Читать книгу Flam Grub - Dan Dowhal - Страница 14

Chapter 10

Working behind the counter of the bookstore made it easier for Flam to see his mother on a regular basis. Now, instead of trying to find a mutually convenient time when she wasn’t at a service, or a church function, or performing one of the myriad duties for which she indefatigably volunteered, Flam had only to sit quietly on his stool, reading a book, and wait for Mary to appear to him.

Typically, she would go upstairs and make a pot of tea, and bring it down for them to share, along with some pastry left over from one church function or another. Mother and son would sit together and make small talk, mostly low-key gossip about the goings on in the neighbourhood, or the latest happenings at the church.

Increasingly, Gerald Strait’s name would surface, always in some incidental, oh-by-the-way role in Mary’s rambling chatter. Flam began to suspect his mother, having been through her prerequisite period of mourning, was pursuing a relationship with the good pharmacist.

The suspicion bore fruit when Gerald himself turned up escorting Mary on one of her visits to the bookstore. As he shook hands with Flam, the pharmacist appeared as ill at ease as a teenager meeting his date’s parents for the first time. Later, as Mary launched into a prolific and detailed testimonial of Gerald’s assets and accomplishments, he stood shifting his weight nervously from leg to leg, then, bored with that, he leaned on the glass display case and scrutinized the books there with fierce concentration.

He was a tall, unhappy-looking man, a head higher and several years older than Mary, with grey thinning hair that had been shepherded carefully towards the baldest patches, and sagging jowls that jiggled when he talked. One ear seemed to be lower than the other, and the round, gold-rimmed glasses he wore tilted as a consequence, requiring him to constantly push them back into proper position with his index finger.

One thing was patently clear, however. Gerald was totally enamoured of Mary, who, even though she was now in her forties, was still quite an attractive woman. She had maintained her slim figure through constant worry, and her red hair through the help of Miss Clairol’s Autumn Auburn (bought discreetly at a drugstore other than Gerald’s). On several occasions, Flam caught Gerald staring at Mary with a look of utter delight, his eyes flitting over the features of her face with unabashed adoration.

It was a busy afternoon in the bookstore, and Flam was alone minding the shop, so he had to regularly excuse himself from entertaining his guests in order to ring up a sale or show a customer where a particular section was located. For some reason, this seemed to visibly annoy Gerald. Flam found that surprising, given that the pharmacist, of all people, should be empathetic to the demands of customer service.

Flam began to get the feeling there was something else in the air, that Mary and Gerald wanted to broach a subject with him. Finally, when a lull overtook the shop, the pharmacist cleared his throat and attempted to get to the crux of the matter.

“Even though I was married for twelve years before my dear wife, God bless her soul, passed on, the good Lord never saw fit to bless us with children of our own.” Gerald paused briefly at this point, as if wrestling with some great inner pain, and Mary touched his arm in encouragement. Flam just stared blankly, wondering where this was going.

Gerald continued, “You’re not a child anymore, you’re an adult now . . . why you even have your own apartment, and very soon I imagine, a bright future in a solid, respectable profession. But I want you to know I’ll think of you as if you’re my own flesh and blood . . ..”

Mary interjected, clearly exasperated by Gerald’s rambling tack. “Oh, Gerald, you’re putting the cart before the horse.” She turned to her son and explained, “Mr. Strait has asked me to marry him, Flam. We thought perhaps next spring.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to call me Dad . . . well, that is, not unless you want to,” Gerald resumed, “and of course the name change would be entirely up to you.”

“Name change!” Flam exclaimed, blinking hard, trying to process all the information inundating him.

Mary pressed her body closer to Gerald’s, as if to show that in this matter they stood united. “We thought, dear, since I was going to change my name, that you might want to take Mr. Strait’s surname too.”

They paused and waited for a reaction, but Flam stood silent, his mental gears slipping as they tried to mesh. Slowly his wits returned. He leaned over the counter to embrace his mother, then took Gerald’s hand and shook it enthusiastically.

“Well, congratulations . . . I mean, I’m really happy for you two. That’s great. Really fantastic.” He was working so hard to paint a smile on his face, he could feel his cheeks start to ache. But although outwardly he was managing to preserve a veneer of sincerity and buoyancy, in reality, Flam was awash in a whirlpool of confusion, and was not at all sure what he was really feeling.

