George Mills Part 35

"I don't care about your problems."

"Sure, if you did you'd get stoned too."

"Yeah, well, I've got my own troubles," George said, turning away.

"What, a saved, tucked-in guy like you? All snuggy snug and living the lap robe, deck chair life?"

"Louise told you that on the train."

"Who? Oh. Lulu? Nah. The mischief maker told me."

"Mrs. Glazer?"

"Long distance. She was dying. She reached out and touched someone. Cancerous b.i.t.c.h."

"Come if you're coming. I'm going back."

"Wait," Cornell said, and his voice was unenhanced. "Does Mahesvaram Mahesvaram mean anything to you?" mean anything to you?"

When George turned back to look at him Cornell was standing on the tracks, all the fingers of his left hand stuffed into his mouth. "It's that word she gave you," he said quietly, "it was her mantra."

Messenger seemed as if he were going to collapse, and Mills rushed to support him.

"Watch out!" Grant shouted. "You're standing on the third rail!"

The two men leaped away from each other, tripping over the outside track. Grant roared. "Geez, that's the oldest one in the book," the engineer wheezed. "I used to get Judith with that one. Same as I got her kids. A third rail on a steam steam engine?" engine?"

"What else?" Cornell hissed, recovering, grasping the sleeve of Mills's suit coat. "Did she tell you about my kid?"

"Not now," George said, and pulled away. "You go on. I have to talk to that guy." He turned toward the engineer, already addressing him while he was still several yards away. "What's your problem, Grant?"

"Oh, my my problem." problem."

"This morning I was your dead mistress's pallbearer. The family knows the use I've been to them. I mean the girls, I mean the sisters-in-law, I mean the aunt. I mean Mr. Glazer and the Claunches, Jr. and Sr. both. If I were to mention your rudeness to me, or the people in my party..."

Grant was laughing, applauding his speech. "Hear hear," he said. "Har har."

"You're drunk."

"Do you play cards?" Grant asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Cards. Card games. Do you know how to play card games?"

"Yes," Mills said, "sure."

"How many games?"

"What are you talking about?"

"How many card games do you know how to play? Gin? Do you know gin?"

"I play gin."

"Call rummy? Michigan rummy?"

"Michigan rummy."

"Pinochle? Bridge?"

"I never learned bridge."

"You never learned."

"So?"

"You never learned. You don't know call rummy. Or a dozen games I could mention you've never heard of. The poker variations. Sure, you you play cards. You never learned. You know who taught me bridge? Judith. Judith did. I was her bridge partner." play cards. You never learned. You know who taught me bridge? Judith. Judith did. I was her bridge partner."

"You're crazy," Mills said.

"What do you think my father did? For a living? How did he support us?"

"How would I know?"

"Guess."

"I don't know. He worked for the Claunches. He was in service. I don't know. You're the gardener's boy."

They were at the station.

"My father was a pharmacist. He owned a drugstore."

"Guess what?" Louise said, coming out of the train station. She was laughing.

"My daughter programs computers and my son has three shoestores in Kansas City," the servant said.

"That john's no bigger than a child's potty," Louise said. "The toilet paper's no wider than a reel of tape. It's scale. Everything's scale."

He opened the door of his Buick Special and was about to get in-Louise was already in the back, Cornell in front-when someone called to him. "Hold on a moment would you?" It was the man who had waved to him, the one who'd been admiring the cla.s.sic cars when Mills had pa.s.sed the garages on his way to find Louise.

"Yes?" Mills said. "What?"

"Don't mean to hold you up," the man said, approaching the car. "Your Special?"

"Yes," Mills said.

"Sixty-three?"

"Yes."

"Thought so," the man said. "Spotted it when you drove up to St. Michael and St. George this morning. Recognized the grille straight off. Dead giveaway. Had that lovely grille on her the year she was introduced and then they went to a different design the following year. Why'd they do that? Any idea?"

"No," Mills said.

"Could be birds. Scooped in birds. Some aerodynamic thing. You think?"

"I don't know."

"That's mine. Over there. The Studebaker."

"Very nice."

"Thank you," the man said. "Felt a bit bit odd about driving it to her funeral but if that's what old Judy wanted, why, h.e.l.l, what the h.e.l.l, eh?" odd about driving it to her funeral but if that's what old Judy wanted, why, h.e.l.l, what the h.e.l.l, eh?"

