Bright, Precious Days (38 page)

“They're having issues,” Storey said.

“What issues?”

“We just decided that we needed to spend some time apart while we worked on some aspects of our relationship.” God, that was stilted, he realized.

“Are you guys getting divorced?”

“No, we're not. We're just taking a breather.”

Jeremy chewed moodily. “How come Storey seems to know what's going on?”

“I'm a girl. I notice things. I observe the people around me. You're a guy. You don't.”

“Do we get to see Mom, at least?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Russell said, “she's picking you up from school and taking you out.”

“Out where?”

“I'm not sure; that's up to her.”

“Why is everything happening at once?”

“What do you mean?”

“A bunch of kids' dads lost their jobs and everyone seems freaked-out about everything.”

“It's a pretty scary time, son.”

“Could you lose your job?”

“Well, publishing doesn't have that much to do with what happens on Wall Street,” Russell said, wishing that this were actually the case. If the credit markets froze up, as seemed likely, his chances of survival were negligible. He had a strong premonition that everyone was going to get soaked and battered in the coming storm.

After saying good night to the kids, he lay down on the bed to watch the Giants play the Cowboys and fell asleep almost immediately, waking in the middle of the eleven o'clock news—just as a photo of a young Tony Duplex with his arm around Andy Warhol flashed on the screen, and then, to his astonishment, a shot of Jack Carson, looking uncomfortable in a tuxedo, standing next to Russell, that had been taken at the PEN/Faulkner Awards in D.C. the year before; this was soon replaced by scenes of anxious Lehman Brothers employees entering and exiting their midtown office building.

He slept intermittently that night, and woke up exhausted, enervated at the prospect of the day ahead and all the days beyond. The children, picking up on his mood, were frightened and solicitous.

He called Washington from the office and asked if he could meet for lunch. He arrived at the Fatted Calf half an hour early and ordered a Bloody Mary. He was halfway through his second when his friend arrived.

“You look like shit,” Washington said, taking a seat across from Russell.

“That's good, because I
feel
like shit,” Russell said.

“I guess you're entitled.”

“How's Veronica?”

“Shell-shocked. Clearing out her office as we speak. Any word from Corrine?”

He shook his head. “We talked briefly about child-care logistics. She told me she was sorry.” He shook his head derisively.

“She probably doesn't
know
what to say.”

“It's hopeless,” Russell said. “I don't even want to talk about it. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

“Whatever you want, coach.”

“I want Corbin, Dern to buy McCane, Slade. I think it would be a win-win situation for both sides.”

“It might make sense,” Washington said after a long pause. “We'd have to look at the books. I promise to take it under advisement if you promise never to use the phrase
win-win
again.”

As he was walking back to the office, he took a call from Hilary.

“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”

“Thanks. I'm sorry I was…unkind when I saw you yesterday.”

“No, I understand. Look, I just wanted to say, if you ever need me to babysit, or anything, just call, okay?”

“Okay, thanks. I will.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

“All right, then.”

“Thanks for calling.”

Silver Meadows, New Canaan, CT.

10/27/08

Dear Russell:

I wanted to say how sorry I was about Jack, but really, that's the least of it. I'm not sure how to apologize for what I did to you, but I have to if I'm going to move on. Step 9. I'm up here at Silver Meadows, once again. Clearly I didn't learn much the last time. I thought if I tried to explain what happened, you might understand, though I don't expect you to forgive me. But I want at least to try to make amends. Where to begin? With the failure of my third novel? Returning from my sad little six-city book tour, I still had a kind of residual celebrity, which kept my social life interesting, and I turned to journalism. Because even if there'd been a demand for my fiction, I was utterly without inspiration.

And then the planes hit the towers. Ian McEwan summed it up the next day in
The Guardian:
“American reality always outstrips the imagination.” Hard as it had been earlier, it was even harder now to imagine the role of fiction in this changed world. I wanted to be involved in the response to the most shocking event of my lifetime. But my various employers had their specialists: real journalists, foreign correspondents, policy experts. I tried to land an assignment in Afghanistan and then, later, Iraq. Even though I thought that war, the WMD war, was utterly fraudulent, I wanted to cover it, to swim the currents of history.