True, he had harboured no love for his dead father. Steve, even at his absolute best, had been a callous, neglectful reprobate, and during his blackest moments had been an outright terror and tormentor to his family. Moreover, since the enmity between mother and son had thawed after Steve’s death, Flam had come to project most of the blame for the misery of his childhood onto his father, choosing to suppress the reality that Mary had often been equally guilty of verbal abuse, and had, in general, been cold to her son.

Mary had, nevertheless, performed the perfunctory requirements of nurturing Flam—had been the one who’d fed and bathed and clothed the child, and had provided some degree of cursory comfort. Steve, brutish and violent by nature, had been the more overt and painfully memorable in his physical and psychological assaults.

Flam was grateful to now have a mother to whom he could feel close, the first step perhaps in some sort of cosmic reparations he felt fate owed him for the misery and deprivation of his life. He knew in his heart he should feel pleased his mother had a second chance at happiness with someone else, and that she would know companionship and intimacy in her middle years instead of loneliness.

But other feelings also washed over Flam now, jostling for command of his emotional state. He felt resentful of the man threatening to spirit away the only affection Flam possessed. He was also experiencing jealousy of his mother, who was feeling the splendour of requited love and the soul-lifting joy of planning a new life with someone—a joy Flam had once longed to share with Lucy. He also felt instinctively threatened on some subliminal primate level by Gerald, this outsider who had appeared to challenge Flam for dominance of their tiny tribe.

All these conflicting emotions tugged at Flam as he congratulated his mother and stepfather-to-be, but the feelings that were hardest to reconcile and truly fathom for Flam were the ones conjured up by the suggestion he might change his name. So ingrained, so primal was the hatred of his name, that just evoking it as a topic of discussion had unleashed a torrent of latent memories and emotions, throwing him off his equilibrium.

A lifetime of self-preserving reflexes instantly kicked in, and made him want to close his ears, to run away—or at least to change the subject, as he had, in fact, instantly done by launching into his congratulatory performance. But, having been exposed to the light of day, the unexpected prospect of salvation from the lifelong curse of “Flam Grub” could not now be ignored. Even without fully admitting it to himself, inside his mind he was trying on the new name, turning it over, and feeling its nature.

Flam Strait . . . Flam Strait, he thought. Is that a better name? But no revelation, no great relief or gratitude overtook him. Why am I not overjoyed, he wondered, what am I really feeling? But he already knew the answer. It had not been the Grub surname alone that had haunted him. Despite his mother’s oft-voiced love for her legendary ancestors, “Flam” had always led the way in his suffering. That oddity of a first name had instantly centred him out, and because it was so easy to rhyme and pun with, had been an equal partner in the abuse conjured up by the world around him. Would merely changing surnames be enough? A long-suffering veteran like Flam knew better, and he automatically foresaw new fodder for his future tormentors. “Flam Damn Straight” and “Straitjacket” came instantly to mind. No, Flam was utterly unconvinced there would be any salvation for him in this name change.

Perhaps he would have been more open to the idea were it not for the underlying offence he intrinsically felt from the whole proposal. This had not been conceived purely to alleviate Flam’s personal pain. On the few occasions in boyhood when Flam had sought solace from Mary over the name calling by the other children, her reaction had been brusque and unsympathetic. She had instructed him to turn the other cheek, and to take pride in his name—specifically the Flam half. He had eventually given up trying to confide his pain and humiliation to his mother, and doubted whether she truly understood how much he’d suffered over the years.

In Flam’s mind, Mary and Gerald were simply treating him like a child, whose care represented another administrative detail in their relationship that needed to be resolved to fit the new scheme of things. In the process, the pair was refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was now an adult, entitled to manage his own affairs and make his own decisions. True, they had not demanded outright that Flam change his name, but the very fact they had taken it upon themselves to propose it showed how little they acknowledged his right to self-determination. It proved that Gerald believed he was entitled to some degree of control over Flam, simply by marrying his mother.

Flam soon exhausted his repertoire of contrived congratulations, and, striving hard to conceal his mounting annoyance at the affront the happy couple had committed with their offer, fell into an awkward silence as a blush bloomed on his pale face. The enthusiasm he had just feigned ended up working against him. Gerald seemed to sense some advantage in the pause, and having received no noticeable opposition to his proposal, pressed the matter further.