"What the h.e.l.l," George said.

"Look," the man said, "take my card, will you? I know it's a long shot, but if you ever do do want to sell, give me a call. If I'm not at the office call me at home. The number's unlisted but I've jotted it down on the back." want to sell, give me a call. If I'm not at the office call me at home. The number's unlisted but I've jotted it down on the back."

Mills told him he wasn't thinking of selling his car.

"I know," the man said. "I'd feel the same way if I were you. But call anyway. We'll do lunch at the club." He looked in the car window and tipped an imaginary hat.

"Sir," he said. "Madam."

PART FOUR.

1.

It wasn't religious this time, it was political and historical.

And maybe if I wasn't the thinking man's George Mills was the vocal one's one. A witness, in a dynasty of witnesses, one more chump who crewed history, whose destiny it was to hang out with the field hands, just there, there, you see, in range and hard by, but a little out of focus in the group photographs, rounded up when the marauders came, feeding the flames, one more wisp of smoke at the Inquisitions, doing all the obligatory forced marches, boat folks from the word go, but nothing personal on anybody's part. Not the government's, not the rebels'. Certainly not our own. you see, in range and hard by, but a little out of focus in the group photographs, rounded up when the marauders came, feeding the flames, one more wisp of smoke at the Inquisitions, doing all the obligatory forced marches, boat folks from the word go, but nothing personal on anybody's part. Not the government's, not the rebels'. Certainly not our own.

My own taling meant for more than just the story hour, that kid's garden of lullaby and closed circle of our family tradition. Your father-to-son disclosures I mean, all archived confidence and my spooked clan's secret recipes. And if I was different it's because I seemed to clamor for audience as well as style. Because we Millses have always had the latter. The former, too, if you come right down to it. Maybe particularly particularly the former, even if it always turns out to be, as it always does turn out to be, some knee-jounced, lap-settled, thumb-sucking babe child who can't get over any of it, who takes it all in, who takes it, terrified and relieved too that nothing, nothing whatsoever, is all that will ever be expected of him. That the only thing he has to do is remember that primal incident in the Polish forest when Guillalume fixed forever the Millsian parameters and gave us-never mind revolution, never mind reform bills, modern times or the inchworm creep of hope-our Const.i.tution. And one thing other of course: to be ready to spill it all out when the babe child was on the other knee as it were, meanwhile perfecting the former, even if it always turns out to be, as it always does turn out to be, some knee-jounced, lap-settled, thumb-sucking babe child who can't get over any of it, who takes it all in, who takes it, terrified and relieved too that nothing, nothing whatsoever, is all that will ever be expected of him. That the only thing he has to do is remember that primal incident in the Polish forest when Guillalume fixed forever the Millsian parameters and gave us-never mind revolution, never mind reform bills, modern times or the inchworm creep of hope-our Const.i.tution. And one thing other of course: to be ready to spill it all out when the babe child was on the other knee as it were, meanwhile perfecting his his style-which we Millses have always had-rendering the story to his own inner ear if he were still without issue, perfecting his nuance as another might perfect his French for a trip abroad, and taking care to get the magic parts pat. style-which we Millses have always had-rendering the story to his own inner ear if he were still without issue, perfecting his nuance as another might perfect his French for a trip abroad, and taking care to get the magic parts pat.

Because we're not even a joke. After all these years, all these centuries. Not fabled in song and story, not even a joke. Our name, till I came along, never even in the papers. Our eyewitness unrecorded, our testimony not so much ignored as never even overheard, the generations sworn to secrecy, or if not actually sworn at least inclined that way. Content enough with our secret handshakes and coded bearing, our underground railway ways.

Which is just as well could be. Or so the story goes. Our version of it anyway, the way I heard it, how it came down to me, our baton-pa.s.sed history apostolically successioned. Tag, and you're it.

Maybe we should have tried America, put in some time in the New World. Or maybe not. It's all new world for our kind anyway, ain't it? See why I began by implying I was the thinking man's George Mills? Not because I was any smarter than those other guys, G.o.d knows, but because I was capable of all this alternative, but-on-the-other-hand understood like some spiffy grammatical usage. My lot calls that thinking. Your lot too probably. (There I go again.) And if I had this Millsian perspective that lends detachment and magnanimous neutrality, perhaps it's really because...This isn't what I wanted to talk about.

