THE BOOK WAS CALLED The Propagators, though I have changed the title as well as the story and the name of the author—let’s call him Christopher Denslow—who grew up in New York and attended Collegiate and then Williams—or those equivalents—and graduated with a five-hundred-page manuscript under one arm and under the other a half-dozen short stories written during a summer internship studying the western lowland gorilla. Physical anthropology was his true major and his absolute passion, or so he told The New York Times in an arts section profile. Young Mr. Denslow was photographed in front of the Congo Forest display at the Bronx Zoo, with Zuri, a twenty-six-year-old silverback, squatting behind the glass. The article was titled “Savage Beast, Meet Your Music,” and it appeared soon after The New Yorker published one of his short stories—“Land Minds”—and Harper’s published another—“The King Is Gong”—and Farrar, Straus and Giroux had won the bidding war for a two-book deal, a novel and a collection of stories, the price rumored to be in the high sixes, maybe even peeking into the magical seven realm. “I’m still in shock,” he told the reporter, though Christopher Denslow was too young to properly convey shock, only good fortune as reasonable fate.
“I don’t even consider myself a real writer,” he said, shaking his head as if hearing the collective groan from a thousand MFA students. “I’m just glad people are responding to the work, but I’ll be even gladder—see, that’s not even a proper word—but I’ll be happier when I’m back in Gabon studying the possible causes of fibrosing cardiomyopathy in these great apes.”
All of this happened a year earlier (and gladder is in fact a proper word), and now a fresh batch of publicity cooled the racks as The Propagators was hitting bookstores in less than a week. The early reviews read like a coronation.
From Publishers Weekly:
Starred Review. After all the buzz generated by twenty-four-year-old Denslow’s literary splash, finally we have a book to judge—The Propagators—not so much a book but a ripple that grows into a wave. The novel tells the story of Ana, a bonobo born in captivity and raised by Dr. Maurice Quine, a professor of behavioral psychology at the University of Wisconsin. Dr. Quine and his wife, Clarissa, treat Ana like a human child, teaching her how to eat with silverware; how to dress; how to act as just another member of the Quine family alongside the couple’s two other children, Peg and Billy. Ana also learns sign language—she is a gifted student—and the mixology behind a perfect martini. But as she grows older, she becomes difficult to handle, uncertain of her place in this nuclear tree, and in one horrifying but heartbreaking scene, sexually aware. By fifteen she is no longer manageable and is sent back to the Congo for “rehabilitation.” Denslow tells the story in alternating voices, from Quine to Clarissa to Peg and Billy, as well as Lucy Steers, the graduate student in primatology who takes on the task of reintroducing the chimp into the wild. All of this works as both a satire on postwar America and a thoughtful meditation on misplaced dreams, the pitfalls of conformity, of colonialism, the rise and fall of feminism. It is the human condition as seen through an ape. Every character is a wonder of creation, but what makes this book sing are the chapters devoted to Ana. Here Denslow limits her vocabulary to only a thousand words with basic grammar, but he wields those words and that grammar with a poetry that is a miracle to behold. We are Ana as she watches a college football game; as she befriends a stray cat; as she huddles in the jungle, clutching an umbrella leaf like a blankie. One thinks of Frankenstein, of Born Free, of Ozzie and Harriet, of Civilization and Its Discontents, but The Propagators is uniquely its own rare breed, a great book by a young writer.
Magazines as varied as Vogue and New York and the American Journal of Primatology featured profiles of this writer with his moody good looks, his mouth a riff of late-night guitar, his nose a favorite line of W. S. Merwin, his eyes an old movie you stay up late watching, and always there was that shrug in his demeanor as if the camera were a game of chess and he was eight moves ahead. Christopher Denslow was the real deal. And if that wasn’t enough, he was also rich. His father, L. F. Denslow, was the father of quant trading, which he helped develop as a faculty member at Columbia and then incorporated into an eponymous hedge fund started long before hedge funds became de rigueur for the ambitious. Fifteen billion under management, never a down year, even during the Great Collapse and its myriad aftershocks. All of this preamble is to say that Christopher Denslow’s book party was not your normal book party, not in the era of book parties dwindling to a get-together in a friend’s gallery, or a friend’s loft, like resigned protesters protesting the death penalty, the cause bigger than any sad individual story. But tonight was different. Tonight The Propagators was getting its glass raised at the Frick, where the senior Denslow happened to be chairman of the board.
“I bet there’s a list,” Andy said, nervous.
He was lingering outside with Emmett, Andy smoking, Emmett taking in the architecture as if the masonry had a beat. The modest entrance appeared almost academic, like a door to a private school, and every few minutes adultlike people sprung up the steps with enviable confidence. Andy tried cribbing answers from over their shoulders.
