Galilee by Clive Barker
“Well you can stay, baby. I just thought you’d be wanting to get back with some of your friends.”
“I don’t have any friends in New York.”
“Rachel, don’t be silly. You’ve got plenty of—” He saw the unhappiness in her eyes, and raised his hands in surrender. “All right. If you say you’ve got no friends, you’ve got no friends. I only thought if you were making progress, it would be good for everybody to see you again.”
“Oh, now I get it. You want to show me around so the family doesn’t start thinking I’ve lost my mind.”
“That’s not it at all. Why do you have to be so paranoid?”
“Because I know the way you think. All of you. Always watching out for the family reputation. Well, right now I don’t care about the family reputation, okay? I don’t want to see anybody. I don’t want to talk to anybody. And I certainly don’t want to go back to New York.”
“Calm down, will you?’ Mitch said. “I just wanted to find out where we stand. Now I know.” He left the kitchen without another word, but he came back in again ten minutes later. His anger hadn’t dissipated, but he was doing his best to conceal it. “I haven’t come back here for another argument,” he said, “I only want to point out that you can’t stay here forever. This is not a life I want my wife to be living, puttering around like an old woman, cutting roses and peeling potatoes.”
“I like peeling potatoes.”
“You’re being perverse.”
“I’m being honest.”
“Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m going to be staying with Garrison for the next few days, so we can work through all this Bangkok business.” She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about; nor did she care to inquire. “So if you need me . . .”
“I know where to find you,” she replied, though she’d realized several seconds before that she wouldn’t be coming to look.
ii
Where would she go? That was the question that vexed her for the next few days. Even assuming she did what would once have been unthinkable, and actually left her husband, where would she go? She couldn’t stay here at the farmhouse, though that would be blissful. It was Geary property. She could take up residence in the apartment, of course—that was hers—but she’d never feel comfortable there; certainly not without completely remodeling the place in line with her own tastes, and that was too large a scale of undertaking. Perhaps she’d be better off selling it, even if it didn’t make a particularly good price, and finding a smaller place to purchase: perhaps somewhere off the beaten track like Caleb’s Creek.
She slept on the thought, though not well. She passed the night in an uneasy state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, and when she dreamed the dreams were of the room in which she was lying, only bleached of all color, like the photographs in George’s study that had been left in the sun too long. There were people passing through the room, a few of them glancing down at her, their faces impassive. She knew none of them, though she had the suspicion that she’d known them once, and forgotten their names.
The next day she called Margie, and invited her to visit.
“I really can’t bear the country,” Margie protested. “But if you’re not going to be coming back here for a while . . .”
“I’m not.”
“Then I’ll come.”
She arrived the next day, her limo packed with boxes of her favorite indulgences—smoked bluefish pâté, the inevitable Beluga, Viennese coffee, a box of bitter chocolate florentines—plus, of course, a case of libations.
“This isn’t the back of beyond,” Rachel pointed out as she watched Samuel, Margie’s driver, unload the supplies. “We have a very good market ten minutes’ drive from here.”
“I know, I know,” Margie said, “but I like to come prepared.” She pulled a bottle of single-malt Scotch out of one of the boxes. “Where’s the ice?”
Margie had plenty of gossip. Loretta had become quite the harridan in the last few weeks, she reported. There’d been a very acrimonious exchange with Garrison a week ago, in which Loretta had inferred some misconduct in the way Garrison had disposed of several million dollars’ worth of family holdings.
“I didn’t think Loretta had any interest in the business side of things,” Rachel said.
“Oh don’t you believe it. She likes to pretend she’s above it all. But she’s watching her empire. In fact, the more I see her operate, the more I think she was always working behind the scenes. Even when George was alive. He did all the talking, but she was the one telling him what to say. And now she’s seeing things she doesn’t approve of, so she’s showing her hand.”
“So what happened with Garrison?”
“Oh it was a mess. He told her she didn’t know what she was talking about, which was exactly the wrong thing to say. Apparently she went into the boardroom the next day and dismissed five of the board members on the spot.”
“She can do that?”
“She did it,” Margie replied. “Told them all to pack their bags and go. Then she gave an interview to The Wall Street Journal saying they were incompetent. They’re all suing of course. I’m surprised Mitchell didn’t say anything about any of this.”
“He doesn’t talk about the business. He never has.”
“This isn’t business. This is civil war. Garrison was madder than I’ve seen him in a long time. It was all very satisfying.” They exchanged smiles; co-conspirators in their pleasure at all this unrest. “The way he was talking,” Margie went on, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t come up with some kind of ultimatum. You know: either she goes or I go.”
“And who’s going to make that decision?”
“I don’t know,” Margie laughed. “Especially now Loretta’s put half the board out of a job. I suppose in the end it’ll come down to whether Mitchell sides with Garrison or his grandmother.”