And suddenly, out of the blue, I got invited to a wedding in Lahore. The groom was from a wealthy Pakistani family, attended NYU and then became a fixture of the downtown party scene in the nineties, which is how I knew him. Always throwing parties, entertaining squads of models, sharing his drugs. He went home after 9/11 and settled down with a girl from his social class, though when I called him about the invitation, he said that the wedding festivities would resemble the New York bacchanals of his youth. “Lahore's insane, man. It's a party town. Come for the week. You won't regret it.” This sounded attractive, and it occurred to me that I could turn the occasion to advantage. This could be my side-door entry into the great struggle.

I pulled together a list of contacts in Pakistan, journalists and government officials. My roommate from Amherst was an undersecretary of state, and after advising me not to go, he gave me phone numbers and briefings and deep background. I hoped to talk my way into some serious journalism about the Taliban and Pakistani politics; in the meantime, I had a single assignment for a travel piece about the city. So I embarked for Lahore, where the wedding was everything the groom had promised and more. Drugs were abundant and the festivities moved around town, from gated compounds to sprawling lofts. It's a majestic city with a patina of elegant decay, though I quickly gravitated toward its squalor. I met an English girl, a cousin of the groom's, and a week after the wedding the two of us were holed up in an apartment in the Gulberg neighborhood, where I discovered opium. Two weeks turned into four.

Marty Briskin eventually reported me missing. And the next thing I knew, the story was in the
Herald Tribune:
“American novelist missing, believed kidnapped, in Pakistan.” When I'd failed to show up for an interview with a Pakistani intelligence operative, he'd called my friend at the State Department, and when Marty called the consulate, the search was on. Meanwhile, I got a text from the groom, asking if I was okay, telling me about the
Herald Trib.
A day later, there was a message on a jihadist Web site from a group that claimed it was holding me.

At first, it just seemed embarrassing. But then I sensed an opportunity. I'd already done my homework on the various jihadist factions, and in several Internet cafés I researched the stories of recent hostages. I thought, at the very least, it was good for an article, so I decided to hide out for a while and see where it went. Then, oddly enough, three weeks later I actually did get kidnapped, held against my will in a squalid room in Heera Mandi, the red-light district, after trying to buy drugs. I got robbed and pistol-whipped by two thugs and locked in a room, which I escaped from through a window after twenty-four hours.

Nine weeks after arriving for the wedding, I turned up at the consulate in Lahore, disheveled, skinny and seemingly disoriented, with cuts and bruises from the beating in Heera Mandi that validated the kidnapping narrative, so I stuck to it. The debriefing at the consulate was relatively easy, the one in Washington much tougher.

It was strange, undergoing a real-life interrogation by my countrymen in a windowless conference room in Washington, D.C., about imaginary interrogations in a windowless mud-and-wattle hut in Waziristan. I was scared of these government boys, but I stuck to my story, and when this tough little CIA geek in an oversized suit really had me up against the ropes, I said, “Weren't you the guys who claimed there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq?” Finally it became clear that whatever the truth, I didn't have any actionable intelligence, so they cut me loose. I got the feeling that in their eyes, the propaganda value of a story about an American journalist faking his own kidnapping was strictly negative. And in the context of the official post-9/11 narrative—the war on terror—the lie was more useful than the truth, to them as well as to me.

