The Epistemological Uncle

 

Whirlwind (May, 1994)

 

Charles Deemer

 

IN THE CAREFREE IDYLL of my youth, when Appletons twenty strong gathered at my grandparents' house each Thanksgiving Day, Uncle Buck always drank too much and never failed to do something that would embarrass Aunt Betty. He would return from the bathroom with his fly open, or belch during grace, or tell a very dirty story, or dribble giblet gravy on the tie he wore only on holidays, before grumbling, "I knew the goddamn thing was good for something. Kept the shirt clean, didn't it?"

Aunt Betty, who was my mother's sister, would begin the process of coaxing him home then, and she usually succeeded before the pumpkin and mincemeat and apple and pecan pies were passed around the table.

A bit later, after grandfather began to fidget prior to suggesting that the men retire to the basement, where whiskey and cigars awaited them, the loud backfiring of Uncle Buck's ancient pickup could be heard outside and soon thereafter the slamming of the pickup door in the driveway and then the idiosyncratic howling that was my uncle's habit whenever he had too much to drink, which was often:

"Do you really knoooooooooow?," he howled.

Everyone knew that Uncle Buck was back.

After shooting a stern glance at me and my cousins, daring us to laugh out loud (though cousin Judy, Buck's daughter, always looked close to tears), grandfather would ask grandmother if there were clean sheets in the guest room, knowing full well that she never let anyone in the front door unless there were fresh sheets in all the bedrooms and fresh towels in all the bathrooms.

As Uncle Buck continued to howl outside, grandfather would make the habitual suggestion to retire, and so the men would rise in unison to head for the stairs to the basement, where they would let Uncle Buck in through the outside entrance.

Before long Uncle Buck wouldn't be the only intoxicated relative in the house, nor the only one howling.

This routine was so attached to Thanksgiving that I looked forward to it and was disappointed to learn, the holiday of my freshman year in high school, that Uncle Buck had stopped drinking.

Sober, he proved to be as quiet as a zombie. Although he didn't do anything to embarrass Aunt Betty, he also failed to entertain me and my cousins, who didn't realize how much we enjoyed Uncle Buck's antics until we were deprived of them. As far as we were concerned, he had been the life of the holiday.

Cousin Judy was the exception to our disappointment: her father's new silence seemed to give her a feminine radiance I'd never noticed before. She was, I decided, the most beautiful relative I had.

 

FOUR YEARS PASSED before Uncle Buck started howling again. It was near the end of summer, and I was getting nervous about going off to college.

One afternoon, cousin Judy phoned and told me, "Dad's drinking and being crazy again. Can you come over? He's howling in the back yard right now."

Judy and I were the same age but had ignored one another until high school. About the time I discovered she was beautiful, we discovered together that we could be good friends. Soon we were calling ourselves Mutually Adopted Siblings, since neither of us had one still at home. We delighted in the fact that most of our classmates didn't know what we were talking about, "sibling" being no part of standard teenage vocabulary in the small farming town of Adam in the Idaho Palousse.

I told her I was on my way.

Judy was outside waiting for me and quickly led me to the backyard. In the distance was the barn, which had seen better days, and acres of grainland stretched around us to every horizon.

Uncle Buck was clearly drunk, staggering around and groping at a pile of canvas that, in steadier hands, would easily have risen to form a tent. With every yank, he had a bigger mess and harder task than ever, which frustrated him into loud swearing at the universe in general. Empty beer cans were scattered across the lawn, and a pint whiskey bottle stuck out of the back pocket of his coveralls.

"Mom said she wouldn't stay in the house as long as he's drinking," Judy explained. "She went to spend the night with Aunt Milly, and Dad came out here. He says if she doesn't want him in the house, he'll just spend the rest of his life in a tent."

"Not by the looks of it," I said. "Should we help him?"

"I don't know what to do. He started drinking this morning, Mom said."

I touched Judy's arm and gave her a squeeze, then moved across the lawn.

"You want some help, Uncle Buck?," I called on my way.

He swore without turning around, another obscene remark for the universe at large.

I reached him as he was pulling the bottle from his pocket.

"I wish you wouldn't drink any more," I said.

I reached him and stopped. Uncle Buck took a swig without acknowledging my presence.

"What are you going to accomplish by drinking?," I asked.

