Son of Destruction

7




Bobby Chaplin


It isn’t pathetic, really, it’s just the kind of thing you end up doing when you’re not yourself. He’s been out of work for so long that he isn’t sure who that person is.

For the seventh consecutive day since Nenna McCall limped by, Bobby is out in the sunshine, weeding around the cement lions on the front steps. In the dawn of his doomed real estate venture, Grandfather planted cast cement sphinxes and lions at every intersection in Pine Vista, which is what the late Herman Chaplin named his dream tract at the height of the Florida real estate boom. He poured thousands into private roads out here in the Twenties, when the sky was the limit and a thousand dollars bought something. The old man bought up every plot between here and Far Acres, in the happy expectation that the rich would come clamoring to moor their yachts on private docks behind their new houses. He envisioned a Spanish stucco wonderland out here: golf course, tennis courts, Moorish castles on the waterfront, as many as the traffic would bear. The last of his money went into building his dream house, the model home he could show buyers. One look and they’d come swarming to invest. He laid down octagonal tile sidewalks and convinced the city to pave the streets with red brick an unfortunate six weeks before the Florida real estate crash. It came a full five years before the national stock market tanked: an event that was anticlimactic down here, where land is everything.

Herman’s brick streets are overgrown now, and jungle has reclaimed all his vacant lots. Most of his stony sentinels were stolen or vandalized and the ones that survive are decaying, all but the two flanking the Fourth Street approach to Pine Vista and the ones in front of his dream house. Grandfather kept them in mint condition until he died, at which point Bobby’s father took over, which Bobby is expected to do. Like Bobby, the lions look tired; they’ve been doing what they’re doing for too long.

Like Bobby, they need a change.

He isn’t out here looking for Nenna, exactly, but it would be nice to talk to her. He’d like to know what brought her by here the other day, and why she was walking. The woman looked like she could use a little there-there – which he is happy to give, if she’ll only tell him what’s wrong. He isn’t out front waiting for her, but there’s always a chance that she’ll come by and they can talk.

Not that there isn’t plenty to do. He’s yanking sandspurs out of whatever Bermuda grass remains in the doomed front lawn. Unlike his grandfather, who took to weeding the walks all the way up to Fourth Street, Bobby is not crazy, nor is he going there. He has responsibilities.

Until he lost his grip, Herman Chaplin saw to it that the pink-and-gray octagons in the front walk were lifted and leveled every year. Then Bobby’s father did. His parents died gratefully, like relieved commanders turning over the helm of a doomed ship. Bobby sees to it now. As the only functional Chaplin, he sees to a lot of things. His siblings aren’t fit to go out.

He wishes Nenna had let him help last week, she was so harassed. Lovely woman, looking maybe a tad old for her age – which is his age, more or less, they were in the same year all through school. Little Nenna was at the graduation house parties out at Huntington Beach, at the ruinous end of senior year at FJHS.

It was awful; he’s never had more fun. Until the end.

That June he and Chape Bellinger and Brad Kalen, Stitch Von Harten and Buck Coleman stayed free in a condo Chape’s aunt was stupid enough to loan. He remembers they promised to keep their feet off the furniture, which was covered in flowered chintz; there were all these little china things around and he remembers waking up on the pink shag rug with broken china mashed into his cheek but that’s all he remembers because they were loaded for a solid calendar week.

They ran around until the sun came up and then you slept until three and got up and ran around all night, ingesting whatever until everybody was bombed into insensibility. Then they fell into Chape’s Jeep and roared up and down the beach until the sun came up; at low tide the sand was packed that hard. They tore along screaming, scattering early morning walkers like gulls. Every condo and cottage on Huntington Beach was full that week; kids from five Suncoast high schools converged, so the people you fell down with just outside the circle of the bonfire weren’t always people you knew.

Cathy Rhue had her folks’ beach house for the week, she was famous for her body. She brought all the usual girls. Betsy Cashwell and the cheerleaders rented a cabana at the DelMar, everybody who was anybody came to Huntington Beach. Sexy Jessie Vukovich was there, but nobody knew where she was staying. Even Lucy came, but not until the last night, her grandmother was that repressive. His heart turns over whenever he thinks of Lucy, which he tries not to do. He slipped his tiny gold football into her hand after the May crowning but she never mentioned it. Everybody but Lucy was there for the week, and there were parties every night. Nenna Henderson was there, he thinks, but in the background, because she wasn’t famous for anything. Not that they weren’t all pretty. In high school certain elements gave you distinction and everyone else was a blur.

For instance, Jessie Vukovich was famous because she would do it with anybody, and in spite of the cold distance she kept, Lucy was famous for her looks. The cheerleaders you remembered because you all rode the bus to away games and you did what you could with them in the back. When you were team captain you had the best and the sexiest and the most famous, but that was before.