It wasn't religious this time, it was political, historical. Perhaps the King himself opened the door.

I don't say answered. Opened. Perhaps he was on his way out as I was already knocking. Anyway, now I think of it, I must have startled him (despite his size, which was immense, he was big around as a kiosk) a good deal more than he startled me. I had the advantage, you see, of not knowing he was the King. (What advantage did he have? The man about to step out, nothing on his mind, to judge from his whistling, but his mood, calling, as was his his destiny, all the shots of his daily round, and submissive at details as a tool, the arrangements already delegated, a.s.signed, giving over his entire person like a horseman a heel for a hoist. And there I was, blocking destiny, all the shots of his daily round, and submissive at details as a tool, the arrangements already delegated, a.s.signed, giving over his entire person like a horseman a heel for a hoist. And there I was, blocking his way, his way, stuck in the doorway like an insurrectionist, a man, to look at me, to judge from my seedy clothes and peasant's seamy appurtenances, the countryman's straw helmet still on my head, the loose smock that could have concealed weapons, the rude boots like someone's who might have been in his mutiny suit, for rebellion dressed, a far-flung Jacobin say, some Luddite-come-lately uniformed for sedition and putsch.) Advantage to the hick. (Because what really alarmed him, I learned later, too late, was not my crummy clothes or savage bearing-he was King of Great Britain and Ireland, King of Hanover; he knew our homespun, had closets of the stuff made to order for the b.u.mpkin b.a.l.l.s and bog-trots, the hayseed hoedowns and rustic masquerades of his youth-but my simple failure to bow and sc.r.a.pe, to make a leg or flat out kneel. What did stuck in the doorway like an insurrectionist, a man, to look at me, to judge from my seedy clothes and peasant's seamy appurtenances, the countryman's straw helmet still on my head, the loose smock that could have concealed weapons, the rude boots like someone's who might have been in his mutiny suit, for rebellion dressed, a far-flung Jacobin say, some Luddite-come-lately uniformed for sedition and putsch.) Advantage to the hick. (Because what really alarmed him, I learned later, too late, was not my crummy clothes or savage bearing-he was King of Great Britain and Ireland, King of Hanover; he knew our homespun, had closets of the stuff made to order for the b.u.mpkin b.a.l.l.s and bog-trots, the hayseed hoedowns and rustic masquerades of his youth-but my simple failure to bow and sc.r.a.pe, to make a leg or flat out kneel. What did I I know? My fourth day in town. To me he looked like any other fat, well-groomed London gentleman of breeding. Where were his crown and sceptre? His sash and ribbons? His sword? The feather in his cap no higher than any other man's. [Indeed, he was bareheaded.] And where, for that matter, were all the King's men? Some of them? Any? One? His appearance less regal finally than a footman's. Less regal than the livery of the men who drove the carriages in the streets. [Which was what I'd thought know? My fourth day in town. To me he looked like any other fat, well-groomed London gentleman of breeding. Where were his crown and sceptre? His sash and ribbons? His sword? The feather in his cap no higher than any other man's. [Indeed, he was bareheaded.] And where, for that matter, were all the King's men? Some of them? Any? One? His appearance less regal finally than a footman's. Less regal than the livery of the men who drove the carriages in the streets. [Which was what I'd thought I'd I'd do, why I'd come to London, with no weapons but only my letter of introduction greasy and rumpled under my smock that explained my presence at that particular door-it was not even the front door-at the very time when the man I did not yet know was my sovereign was about to emerge from it.] Dressed in long trousers, the plain style that had just come in, vestless, his neck unadorned save for a wide black circle of cloth that served as cravat.) do, why I'd come to London, with no weapons but only my letter of introduction greasy and rumpled under my smock that explained my presence at that particular door-it was not even the front door-at the very time when the man I did not yet know was my sovereign was about to emerge from it.] Dressed in long trousers, the plain style that had just come in, vestless, his neck unadorned save for a wide black circle of cloth that served as cravat.) So we did this mutual side shuffle, feinting and parrying like swordsmen, like men before mirrors. I would would have bowed if he'd given me a chance, displayed nape like a white flag, bobbed and bowed, ducked and dithered. Why not? It costs nothing to give way to squires, even when they're coming out servants' entrances, and it pleases them so. have bowed if he'd given me a chance, displayed nape like a white flag, bobbed and bowed, ducked and dithered. Why not? It costs nothing to give way to squires, even when they're coming out servants' entrances, and it pleases them so.