When he turned my way, I held out my hand for the bottle. He glared at me before saying gruffly, "Accomplish! What the hell do you think you're accomplishing by minding other people's business, Mr. Wise Ass?"

Uncle Buck took a step backward, almost falling over. Then he cocked his head to the sky and bellowed, "Do you really knoooooooooow?" Finally losing his balance from the exertion, he fell flat on his back.

Judy screamed and came racing across the lawn. I was already on my knees beside him when she arrived.

"Is he all right?"

"He's breathing," I said. "I think he passed out."

"We can't leave him out here."

Uncle Buck was a big man, and I wasn't sure we could handle him by ourselves. Judy had the same notion.

"He's too heavy for the two of us," she said. "Would your dad help us?"

"Maybe it'd be good for him if he woke up out here," I suggested.

I spotted a wheel barrow near the fence that defined where lawn ended and farmland began. Without saying a word, I moved off toward it.

"Why did he have to start drinking again?," Judy asked, catching up with me.

I hesitated before replying, "I don't know." I'd come close to saying, "Do you really knoooooooooow?"

It took some effort for the two of us to get Uncle Buck into the wheel barrow. He was as heavy as a sack of potatoes and just as awkward to handle. We wheeled him to the back door before realizing that our problems were just beginning.

"Mom would have a cow if we tracked up the carpet," said Judy.

"How about making a bed for him on the patio?”

Patio was an exaggeration: a small square of concrete, just big enough for the gas barbecue set, stood alongside the house like an ambitious project long abandoned.

"I think we should put him in the tent," said Judy. "He was going to sleep outside anyway."

We left Uncle Buck sprawled awkwardly in and on top of the wheel barrow while we set up the tent. Then we wheeled him back across the lawn, dumping him, as gently as possible, inside before folding down the canvas door flap.

Moving to return to the house, we both turned into one another, brushing slightly together, chest to chest. I could smell her perfume and felt a sudden urge to kiss her, which she must have realized, maybe even feeling a similar urge herself, because she blushed blood red.

I could hear myself breathing heavily and wondered if Judy could. I knew I had an erection, which made me feel conspicuous and embarrassed.

"I wish we weren't cousins," she said softly.

I swallowed and said, "So do I."

The silence was unbearable. Finally she said, "You'd better go. I mean, I have some chores to do and everything."

"Right. I think he'll be okay out here."

"He was going to sleep in the tent anyway."

"Right. Spend the rest of his life out here."

"Why did he have to start again?," she asked.

"I don't think anybody knows." I grinned and said, "Do you really knoooooooooow?"

Her transformation was so sudden, at first I thought she was playacting: she glared at me and said, "I hate it when you do that."

"That's the problem," she went on, "people like you always laughed at him when he was drinking . You just inspired him to keep acting crazy. You don't know what it was really like to be around him."

But before I could find out, Judy was running into the house, crying. I had no idea what had just transpired or what I had done to upset her so suddenly and so strongly. I gave up the thought of following her inside and went home.

 

I ONLY SAW JUDY one other time before I left for college. Although I telephoned her that same night, and a few times after that, Aunt Betty always answered the phone to tell me Judy wasn't home, and she never returned my calls. My aunt also told me that Uncle Buck was "in treatment now."

"What exactly is treatment?," I asked Dad at dinner.

He gave the question some thought before saying, "If you're referring to Buck, ask your mother."

"It means he's in the hospital to get well," Mom quickly said.

"What's the matter with him?"

"He can't drink," she said.

I wasn't sure what she was getting at. After all, Dad drank and I'd heard him howling in the basement on more than one Thanksgiving. I knew Uncle Buck drank too much but I didn't think he was an alcoholic, like the bums I'd seen in Lewiston. But I also knew the matter was put to rest because my parents were staring down at their plates, so I looked down at mine as well.

One afternoon I came outside to find Judy standing in front of my house. I couldn't be sure, but she appeared to have been crying. She would look at me, then away, as I walked toward her.

"Are you all right?," I asked.

"I came by to see if you want to come with me to visit Dad. I guess you already were going someplace."

"Just to the store. Where's he at?"

"Serenity Villa. He checked in the day after we put him in the tent."

"It's a long walk," I said. She hadn't brought the family car.

"I was hoping you could get the car."

"I can." I reached into a pocket and brought out my own set of keys to Mom's Toyota, dangling them proudly. "You want to go right now?"

"Sure."

