty was a pain in the ass to live with but she deserved better than to have a father like him. She deserved to be treated nice by everyone who knew her because she really was a lady. The type some say they don’t make anymore.
Of course, like all good things, Matty passed. She died last Wednesday of an arterial clot—heart attack. We’re going to bury her tomorrow. She was fifty-eight.
It doesn’t seem right that a God would take away a person like Matty when there are so many assholes in this world. You’d figure we’d need a few Mattys just to balance things out. But she’s gone, like both my parents, her Mom and two brothers, and more than half the people we knew back in Alderside.
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Whack!
That cat is trying to curl up to me again.
Whack!
I guess she misses ol’ Matty too. She must have been horrified when she discovered I’m now the one in charge of her care. I never wanted this damn cat. For that matter I never wanted any cat, dog, gerbil, or goldfish. I believe animals should make their way out in nature, and that man should go about its business taking care not to disturb them. But ol’ Matty just had to have something. Something to love, something to appreciate her kindness and return her favours with loyalty, affection, and whatever the hell else I couldn’t give her.
We didn’t have children. No, not because the plumbing wasn’t working, but because we never had sex. Right from our wedding night through our thirty-five years together, I not only never touched her body but I never saw it naked, not totally naked. I sucked her breasts a few times but could never bring myself to go any further. Christ, the woman was a saint. You can’t fuck a saint!
I did manage to have sex with a few others though, quite a few. Not girlfriends or anything like that, just prostitutes. Prostitutes make you feel comfortable like you’re not cheating. Prostitutes are for sex and wives are for love and for some reason I could never crossover the difference. And ol’ Matty never mentioned it in conversation, she never talked about it. She must have either understood or felt the same way—though I know she craved children. Every child that passed by had to have a cheek pinch from Aunt Matty and then an invitation to come in for tea and cookies anytime they liked. And not once did she ever say, “Wouldn’t it be nice if we had our own, Lyle.”
I’m ever grateful for her never having said that.
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“Holy Shit!”
“Fuck you, Lyle and let me in.”
He walked right through me like I was a ghost.
“Awfully nice of you to invite me to my own daughter’s funeral. I suppose when a man moves this far north his brain tends to freeze up.”
I can’t believe the great John Tillman has just entered my home. I can’t believe the only living thing that can make me feel like an absolute nothing is sitting at my kitchen table.
“Did you ever plan on telling me, Lyle? You know I would have accepted the charges.”
Of course he would have accepted the charges. He would have let them charge him double just to have one more thing to hang over me. He’s always loved playing with my head and trying to make me look dumb. But not today, not in my house, and not on his first visit.
“Drink John?”
“Well if you need a drink to answer my question, Lyle, I suppose I’ll have one.”
Don’t you love how alcoholics always think everyone else has a drinking problem except for them. And when you ask if they’re an alcoholic, they look at you like you have two heads. Who me? Why would you ask me?
“I have bourbon, scotch, and rye. What’ll it be?”
“What kind of scotch?”
“Haig & Haig Pinch.”
“I’ll have Jack Daniels with coke.”
As if I stock his only brand just in case he ever stops by. I had it, and made us both drinks.
“Madelaine was a beautiful girl and a very nice person, wasn’t she Lyle?. She …”
“So what are you doing here, John? You don’t need to borrow money do ya?”
I knew that would get him. I knew that would stir up memories of the time I borrowed $10,000 to open a machine shop, lost it on some son-of-a-bitch that wouldn’t pay me, and never paid him back the loan (though I vowed I would).
He’s always thought of me as an inferior, as being too slow and not sharp enough to be a big time businessman like him. And according to John, if a man wasn’t a doctor, lawyer, or entrepreneur he was just a drain on society. All the people that build his roads, grow his food, and one day build his coffin are all, in his opinion, basically worthless.
“Cheering for the Yankees again this year, Lyle. I see they’re in last place.”
“I know why you’re here, John. I know why you traveled 2,000 miles. You feel guilty don’t you?”
After fourty-five years of knowing this prick I don’t feel I should have to pull any punches. He knows damn well why he came this far to fake the mourning of a child he always considered a nuisance. He knows damn well that he’s been a shitty, miserable, lousy father (husband, brother, son, businessman, neighbour, relative, and person) and that if it was him (which it should have been) she would have been the only one to show up. And that this is the absolute least the prick could do for her.
“Now that we’re no longer related, John, I’d like to top up your drink and say exactly what I think of you.”
“I’d very much appreciate that, Lyle.”
“First of all, I hate how you always use my name, John.”
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“Get up. It’s morning.”
I must have fallen asleep on the couch. Man do I feel like shit. That son-of-a-bitch can still outdrink me. And at his age, he must be eighty.
“What time is the funeral, Lyle?”
“10:00 am”
My eyes rolled past the two empty bottles on the table and found the living room clock—it was 8:30. I must have smoked thirty cigarettes last night. John was wide awake, showered, smiling, and half dressed. I guess it’s my turn.
“Any hot water left, John?”
This whole building must run on one home-size hot water tank.
“Enough for me, Lyle.”
He’s in the bathroom shaving. I hope he hurries up; I’m not showering while he’s in there.
“Where did you sleep last night, John?”
“In your bed.”
Son-of-a-bitch.
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The funeral was nice, though not well attended. I guess we didn’t put much effort into meeting people since we got here. There was the lady who cleans the church, the priest, John, and me. The priest was gracious with his words and the church lady cried a few times (which was nice). I guess the whole thing lasted twenty minutes. Then John offered to buy everyone breakfast at the nicest place in town. The lady had to go home to her family and Father had another funeral at 11:00, so it was just me and John. We went to Aurora Borealis and had breakfast. It wasn’t the nicest place in town but I thought it appropriate.
John’s plane left at two that afternoon. We ate breakfast and drank coffee for most of the time until I drove him to the airport. Even though we’ve never seen eye to eye, I still appreciate him coming to ol’ Matty’s funeral. And I almost told him so.