And Sons (38 page)

Closer to Earth but no less assertive were the Martian-like friends of Christopher Denslow, mostly from New York, fellow grads from
Williams, summer pals from Nantucket, plus friends of friends who glommed on to the event, many in graduate school since a decent job nowadays was a reach. All and sundry grooved to the scene. It was like an indication of their own future triumph, which, from a distance, appeared hot but in reality was cold, as the ambitions of youth crashed into more adult terrain. The magazine articles. Those glossy pictures. It could seem as if their buddy Christopher had stolen something from them, their stomachs swelling with the rival of success, as they shimmered between arrogance and insecurity, grouping in packs of how-do-I-look? and what-are-you-doing-afterward? At their quietest they were cackling. The fabulous and near famous around them—there was even a rumor of a movie star—were the kind of New York company they hoped to keep, they expected to keep, deserved to keep for more than just a night, so they pretended this was no big deal. Just another Thursday. And really they preferred the Lower East Side. They watched Christopher sign book after book—kind of a pretentious title—and wondered if they should fall in line as well and get a signature.
To ________, Thanks so much for coming tonight. This book might be a better doorstop than read. Best, Christopher Denslow
. Four books had been signed this way, like the wunderkind couldn’t come up with something original, his modesty belied by that encephalitic
C
and
D
. Then they heard he was appearing on
Charlie Rose
and their shields were pierced by the illusion of cheer. That’s really great. Seriously. Super-impressive. They were on the verge of exciting things themselves, or so their parents promised.

Swirling between these various bodies were those always spotted when a good party was on the calendar. Some of these comets were familiar, like that artist over there who was in a few indie movies, Ariadne-something, Anastasia-something, or that minor face whose pride burned brighter than his career, the ice and dust of trying too hard not to care. They were omens of a possible future—Atatiasomething?—the implication still uncertain. Then there were the striving society types who hungered for flashes and claimed membership by dint of proximity, like hyenas keeping company with lions, but hyenas never had to join the Racquet Club or the Colony Club, hyenas never had to get their children into Dalton. But here they were, dammit.
And tomorrow they would be somewhere else. A handful of writers also reeled in this firmament, many from the Manhattan sky, but many more from Brooklyn spheres. Every three to five years they streaked with another book well received but modestly bought, their brightness mysterious even to themselves. Regardless, these writers trailed glances of vast amusement—Is that Amadellia-something over there?—while also maintaining stock-in-trade seriousness, discussing new novels or retreats or conferences, yeah, yeah, Amazon, yeah, ebooks, sigh, Franzen. They mostly preferred their own company, like the Perseids, in order to get down and dirty and gossip about outrageous behavior and how teaching was ruining their careers and they really should just write for TV. One of them had fucked Astridsomething years ago in a SoHo bathroom. These were the men. The women writers, they rolled their eyes like those girlfriends dragged to the beach in the postmidnight of August and instead of the promised light show watched a great big nothing scream across the sky. Give them the honest if unheralded Luna. And how about the younger writers, those proudly traveling from Greenpoint or Fort Greene or the newly created neighborhood of Stuy Heights? They were too focused on career to have any fun though they were all jazzed about MacDowell this summer and was that Remnick over there talking to Alita Masoon, the artist and actress, because they really should sneak over and say a quick hi.

“I had a story that came this close.”

“Their fiction is crap nowadays.”

“But this story would’ve been perfect for them.”

“Because it’s crap?”

“Ha-ha.”

Andy and Emmett, their white wine sipped to death, shuffled through this galaxy and took their place in line for the bar, not really a line but a barely civilized evacuation, the two bartenders the only means of egress.

“I just need the job to last another ten years,” they overheard a man say.

“Not sure that’s going to happen,” another man answered.

“Really?”

“It’s going to get very lean across the board.”

“Do you know something? Dewar’s, please. Is there a plan in place?”

“Just what’s floating in the air. Johnnie Walker, ooh Black please.”

“I’ll take the Black too.”

Andy slanted toward Emmett. “What are you going to get?”

“A tequila sunrise.”

“Um …”

“I’m kidding. Maybe a vodka tonic?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that sounds good.”

