Let Me Be Frank With You Read online

  DEDICATION

  Kristina

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  I’m Here

  Everything Could Be Worse

  The New Normal

  Deaths of Others

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Richard Ford

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  I’m Here

  STRANGE FRAGRANCES RIDE THE TWITCHY, wintry air at The Shore this morning, two weeks before Christmas. Flowery wreaths on an ominous sea stir expectancy in the unwary.

  It is, of course, the bouquet of large-scale home repair and re-hab. Fresh-cut lumber, clean, white PVC, the lye-sniff of Sakrete, stinging sealants, sweet tar paper, and denatured spirits. The starchy zest of Tyvek mingled with the ocean’s sulfurous weft and Barnegat Bay’s landward stink. It is the air of full-on disaster. To my nose—once practiced in these things—nothing smells of ruin as fragrantly as the first attempts at rescue.

  I notice it first at the red light at Hooper Ave., and then again when I gas up my Sonata at the Hess, before heading to the bridge, Toms River to Sea-Clift. Here in the rich gas-station scents, a wintry breeze flitters my hair while my dollars spool along like a slot machine in the gathering December clouds. Breeze has set the silver whirly-gigs to spinning at the Grandly Re-Opened Bed Bath & Beyond at the Ocean County Mall (“Only new bedding can keep us down”). Across its acres of parking, a tenth full at ten A.M., the Home Depot—Kremlin-like, but enigmatically-still-your-friend-in-spite-of-all—has thrown its doors open wide and early. Customers trail out, balancing boxes of new toilet works, new motherboards, new wiring harnesses, shrink-wrapped hinge assemblies, hollow-core doors, an entire front stoop teetering on a giant shopping cart. All is on its way to some still-standing domicile blotto’d by the hurricane—six weeks past, but not lost from memory. Everyone’s still stunned here—quarrelsome, funked, put-upon-but-resolute. All are committed to “coming back.”

  Out here, under the Hess awning, someone’s piped in loud, sports-talk radio for us customers—the Pat ’n’ Mike Show from Magic 107 in Trenton. I was once among their faithful. They’re old now. A booming voice—it’s Mike—declares, “Wowee, Patrick. Coach Benziwicki cut loose quite a hurricane of F-BOMBS, I’m telling you. A real thirty-seconds-over-Tokyo.”

  “Let’s listen to it again,” Pat says, through a speaker built deep inside the gas pump. “Total disbelief. To-tal. This was on ESPN!”

  Another gravelly, exhausted, recorded voice—Coach B’s—takes up, in a fury: “Okay. Let me just tell you so-called F-BOMB sportswriters one F-BOMB thing. Okay, you F-BOMBS? When you can F-BOMB coach a team of nine-year-old F-BOMB grammar school girls, then I might, might give you one shred of F-BOMB respect. Until then, you F-BOMBS, you can DOUBLE F-BOMB yourselves from here to F-BOMB Sunday dinner. You heard it here first.”

  The vacant-eyed, white-suited young Hess attendant who’s pumping my gas hears nothing. He looks at me as if I wasn’t here.

  “That about says it all, I guess,” Mike concedes.

  “And then some,” Pat concurs. “Just drop your keys on the desk, Coach. You’re done. Take the F-BOMB bus back to F-BOMB Chillicothe.”

  “Un-F-BOMB-believable.”

  “Let’s pause for a break, you F-BOMB.”

  “Me? You’re the F-BOMB. Ha-ha-ha. Ha-ha-ha-ha.”

  IN RECENT WEEKS, I’VE BEGUN COMPILING A PERSONAL inventory of words that, in my view, should no longer be usable—in speech or any form. This, in the belief that life’s a matter of gradual subtraction, aimed at a solider, more-nearly-perfect essence, after which all mentation goes and we head off to our own virtual Chillicothes. A reserve of fewer, better words could help, I think, by setting an example for clearer thinking. It’s not so different from moving to Prague and not learning the language, so that the English you end up speaking to make yourself understood bears a special responsibility to be clear, simple, and value-bearing. When you grow old, as I am, you pretty much live in the accumulations of life anyway. Not that much is happening, except on the medical front. Better to strip things down. And where better to start stripping than the words we choose to express our increasingly rare, increasingly vagrant thoughts. It would be challenging, for instance, for a native Czech speaker to fully appreciate the words poop or friggin’, or the phrase “We’re pregnant,” or “What’s the takeaway?” Or, for that matter, awesome when it only means “tolerable.” Or preemie or mentee or legacy. Or no problem when you really mean “You’re welcome.” Likewise, soft landing, sibs, bond, hydrate (when it just means “drink”), make art, share, reach out, noise used as a verb, and . . . apropos of Magic One-Oh-Seven: F-Bomb. Fuck, to me, is still pretty serviceable as a noun, verb, or adjective, with clear and distinct colorations to its already rich history. Language imitates the public riot, the poet said. And what’s today’s life like, if not a riot?

