The King of Cards

Robert Ward

• Publisher: Gallery Books
• Year: 2011
• ISBN:
  9781440533976
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Letteratura poliziesca e gialli

Ward once again explores the alchemy of stubborn yearnings and unrealized dreams amidst the well-tended rowhouses of his native city. There's a mounting fury in Tommy Fallon's heart in the fall of 1965. He's finally found his life's calling – thanks to the inspiration of Professor Extraordinaire Sylvester Spaulding. Young Tom wants to be lifted on the wings of genius, to ascend to a clean, well-lighted place where cultured people talk about deep things. But how can this college boy learn anything about life or art while living in his family's house of pain? Pop Fallon's youthful dreams of becoming a painter were dashed by the Depression and his own internal demons; he rarely comes out of the inner sanctum of His Holy Toilet, where he's long been lost to the rituals of obsessive/compulsive behavior. Mom Fallon – beaten down by the vast resentment her husband harbors against her and all the other "Baltimorons" – is so starved for love that she enters the Miss Kissable Lips contest at the local radio station. Tom realizes he needs a refuge: a quiet, modest room of his own. There he won't have to see the defeat in his parents' eyes. There he'll follow Dr. Spaulding's lead by living inside the books that seem to be keeping his spirit alive. The King of Cards is the story of how Tom is saved from becoming a myopic, dispassionate snob when he answers an ad for off-campus housing. In the remarkable person of Jeremy Raines – World-Class Confidence Man with a Streak of Idealism, and Pied Piper to a ragtag band of followers – Tom finds a sense of adventure that is positively euphoric.

I always get the shakes when I go back to Baltimore. I actually thought this last trip—a year ago next week—would be easier, but as soon as the smooth-talking southern pilot announced that we were “starting our gradual descent into the Baltimore-Washington Airport,” my mouth turned to cotton and my fingers became as cold as those on any corpse. I took a couple of deep breaths, gripped the armrests, and told myself to chill out, that this time was different. I was returning home a “hero,” a “celebrity,” no reason to panic. But such talk had zero effect on my racing heart. I took a deep breath and stared down at the lush countryside that ran next to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. There were tall green bushes that looked like they might pull out their roots and start walking around and great blotches of some cream-colored flower—probably honeysuckle. Of course, it would be honeysuckle. Maryland was covered with that sweet-smelling vine; the old house at Chateau Avenue had wild honeysuckle running up a broken lattice on its north side, and even the mere thought of that made me feel something had broken inside.

“The only problem is you’re scared shitless,” I said, trying a little lame wit on myself, which helped some. Better to be in touch with the melting, panicky center than trying to sound like some Allstate salesman of the soul.

I blew air from my cheeks, wiped the flight grime off my neck, and tried to figure it out. I’d suffered major panic attacks in past swings home, but I had chalked those up to the ugliness of the tasks at hand, burying my dear grandmother, Grace, and my aunt Ida (beautiful, independent Aunt Ida who died young from smoking her filterless Raleighs) and seeing my father through a couple of rough surgeries (he was not a model patient). But why panic on this particular morning when I was flying down to be honored by my old school, Calvert College, for my “achievements as a writer”? The dean of Humanities, one Dr. Moss, had gushed about my books over the phone, especially my Pulitzer nominee, The Black Watch (he was kind enough not to mention I’d lost). Oh, yes, this was a fine day. I was to be given an honorary Ph.D. Henceforth, I would be Thomas Fallon, Doctor of Humane Letters, and though I had laughed about it and told my New York friends that it was hardly like being honored by Harvard, I’d be lying if I said I was less than pleased. After all, the year before Calvert had seen fit to honor another graduate, Grady Wheat, the famous abstract painter, and it was nice to know they regarded me in Wheat’s class.

Beyond pride of achievement, however, I have to confess to a nastier emotion in all of this. I wanted the honor as a means of revenge on all the boobs, cretins, and imbeciles who had populated both Calvert’s faculty and student body during my years at the college. The place had formerly been a state teacher’s institution, and during my four wild years there, the school was largely still run by educationalists, the kind of mothbrained, pinheaded idiots who mumble cliches about the “joys of learning” while systematically squeezing every drop of life out of the process. Consequently, I had spent much of my time at the school railing against them and their moronic building block mentality.