Back in New York, Marty carefully managed and rationed press access, the idea being not to overdo it, to give me just enough exposure to drive up the price of the memoir without letting the public and the press get tired of me. He played the
Today
show against
Good Morning America,
Larry King against Anderson Cooper. I couldn't help wondering if Briskin had suspicions about my story, but like a good defense lawyer, he never asked me any questions, although he eventually told me that Random House had some concerns that seemed to derive from sources in the State Department, and I think that's why he decided to go with you for less money than he might have gotten from the big boys. As for me, you have to believe I somehow imagined that I was doing you a favor, making up for my shitty behavior the last time around. It's hard to explain, but by that time I almost believed my own story, with the help of a steady diet of drugs and alcohol. I was genuinely indignant when the reporter from the
Times
started dogging me after that ridiculous jihadist Web site questioned my account. As the evidence mounted, I became angry, and bitter, feelings that culminated in my disastrous appearance on
Charlie Rose.
That was the peak of my delusion—and, as many suggested, I was indeed drunk and high. The next morning, I knew it was all over and I felt strangely relieved. This is something you hear about over and over in AA and NA meetings, actually. Exposure of a great secret, of a pattern of lying, can be curiously liberating. But I realized, eventually, that my catharsis was your crisis, and I'm terribly, terribly sorry for the position I put you in. And I hope to find ways to make amends to you in the future.

Sincerely,

Phillip

THAT NIGHT IT WAS POSSIBLE,
for once, to walk into almost any Manhattan restaurant at prime time—including those with secret phone numbers and those with phone numbers that always rang busy—and find a table for two or an empty seat at the bar. Traffic flowed smoothly up and down the broad avenues, and despite the mild weather, there were fewer pedestrians than usual, although here and there, in Times Square and at the intersection of Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard and 125th Street, crowds began forming not long after the polls closed, in anticipation of the celebration to come, although the mood remained subdued, the jubilation kept in check by the knowledge that the future of the republic would be decided elsewhere, far to the south and the west, where people were still driving to the polls in pickup trucks with gun racks in rear windows, or in burgundy Dodge minivans with
MY KID
'
S AN HONOR STUDENT
bumper stickers, or in rusted-out 700-series Volvos with faded
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
and Grateful Dead
STEAL YOUR TERRAPIN
bumper stickers.

Meanwhile, in TriBeCa, five floors above West Broadway, in an old-school loft with warped hardwood floors and a tin ceiling veined with wires and pipes, the children had been granted a special dispensation to stay up until the decision was in, the high-pitched din of their play competing with the steady drone of Brian Williams on the television set. Election-night coverage had just begun, but it was far too early to pay attention. Three of their four parents were drinking Sancerre as they prepared for what they hoped would be a historic night, although the incipient euphoria was kept in check by the memory of disappointment four years before, and by the suspicion that the rest of the country, in the end, despite the tentative evidence of the polls, was not ready to elect an African-American president, and, in this particular eighteen-hundred-square-foot sector of lower Manhattan, the mood was also tinged with a melancholy undercurrent, an unspoken sadness due to the conspicuous absence of the fourth parent.

Russell topped off the wineglasses and tasted his Bolognese sauce, which needed salt. Keeping it simple tonight—salad and spaghetti with a choice of two sauces, Bolognese and marinara, the latter for the two teenage girls, who were both vegetarians, although Storey ate so little lately, it was hard to tell; she seemed to have suddenly adopted her mother's slightly hostile attitude toward food since the separation.

“They just called Kentucky for McCain,” Washington said, looking at his BlackBerry.

“Pennsylvania's going to be key.”

“And Ohio.”

“I'm so nervous,” Veronica said.

“Remember how we all thought Kerry was going to win?”

“Come to think of it,” Washington said, “weren't you supposed to move to France if Kerry lost? Whatever happened with that?”

“We knew you'd miss us,” Russell said reflexively.

“We miss you now,” Veronica said.

After an awkward silence, Washington said, “At least we're drinking French wine.”

“Actually, I'm opening a Chianti with the pasta.”

“You're so geographically correct, Russell.”

Jeremy rushed over to the adult side of the loft to inform them that Obama had won Vermont.

“We're on the board,” Washington said, holding his palm out toward Jeremy. “High five, my man.”

“Are we pretty sure Obama's going to win?” Jeremy asked.

“It's not a done deal,” Russell said. “I think there's a lot of white voters who won't admit to a pollster that they'd never vote for a black man.”

Washington said, “No shit, Sherlock.”

“But I'm cautiously optimistic.”

“I think you were right the first time,” Washington said. “No fucking way this country's going to elect a blood president.”