"Stand still, d.a.m.n ye," the old fellow said.

And I did, recovering my balance like a tumbler. He looked me over, asked my name.

"It's George," I said.

"George," he mocked.

"Aye," I said. Then, haughtily, as he'd been scornful: "George, son of George. Son of George, son of George, son of George. George, son of George to the forty-second or forty-third power if it comes to that."

"And does does it come to that?" it come to that?"

"It sure does."

"British?"

"As the day is long."

"Bow to the King," hissed the aging dandy.

"What? Where? Here? Where? Here?" Startled, reflexive, bent as in cramp. Taking, before him, a kind of cover, as if sh.e.l.ls had gone off, rockets, explosives, sunbursts of majesty. (A Mills first, an historical highlight, whose eight and a half centuries had been a kind of preparation for just such a moment. The subject is subjects. The subject is subjects! The subject is subjects! Who'd lived always in monarchical climes the low-liege life. a.s.sured of kings as a Christian of G.o.d but who'd yet to see one. Never mind been in one's presence, had actual audience. Glimpsed his coach I mean, spotted retainers. Living centuries on a small island since practically the Who'd lived always in monarchical climes the low-liege life. a.s.sured of kings as a Christian of G.o.d but who'd yet to see one. Never mind been in one's presence, had actual audience. Glimpsed his coach I mean, spotted retainers. Living centuries on a small island since practically the invention invention of kings, ringed by their circ.u.mstance and circ.u.mscribed by their ordinance, hemmed by decree, paying the rates and loyal at the levy, doing the death duties and making good on the ransoms, prizing the special commemorative coins and celebratory postage like heirloom, and coming up with the surtaxes and VAT's, the excise and octroi, all tolls all told and the taxes on war and peace and all the royal expeditions. Excused from nothing yet and exacting from ourselves what they'd tax collectors to exact. Among the poorest of their subjects and withal over the years and down through the reigns and dynasties-how we told time-contributing to their collective, c.u.mulative well-being at least one gold spoke on at least one golden wheel that turned the coach we had yet to see.) I grabbed the sleeve of the old guy's coat and yanked. of kings, ringed by their circ.u.mstance and circ.u.mscribed by their ordinance, hemmed by decree, paying the rates and loyal at the levy, doing the death duties and making good on the ransoms, prizing the special commemorative coins and celebratory postage like heirloom, and coming up with the surtaxes and VAT's, the excise and octroi, all tolls all told and the taxes on war and peace and all the royal expeditions. Excused from nothing yet and exacting from ourselves what they'd tax collectors to exact. Among the poorest of their subjects and withal over the years and down through the reigns and dynasties-how we told time-contributing to their collective, c.u.mulative well-being at least one gold spoke on at least one golden wheel that turned the coach we had yet to see.) I grabbed the sleeve of the old guy's coat and yanked.

"Get down, Guv! Get down down for the sovereign!" for the sovereign!"

And, groveled as spider, did this dance of good citizenship. Palace farce. For the handkerchief that came off in my hand when I'd grabbed his wrist was embroidered with a silken seal of majesty, his royal monogram in king's tailored cursive, HMGIV like Roman numerals of state. By this time, too, recognizing elements of the declined, devalued handsomeness in the aging face from the mint, intact perfection of his image on my coins. (Thinking: Not merely a man, not merely even an important man, but actual animate money.) We aren't stupid. It was so unexpected. Indeed, I got the picture before the King did, and made my adjustments, all my Kentucky windage rea.s.signments of perception, the King himself still preoccupied with a king's terrors--mutiny, red menace, rout and regicide. It was my duty duty to calm him. to calm him.

Practically prostrate, I called soothingly to him. "Sire," I crooned. Calling him autarch, calling him dynast, calling him King, my mind all over him with all the stored-up honorifics of a captive race.

"Guv?" he said. "Guv?"

"A figure of speech, Father."

"To the forty-third power?"

"Or forty-second. More likely forty-second. Almost a.s.suredly forty-second."

"Gee," he said wistfully, "we're only George the Fourth. Great Great Grandfather wasn't born till 1660."