But my experience at Calvert wasn’t all bad. After all, it was there that I met the professor who forged my intellectual life, Dr. Sylvester Spaulding, and of course, it was at dear old Calvert that I met the only true genius I’ve ever known, Mad Jeremy Raines, not to mention my first true love, Val, and all the rest of the wild boys and girls at the battered old shingled house on Chateau.

As the plane touched down, I laughed in a manic, lunatic way. Of course that was why I felt like a crooked man falling down a boiling, greased hill. From the very day Dean Moss had called me at my apartment in the Village to tell me of the impending honor, I had known that there was going to be a serious price to pay for becoming Dr. Thomas Fallon. Oh, no, this little trip home could never be as simple as LOCAL BOY MAKES GOOD. To walk on that green campus again, to sit on the hard benches outside the moldy English offices, to see the old lacrosse field, was inevitably to be drawn back to a particularly painful part of my history. Indeed, I knew as soon as I climbed down the plane’s portable steps and stepped on Maryland soil once again that what I truly feared were the memories of youth, a deep sweet wildness and precious hope that was gone from my world.

All of this flooded through my brain as I grabbed my bag; walked like a zombie through the mental hospital glare of the airport, rented the only car they had left, a midnight blue Mercury Cougar, and headed out toward Calvert. On the freeway, I chattered constantly to myself, playacting the Good Coach (“You’re gonna be fine. You’re getting a goddamned award for Chrissakes.”), while around me the other drivers on the Baltimore Beltway looked into my dusty windows and shook their heads. I could nearly hear their nasally Baltimore voices as they drove through the killer humidity back to their redbrick row houses. “Saw a loon-a-tic onna road today, hon. Man talking to his self. I swear to Gawd. Loon-a-tics is everywhere!”

By the time I made the York Road exit, I had sweated right through my nice, predictable blue oxford broadcloth shirt and felt as though a swarm of dark gnats had entered my ears and were buzzing around inside my addled brain. I scarcely remember parking the car or walking up the footpath toward Old Main. The next time I became fully conscious of my surroundings I was ushered into a room called the Calvert College Public Relations Suite by a big Irishman named Riley, who apologized for the flashbulbs and the microphones that were thrust into my face. I blinked, smiled at the press, and told myself that this was fine. I was here to be honored, and the truth was, I was grateful for the lights and the questions. They served as a diversion from the terrors of the past, which lay coiled in my heart.

As I answered questions about my novels and screenplays, I looked around nervously for Dr. Spaulding. Surely he wouldn’t miss my big day at the college, but he was nowhere in sight. Instead, I found Dr. Gerald Lawson, a fat literature professor, in a 1930s double-breasted suit, replete with tobacco stains. He was a great bore in class, droning on about the “little golden truths” in his favorite work, The Faerie Queen, the dullest great poem ever written. Lawson was one of the many legions of people I’ve met whose only distinction in life was attending Harvard or Yale and who feel it necessary to mention the fact in every other sentence they utter. “While attending Harvard, I first came across the poetry of John Crowe Ransom, taught to me by Visiting Professor Allan Tate. I remember well asking Tate about Ransom’s use of syntax as we strolled through Cambridge … blah, blah, blah.” This method of teaching is designed to make the state school student feel even more hapless, and I had a mind to go over and poke him in the stomach, a temptation I just barely managed to resist.

Near fat Lawson was an educationalist named Professor Roger Touhy, a Man Without a Brain. Gray suited, gray crepe shoed, and gray faced, he had taught something called Lesson Plan I, in which he taught us prospective teachers how to outline our course material. “You start with a capital A,” he used to mumble into his rooster tie, “and then after you go to number 1. Now that’s not roman numeral I—oh, no, indeed, that’s a small 1—under which you must think of your objective for the first five crucial minutes.” Once, on a dare from Jeremy, I’d hit dear Professor Touhy in the head with a snowball from fifty yards away. Now he smiled at me as if I were his acolyte, his native son.