“Washington, please,” Veronica said. “The kids.”

He was getting a little strident; Russell wondered if he'd had a few drinks before coming over.

“Can I have wine?” Jeremy asked after they were all seated at the dinner table. Russell had lately taken to giving him a small glass on special occasions.

“You can have a sip of mine afterward. Now clink glasses—lightly, no smashing—with the person next to you.”

The kids managed not to break any stemware, though a fair amount of water was spilled.

“Are we going to win?” Storey asked.

“You haven't touched your spaghetti,” Russell said.

“I had some salad.”

Mingus was looking down at his phone. “Obama just won Pennsylvania.”

“That's huge,” Russell said.

“Does that mean we win?”

“It means the odds have just improved considerably.”

Veronica said, “Hope you put that bottle of Dom we brought on ice.”

After the dinner plates were cleared, the TV was again turned up. The kids watched briefly, cheering further Obama wins before disappearing into the bedrooms.

A perfunctory hometown cheer went up when New York was placed in the blue column, though there'd never been any suspense about that.

“Anybody else see that interview Brian Williams did with McCain and Palin?” Veronica asked. “Where he said New York and Washington, D.C., were the headquarters of the elitists? Whatever happened to the
good
McCain? Remember him, the maverick of the 2000 primaries?”

“After the primaries, he hired all the old Bush/Rove apparatchiks,” Washington said, “the same hit men who slimed him in the 2000 primaries with nasty rumors about his war record and his love life. The same assholes who helped smear Kerry with that whole swift boat thing.”

When Russell went to fetch another bottle of wine, Washington followed him to the kitchen.

“Listen, Crash, I hate to bring it up now, but I couldn't catch you at the office. It's nothing definite, but Anderson called me in today and gave a big speech about retrenchment and cost cutting. He hasn't made up his mind yet, but he said we shouldn't be making any capital expenditures in this climate. I made a strong case for you all over again. He told me he'll give me a decision next week.”

“I thought it was your decision.”

“Under normal circumstances, yeah, but these are extraordinary times. Everybody's scared shitless. Nobody knows what's happening next. Credit markets freezing up, banks going under.”

“Well, we're reprinting Jack's book every other week, five thousand a pop. And what if I told you
Salon
and
McSweeney's
are both coming out with pieces on Jeff next month? I've never seen anything like this. Sales are doubling every six months.”

“Can't hurt. What about the movie?”

“You'd have to ask Corrine about that.”

“You guys talking?”

“We communicate. Logistics. Bills.”

“I mean—about your marriage.”

“Couple of summits, a few fraught phone calls.”

“Have you thought about counseling?”

“She has. I don't really see the point, and I certainly never thought I'd hear you recommend it.”

“Look, man, I know you're hurt and angry. But we all know you belong together. It's not like you've been—excuse the phrase—lily white through all these years. You need to forgive her.”

“Easier said than done. How am I ever going to trust her again? When she says she's going to a business dinner, or a baby shower? How am I supposed to forget that she lied to me repeatedly?”

“Like I said, she's not the first, or the only one.”

“I never loved anyone else.”

“What makes you think she loves this guy?”

“Because she won't deny it.”

“See, she's honest to a fault. I don't think you need to worry about her lying to you again.”

“What are you guys doing over there?” Veronica called out.

“Seriously, though,” Russell said, “if we don't make this deal, I'm well and truly fucked.”

“Hey, man, I hear you. Our monthly nut's higher than my salary. Without Veronica's paycheck, we're going to burn through our savings pronto.” He drained his glass and held it out for a refill. “Carpe diem, I say. Let's see if a black motherfucker can get elected president.”

Soon they were talking about the meltdown. Veronica said, “If the Fed had stepped in and backstopped Lehman, we wouldn't be in this mess.”

“Or if Lehman hadn't been so reckless,” Russell interjected.

“Granted there were bad decisions, but J.P. Morgan and AIG were reckless, too, and they got bailouts.”

“If I go to Vegas and lose my life savings,” Russell said, “should my fellow taxpayers cover the losses?”