Nobody at school knew it but Bobby was also smart. He managed to hide it until he got into Harvard, the first in ten years from Fort Jude High. At the time he actually believed getting into Harvard made him better than he was, which turned their senior blast into a curious exercise in detachment.

All week, at least until that awful Saturday night, Bobby was like a passenger poised at the top of the gangplank, waving goodbye to all those little people on the dock, watching them recede as he left them behind.

Nothing turns out the way you thought. Most of us handle it, but people like Bobby are inclined to dwell. Something grave happened to Bobby Chaplin between then and now, and long before Grace left him, it broke him in two. He can’t leave it alone and he can’t figure it out.

People like Bobby actually believe there is a fulcrum, an exact, identifiable point when life tips and everything goes downhill. With people like Bobby, it’s never who they are, or what they did. It’s, I was going along fine until X happened. They need something to blame. The problem is, they can’t put their finger on the X.

He has wasted his life on it. One of his shrinks said, It’s never what happens that makes the difference, Mr Chaplin. It’s how you handle it.

Well, he thinks, that’s easy for you to say. He feels bad about what came down at senior houseparties. No. That he was involved. No. That he was out of his mind on vodka and whatever they were smoking and lying nose down in the mangroves when he should have . . . Don’t go there.

Listen, he finished Harvard magna cum in spite of everything; he went to Harvard Law and ended up in finance, great job with a big firm so, fine.

Then, why is he here? After a year back in Fort Jude, after months of stewing over first causes, Bobby Chaplin is in no condition to analyze.

It’s crazy, but there’s the outside possibility that Nenna knows. He wants to ask Nenna Henderson – no, McCall – what went wrong in that wonderful, catastrophic senior week, like, what does she remember? Were there warning signs? Maybe she saw things he was too trashed to note, or deconstruct. He thinks now that the event that brought him down is located back then, but he can’t be sure. Too much happened. He was drunk and lovelorn, Buck was drunk and mourning his dead twin brother, Chape was off somewhere getting it on with Cathy, Brad was drunk and vicious and Stitch was just drunk. Nothing was clear.

If Bobby had stayed sober maybe he’d remember, but you didn’t. They were kids! The parties were great and you were drunk all the time, it was a given; people said things they’d never say and did things they had to be wasted to do. Worse things happened that weekend and he was too trashed to know if it’s his fault.

The last thing Bobby Chaplin wants to do is stand out here on the front walk strip mining memory lane, but he doesn’t want to go back inside either, not with his siblings idling in there, sour and mismatched, the moth and the toad. You can hear the TV from here. Instead he lingers, listening to the light breeze playing in his grandfather’s stand of Australian pines. In the Twenties these trees were as common as pig’s tracks, but the big freeze took out most of them and the ancient towering pines on the Chaplin property line are among the last. They dwarf the house. All his life Bobby has loved the dry rasp of wind in dead pine needles: the sound of something that he knows is coming, but can not yet name.

In fact what Bobby hears coming is a car, but he doesn’t register until it stops and someone gets out. Startled, he whirls. ‘Nenna?’

It isn’t her. A young man in a new Florida shirt pulls down the brim on his airport Panama to hide whatever he may be feeling. Polite enough. Puzzled. ‘Sir?’

‘Are you looking for me?’ He won’t recognize the spike of hope in Bobby’s voice.

‘I’m not sure. I’m looking for . . .’

‘Bob Chaplin. Goldman Sachs?’ He’s lost everything that he used to be, but Bobby still has that strong handshake.

‘You’re a broker then.’

‘Was.’

The young man considers. ‘Then, no.’

‘Oh. You must be lost,’ Bobby says, disappointed.

‘Not exactly. GPS.’

Of course. Confident post-millennial dude, fully equipped. There’ll be a laptop and a digicam in the backpack, enough DVDs to let him fly home without getting bored; smartphone in the pocket of the Florida shirt. It hasn’t been that long since Bobby himself lived in the high end, high velocity, high tech working world – color copiers, CD and DVD burners, extra screens so you can do everything at once. Blackberry, iPhone, which is the phone of choice? He’s lost track. He rocks with homesickness for all that. Whoever this kid is, he probably thinks Bobby is retired, as in, over with. Nice old fud tending his front walk. I’m not that old! ‘iPad.’ What am I forgetting? ‘WiFi booster.’ He adds, to establish his credentials, ‘Next-generation everything.’

‘Pretty much.’ Nice grin. Nice looking kid, sandy hair, not from around here, too pale. Tourist, probably, fresh off the plane.