We were awkwardly silent during the drive to Serenity Villa, which was near the hospital some thirty miles away. Neither of us mentioned that it had been almost a month since we'd talked, which was a very long silence for us. I didn't know how to broach the subject of our falling out since I still wasn't sure what had happened. I vaguely hoped she would apologize for being unreasonable, and everything could go back to the way it had been between us, cousins, good friends and Mutually Adopted Siblings. But we remained silent during the drive through golden fields almost ready to harvest, which made the ride intolerably long. By the time we were there, I was sorry I had come.

Although I'd seen television ads for Serenity Villa, I knew nothing about it. It looked more like a resort than a hospital, and its sprawling size surprised me. I didn't know there were that many alcoholics in Idaho, but the full parking lot gave the impression that they were doing a thriving business.

Judy led the way and knew where she was going. I followed her in the front entrance, down a long hallway, and out onto a patio graced with shade trees and flower beds. From out of one of the trees came recorded "easy listening" music.

Uncle Buck sat at a picnic table, waiting for us. After he and Judy embraced, he offered his hand to me, grinning broadly. He looked good, amazingly good, maybe ten or fifteen pounds lighter than I remembered him. But the eyes were the real difference, they looked at me with such clarity, in such attentive focus, that it made me wonder if Uncle Buck had ever really looked at me before.

"How you doing, Bobby boy?," he said. "About ready to head out on the great adventure, aren't you?"

"I leave next week."

"Glad I got to see you before you go."

"Me, too."

There were other families on the large patio, all speaking in hushed voices, trying to maintain a sense of privacy. Although Uncle Buck was in pajamas and a robe, he was in the minority, and at most of the picnic tables across the large patio it was impossible to tell the patients from the visitors. No one looked like an alcoholic to me — not even Uncle Buck. Alcoholics looked like bums living on skid row.

Only when Judy excused herself to use the bathroom did Uncle Buck reveal a bit of his old self: suddenly he grabbed my arm, leaned over the table and said, softly but ominously, "Do you really knoooooooooow?"

He was grinning and staring at me so intensely I had to look away.

"You know the best thing about this place?," he asked out of nowhere. I shook my head. "I learned I can be crazy and sober at the same time."

Then again: "Do you really knoooooooooow?"

He slapped the wooden table and said, "So maybe I don't know, huh? But I think I do. I feel like I do. But you can never be too sure about these things, huh? What do you know that you know, Bobby boy?"

I laughed, more out of nervousness than anything else. I felt like I was being tricked into going along with some kind of practical joke in which I would prove to be the butt.

"Life is very, very, very short," Uncle Buck said. Again, the remark seemed to come out of nowhere. "I know it's hard to tell that to a young hotshot like yourself. I think I know that. Pretty sure, anyway. You're going to do what you're going to do. But I hope you keep away from the booze, Bobby boy, though I know you'll have your keggers or whatever the hell it is you call them today. I had a year of college myself, you know. Bet you didn't know that, did you?"

"No," I said, my voice involuntarily cracking. One of the family stories repeated ad nauseam was how Uncle Buck became a successful farmer despite having only a sixth grade education. I noticed the story was always forgotten when one of my cousins wanted to drop out of school.

"Didn't think so," said Uncle Buck.

I coughed and smiled, trying to hide how on edge I felt, still wondering where all this was heading.

"Drank my way through one of the best freshman curriculums in the country. Make that curricula. The University in Moscow. Wasn't always a farmer, no siree. Actually fancied myself an engineer way back in the Middle Ages. But I liked my toddy, and that cost money, and to a youngster, working always looks better than an education. You're different, I suspect. You got a good head on your shoulders. Probably become a teacher or something. Know what you want to be, Bobby boy?"

"I've been thinking of teaching," I admitted.

"Honorable career. Just keep your options open. Now tell me about Judy."

The last remark landed like a grenade from left field.

"What about her?," I asked.

"I see how you two look at each other. Too bad you're first cousins, right? Or does it matter any more? I mean, we're in the Age of Condoms, you get them right there in the high school nurse's office, don't you?"

I could feel myself blushing.