“That's a dumb analogy,” Veronica said.

“I think it's a perfectly good one.”

“That's so simplistic. There were so many factors at play.”

“Sure, like greed, stupidity, incompetence.”

“Russell, please,” Washington said. “No need to get ad hominem.”

“I'm just saying it wasn't some confluence of impersonal market forces that wrecked Lehman. It was a whole bunch of bad decisions made by people who worked there.”

“Are you implying that
I'm
greedy, stupid and incompetent?” Veronica asked.

“No, only there has to be some accountability.”

“Whoa! Shut the fuck up,” Washington said, reaching for the remote control.

“
…the State of Ohio,
” Brian Williams was saying, “
and can you name one that was fought over with more force?
”

“What? Who got it?”

“Obama.”

“That's huge,” Washington said. A quick check of other stations confirmed the call, including a brief stop on Fox News, where a rueful Brit Hume commiserated with Karl Rove, who seemed stunned.

“Ohio was key,” Russell said as they waited for new results. “Along with Pennsylvania, I think we've got it.”

But Washington wasn't ready to concede victory. “Let's see what those crackers in Virginia do.”

“You can't say that about the state of Jefferson and Madison.”

“Both slave owners. Two honky hypocrites.”

“The latest polls had Obama ahead in Virginia,” Veronica said.

“Those rednecks
really
won't admit it'll be a cold day in hell before they vote for a black man,” Washington said. “And you got those Hillary Democrats sulking, sitting out the election. How about you, Russell? Did you get over your sulk and vote for the brother today?”

“I've got nothing against Obama. I just thought Hillary was better-qualified.”

“Better a white chick than a black dude any day.”

“Are you accusing me of racism?”

“Why not? What makes you so special?”

“I'm tired of you always being right because you're not white.”

“What the fuck's that mean?”

“Hey, shut up, both of you,” Veronica said. “Listen.”

“
An African-American has just broken a barrier as old as the republic,
Brian Williams announced.
“An astonishing candidate. An astonishing campaign. A seismic shift in American politics.”

“God
damn,
” Washington said. “Is that shit even possible?”

Veronica embraced him, even as he continued to stare at the screen in disbelief.

Russell, too, was stunned. He'd grown so accustomed to thinking of himself as representing the minority opinion in his homeland that it was hard to believe that a majority of his fellow Americans had chosen as he had.

The kids poured in from the bedrooms, cheering. It had been weeks since Russell had seen his own kids so buoyant.

Washington advanced on Russell and crushed him in a bear hug. Through the open windows could be heard the sounds of celebration from West Broadway, which blended with those from the crowd in Chicago's Grant Park, coming from the television set.

“I wish Mom was here,” Jeremy said.

Storey said, “You've been texting her all night.”

“You wish Mom
were
here,” Russell said.

“Don't be a dick, Russell,” Washington said.

After listening to Obama's speech, they went down to the street to mingle with their neighbors. The kids found some of their former classmates; Jeremy and Mingus disappeared and came back with sparklers. A heavily freckled young woman who walked her fox terrier in the morning when Russell was taking the kids to school threw her arms around him, alarming the dog, who started barking.

“Isn't it amazing?” she said. “I'm Zoe, by the way.”

“I'm Russell. Pleased to meet you.”

“Stop it, Zeke. He's our neighbor.”

Like nervous laughter, the cheers and cries of victory echoing through the streets of Manhattan and beyond seemed to him to mask a deep sense of anxiety. The prosperity of the past two decades appeared to be coming to an end and the country was still at war. It was hard to believe that any individual of any color could lead them out of the dark woods into which they'd stumbled. But for the moment, Russell and his friends and neighbors were willing to believe.

Corrine called shortly after midnight.

“Isn't it amazing?”

“It is.”

“It gives me hope.”

“We could all use some of that.”

“I spoke to the kids earlier.”

“I know.”

“Is there any hope for us, Russell?”

“I guess anything's possible.”

“Can I see you soon?”

“Soon. Maybe.”