“There will be some legal details that would need to be tended to, of course. Petitions to the court for the name change, of course. Your mother tells me you’ve reached the age of majority so I’m not sure whether we can legally file for adoption. But I have an excellent lawyer. Anyway, she can handle all the details, so you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. And, of course, I would pay for everything.”

Even the habitually passive Flam could not suffer the perceived insult any longer.

“I don’t want to change my name . . . you can’t make me,” he blurted out with more of a whine than a shout. He turned to square off face to face with Gerald, but his eyes refused to cooperate fully and the eyeballs, traitors to the rebellion, skulked at the edges, studying the rows of books instead of bravely taking on the enemy, giving Flam a wild, animal look.

Gerald looked bewildered, then angry, and exchanged a what-did-I-tell-you look with Mary. “Well nobody’s making you,” the prospective stepfather offered, “your mother . . ..”

Mary quickly interceded, closing ranks and taking Gerald by the arm. “It was my idea, dear. I just wanted us to be a family, that’s all. You understand, I’m sure. But take all the time you need to decide. It would mean so much to me . . . to us.” This was clearly not the way she had wanted things to go, and now she evidently felt caught in the middle.

Flam sensed her discomfort and instantly regretted his outburst. “Well, I’ll think it over,” he offered, although inwardly he had made up his mind, and the matter was permanently closed as far as he was concerned. A change of subject was in order. “So . . . when’s the wedding?” Flam asked, trying his best not to betray the tumult playing out inside of him.

The couple exchanged a pair of goofy grins and pressed closer together. “We haven’t really set a date yet,” Gerald said. “I mean, yesterday wouldn’t be soon enough for me, but your mother, calm head that she always is, has a much better sense of things, and feels a proper engagement is in order.” He took Mary’s hand and showed it to Flam, flipping the palm over to reveal a modest-sized but tasteful engagement ring, proof that all proper protocols and steps were being followed.

“We have the rest of our lives together, Gerald, darling,” Mary giggled, suddenly looking years younger in Flam’s eyes. “There’s no need to rush into anything. Besides, no need to give the rumourmongers in the parish any extra fuel for their fire . . . they’ll have plenty to say as it is.”

She retrieved her hand and stood up on tiptoes to offer Gerald a kiss on the lips as a reward for his consideration. Flam was shocked to see their lips stay pressed firmly together for several seconds, and their hands begin to gravitate towards each other’s body.

Flam had a sudden disturbing image of the two of them, naked and entwined together, executing one of the more exotic positions from the Kama Sutra, several copies of which resided in the bookstore. He was immensely relieved when the pair broke off their embrace and restored an aura of propriety.

“We should have dinner to celebrate, and get to know each other better, um, Flam,” Gerald proposed. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Oh, not tonight, it’s Flam’s school night,” Mary responded before Flam could even open his mouth. “How about Saturday night, dear?”

Flam was grateful for the reprieve his night class offered, yet realized that dinner—and another discussion about his name—had only been postponed. He was greatly tempted to invent an excuse for Saturday night as well, but knew a celebratory dinner could not be avoided indefinitely. As unappealing as the prospect of spending an evening facing off against his mother and her overbearing new paramour seemed, he saw no escape. Ultimately, he told himself, the matter will have to be dealt with, and they will have to see things my way. But he felt far from valiant, dreading the encounter.

“Saturday night’s fine,” Flam relented, generating a pair of radiant synchronized smiles from Mary and Gerald. “The shop closes around seven.” He was going to suggest a nearby bistro that Page Turner recommended highly, but Gerald instantly took charge.

“Great,” the future stepfather beamed. “I’ll make reservations at Eddie Spaghetti’s. We’ll be like one cozy, happy family, just the three of us. That is, unless you want to bring someone . . . a date. She’d be more than welcome.”

Flam reddened, instantly embarrassed by the fact there was absolutely no one, not even a causal friend, he could call on to be an escort for the occasion. The bleak mantle of his loneliness wrapped itself around him once again, its familiar dark weight smothering his composure. But he could feel himself being watched, and forced a half-hearted smile, trying hard to make his reply sound casual.