"I think I said the wrong thing," said Uncle Buck. "I talk too much, don't I? The thing is, I never realized I could talk sober before. Been a very long time since I did that. So I sort of indulge myself. The point I was trying to make is, don't let life pass you by, Bobby boy. You've got to make your own mistakes, I realize that, but maybe when you look at an old codger like me, drinking most of his life away, probably end up with more drunk days than sober days even if I live to be eighty, which I doubt — look at yourself in the mirror real hard, boy, and always try to do what you really want, what's really in your gut. And if that means pretending Judy isn't your cousin — well, talk to a doctor, I don't know all that much about it, maybe they got pills to take now so you don't end up with Mongoloid kids or whatever happens, I'm not sure what the exact problem is with cousins marrying, I've just heard the kids don't come out right, but I also know it's real important to find the right kind of better half in this life, the right kind of partner of the opposite sex, and you and Judy sure do seem to get along good. I think I know that. Of course, one can never be sure. Do you really knoooooooooow?"

And then he suddenly asked, "Bobby boy, are you still a virgin?"

I stood up quickly, as if I'd just sat on a pin. I saw Judy heading back from the bathroom and, mumbling my departure, I headed her way.

"He's acting really weird," I said. "Can we go soon?"

"Weird how?"

"I'll explain later."

I continued on to the bathroom.

Judy was alone at the patio table when I returned.

"What happened?," she said right off.

"Where is he?"

"He said it was time for his nap. He seemed upset about something. What happened between you two?"

"He did all the talking."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing that made much sense. You ready to go?"

She stood up.

"I want to know what happened."

I tried to tell her indirectly, both on the drive back and then in her kitchen, where she made us iced tea. A note on the refrigerator announced that Aunt Betty was away until dinner time, giving us a couple hours alone. But no matter how closely I circumvented the truth, Judy didn't catch my meaning. Finally, out of frustration from her persistence, I spat out, "He wanted to know if we were sleeping together."

As soon as I saw the look on her face, I regretted saying it. She looked stunned, as if this was the last thing in the world she expected to hear.

Finally she said, "In just so many words or what?"

"No, more round about."

"Damn it, what did he say!"

She took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry. I just want to know what he said. As close as you can remember."

"He said we made a neat couple."

"About us sleeping together."

"He asked if I was a virgin."

She gave me an odd look, as if trying to figure out if I was serious.

She said, "You said he asked if we were sleeping together."

"That was the meaning I got. I mean, he didn't ask in so many words, but he went on and on about how good we were together, and how important it was for a guy to find the right girl and all, and then he wanted to know if I was a virgin and if you could get rubbers at school. It all added up to the same thing. I didn't mean to upset you."

Judy took another deep breath and asked, "Are you?"

"What?"

"Are you a virgin?"

"Jesus, Judy, what a thing to ask."

"I'm not," she said.

"What? I don't believe you."

She stood up and at first I thought she was going to refill our glasses. But she only moved a few steps from the table and stopped. Her back was to me as she cocked her head up and howled, but softly, strangely, like a lyric in a dream, "Do you really knoooooooooow?"

She laughed and howled softly again. I didn't know what was going on. If this was a joke, I didn't like it. This was a side of Judy I had never seen before. She kept up the eerie howling while turning slowly around to face me.

Her gaze seemed to cut right through to my very core, forcing me to look away, forcing me to look at the naked breasts that dropped between the edges of her unbuttoned blouse. Then, as if moving despite myself, despite fear, despite any sense of what was the right or wrong thing to do, I rose to my feet and moved to her, and so we were in one another's arms, kissing passionately, and then going upstairs, and then undressing to lie naked together — though within the hour I was being told I'd better leave, and then was hearing the click of the front door behind me as I hurried to my mother's car, still scrambling to finish dressing, all the while wondering what the hell had just happened.

 

JUDY DID NOT come to see me off at the train station. If she phoned me, she hung up before anyone answered — as I had done numerous times.

And so — as the train pulled away past the encouraging and energetic waving of my parents, leaving Judy and the carefree idyll of my youth somewhere behind in the vast stretch of harvest-ripe golden grainland, and moved forward into the wind to begin the long journey to college — I settled into my seat, closed my eyes and for the first time began to realize how little I knew and how uncertain would be the knowing yet to come; so that by the time the train announced its departure from Adam, sounding like the howling of my Uncle Buck, "Do you really knoooooooooow?," I knew I didn't know what had really happened between Judy and me, or why Uncle Buck drank, or what was waiting for me at college.

I didn't know much of anything, though I didn't yet know that this itself was knowing.