SPRING I

first chapter in SPRING section

I can't stop looking at this photo album. This old, tattered, goddam photo album. It's like eating a burger at Mcdonald's; you know it's bad for you, but you just can't pull yourself away.
        I finally manage to pull my eyes away to look at all the ludicrous, sickening people in here. It's pathetic how a death can bring all my pretentious relatives down here, but I can't even get them to send a single holiday card.
        Along with the pretentiousness comes the overpriced champagne, exclusive cheeses from some random Dutch village, and the overwhelming designer perfume. I gaze over the little globs of gossipy relatives.
        There's Jonathon, my cousin, the King of Infidelity. He came to visit with his wife a couple of summers ago and tried to use my house as his little backup as for where he was going. I may not have women knocking down my door, but I at least know how to treat a woman, and the way Jonathon goes about it is definitely not it.
        Vanessa, his wife, stands boredly by. She's the submissive, ask-no-questions type of wife. She really is beautiful, and smart too. She got her B.A. in history from Yale. I dated her before my cousin got to her, and she's not the same. She used to be down-to-earth and used to have a backbone, but now she's somewhere else. Jupiter, maybe. She's a recovering alcoholic and she's eyeing the champagne like Elmer Fudd on anything that hops.
        There's Priscilla, that crusty old bat. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the snootiest of them all? Priscilla van der Witz! She's wearing this big, ridiculous black hat with an off-white ribbon on it like that Audrey Hepburn chick, and is more than willing to show off her pearls. She's in her fifties and is the most cold, shriveled and malicious woman I have ever met in my entire life. She just happens to be my aunt.
        She's talking about the significance of the color blue of some painting on the wall and how well she knows the artist. What the hell? Of all things to be talking about, and she's talking about goddam cerulean hues.
        They're quiet now. They're whispering and looking ingenuinely concerned and Auntie Priscilla occassionally glances over at me, like she thinks I don't know.
        God. I'm holding this photo album like a goddam idiot and that crotchety beast is smirking at me a little with her wrinkly red lips. She's picking up a drink and walking towards me. Oh my f*****g God.
        I stare at her the whole time as she enters the room. She sits primly in the stuffy outdated chair next to me.
        "Do you want this drink?" Her abrasive voice bangs on my eardrums. Does she not see the glass of scotch I've got on the table?
        "No, thanks."
        She takes a sip of it, sets the glass down, and purses her lips.
        "It is so sad the way he passed, isn't it?" she says after a bit of silence.
        I turn my head to search in her face for some sort of sincerity, but I find nothing. All I see is a false grief in her eyes and the difficult restraint of a smile.
        "Yeah. It is," I say.
        She leans towards me a little.
        "Who knew he was allergic to bananas? Bananas! Such a terrible way to die," she presses.
        "I dunno. I sure don't." I look down in my lap at the photo album.
        "Am I in there?" she perks up.
        "Yeah, actually, you are. A graduation photo. I never would have guessed you were so fat."
        There is a flicker behind her eyes and her mood changes instantaneously. "You're just like your grandfather. Cold and rude, and self-alienating. Not to mention unappreciative. You should be lucky I even let you use this house. I paid for it with my own money. If it wasn't for this address, my special invitations, and my name on them, no one would be here, especially for that... man."
        "Self-alienating? That's new. You talk about this funeral like it's a goddam Upper East Side gala. Like it's an excuse for you and Jonathon and all these other pricks to congregate here and dress up and talk about f*****g paintings and color symbolism!"
        I'm standing up by now. The conversations quiet down and out of the corner of my eye, I see plenty of nosy pricks. Priscilla still sits, legs crossed, a debonair smirk on her face.
        "That's another trait you have from him."
        "Oh? And what would that be?"
        "A severe lack of manners."
        She rises and strides back to my prick relatives. The ones who think they are now cultured for taking the time out of their laborious and exhausting lifestyles by traveling down to the unknown wild that is South Carolina.
        I grab my drink and make my way through the throng of a******s, who all erupt with a series of questions and remarks.