  YESTERDAY, JUST PAST EIGHT, AN UNEXPECTED PHONE call disrupted my morning. My wife, Sally, answered but got me out of bed to talk. I’d been lying awake in the early sunlight and shadows, daydreaming about the possibility that somewhere, somehow, some good thing was going on that would soon affect me and make me happy, only I didn’t know it yet. Since I took leave of the real-estate business (after decades), anticipation of this kind is the thing I keenly miss. Though it’s the only thing, given how realty matters have gone and all that’s happened to me. I am content here in Haddam, aged sixty-eight, enjoying the Next Level of life—conceivably the last: a member of the clean-desk demographic, freed to do unalloyed good in the world, should I choose to. In that spirit, I travel once a week up to Newark Liberty with a veterans’ group, to greet the weary, puzzled, returning troopers home-cycling-in from Afghanistan and Iraq. I don’t truly credit this as a “commitment” or a true “giving back,” since it’s hardly inconvenient to stand smiling, hand outstretched, loudly declaring, “Welcome home, soldier (or sailor or airman)! Thank you for your service!” It’s more grandstanding than serious, and mostly meant to demonstrate that we’re still relevant, and thus is guaranteed to prove we’re not. In any case, my personal sensors are on alert for more I can do that’s positive with my end-of-days’ time—known otherwise as retirement.

  “Frank? It’s Arnie Urquhart,” a gruff, male, too-loud telephone voice crackled through distant girdering, automotive-traffic noises. Somewhere in the background was music—Peter, Paul & Mary singing “Lemon Tree” from faraway ’65. “Le-mun tree, ve-ry pritty / and the lemun flower is sweet . . .” Where I was standing in my pajamas, staring out the front window as the Elizabethtown Water meter-reader strode up the front walk to check on our consumption, my mind fled back to the face of ultra-sensual Mary—cruel-mouthed, earthy, blond hair slashing, her alto-voiced promise of no-nonsense coitus you’d renounce all dignity for, while knowing full well you wouldn’t make the grade. A far cry from how she ended life years on—muu-muu’d and unrecognizable. (Which one of the other two was the weenie-waver? One moved to Maine.) “. . . but the fruit of the poor lemun is im-poss-i-bul to eat . . .”

  “Turn something down, Arnie,” I said through the noise-clutter to wherever Arnie was on the planet. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Oh yeah. Okay.” A slurping wind-noise of glass being powered closed. Poor Mary went silent as the stone she’s buried under.

  The connection was clearer, then went vacant a long moment. I don’t talk to people on the phone that much anymore.

  “Why do weathermen all wish for a fuckin’ sunny day?” Arnie said, now at a distance from the phone. He’d put me on speaker and seemed to be talking out of the past.

  “It’s in their DNA,” I said from my fro
nt window.

  “Yep, yep.” Arnie sighed a great rattling sigh. Cars were audibly whizzing past wherever he was.

  “Where are you, Arnie?”

  “Pulled over on the goddamned Garden State, by Cheesequake. Heading down to Sea-Clift, or whatever the fuck’s left of it.”

  “I see,” I said. “How’s your house?”

  “Do you see, Frank? Well, I’m glad you fuckin’ see.”

  Back in the bonanza days of the now-popped realty bubble, I sold Arnie not just a house, but my house. In Sea-Clift. A tall, glass-and-redwood, architect-design beach palace, flush up against what seemed to be a benign and glimmering sea. Anybody’s dream of a second home. I saw to it Arnie coughed up a pretty penny (two-point-eight, no “vig” on a private sale). Sally and I had decided to move inland. I was ready to take down my shingle. It was eight years ago, this fall—two weeks before Christmas, like now.

  In my defense, I’d made several calls up to Arnie’s principal residence in Hopatcong, to learn how his/my beach house had weathered the storm. I’d called several old clients, including my former realty partner. All their news was bad, bad, bad. In Haddam, Sally and I lost only two small oak saplings (one already dead), half the roof on her potting shed, plus a cracked windshield on my car. “A big nothing,” as my mother used to say, before making a pppttt farting noise with her lips and laughing out loud.