Even after I had been fielding questions for fifteen minutes, there was no sign of Dr. Spaulding and my mood started disintegrating. Could it really be possible that he still held a grudge against me after all these years? The thought made me sag a little, and I looked over at Riley to save me. The last thing I could afford was one of my panic attacks. I could see the headlines in the Baltimore Sun tomorrow: “Famous Baltimore Author Goes Screaming from Room.”

Luckily, Calvert was only minutes away from Larson-Payne Mental Hospital. Once they scooped me up, they could put the Big Shirt on me and hustle me right off to the good old A-3 ward, a place I knew so well I could almost call it home.

I held my breath and felt the flashbulbs go off. I mean felt them go off under my own itching skin. If Spaulding wasn’t going to show, I wanted—no, needed—to go find him. In any case, I’d had enough, and I wanted out of here.

Then the great oak doors swung open and he was suddenly standing there staring at me, dressed in his perfectly tailored brown herringbone suit and I smiled and walked toward him, trying not to seem like an eager child racing toward his lost father. I mean, I had to literally slow my feet down, remind myself that “Yes, I was an adult, yes, I was successful. Yes, I deserved his respect.”

Of course he was much older. I had expected that. Or, no, that’s not quite true. I had attempted to prepare myself for that inevitable fact by saying over and over: “Well, naturally, he’ll be older. What do you expect?” But preparation doesn’t really always coincide with expectation. I was still shocked by the deep lines in his handsome square face, by his short-clipped snow white hair, by the cane that he held at his side, by his noticeable limp. Indeed, his presence—this sounds melodramatic, but I am trying to be accurate—his presence, so much older and clearly weaker, actually weakened me still further; I felt for a brief second (and I am ashamed of this) furious that he had aged. I wanted to grab him, shake him, say, “What in the hell are you doing, Dr. S.? Walking in here old? For Godssake?” Instead, of course, I shook his hand and said in a measured whisper: “Professor, it’s good to see …”

I couldn’t say anything else. Suddenly, I longed to be away from this maelstrom of flashbulbs and roaming eyes, the good little machines that send your image to the world but cut out your heart.

“Good to see you, Thomas,” he said in his stiff, formal way. “Congratulations.”

I started to hug him but remembered his horror of being touched and settled for a pat on his shoulder. Words and thoughts came rushing back to me with such a force that I felt like grabbing him by his old thin arm, pulling him away from the lights.

But, of course, I didn’t do that. I’m a professional now, aren’t we all?

There was a good-looking blond reporter in the front row with a name tag on her perfect tweed suit. It said Sally Harper, and I recalled seeing her byline on a couple of stories during the past year. She smiled and held up The Black Watch.

“Dr. Spaulding,” she said, “Tom Fallon’s novel is about police violence and cover-ups in the Latino community in New York City. When he was a student, did he have such a well-developed social conscience?”

Dr. Spaulding smiled slightly and answered in a dry, ironic voice: “No, I think not,” he said. “When he was in my class, he was rather fond of Henry James.”

I looked at him for signs that he was saying this with affection or irony, but he gave me no smile, no wink of an eye. It was as though he was describing the weather.

Harper finished scribbling in her notebook and looked at me: “What was your inspiration for The Black Watch, Mr. Fallon?”

“Anger,” I said. “I don’t like the way the cops kick people around.”

I was surprised and slightly embarrassed by my own voice. It was overtough, almost a caricature of some hard-boiled private eye of the 1940s. It sounded so ridiculous to me that it nearly made me laugh out loud. Didn’t they all know that inside I’d regressed to age nineteen?

There was a small murmur in the crowd, and I looked at Dr. Spaulding, but he seemed a little nervous, anxious, I thought, to get away from here, maybe even to get away from me.

“That’s not quite the truth,” I said, taking off my glasses. “The truth is that Professor Spaulding is the inspiration for all my work.”

Everyone smiled at that (except for Dr. Lawson, whose mouth hung open like he was...