The Unexpected Salami: A Novel (31 page)

“—third president. A great man but a hypocrite. He wrote the Declaration of Independence but had plantation slaves.”

The guide looked relieved as we exited the tour to have it out.

“Why would I know about Thomas Jefferson? I’m an Australian. Do you know who Gough Whitlam is?”

“Yeah.”

“Bullshit. You don’t know anything about him do you?”

“Colin, you’re baiting me. Don’t do this. You’re not achieving anything.”

“Got you, ha! The great Rachel is stumped. Stalling.”

“Gough Whitlam was Prime Minister of Australia from 1972 to 1975. He was the first Labor Party leader to win the premiership in twenty years. He pushed an agenda of women’s and Aboriginal rights—and national social security. He was ousted by a little-known rule called by the Queen’s representative, Sir John Kerr, The Governor General.”

“Okay, you know it. I give—”

“Also of note: Christopher Boyce, a cipher clerk, found out that the CIA had Sir John Kerr as their agent. In essence they overturned Whitlam’s socialist policies, like they toppled Allende’s Chile in 1973.
The Falcon and the Snowman
, book by Robert Lindsay, film directed by John Schlesinger. Timothy Hutton as Boyce. Sean Penn, not yet married to Madonna, as his blackmailing friend. Soundtrack by Pat Metheny. Title song by David Bowie.”

“Oh I see. He’s a
movie reference
. You only know him ’cause it was a movie story. That’s not real knowledge—”

We walked a few yards and were now standing in front of the Liberty Bell.

A guide addressed a horde of ten-ish kids. “The first time it rang, it cracked and was recast. In 1835, it cracked again. Repairs were made. In 1846, it cracked once more as it rang for Washington’s birthday. No one could fix it this time.”

“How come they didn’t throw it out and get a new bell?” Colin whispered.

“There was love in it,” I said. “It was precious. It means more that it has survived.”

We sampled the
native cuisine: cheese-steak sandwiches. They were cheap, and between us we had ten dollars left. I wanted a Philadelphia snowglobe with the Liberty Bell in it; the closest gift shop, at Betsy Ross’s house, only had one with Independence Hall. Colin called his Yellow Pages stockbroker from the pay phone inside of the shop. I had to go outside to pace. Colin could have lost his shirt on whimsy.

He came out with a thumbs-up. “The bloody mother lode!” he screamed from across the street, and my arms went numb. We kept breaking out into sinful laughter, like Bonnie and Clyde. According to our calculations on the New Jersey transit, we had made $200,000 off designer elk. Enough for Colin to buy a small recording studio, and for me to give a go as a screenwriter. We could even give Stuart something to start off his new life. Colin had told his broker to sell, even though if we waited, we could have had truly serious dough.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Colin said as we rolled past Newark.

“Shoot.”

“I ran into Will the other day.”

“Will?”

“Your Will.”

“Will Reynolds? What are you talking about?”

“He met Hannah out on Long Island. This is rather unreal, but he’s dating her now. She always wanted to move up a notch.” He shielded his head, waiting to be hit.

“You
forgot
to tell me?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you. I was afraid you’d go back to him.”

“Jesus, Will and Hannah? Jesus. You’re pulling my leg.”

“I suspect she’s always thought Australia was too uncouth for her. Except for the fact that he stole my girlfriend, he seemed like a perfectly nice guy. He had nothing except nice things to say about you.”

He was serious? Will with Colin’s redhead? But then, at this point in my year of mishegoss, the link didn’t seem implausible. Weird things were plaguing me that year; happenstance made perfect sense. I stared out the window. We’ve swapped places, I thought. She’s got my goddamn precious upper-middle-class destiny.

“You’re right, he is a nice guy,” I agreed. Colin gave me a bewildered look, and I gave him an “it’s safe” smile. Convinced, he reached for my wrist.

“So this is how it turns out,” he smiled.

I pulled him to me and planted a big smackeroo on his lips. “Yeah,” I said afterward.

As the train rolled toward the tunnel entrance, the new moon rising over Frank Sinatra’s Atlantic City billboard, I remembered the Christ Church guide batting for the Tories, and I thought, morality is in the retelling. Who’s presenting the history?

Once, while I was
still at Bell, a man perched on top of a discount store across the street from my office had started firing bullets at the western-facing windows of our office building. He’d been fired from a textile company on the third floor, two below Bell Press. Our building’s voice, the same one that informed us of fire drills, announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please go to the center of your offices, away from the windows.”

In the conference room, the vice president continued to dictate a letter to his assistant as forty of us filled the remaining chairs and floor space. The head of publicity asked me if I wanted a stick of cinnamon Trident. Over the loudspeaker we heard “Ladies and Gentlemen, the police have killed the man, there is no more danger,” and we resumed work. There were too many tri-state murders that day; the incident barely warranted a mention, even in the tabloids. Since none of my friends read about my midday mayhem, no one ever believed it happened.

Thanks to:

Abigail Thomas

Shannon Ravenel, a thoughtful editor; and Liz Darhansoff, a happening agent

Lynn Pleshette and Catherine Luttinger

The writing circle, especially the caffeinated after-hours Syndicate: Jill Bauerle, Marcelle Harrison, and Kathy O’Donnell; two dear friends and damn sharp readers, Joan Dalin and Corey Powell; and Mark Jessell, Deb Reading, and Warrick Wynne in Melbourne, quick on the E-mail Australiana

My brother, David Shapiro, for, among other things, yelling at me in Chinatown (circa 1990) that under no circumstances should I accept the job offer from Proctor and Gamble

Paul O’Leary—my pillar, my joy, my partner in crime

Credits

“Shaddup You Face,” written by Joe Dolce. Copyright 1980. Walsing Music/Remix Publishing (Administered by Copyright Management, Inc.). All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.

“The Rain, the Park, and Other Things,” written by Steven Duboff and Arthur Kornfeld. Copyright 1967, Luflin Music, Inc. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.

“It’s Raining Again,” written by Roger Hodgson and Richard Davies. Delicate Music. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.

Credits

“Shaddup You Face,” written by Joe Dolce. Copyright 1980. Walsing Music/Remix Publishing (Administered by Copyright Management, Inc.). All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.

“The Rain, the Park, and Other Things,” written by Steven Duboff and Arthur Kornfeld. Copyright 1967, Luflin Music, Inc. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.

“It’s Raining Again,” written by Roger Hodgson and Richard Davies. Delicate Music. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.

Published by
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225

a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014

© 1998 by Laurie Gwen Shapiro. All rights reserved.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son Limited.
Design by Anne Winslow.

For permission to use quotes from copyrighted works, grateful acknowledgment is made to the copyright holders, publishers, or representatives named on
page 298
, which constitutes an extension of the copyright page.

This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available for a previous edition of this work.

eISBN 9781565128927