“It all seems so old-fashioned.”
“Oh, it’s positively feudal,” Margie said. “But that’s the way the old man set it up when he retired. He kept all the power in the family.”
“Does Cadmus have any kind of vote?”
“Oh sure. He still sends memos to Garrison, believe it or not.”
“Do they make any sense?”
“I think it depends how much medication he’s had that day. Last time I went to see him he was flying. Talking about something that happened fifty years ago. I don’t think he even knew who I was. Then there’s days when he’s really sharp, according to Garrison.” She grew a little pensive. “I think it’s pretty sad, personally. To be so old and not be able to let go of his little empire.”
“Isn’t that what keeps him alive?” Rachel said.
“Well it’s pitiful,” Margie said. “But it’s the way they are. Control freaks.”
“Including Loretta?”
“Especially Loretta. She’s got nothing better to do.”
“She’s not too old to marry again, once Cadmus dies.”
“She’d be better off taking a lover,” Margie said. She had a sly expression on her face. “It’s a nice feeling.”
“Are you telling me—?” The slyness became a smile. “You have a lover?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Margie laughed. “His name’s Danny. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but he’s a wonderful distraction in the middle of a dreary afternoon.”
“Does Garrison know about him?”
“Well we haven’t had a nice chat about it, if that’s what you mean, but he knows. I mean Garrison and I haven’t slept together for six years, except for a rather wretched night after that damned birthday party for Cadmus, when both of us got a little mawkish. Otherwise he goes his way and I go mine. It’s better that way.”
“I see.”
“Are you shocked? Oh, please tell me you’re shocked.”
“No. I’m just thinking . . .”
“About?”
“Well . . . the reason I asked you to come here’s because I’m going
“Does Mitchell agree?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Well when exactly were you intending to tell him, honey?”
“When I’ve got everything sorted out in my head.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t be wiser doing what I’ve done? There’s a lot of cute bartenders in New York.”
“I don’t want a bartender,” Rachel said. “With the greatest respect to . . . what’s his name?”
“Daniel.” She grinned. “Actually it’s Dan Dan the Fuck Fuck Man.”
“With the greatest respect to the Fuck Fuck Man it’s not what I’m looking for.”
“Was Mitchell any good in bed?”
“I don’t have that much to compare him with.”
“Put it this way: it wasn’t a once-in-a-lifetime experience?”
“No.”
“So you don’t want a bartender. What do you want?”
“Good question,” Rachel said.
She closed her eyes so as not to be distracted by the quizzical look on Margie’s face. “I guess . . . I just want to feel more passionate.”
“About Mitchell?”
“About . . . getting up in the morning.” She opened her eyes again. Margie was perusing her, as though trying to decide something.
“What are you thinking?’ Rachel asked her.
“Just that it’s all very fine talking about passion, honey. But if it ever came along—I’m talking about real passion, not some soap-opera baloney—it’d change everything in your life. You do know that? Everything.”
“I’m ready for that.”
“So you’ve given up on Mitchell completely?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not going to let you divorce him without a fight.”
“Probably not. But I’m sure he doesn’t want us all over the tabloids either. Neither do I. I just want to live my life as far away from the Gearys as I can get.”
“What if you could have both?”
“I don’t follow.”
“What if you could have all the passion you could take, and still keep your share of the Geary lifestyle? No divorce proceeding; no judge going through the dirty linen.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“The only way it’s going to happen is if you promise to stay with Mitchell. He’s got his eye on a place in Congress, and he wants his private life to be as squeaky clean as possible. If you help him look like a saint, maybe he’ll look the other way when you go have an adventure.”
“You make it sound all very civilized.”
“Why shouldn’t it be?” Margie said. “Unless he decides to get jealous. Then . . . well, then you might have to talk some reason into him. But you’re smart enough to do that.”
“And where am I going to find this adventure?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” Margie said with a little smile. “Right now, you’ve got some deciding to do, honey. But let me remind you of something. I tried leaving. And I tried and I tried. And, believe me, it’s a hard world out there.”
iii
Perversely enough it was this last remark that finally convinced Rachel that she had to leave. So what if it was a hard world? She’d survived out there for the first twenty-four years of her life, without the Gearys. She could do so again.
When Margie finally rose, sometime after noon, and was downing her first Bloody Mary of the day (complete with a stick of celery, for the roughage) Rachel explained that she’d thought everything over and decided to take a long drive, back to Ohio. It would give her time to think, she said; time to make up her mind about what she really wanted.
“Do you want Mitchell to know where you’ve gone?” Margie asked her.
“Preferably not.”
“Then I won’t tell him,” Margie said, very simply. “When are you planning to go?”
“I’m already packed. I just wanted to say goodbye to you.”