        "Oh, Priscilla, was that Clark who just said all of that?"
        "He's turned out so bad. Why didn't you help him out when his mother died?"
        "It's such a shame. Clark is so handsome, and with the Brinton family name in his blood!"
        I'm outside with my scotch and the album and I can breathe. It's so fresh out here. Off in the distance, some more rich crotchety pricks play golf.
        A little ways off, a weeping willow looms over a pond. For some reason, I walk over there. The breeze in my ear, the sway of the tree, and the ice tinkling in my glass all come together to form a calming symphony.
        I sit on the pond's banks, not giving a damn how green this suit gets. I set my drink down and jump at the tickle of the tree on my head. I laugh at myself and open the album.
        There's Callum Brinton, my grandfather. He was the father my actual father never was.
        I flip through and see a picture of the two us at my first baseball game. I remember that day. God, was it hot. I look goofy beyond compare, what with the scab on my chin and my missing teeth.
        Another picture. I'm younger here, about two. Chuck E. Cheese stands behind me and I look like I'm about to have a panic attack. Grandpa stands on the side with this devilish look on his face.
        Another one. College graduation. Vanderbilt. His arm's around me and we are elated. I hate this picture he most. That's the same year my mom died and the same year I had to start taking care of Grandpa. I was twenty-two years old. I was thinking about strip clubs, not stripping him to help him shower.
        When I found out I had to take care of him, I was furious, naturally. I was trying to live my life and start my advertising career, damn it. I didn't want the job of wiping Gramps's a*s and fixing his meals. The only thing I knew how to cook was Ramen noodles, for Chrissake.
        That was four years ago. I found out how to maneuver around Grandpa's Alzheimer's and I was able to freelance from home. I didn't make a whole lot of money, but it was decent, and it was enough to take care of the both of us.
        But most of all, I'd matured from the situation. I had to grow up really fast. It was kind of like taking care of a baby. I didn't have the time for strip clubs and one night stands -- not that they didn't happen or anything.
        I was certainly less angry too. It's not like Gramps could help it, and it's certainly not like any of his other kids or grandkids would have wanted to take care of him. Like Aunt Priscilla. He would have been a burden on her so-called life and Gramps would have been in a nursing home faster than Paris Hilton can make a sex tape. My mom saw to it that that wasn't the case.
        What about Grandma? one might ask. Well, they'd divorced a long time ago, before I was even a fetus. Grandma was just like Priscilla -- shallow, materialistic, and downright bitchy. Gramps was sick of that lifestyle and wanted a simple life in the South, and he got just that with me and my mom.
        Mom and Gramps were so much alike. They were down-to-earth, generous, witty, and genuinely concerned for other people -- nothing like Priscilla, her husband Hamilton, and my uncles Finley and Jarvis.
        Cornelia, my grandmother, was just like Vanessa, but without the smarts. She had no education or skills to fall back on, so she remarried very quickly. I've seen pictures of her and Gramps together; they completely epitomized the lifestyle of the wealthy in New England.
        Gramps was born into that class, if you will. Prep schools, equestrian centers, the whole enchilada. As a child, of course, it was something he was accustomed to. As an adult and married man, however, he was able to see his life from another perspective.
        He had a mouthy maid who basically told him off, and while most maids like that would have been sent flying out the door, Gramps kept her around. What she had to say was humbling for him. He was able to see his wife for who she was... a condescending, two-faced gold digger.
        I'd like to meet that maid, because if it weren't for her, I might not even be alive. Gramps and my mom wouldn't have packed up and come to South Carolina. Maybe my mom would've remained brainwashed and might have been so frightened as to even think about holding hands, let alone sex, before marriage.
        I wish I could meet that maid, right now, so she can see how goddam angry I am. My throat's got a colossal lump in it and I can't see a damn thing because the tears in my eyes are thick and feel like fire on my eyes. I'm so enraged that I don't even realize that the album's in the pond until I hear the plunk. I'm breathing heavy and I finally blink away the tears. I can't even scream or yell, or breathe, even.
        It's my fault that Gramps is dead. All my damn fault.