“That’s okay . . . why don’t we just keep it a family affair?” Whether it was the exclusion of any strangers, or Flam’s reference to him as family, the reply had Gerald beaming from ear to lopsided ear.

The next day, when a lull appeared in their shopkeepers’ duties, Flam broached the subject of a possible name change with Page Turner. He supplemented the topic with a tirade about how much he hated his own name, and confessed the anguish and humiliation he felt it had caused him throughout his life.

“As long as I can remember, it’s caused me nothing but suffering, especially at school. You have no idea how much real pain can come from something as intangible as a name,” Flam complained, relieved to finally be unburdening his longstanding suffering. If he had expected unconditional sympathy from his boss, though, he was quickly disappointed.

“Oh, grow up! Do you really think you’re the only child who ever suffered in the schoolyard? With a name like Page Turner, don’t you think I encountered some serious abuse in my day? I think mostly it was because Page was considered to be a girl’s name, but I can’t remember for sure, it was a long time ago. All I know is that it doesn’t take much for a kid to become a target. There was a time when I would have given anything to have a so-called normal name . . . no matter what it was . . . just so long as I wouldn’t stand out . . . so I would be more like everyone else.”

Page stroked his beard as he digested the memories. “Now I’ve done a complete about-face on the subject. I may not have chosen my name, but I believe in a way it chose me. Certainly, I’ve come to accept that, in some not altogether insignificant way, it’s had an influence on the areas of interest I chose, and on where I ended up in life.”

“But Page Turner is such a cool name,” Flam protested, “not like this abomination that I’m stuck with.”

“That’s just the point, Flam, you’re not stuck with it. If you really hate it so much, then go ahead and change it,” Turner countered.

Flam reddened, earlier anger at Gerald’s presumptiveness and bossiness instantly flooding back. “Screw that . . . I’m not going to change my name to Flam Strait just because my mother’s getting herself a new husband.”

“No, that’s not much of an improvement,” Turner agreed, “and I certainly don’t think you should be forced to accept a stepfather’s name you don’t want, as if you’re a calf changing brands. But what I meant was that you can choose absolutely any name you want, and then adopt it legally. Well, almost any name. I know there are some oddities and obscenities even our enlightened legal system will not allow, but beyond that, the sky’s the limit, from Aaron to Zachary.”

The idea of acquiring a different name was not altogether new to Flam, but in the past, it had been only an abstraction contemplated during some of his saddest moments. That fantasy had provided an occasional escape from a sadistic universe. It was usually accompanied by imaginary rich and loving parents who turned up, like avenging angels, to take home the long lost son who’d been switched at birth with the real Flam Grub. Now, the reality struck him that there was, in fact, absolutely nothing preventing him from taking on any name he chose.

Flam spun on his stool and faced the lines of books, all categorized, alphabetized, and arrayed on their shelves. He thought of the thousands of characters he had encountered in his literary excursions, and about the authors who had created them. Perhaps from among this collection of names he might find or forge one for himself—give birth to a bold new label that reflected his beliefs and sensitive nature, and would serve as the harbinger of a new phase in Flam’s thus-far pitiful life.

Turner was apparently doing some contemplating of his own. “Good heavens,” he finally offered, “where would you begin? Think of all the possibilities . . . of all the names out there to choose from.”

“Mind you,” Turner continued, “you can probably eliminate 95 per cent of humanity’s names right off the bat . . . that is unless you’re planning to adopt another culture at the same time. I used to have a grandmother who loved to watch the closing credits of television shows just so she could show off her knowledge of the world by calling out the ethnicity of the names. ‘O’Brien—Irish. Goldstein—Jewish. Bertucci—Italian. Ramashandram—East Indian. LaFleur—French. VanVeer—Dutch.’” Turner chuckled as he remembered. “She was always a little hesitant with Lee, though—never knew whether it was someone Chinese or the descendant of a Confederate general.”

Turner swivelled to face his assistant. “What nationality are you, Flam?” he inquired. “I know your mother’s Irish, but what about your dad? What kind of name is Grub?”

Flam coloured at the mere mention of his despised surname. “I don’t think my father even knew for sure,” he replied. “He was raised in an orphanage, and that surname was all that was left behind when he was dumped there. There was some talk it was anglicized from Grubbini or Grubov or Gruber when his family first came over, but all that’s just speculation.”