It’s not half-bad, standing out here with him. If Nenna comes along she’ll see that he is by no means Mr Lonely Guy. He has other people in his life. Nice kid, Bobby thinks. If we hit it off, ask if he’d like to meet for a drink later, down at the club. The psychic accident that brought Bobby back to Fort Jude makes him reluctant to look up old acquaintances but it would be extremely cool to walk into the Fort Jude Club with this personable young guy from up north. Don’t just stand here, start the conversation. It would be rude to ask what he’s doing in Pine Vista, where tourists never come.

Bobby says what you say to outsiders. ‘I bet you’re enjoying our sun.’

‘What? Oh. Yeah, I guess.’ The young man isn’t attending to the conversation, not really. He’s studying the house. If they were in a horror movie he’d see Maggie Chaplin’s pale face bobbing at the window; she never goes out. In real life Al Junior could wander out on the porch any minute now, scratching the wedge of belly where his T-shirt has ceased to meet his jeans. To Bobby’s relief the face of the house stays blank.

‘Oh,’ Bobby says. ‘You came to see the house. It’s a kind of a landmark.’

‘The house.’ Whoever he is, the kid jerks to attention. ‘Is that your house?’

Oh God, don’t ask him if he wants to look around inside. Not with things the way they are. ‘If you’re a contractor, we’re not looking to renovate right now.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Who are you, anyway?’

Now the kid tilts back the hat to prove that he has nothing to hide. He has a very sweet grin. ‘Nobody you’d know.’

‘I guess I mean, what are you doing out here in Pine Vista?’

‘Is this Pine Vista?’

Bobby says drily, ‘It was supposed to be.’

‘Sir?’

‘Just an idea my grandfather thought he had. But you.’

‘I. Um, I’m looking for . . .’ Whatever he’s looking for, he isn’t ready to say. Instead he jerks his head at the house. ‘Do you know who lives there?’

‘I do. Temporarily,’ Bobby adds, but not fast enough. Who are you kidding? ‘I mean, for as long as it takes.’

The stranger looks disappointed. Bobby isn’t exactly doddering but the kid says, the way you do to an old person who gets confused, ‘You’re sure.’

‘Hell yes I’m sure.’ Oh, don’t dismiss me like that! ‘What are you really here about?’

He has a hard time getting it out. ‘Do you know who owned it before?’

‘I told you, my father.’ Bobby isn’t sure why this makes him so angry. ‘And his father before that. And tell whoever you’re representing that we don’t intend to sell.’

‘I’m not here to buy anything!’ Wounded, the kid thrusts a picture at him. ‘Look, I just. I’m looking for this lady’s house?’

Everything in Bobby stops. All he hears is the rush of his own blood. It takes him a while to drag a response out of the dead silence in his heart. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Did you know her?’

Shaken, Bobby is glad that he, and not this young guy, is the old person here. He is too young to know how carefully we are taught to dissemble. ‘I don’t think so. No. No. It’s not the only Spanish castle in Florida.’

Too much, probably, but the outsider carrying Lucy’s picture is in no shape to read the fine print in Bobby’s face. Every line in his body sags. He shoves the snapshot back into his pocket. ‘I see.’

He looks so messed up that Bobby says kindly, ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

The young man thinks before he answers. When he does it’s nothing Bobby expects. ‘Did you ever hear of a woman named Muriel Keesler, got on fire?’

‘Keesler. Oh,’ Bobby says, relieved. ‘That. Moms used it to scare us. This is what happens when you play with matches, kids . . .’

‘And two others.’

Bobby says sharply, ‘What are you really here about?’

The answer is so careful that it may not be an answer. ‘Going up in flames. I’m down here on a story.’

‘Reporter!’ This makes Bobby feel better. ‘You never said your name.’

‘Dan. I’m looking for the house?’

Bobby does not say, Dan what. They can’t be out here in the road much longer. He needs to be alone so he can think. ‘Where it happened? The last one standing is over on 57th.’

‘You mean the one where Mrs Archambault.’ Changing expressions race across his face. ‘I saw the photos.’

Bobby says, ‘Pretty bad. If Lorna’d seen herself like that, she would have died.’

The wind in the pines doesn’t stop, but the air around the newcomer’s head is still. There is an odd moment before he says, ‘You mean the foot and the chair.’

‘My point. In her day, she was quite the lady. If you’re researching the family . . .’ Bad idea, Chaplin. Stop your mouth.

He doesn’t have to. The kid cuts him off. ‘I need to see the house.’

For a frantic half-second, Bobby thinks he means this house. Maggie, doing a Mrs Rochester in the window. Al watching QVC. ‘This is not the best day.’

‘No. Her house.’

‘Of course.’ Make a smile for him, Bobby. Make it good. ‘It’s back that way, one block in from the corner of Fourth and 57th. Where you made the left at the Publix? If you see the water, you’ve gone too far. Look for the banyan, it’s . . .’

‘Thanks.’ The kid is halfway to his car.