Andy puffed himself as tall as possible, brow creased with a coin slot of disdain, which he hoped made him look older, and he was prepared to tell the bartender how he had graduated from Bard with a degree in graphic design and the job market was shit and he was thinking of moving to Taipei to teach English, this image of himself a stereoscope in his head, Taipei Andy, and he was wondering how you’d order Asti Spumanti in Mandarin when he noticed the bartender staring at him as if the eyes were accessed via the nostril. “What?” Andy said sharply.

Emmett took over. “Two vodka tonics please.”

“Oh yeah, that,” Andy said, “please.”

Without any question of age the bartender handed them their drinks and Andy and Emmett jingled the ice like a nest of exotic but short-lived creatures. They headed for the interior of the Frick, toward a Degas and a circle of men and women playing pass the nod. Andy took a sip. The vodka tasted as expected but the tonic was a revelation, as was the lime, and he relaxed a bit. “So …,” he said, the ellipsis like bubbles blown from a wand. His natural drift was to dislike these people; they could have been his fellow Exonians, smart and oh so exceptional, the promising future standing here in this room and Andy was their critical past. You all think you’re so fucking special. Yes, that thought squeezed his insides, like a hand testing fruit to the point of bruising, but then he felt foolish because he was feeling good, special even. This was a happening party and he was here, on the list, sneaking a drink with his most excellent nephew, who was presently staring at the portrait of Comtesse d’Haussonville, his hands aping her pose, which made Andy the mirror behind her.
He was just about to mispronounce Ingres when he heard his name, clear as a bell.

“Andy!”

And there was Jeanie Spokes breaking through the crowd. She was wearing a dress that winked between hipster and prep, a vintage Laura Ashley number that was prairie on top and mini below her feet touching the earth in military-style black boots. She looked adorable. And the fact that she was obviously excited to see him made all trepidation dissolve into effervescence. “You’re here,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“I’ve been here for a bit.”

“To me you just got here.”

“This is quite a party.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve had the longest day, two days really.”

“I bet.”

“That’s why I’ve been sort of out of touch.”

“Oh.”

“I’m totally exhausted.”

“Sure.”

“And buzzed.”

“Okay.”

“Whatcha drinking?”

“Vodka tonic.”

“Excellent, excellent.” Jeanie grabbed his arm. “I’m just so happy you’re here.”

Andy was prepared to dive into poetry concerning the pleasure of her company, but he refrained, knowing Emmett was likely eavesdropping from the salon. “I’m happy to be here as well,” he responded.

“I love your outfit,” she said.

“It’s an outfit?”

“I just mean you look good.”

“You look good too.”

“This was my favorite dress in high school. I wore it in honor of you.”

The unclaimed space within him shifted, everything tightening,
both awkward and uplifting, as if a long-gestating adult were pushing against the adolescent membrane, trying on its body for size. “Oh,” Andy said.

Emmett unstuck himself from the Comtesse.

“Hey, this is my nephew,” Andy said. “Emmett Dyer, Jeanie Spokes.”

Jeanie’s expression shifted the way a pitcher will shift his grip from fastball to curveball.

“Nephew?”

“Yep,” Emmett said.

“So your father …”

“Is my brother,” Andy finished. “Or half brother. He’s visiting from California.”

“Really great to meet you, Emmett.”

They shook hands.

“We got Dyers in the house.” Then Jeanie gave them a raise-the-roof gesture, which in her dress played like Amish in the ’hood. “Okay, you two have got to come with me and meet some people.” She took them both by the arm and half-guided, half-pushed them through the crowd, taking a sharp right into the oval room with those Whistlers, her mouth providing the screech of tires. They almost ran into a circle of older men and women, who stood in their own arrangements and harmonies. Andy was prepared to apologize, especially since he was sporting a slight battering ram, not that they noticed, hopefully, but boners in general made him contrite, but before he could say anything Jeanie nudged them forward. “Everybody, this is Andy Dyer and Emmett Dyer, his nephew from California.”

A man clapped like a marvelous toy had been presented.

“Andy, old boy, it’s Dennis Gilroy.”

Andy had no idea who this person was. “Hello, Mr. Gilroy.”

“Dennis, please. I work with your father.”

“Oh.”

“I’m his agent.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t think it rings a bell, Dennis,” one of the other men said.

“Oh shut your hole. It’s so nice to meet you after all this time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Same here.”

Dennis Gilroy took the lead in introducing them to the rest of the group, all impressive people, Andy was sure, each name followed by a pause so the thrill could sink in, but Andy was too distracted by an overall sense of distraction to recognize anyone, let alone remember anyone’s name.