“Oh Lord. You don’t waste any time. Still, maybe it’s for the best.” Margie opened her arms. “You know you’re very dear to me, don’t you?”
“Yes I know,” Rachel said, hugging her hard.
“So you be careful,” Margie said. “No picking up hitchhikers because they’ve got pretty asses. And don’t stay in any sleazy motels. There’s a lot of strange folks out there.”
So she began the homeward journey. It took her four days and three nights, stopping off, despite Margie’s warnings, at a couple of less than salubrious motels along the way. Though she’d thought the journey would give her plenty of time to think, her mind didn’t want to be bothered with problems. Instead it idled, concerning itself only with the practical problems of finding places to eat, and choosing between routes. Whenever there was a choice between a bland highway and something more picturesque (but inevitably longer), she picked the latter. It was nice to be in the driving seat again, after two years of being chauffeured around; turning up the radio and singing along with old favorites.
But once she crossed into Ohio, with Dansky only a couple of hours away, her high spirits faded. She had some difficult times ahead. What would she say when people asked her how her life in the lap of luxury was going? What would she tell them when they enquired about Mitchell, her handsome husband, who had given up his eligible bachelorhood to be with her? Oh Lord, what would she say? That it had all gone to hell, and she was running home to escape? That she didn’t love him after all? That he was a sham, he and his whole damn world, a hollow spectacle that wasn’t worth a damn. They wouldn’t believe her. How could she complain, they’d say, when she had so much? When she was rolling in wealth, and they were still living in their one-bedroom tract homes worrying about the mortgage and the cost of a new pair of sneakers for the kids?
Well, it was too late to turn back now. She was crossing the railroad tracks that had always been in her childhood the limits of the town; the place where the world she knew ended and the greater world began. She was back in streets that she still dreamed about some nights; wandered the way she’d wandered in the troubled years before puberty, when she didn’t know what to make of herself (doubted, indeed, that she would ever amount to anything). There was the drugstore, owned by Albert McNealy, and now by his son Lance, with whom Rachel had had a brief but innocent affair in her fifteenth year. There was the school where she’d learned something of everything and nothing in particular, its yard still fenced with the same chain-link, like a shabby prison. There was the little park (or so the city fathers dubbed it; in fact the term was pure flattery). There was the birdshit-bespattered statue of Irwin Heckler, called the founding father of the town, who had in 1903 started a little business manufacturing hard, tartly flavored candies which had proved uncommonly popular. There was the town hall and the church (the only building that still possessed some of its remembered grandeur) and the little mall that contained the hairdresser’s and the offices of the town lawyer, Marion Klaus, and the dog groomer’s, and half a dozen other establishments that served the community.
All of them were closed at this hour; it was well past nine o’clock in the evening. The only place that would still be open would be the bar on McCloskey Road, close to the funeral home. She was tempted to drive over there and get herself a glass of whiskey before she called on her mother, but she knew the chances of getting in and out of the bar without meeting somebody who knew her were exactly zero, so she drove straight to the house on Sullivan Street. She wasn’t arriving unannounced; she’d called her mother from somewhere outside Youngstown and told her she was on her way. The porch light was on and the front door stood an inch or two ajar.
There was a sublime little moment on the front step, when—after she’d called out to Sherrie and before the answering call came—she stood there and listened to the sounds of the night around her. There was no traffic: just the gentle hiss of the leaves of the holly tree that had grown unc
And now here was Sherrie looking a little fretful, but smiling to see her daughter on the step.
“Well this is a surprise,” she said.
XIV
i
The night after Rachel started her drive to Ohio, Garrison invited Mitchell out for dinner. It was a long time since they’d had a heart-to-heart, he said, and there was no better time than the present. When Ralph brought him to the restaurant Garrison had chosen, Mitchell was certain there’d been a mix-up. It was a dingy little Chinese place on Canal Street and Mott; not the most welcoming of neighborhoods. But Ralph hadn’t made an error. Garrison was there, sitting toward the back of the narrow room at a table that could have seated six but was set for two. He had a bottle of white wine in front of him, and was drawing on a Havana. He offered Mitchell a glass of wine, and a cigar, but all Mitchell wanted was a glass of milk, to settle his stomach.
“Does that really work for you?” Garrison said. “Milk just gives me gas.”
“Everything gives you gas.”
“That’s true,” Garrison said.
“Remember that kid Mario, used to call you Stinky Geary?”
“Mario Giovannini.”
“That’s right, Giovannini. I wonder what the fuck happened to him?”
“Who cares?” Garrison said, sitting back in his chair. “Hey, Mr. Ko?” The manager, a rather dapper fellow with his hair plastered to his pate so carefully it looked as though it had been painted on strand by strand, appeared. “Can we get some milk over here for my brother? And some menus.”
“I’m not hungry,” Mitchell said.
“You will be. We’ve got to get your energies up. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”