  “I called you, probably three times, Arnie,” I said, feeling the curdling, giddy sensation of being a liar—though I’m not, not about this.

  The Elizabethtown guy gave me the thumbs-up as he headed out to his truck. Our water usage for November—not a problem.

  “That’s like calling the corpse to say you’re sorry he’s dead.” Arnie’s speaker-phone voice faded out and in from Cheesequake. “What were you going to suggest, Frank? Take me to lunch? Buy your house back? There’s no fuckin’ house left down there, you jackass.”

  I didn’t have an answer. Patent gestures of kindness, commiseration, fellow-feeling, shared sorrow and empathy—all are weak sisters in the fight against real loss. I’d only wanted to know the worst hadn’t happened—which, I saw, it hadn’t. Though Sea-Clift was where the big blow had come ashore like Dunkirk. No chance to dodge a bullet.

  “I’m not blaming you, Frank. That’s not why I’m on the blower here.” Arnie Urquhart is an ancient Michigan Wolverine like me. Class of ’68. Hockey. Rhodes finalist. Lambda Chi. Navy Cross. We all talked like that in those breezy, troubled days. The blower. The crapper. The Z-machine. The libes. The gazoo. Boogies. Gooks. Hogans . . . it’s a wonder any of us were ever allowed to hold a paying job. Arnie owns and runs—or did—a carriage-trade seafood boutique in north Jersey and has made a mint selling shad roe, Iranian caviar, and imported Black Sea delicacies the FDA doesn’t know about—all of it delivered in unidentifiable, white panel trucks—to Schlumberger execs for exclusive parties no one hears about, including President Obama, who wouldn’t be invited, since in the high-roller Republicans’ view, chitlins’ and hog-maws wouldn’t be on the menu.

  “How can I help, Arnie?” I was watching the Elizabethtown truck motor away down Wilson Lane. Clients’ first target of opportunity when a home sale goes sour—no matter when—is almost always the realtor, whose intentions are almost always good.

  “I’m on my way down there now, Frank. Some Italian piece of shit called me up at home. Wants to buy the lot and the house—whatever’s left of it—for five hundred grand. I need some advice. You got any?” More cars whizzing.

  “I’m not using any of mine, Arnie,” I said. “What’s the situation down there?”

  I, of course, knew. We’d all seen it on CNN, then seen it and seen it and seen it ’til we didn’t care anymore. Nagasaki-by-the-sea—with the Giants and Falcons just a tempting channel click away.

  “You’ll get a kick out of it, Frank,” Arnie said, disembodied in his car. “Where is it you live now?”

  “Haddam.” Sally had come to the door from the kitchen in her yoga clothes, holding a tea mug to her lips, breathing steam away, looking at me as if she’d heard something distressing and I should possibly hang up.

  A loud truck-horn blare cracked the silence where Arnie was. “Ass Hole,” Arnie shouted. “Haddam. Okay. Nice place. Or it was once.” Arnie bumped something against the speaker. “My house—your house—is sixty yards inland now, Frank. On its side—if it had a side. The neighbors are all worse off. The Farlows tried to ride it out in their safe room. They’re goners. The Snedikers made a run for it at the last minute. Ended up in the bay. Barb and I were at Lake Sunapee at my son’s. We watched it. I saw my house on TV before I saw it in person.”

  “I guess that could be good news.”

  Arnie didn’t respond.

  “What d’you want me to do, Arnie?”

  “I’m driving down to meet the cocksuckers. Flip companies. You heard of them? Speculators.” Arnie had started speaking in some kind of tough-guy, Jersey gangster growl.

  “I heard about them.” I’d read about it all in the Times.

  “So you see the whole deal. I need your advice, Frank. You used to be honest.”

  “I’ve been out of the realty business a while, Arnie. My license is expired. All I know is what I read in the newspaper.”

  “It’ll make you more reliable. Take away the profit motive. I’m not planning to shoot you, if you’re worried about that.”

  “I hadn’t quite gotten to there, Arnie.” Though I had. It had already happened. Once in Ortley Beach, once in Sea Girt. Listing agents shot sitting at their desks, typing out offer sheets.

  “So. Are you gonna show up? I could say you owe me.” Another truck’s withering horn went blasting past. “Jesus. These fucks. I’m gonna get killed out here. So?”

  “Okay, I’ll come,” I said, just to get Arnie off the road shoulder and on to the scene of destruction.

  “Eleven o’clock tomorrow. At the house,” Arnie said. “Or where it used to be. You might recognize it. I’m driving a silver Lexus.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Are we gonna have NHL this year, Frank?” Hockey. Destruction’s great leveler.