“So how old are you now?” Dennis asked.

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen!”

“Oh to be seventeen again,” this other man mused.

“But you still are seventeen,” the woman near his arm said.

“I was actually much more mature at that age.”

“God help us.”

“I even respected women.”

“Prick.” She turned to Andy. “How is your father, by the way?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Still writing?”

“I think so.”

“You know, I almost physically accosted him many decades ago,” she said. “I was twenty-three and had just moved to the city—remember that crappy loft on Bond that’s now probably worth five million? Why did I ever leave? Anyway one day I decided I was going to meet A. N. Dyer, that was my mission that week. Back then it was all about missions.”

“Meet or screw?” the man said.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“They’re married,” Dennis said to Andy, like this explained things.

“Jesus, with his kid right here?” she said.

“You’re the one who said your MFA stood for—”

“Shut up, please. Anyway, back to your father. I was determined to meet him so I went all Mossad—I was wearing a lot of leather back then.”

“Patti Smith wannabe.”

“I’ll see that and raise you a Ruskin,” she said.

“That’s mean.”

“What about Ruskin?” asked Dennis.

The man crossed his arms, obviously accustomed to questions. “I’ve been wanting to do this mash-up of Ruskins, you know,
The Stones of Venice
but at Max’s Kansas City, the pops as Impressionists, the punks as Pre-Raphaelites, Warhol as William Morris, Iggy Pop as Dante Rossetti, ‘Lust for Life’ meets ‘The House of Life.’ ”

“Sounds wonderful,” Dennis said.

“Could be. Maybe after the alien DNA novel.”

“Oh yes,” the woman said, “not until after that alien DNA novel, please.”

“I’ve already sold it in a dozen countries,” Dennis told her. “That’s what a good agent does.”

“And tomorrow Albania, I’m sure,” she said.

“No offense,” the man said, “but you’re too old for such low-cut envy.”

“Envy? For
The Heirs of Tippetarius
.”

“It’s a working title,” he said, “plus there’s a deeper meaning.”

“Yes. A not-so-subtle critique on the commercialization of literary writers.”

“Sorry I’m not as smart as you are, honey.”

“Smart isn’t the right word, dummy.”

While others seemed amused, Andy was unsure of his place within the conversation, a witness, he supposed, in this staging of a marriage, and though he assumed his last name was the carrot, his age was in fact the more effective stick, these older people pandering to his concept of a bickering couple, hoping they might entertain him and for a moment be less obsolete. Youth has a power often unrecognized by the young. It might land as a paltry blow but there is a vastness to its sting.

“What are you stuffing?” the man asked, pointing to Andy’s near-empty glass.

“A Sprite,” Andy said.

“That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“Okay, a vodka tonic.”

“Much better. And honey? Another?”

“Sure.”

After the man departed the woman tried to wrangle her story back into the center, but Dennis Gilroy was talking gossip about this actor who wanted to take on the role of Ana in
The Propagators
—“Not like wearing a monkey costume but doing that motion-capture thing, with the green suit covered in Ping-Pong balls”—and Emmett and Jeanie were working on their rapport—“I have to say I’m tempted by the concept of L.A.”—which left Andy as the only viable set of ears.

“With your father,” the woman said, moving closer, “I waited outside his apartment, still his apartment, right, your apartment, right across the street from here, yeah, standing right outside the Frick and waiting, five, six hours a day for probably three days until he finally appears and I start to follow him. I have no idea what I’m going to do, or how I’m going to do whatever I’m going to do. I just want to thank him, as trite as that sounds.
Ampersand
meant a lot to me when I was younger. Something about those boys, that world, that time. And the writing of course. So I follow him and try to come up with a plan, like Lucy with Bill Holden.” The woman paused, amused, it seemed, at her own expense. A splatter of freckles covered her face, almost joyful, as if she had gotten them as a girl racing her ten-speed through mud puddles. “I decide that I would trip into him and apologize, recognize him, say my piece, and then continue on with my not-quite-rational life.” Dennis Gilroy, overhearing this, began to direct his attention toward her story and as a result directed the attention of others. The woman accepted their awareness with a mixture of jazz and neurosis, improvisation as a form of impersonation. “Three days of stalking and this was my genius plan. Raid on Entebbe this was not.”