Bobby says anyway, ‘The oldest one in town.’ Then he goes inside to do what he has to do.

Maggie’s fussing over her African violets. The sunlight playing on those white, white hands is just sad. After her 9/11 meltdown, it’s the best she can do. Younger than he is, and she has Little Old Lady written all over her.

His big brother is kicked back in front of the Shopping Channel with a beer. If anybody asks, Al is retired, which is a good cover if you don’t know. Retirement is as good a name for it as any. He’s not that far north of fifty, too many idle years ahead, but is that an indictable offense? Between them, QVC and The Shopping Channel have everything Al wants and they have it in his size, second day delivery, which gives him a giddy feeling of control. Al’s happy, Bobby thinks, or what passes for happy, and this is even more depressing then the set of his sister’s mouth as she nips dead petals off yet another African violet.

He’s going upstairs to phone when Margaret looks up from her violets. ‘You had a phone call.’

‘When?’

‘Just now. I called you, but I guess you didn’t hear.’

‘I was talking to someone.’

‘You.’ She snaps a head off a violet. ‘You’re always talking to someone.’

Not really. ‘Did they leave a message?’

‘I am not your answering service,’ Margaret says resentfully, apparently pissed off by his contact with real life.

He loves his sister, he hates seeing her like this. He says, ‘Look, you can’t just go into mourning and stay there.’

‘OK, it was Chape Bellinger.’

‘Shit.’ You reach a stage in life where you can’t tell whether a phone call from somebody you used to know is a good thing or a bad one. It’s embarrassing, given that they were bonded in high school. They haven’t spoken since Bobby got home, and that was last spring. When you get right down to it why would they, Chape is a litigator, Bobby’s heard, demon in the courtroom, president of the Gryphon Club, kids’ soccer coach, king of the world. Given what just happened, they have to talk anyway. Lucy’s picture, in this stranger’s hands. He has it planned: Bob Chaplin, returning Chape Bellinger. Sound official, arm’s-length. Businesslike. Give him the bad news, whatever it is, and at this point he isn’t sure. But the number Chape left is not the office. It’s the house. They’ve known each other for so long that when Chape picks up, Bobby says, ‘It’s me.’

Big, handsome guy, big voice. ‘Hey, you.’

‘You called?’

‘I did.’ Chape’s third generation Fort Jude. He never starts a meeting until he’s made his manners. ‘How’ve you been?’

‘Good. You?’ Bobby winces.

‘I can’t complain. How long have you been home?’

People gossip. It’s not like Chape doesn’t know. ‘Too long.’

‘All this time and I’ve been meaning to . . .’

‘I know.’ Chape is waiting for him to say, ‘I have too,’ so he does. He did mean to call Chape, really. He just hasn’t, is all. Now he has to offer, ‘Maybe I can give you and Sallie dinner at the club.’

‘We’d love to, just as soon as . . .’ Wait for it. The hesitation. The apologetic, ‘You how it is when you get busy.’

‘Everybody’s busy.’

Like a teacher handing out the consolation prize, Chape says, ‘But we’ll look for you at the party tonight.’

Bobby laughs. ‘I’d rather see me dead in the rain.’

‘That’s kind of why I called. Listen, Bob. We have a problem.’

Confused, Bobby asks, ‘How did you find out?’

‘Word gets around.’ Chape laughs, to show Bobby he’s in charge. Then he rethinks. Puzzled, he asks, ‘How did you?’

‘He was here.’

‘Brad?’

‘Brad!’ Bobby’s stomach sours. ‘F*ck Brad. I haven’t seen Brad since college. Listen Chape, we have a real problem.’

‘Explain.’

‘A kid was here. Could be Lucy’s.’

F*cking lawyer, Chape asks in that controlled tone. ‘How do you know?’

‘He came looking for her house.’ Bobby is deciding whether or not to tell him about the snapshot.

Chape should ask him why, but he doesn’t. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he doesn’t say anything. When they were kids, Bobby’s pal Bellinger drove teachers nuts with his empty, innocent stare: Who, me? Bobby doesn’t have to be there to see it – the smooth, untroubled look of a man whose mind is as empty as a pond. ‘What does that have to do with me?’

‘He’s asking questions.’ Take that, you bland, self-important bastard. Like I’m going to spell it out.

‘I see.’ Chape says smoothly, ‘Let’s keep it to ourselves, OK?’

Bobby groans. ‘You know this town. One phone call and everybody will know.’

Bellinger uses the dramatic pause. Take that! Then: ‘They don’t have to know we’re connected. Can you hold? Another call.’

Bobby holds, wondering what would be lost if he just hung up.

Before he can, Chape is back. Crisp and urgent. Agenda Man. ‘Something’s come up. Give me your cell number. I may need you here.’