“And I bet there’s a cute girl checking the list, not like model cute but like interesting cute, unexpected cute, like a blond Italian, short hair, long neck, squinting like there’s no way you’re on the list but nice try, poppy.”
“Poppy?” Emmett made a face.
“Whatever. Bottom line, there’s a list.”
“And we’re on the list.”
“I think we’re on the list. I mean that’s what she told me.”
“Then we’re on the list.”
“That’s my assumption. She’s in charge of getting all the names, the who’s coming, the who’s not coming, the finalizing, the printing, the collating, the distribution, all the general list duties. Jeanie practically insisted I come. This Denslow guy has the same agent as my dad.”
“We’re definitely on the list then.”
“I fucking hate lists. Nothing good has ever come from a list.”
“Don’t be so uptight, uncle.”
Andy stiffened at the implication. “Am I being uptight? Shit. Maybe I am uptight. Under certain situations. Situationally uptight. Maybe this is a sign of my future uptightness, my total uptightness. Or I could just be easily nervous. Socially anxious. Does insecure equal uptight? Am I being uptight about the definition of uptight?” Andy rocked with near-autistic focus. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“No problem,” said Emmett. “It’s almost entertaining.”
“That’s because you’re from California, dude.”
Five twenty-somethings rolled down 70th like they had rehearsed every step, two women bookended by three men, all of them assured in their right to whoop away reality and triumph over doubt. They were like the new robber barons, entitlement their steel.
Andy lit up another cigarette. “Look at these assholes.”
They walked into the Frick like a collective high-five.
“And look at you,” Andy said to Emmett.
“Huh?”
“I mean compared to me. This suit I’m wearing is fucking ridiculous. I should have just gone the button-down and khaki route. Maybe a jacket. But this is like I’m auditioning for Nathan Detroit.”
Emmett smiled. “I played Sky Masterson in our high school production.”
“Of course you did. I was the one who painted the backdrops.”
“Should I sing a little ‘Luck Be a Lady’?”
“Don’t you dare.” Andy turned to his apartment across the street. “I could quickly go up and change. It’ll only take a few minutes. We could smoke some pot.”
“You look fine.”
“I think you’re closer to six two, by the way. And how big are your feet?”
“Size thirteen.”
“Holy crap. That was probably a picture of your penis I sent to Jeanie.” Andy had a final drag and—“Okay, let’s go”—flicked the cigarette, a weak flick, more of a spastic twitch of pinstripes and dated lapels, possible bad breath, sweat like popcorn popping against his shirt, a zit sighted on his forehead with the steady intent of an assassin who any second could pull the trigger and eliminate this example of un-glamorous youth, the only virgin within a three-block radius, this, this, this—“Andrew Dyer?” he said to the as-expected lovely girl manning the list, her finger falling down the page, lips muttering “Dire, Dire, Dire,” until landing on “Dyer +1” and giving his name a purple check. The upstroke hit him like a defibrillating jolt.
Emmett patted his back. “We’re in.”
“Okay, okay,” Andy said, newly invigorated with fresh anxieties, like he was an undercover agent in danger of being compromised by a wrong word, his superiors listening to his every move from an unassuming van—Vito’s Plumbing—parked in one of the dark alleys in his head. Andy wanted to lift his arm and whisper into his cuff, What’s my mission again?
“Quite a place,” Emmett said.
“If you want to sound smart say it’s your favorite museum in New York.”
“Got it.”
“Every painting is a masterpiece, that’s what you say.”
“Got it.”
“Amazing the extravagance of the Gilded Age, that’s what you say.”
“But I think this is post–Gilded Age,” Emmett said.
“What?”
“I read somewhere it was built in the nineteen-teens.”
“Isn’t that Gilded Age?”
“Technically no.”
“Shit.” Andy’s nerve took a hit. He heard Abort! Abort! in his ear.
A cute woman seemed happy to see them, her hands offering a tray of Chablis.
They both took glasses.
“Cheers,” Andy said. Holding a drink helped. It opened a small orbit of belonging, like the glass was his personal moon. Having Emmett here helped as well. When Andy picked him up outside the Carlyle, a tremendous feeling of relief hit him, like a long-forgotten thing suddenly remembered, the thing no longer important but the remembering a wonder.
“Where’s this girl of yours?” Emmett asked.
“Don’t know.”
