“Goddamn it all, Papa,” Kogh had burst out, momentarily forgetting just to whom he spoke, “that ain’t fair! Rupen, here, you’re giving him the fucking edge on us both, me and Bagrat . . . and Mariya, too, we ain’t even married yet!”
Vasil allowed the red-faced young man to get all of two sentences out before his still-hard fists clubbed him down. “This is a day for joy, Kogh,” he addressed the stunned, dazed man where he half sat, half lay getting grass stains on his flashy dress uniform, “so you should not have made me to do such a thing on this day. Perhaps it is because you have been long away in the company of men who had no respect for their elders, but your people, the Armenians, and especially the Ademians, do and have always done and you will do as long as there is strength in my right arm. Do you understand me?”
Rupen had pulled his brother to his feet while Vasil was speaking, and while Bagrat’s khaki muslin handkerchief absorbed the blood that trickled from the corner of Kogh’s mouth, the old man went on in jovial tones such as he had used before their sibling’s exercise in insubordination.
“What I’ve said, my sons, is the way it’s going to be. As for Rupen having a what you say edge, maybe so, maybe not. If the girl he was married to was pure Armenian, yes he would, but this new daughter of mine, she’s only one part Armenian to three parts English, and you know these English, they don’t get kids very fast, mostly. So you two look around here today, find yourself a good, strong, healthy Armenian girl, and bring her to me. Don’t worry none about a dowry, us Ademians don’t need one anymore.
“Your sister, Mariya, she’s already brought a medical doctor over to meet me, earlier today. She met him when the both of them were learning at the Medical College of the Commonwealth of Virginia, in Richmond, and he will live and work there now that the war is over. He is of the Panoshians, his father and mother came to America from Van in 1917, and he is their oldest son. He will make a good brother to you all, I think, and it will be good to have a medical doctor in the family.”
Vasil Ademian’s pronouncement at Rupen’s wedding festival made the year that followed a very bad one for sheep, lamb being the meat of choice for Armenian festivities; there were three Ademian weddings within eleven months. But the Massachusetts-based Armenian musicians and the railroad that shuttled them back and forth had reason to rejoice. So did the employees of the Ademian Enterprises, Incorporated, Plant #1 and Plant #1 Annex, as they all were given a paid day off in order that they might attend the huge, raucous outdoor wedding receptions and gorge on Armenian foods, American barbecue, and Brunswick stew, with unnumbered gallons of draft beer to wash it all down.
Rupen and Marge tried their damnedest to produce a grandchild for Vasil, but fourteen months of more than merely frequent sexual athletics left them exactly where they had started. So Rupen made an appointment, then he and his wife drove down to Richmond and availed themselves of the services of their new brother-in-law, Boghos Panoshian. He examined them both thoroughly, took some assorted specimens, and said he would be in touch. A week later, he telephoned Rupen and suggested that he come back down to Richmond.
In his deserted office, after his normal hours, Boghos had Rupen strip for a second examination. “These scars in the neck of your scrotum, Rupen—do you know what might have caused them and when?”
“Shrapnel,” said Rupen casually. “In Italy, back in ’44. Most of it got me in the ass and the backs of my legs, but a couple of little bitty pieces did have to be taken out of my scrotum, too, as I recall. Why? I can tell you plain, it never affected my performance in bed or anywhere else, that’s for damn sure.”
“Get dressed.” Boghos sidestepped the question. I’d rather look at your ugly face than your hairy ass. Did you ever consider applying to replace Gargantua? You’ve got as much body hair as any ape I’ve ever seen. Come to my office when you’re dressed and we can have a drink or three.”
A quarter hour later, Rupen swirled the ice cubes in his vodka and asked, “And just what the hell do you do if you have this a-zoo-spermia, Boghos?”
The doctor shook his head slowly. “To be truthful, Rupen, I may not be able to do anything. You may just have to live with the knowledge that you’re sterile, to all intents and purposes, that you and Marge are out of the running in your father’s silly little race. Of course, the only way I can tell for sure is to get a good look at the inside of your scrotum, and that means some exploratory surgery. It’s entirely up to you.”
“So far as Papa’s baby derby is concerned, Boghos, you may consider ten million plus dollars silly, but damned few other folks do. Not that any of us, baby or no baby, is going to get it anytime soon; the old man comes of folks who always lived a good, long time if somebody didn’t kill them first, and just look at the little guy: he’s nearly twice my age and still strong as a fucking ox. Why, at my wedding feast, Kogh gave him some lip and the old man just reached up and knocked that kid silly and flat on his back. No, anybody who is crazy enough to sit around waiting for the old man’s pile to drop into his lap will die of starvation long before Vasil Ademian kicks off.”
“Mariya and I do worry about him, though, Rupen. He drinks far too much alcohol and he smokes those foul, stinking Egyptian cigarettes at such a rate you’d think he owned stock in the Egyptian monarchy.” The doctor’s real concern was evident.
“Knowing the old man, he just may own that stock, Boghos.” Rupen grinned. “But back to me, when do you want to cut?”
Boghos shrugged. “Whenever you’re ready, let me know and you can drive down here and check into a hospital; almost any of them, take your pick—MCV, Grace, Johnston-Willis.”
Rupen did and Boghos did but none of it did any good; Rupen simply would never be able to sire children. The first person Rupen told was, of course, Marge. The second person he told was Vasil. It was the first time that he could remember having seen his father cry, and Rupen could have wished to be almost anywhere other than in that room on that day, watching the tears streaming between the fingers of the thick, scarred, hairy hands that covered Vasil’s face, seeing the massive, corded shoulders heave and shake spasmodically, hearing the whipped-child sobs tearing up from out that horselike chest. In that terrible time, he came to. the full realization of just how intensely he loved his father.
A few days later, Vasil sought out his eldest son and led him to the little tramway which bore them to the new executive office building in the annex section of the plant. Seated once more in his father’s new office, which reeked of strong, acrid tobacco smoke and anise, just as had all his earlier offices, Rupen was apprised of Vasil’s decision.
“My son, it was not really the Turks . . . ahem, the Nazis who did this maiming to you, no, it was me, Vasil Ademian. No, no.” He held up a broad hand, palm outward. “You will please to let me to finish before you speak, Rupen.
“It is true, what I just said. The life of your brother, Haigh, and this thing that has been done to you, they are the price that was given to repay all the good things that America gave to me and your mother and your brothers and sisters. Because you have given so much to America and to me, my debt, it is not right that I should not give to you something in return, something more than I would give Kogh and Bagrat and Mariya, who came from out of the war whole.
“My offer still stands . . . so far as the others are concerned, but them only, Rupen. I have this morning had transferred to your name a substantial amount of Ademien Enterprises stock, enough of it to pay you a minimum of six thousand dollars a year, so that no matter what you do, Margaret will not have to work and can stay at home and rear your children properly.”
Rupen could not maintain silence at this. “What children, Papa? Oh, I get it now, you’ve changed your mind about the artificial insemination/’