  “I haven’t really kept up, Arnie.”

  “The shit-for-brains players,” Arnie said. “They got the best deal they’ll ever get. Now they’ll have to settle for less. Sound familiar?” As always, Arnie was on management’s side. “Hail to the Victors, Frank.”

  “Champions of the West, Arnie.”

  “Mañana en la mañana.” Which seemed to be how Arnie said thanks.

  OUT ON LITTLE LEAGUE WORLD CHAMPIONS BOULEVARD, Toms River, nothing looks radically changed stormwise. In a purely retinal sense, the barrier island across the bay has done its god-given work for the inland communities, though much lies in ruins here, back in the neighborhoods. Traffic is anemic along the once–Miracle Mile, headed toward the bridge. It’s plain, though, that Toms River has claimed some survivor’s cred. A beardless Santa sits on a red plastic milk crate in front of the Launch Pad coffee hut (he’s clearly a Mexican), a red, printed-cardboard sign resting against his knee. COFFEE GIVES YOU COURAGE. FELIZ NAVIDAD. I wave, but he only stares back, as if I might be giving him the finger. Farther on, the Free At Last Bail Bonds has only a single car parked in front, as do a couple of boxy, asbestos-sided bars set back in the gravel lots. Days were—before The Shore got re-discovered and prices went nuts—you could drive over from Pottstown, take the kids and your honeybee for a weekend, and get away for a couple hundred. All that’s a dream now, even after the storm. A big sign—part of its message torn off by the winds—advertises the Glen Campbell Good-bye Tour. Half of Glen’s smiling, too-handsome face remains, a photo from the ’60s—before Tanya and the boozing and the cocaine. A paper placard in front of one of the bars—stolen off someone’s lawn after the election—has been re-purposed and instead of “Obama-Biden” now announces, “We’re Back. So Fuck You, Sandy.”

  Driving, I’ve got Copland’s Fanfare fillin
g the interior space at ten thirty. I bought the whole oeuvre online. As always, I’m stirred by the opening oboes giving ground to the strings then the kettle drums and the double basses. It’s a high-sky morning in Wyoming. Joel McCrea’s galloping across a windy prairie. Barbara Britton, fresh from Vermont, stands out front of their sodbuster cabin. Why is he so late? Is there trouble? What can I do, a woman alone? I’ve worn out three disks this fall. Almost any Copland (today it’s the Pittsburgh Symphony conducted by some Israeli) can persuade me on almost any given day that I’m not just any old man doing something old men do: driving to the grocery for soy milk, visiting the periodontist, motoring to the airport to greet young soldiers—sometimes against their wills. It doesn’t take much to change my perspective on a given day—or a given moment, or a given anything. Sally slipped a Copland in my Christmas stocking a year ago (Billy the Kid), and it’s had positive effects. I bought The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying as a present to myself but haven’t made much progress there—though I need to.

  I haven’t had time to look up Arnie Urquhart’s home-sale paperwork from ’04—whether he financed, if he took a balloon, or just peeled bills off a fat wad. I, of course, ought to remember the transaction, since it was my house, and I pocketed the dough—used to finance our house in Haddam, with plenty left over. Though like a lot of things I should do, I often don’t. It’s not true that as you get older things slide away like molasses off a table top. What is true is I don’t remember some things that well, owing to the fact that I don’t care all that much. I now wear a cheap Swatch watch, but I do sometimes lose the handle on the day of the month, especially near the end and the beginning, when I get off-track about “thirty days hath September . . .” This, I believe, is normal and doesn’t worry me. It’s not as if I put my trousers on backwards every morning, tie my shoelaces together, and can’t find my way to the mailbox. My only persistent bother is an occasionally painful subluxation (a keeper word) in my C-3 and C-4. It causes me to feel “Rice Krispies” in my neck, plus an ache when I twist back and forth, so that I don’t do that as much. I fear it may be restricting signals to my brain. My orthopedist at Haddam Medical, Dr. Zippee (a Pakistani and a prime asshole), asked if I wanted him to order up “some blood work” to find out if I’m a candidate for Alzheimer’s. (It made him gleeful to suggest this.) “Thanks, but I guess not,” I said, standing in his tiny green cubicle in a freezing-ass, flower-print examination gown. “I’m not sure what I’d do with the information.” “You’d probably forget it,” he said, gloating. He’s also told me that a usually unobserved vertical crease down the earlobe is a “good marker” for heart disease. I, of course, have one, though it isn’t deep—which I hope is a positive sign.