“Well, half a family tree’s better than none. If you want to pay homage to your Irish roots, perhaps you can be an O’Something or a McSomething . . . hey, how about McCool, as in Finn McCool, the great folk hero of Irish mythology?”

“Hmm . . . sounds like an ice cream bar you’d find under the golden arches. Besides, doesn’t the ‘Mc’ actually mean ‘son of’ or something like that? I don’t know, I just wouldn’t feel right taking a name that overtly claims I belong by lineage to another Irish clan . . . it would be, well, a lie.”

Turner frowned. “You’re being too hard on yourself, I think. Any new name you adopt would in some sense be a lie . . . well, except ‘Stevenson’ I guess, since your father was called Steve, although I suspect you’d rather not pay that kind of tribute to him. But I doubt if you should take any name literally. After all, how many Fishers have ever cast a net, or how many Coopers have actually built a barrel? Funny, isn’t it, how so many of those basic Anglo-Saxon names are derived from old professions . . . Smith, Miller, Archer, Mason, Potter, Wright, Bailey.”

This last statement sent the pair back into contemplation, and they sat there silently, sipping their coffees and watching the parade of passersby on the street, who were framed by the bookstore’s large arched window like the figures in some animated, shifting painting. All of a sudden, Flam was acutely aware that every individual who moved for a moment through his view carried a name with its own associated history, each one not only a chain intertwined with the past, but also staking a unique presence in the here and now.

I doubt if any of these people hate their name as much as I do, Flam thought. Maybe some are immigrants, or the children of immigrants, who have opted to change their names, or adopt another for everyday use . . . but they probably hate the prejudiced society that forces them to do so, not the name itself. Most people probably don’t even give their names a second thought, even if they have to publicly reveal them many times a day. Oh, why was I so accursed?

As Flam lamented his fate, Turner had come up with another idea. “How about choosing a name that ties you in with that natural world so often lauded by poets, say like Hill, or Woods, or Waters, Stone, Forest, Lake . . . or, for that matter, Night or Day. They’re all simple and common, but I think they’re also very strong—one might almost say primal.”

Flam mentally explored these new possibilities, and then abruptly laughed. “Well, technically speaking, Grub ties me to the natural world too . . . the world of insects.”

“Okay then,” Turner persisted, “what’s your favourite colour? There are several popular surnames based on colours—Brown, Green, Grey, Black, White.”

Despite Turner’s sincerity, again the options ended up making Flam laugh. “Actually, my favourite colour is purple . . . but I don’t think I’d pick it for a surname, although it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if there were hundreds of people out there bearing that name. Still, I suppose I’d gladly take any one of those other colours for a name instead.”

Turner seemed pleased they had made a modicum of progress, and took another slurp of his coffee before moving on to address the other part of the equation. “Then, of course, there’s the matter of the first name. Again, there are so many to choose from. Is there any one, perhaps, you have long harboured a preference for?”

“Anything’s better than Flam . . . but I can’t say I’ve ever favoured one in particular.”

“Historically speaking, many of our most popular names come from the Bible, although some of the Old Testament prophets that were all the rage a couple of centuries ago, like Ezekiel and Jebediah, have fallen out of favour. No, I think you’ll perhaps want to turn to the Apostles and the writers of the Gospels for the most popular choices—Thomas, John, Peter, Paul, Mark, Matthew, Simon, Luke, James—all solid, familiar, no-nonsense names. Well, except for Judas, of course . . . not a name you would voluntarily take on, even if his role was perhaps the most important, in many ways, of the whole entourage.”

Flam shook his head. “No, I’d almost prefer Flam, although I suppose you could go by Jude for short. Hmmm, I guess even a James has to decide whether he’ll go by Jim, or Jimmy, or Jamie . . . or Jimbo, for that matter.”

“Depends on the environment they’re from, or even the profession they choose, I guess,” Turner offered, “although I suppose it’s often just what you get used to, or whatever becomes habitual to those around you. Still, it’s somehow hard now to think of Jimi Hendrix as James Hendrix . . . or James Joyce as Jim Joyce.”