Most of the crowd was gathered in the Garden Court, with its vaulted glass ceiling and pleasing greenery, its purling fountain—a cool, tranquil spot advertised in guidebooks as a cool, tranquil spot. But its main pull this evening was the full bar. That was the sun to this solar system. Shoulders jostled for their own drinkable moons, people circling in various paths, some spinning into outer galleries, the Diet Cokes and Perriers, while Dewar’s and Bombay never ventured far beyond the home star. Four distinct bodies seemed to travel around this party and we might as well continue with this planetary theme and start our stargazing with those who most resembled Venus. These were the people who worked in publishing: the editors, the publicists, the marketers, the agents, all of whom arrived on time if almost early, not just because this was a work event, but because this promised to be a rare work event that reminded them of when their industry burned bright in the New York sky, a place of true atmosphere instead of greenhouse gases. The excellent catering was also a draw. Dinner tonight came in a dozen bites. These people generally clustered in small groups, mainly so they could gorge without embarrassment—oh my God, the artichoke hearts with veal and ricotta is not of this world—but also so they could rain down sulfur on the contemptible around them, right out of Trollope or Balzac, they might mutter, gesturing with herbed cheese straws. For the most part they were the only ones who took in the art. It was such a treat to see these paintings without the, well, without the crowds, which was a kinder term than the actual humanity that amassed in their head. If they had to vote on a favorite, Duccio’s The Temptation of Christ on the Mountain would probably win, even though they stood in front of the Vermeers longer. All of them had gone to nifty schools; all of them had chosen the love of books over straight commerce; and all of them realized, as every year their horizon grew shorter, not the mistake they had made, no—yes please to the sliced fillet on French bread with triple-grain mustard—but the miscalculation in terms of their place within the transit of passing times. Publishing would survive, they all agreed. It’s not as if people were going to stop reading books. But then a stumped silence would follow as though they had been handed two pieces of wood and told to make fire. Better to shrug and grab the last scallop ceviche served in a delightful faux ice-cream cone.
Towering over Venus were those on Jupiter, also known as the friends of Laurence and Kitty Denslow, the proud parents, who could not help themselves and had to invite everyone, they were just so thrilled with their son. Laurence beamed as his hand reached out again and again, a Semper Fi squeeze followed by a gesture toward the table pyramided with books and a suggestion of buying a copy, or maybe three, “We need a bestseller to pay for this party!” while nearby Kitty laughed just like her serve in tennis, flat but precise, “Imagine what I’ll do when poor Christopher gets married!” Most of their friends were rich, it just happened that way, like a baseball game attracts baseball fans. Wealth was the rocky core and provided a heat warmer than the sun. These people spun together in rapid rotation, the names other people dropped, wearing their ever-present satellites—the Hamptons, St. Barth’s, Palm Beach, Aspen—like jewels on a necklace. The Frick, while grand, was within their realm of real estate and sometimes it seemed they browsed as if shopping. They were all happy to see one another even if they saw one another all the time, but their company confirmed in them a sense of depth, a surface without surface, that they were the good rich, the proper rich, the responsible rich, unlike the crassness this city now attracted. These people were hospital wings and museum courts. But enough of this tacky talk. They were here to celebrate Christopher. What a tremendous young man, they told Laurence, who towered over the crowd even if he was only five foot seven while Kitty boomed her good cheer down the line and mentioned how her father wrote a bit of poetry in his day.
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.”
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?”
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.”
“This is A. N. Dyer she’s talking about,” Dennis told the newcomers.
“So I’m getting ready to do my little act when I see this other person, totally recognizable since he’s basically me, and I realize this guy’s following A. N. Dyer as well, and even worse, he has the lead. I start to walk faster. He sees me. He understands what’s going on and increases his speed. Thank God neither of us is willing to run. Not yet at least.”
“This is A. N. Dyer’s son,” Dennis added, smiling.
“So we’re neck and neck, getting closer to your dad, but I could tell by the clench of this guy’s jaw that he wasn’t going to lose. No way. And not to a girl. Now people start to notice us—not your dad, he’s just happily walking along, but the people behind your dad, the people coming in the other direction, they see these two lunatics nearing a commotion.”
The man returned with drinks, and if he considered resuming his marital minstrel show, he stopped himself, seeing that his wife had a story going downhill.