“Just one more factor for me to consider,” Flam sighed, “and technically, it only increases the number of options I’d have to consider, since my name wouldn’t have a lifetime to naturally evolve from, say, a Richard to a Dick.”

Outside, the sun had shifted during their conversation, so that the rays were now reflecting brightly off a second-storey windowpane somewhere across the street, and spilling in unabashedly through the north-facing store window, bathing the conversationalists in a rare solar splendour.

“Ah, and we haven’t even touched upon middle names,” Turner pointed out, closing his eyes to bask in the surprising gift of sunlight. “Some people have several . . . I seem to recall reading about a man who fully had a dozen middle names, each one with some special significance to family history.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I never had one, but middle names have always struck me as a way to appease relatives, or as a consolation prize to the runners-up in the name-choosing game.”

“You are wise beyond your years, my young friend,” Turner chuckled, raising his coffee mug in a toast, “although middle names shouldn’t be so easily dismissed. In Russia, for example, the middle name is often patronymic . . . meaning it’s based on the father’s name, so a boy whose father was called Ivan might have Ivanovich as a middle name, or the daughter Ivanova. At the same time, the middle name forms part of the most familiar form of address. The mother might then call her daughter fully Natalia Ivanova at those times when she’s being most loving and intimate. But, if nothing else, a middle name can certainly provide an instant substitute to those who dislike their first name. Like you, my folks never gave me one . . . maybe they thought it would spoil the Page Turner gag . . . but I might be standing before you as a Tom or Frank if I’d had a second choice beyond Page.”

“Of course, there’s also the tradition of providing an alternative form of a name by just using the initials, like T.S. Eliot, or e.e. cummings,” Flam added. “But, damn, that just makes a choice that much more complicated!”

He returned to silently scrutinizing the volumes that ran in rows before his eyes. “Maybe you’re right. The answer for me might very well lie somewhere in those books. Perhaps I could combine a couple of my favourite writers to create a new name that pays tribute to them. Hmmm . . . let me see. How about Marlowe Shelley? Or Blake Chaucer?” His lips tightened as he mentally journeyed through the legions of authors and poets he had encountered over the years.

Some of the names that surfaced seemed to stir Flam’s thoughts in a new direction. “Mind you, some of those names still deserve to be avoided, no matter how famous their owners may have become. Why do you suppose parents do what they do, I mean giving kids a name that’s obviously going to be problematic? Like giving a boy a girl’s name . . . Joyce Cary, or Evelyn Waugh, for example. Can’t the parents see they’re going to cause embarrassment and suffering to their child? Don’t they actually sound the name out loud and picture the reaction it’s going to have with the other children?”

“It’s hard to say whether they’re simply oblivious, or perhaps they’re actually trying to bestow some deeper lesson upon their children about the nature of individuality,” Turner offered. “After all, both of the writers you mentioned managed to succeed despite their names. Some might even suggest because of them. And perhaps there’s the moral. When we’re young, we strive for conformity . . . we’ll give anything to fit in with the others. But for a lot of those who aspire to excellence in some field of human endeavour, say become a renowned artist or a famous athlete, they’ll ultimately bear any unusual name like it’s some special badge or title—the final crowning touch distinguishing them from the pack of mediocrity.”

Flam sighed, and pressed his palms against his forehead as if to stem a tide of thoughts that was threatening to overwhelm him. “Sorry, but I can’t see my name ever being something I’d be proud of. It’s caused me nothing but grief and suffering. I’m going to think seriously about changing it . . . if I can ever come up with a new one.”

Outside, the sun had moved on, and the bookstore returned to its habitual gloomier state. But the far side of the street was still bathed brightly in the waning sunrays, and Flam noticed the riot of names that seemed to be spotlit everywhere, on storefronts and the sides of trucks, on street signs and billboards, as if mocking him.

Out on the street, an older, dapperly dressed couple stopped and examined the books on display in the front window—a haphazard collection of literary jewels Turner had selected and arranged to entice upscale customers into the shop. After some contemplation and a quietly exchanged conversation, the pair entered the shop. Turner rose in anticipation of being of service. As he did so, he turned to Flam with a mischievous smile.

“I’ve got one for you, given your choice of profession,” Turner chuckled, “although I doubt I’m the first to think of it. How about Phil Graves?”