“I was so much ballsier back then,” she said. “Thirty years ago. Is that even possible? Terrible when time becomes a math problem. Anyway without thinking I very publicly grab this guy and push him away and scream, ‘Get the hell away from me! I told you it’s done! It’s over! I can’t take it any longer!’ I say it just like that. Your father, he’s like this close, he turns around and I damsel myself against his arm, near tears, and this poor guy doesn’t know what’s hit him. I mean, everyone is staring. His hero thinks he’s a creep. He spins on his heels and runs away, screaming ‘Crazy bitch!’ which for my purposes is the absolute perfect piece of dialogue. Victory is mine. But I had been so focused on winning that I forgot about the prize: A. N. Dyer right next to me. I start to thank him and apologize for the scene. I’m shaking in real life. Nothing is pretend anymore. And he was so polite. An absolute gentleman. He took me to a bench and sat down with me and made sure I was okay. He seemed genuinely concerned. He asked if I wanted to call my parents. Told me he lived down the block and I could come up and get a drink of water and use the phone. He mentioned his wife, I think to put me at ease. And I was getting ready to recognize him and tell him how much I loved his books, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t stop what I was selling, maybe because he was being so accommodating and I was being so dishonest, and now I started to cry, this time for real, and I’m not really a crier. But I was new to New York. And I was feeling alone. And I had a history of rough boyfriends. And my loony parents back home. It all came gushing out. He gave me his handkerchief—a dying breed, those handkerchief men—and he must have sat with me for ten minutes as a stranger instead of a great writer. Finally I collected myself, got up, and thanked him. And that was it.”
“You ever think of writing that down?” Dennis Gilroy asked.
The woman shook her head.
“Because it would be a perfect magazine piece.”
“I have no desire to do that.” She paused. “You really think?”
“Absolutely. You should talk to Remnick. Or your agent should.”
“You know what would give the story extra kick,” the man said, handing her her drink. “If the other guy was Mark David Chapman.”
People groaned as if the mere mention made it true.
“And I recognized the other man three months later,” the man said in an unwise impersonation of his wife, “when I saw who shot John Lennon.”
“Asshole.”
“What?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Timing-wise it could be true. I’m just saying.”
The man and woman carried on like this, her offense matched by his defense, like a tennis point trapped between smash and lob. The people in the circle started to lose interest, though they remained interested in Andy as a proxy to his father, the stories about the author continuing, often orchestrated by Dennis Gilroy, whose arm became increasingly attached to the boy’s shoulder. Andy listened, nodded, smiled. He was polite to a fault and quickly getting drunk. All the stories were similar: letters sent and never answered; accidental encounters; a particular novel or character; the integrity of the great man. They all had kind words, if vaguely self-serving. It reminded Andy of the times he was with his father and a person might stop them on the street or come up to their table in a restaurant and say a heartfelt if embarrassed hello. “I’m sorry, but …” His father was pretty decent at getting these people to leave without being rude. “Thank you,” he’d say, like he was disappointed that they pulled aside the curtain, like he expected more from his readers. But for six-year-old Andy it seemed as if Dad had all these secret friends and he’d stare at strangers and practically beg them to come over and say hi. You know this man. You can love him if you want. As Andy grew older he started to notice the toll these encounters took on his father, how his normal reticence grew more solemn, and by the age of ten Andy would try to divert their admiration by tripping on the sidewalk or spilling a drink, yelling in some cooked-up language, which his father once answered with “Ischta nad und nachi-naught, fitti-nodd.” Around thirteen Andy regarded these fans as leeches and he took on the pose of bodyguard with an intuitive grasp of martial arts. I dare you to interrupt. And by his mid-teens Andy came to the conclusion that both idol and idolater were nuts. But tonight, maybe because of the vodka and the old suit and Dennis Gilroy applying pressure on his shoulder, he imagined these people here as mourners and his father was dead. Waves of loss and meaning tumbled through him. My father seemed trapped in his own world and no matter how hard he tried to dig himself out—and I think he tried very hard—the rubble caved back in on him, leaving a bigger mess. Dennis ushered Andy into another room, where more people offered him their unsuspecting condolences. He was known yet unknown to me. He loved me. I know that. But I always had the sense of him hoping I would somehow free him from who he was. The party was nearing its peak. Everyone spoke in unison, conversation no longer requiring the oxygen of the outside world but circulating around news generated only ten minutes ago. Who was here? Who said what? It was like school assembly, those minutes before announcements began, when voices fed on the anticipation of their abrupt end. But what would silence things here? Andy, light-headed and in need of focus, steadied himself on a painting hung too far away to read the label. It was of a young man posed before a bright green curtain, his long-fingered right hand curled around a cameo that had the word Sorte visible. There was a resemblance between the sitter and Andy, in that large stylus nose casting a shadow across still-doughy cheeks, in that haircut, classically ragged, in that strabismic left eye, and perhaps this resemblance was what drew Andy’s attention, like an elusive familiarity. That could have been me long ago. But what Andy noticed more than anything was the honking codpiece that breached his groin like the fucking hilt of a sword. Damn, he thought, his grin affecting his balance. He looked around for Emmett and Jeanie, hoping to share the visual.
“Andy,” Dennis Gilroy said, “I would love for you to meet …”