The Bend of the World: A Novel (13 page)

I wouldn’t call it an offer, exactly. It was phrased more like an ultimatum.

Well, cheers nevertheless. When did all this happen?

Just today. You’re the first person I’ve told. Of course, you’re the only other person I know with a real job.

Lies and deceptions. You take that back.

No offense.

None taken. Hey, on an unrelated note, have you heard from your buddy Johnny?

Not exactly, I said. Why?

Well, he called me the other day. I was at work, so I just let it go to voice mail, and he left me this cryptic message where he just said, The tide is turning.

Yeah, I’ve heard that one.

What the fuck?

You know Johnny.

Yeah, well, he sounded as if he was phoning in from the fifth dimension. He forgot to hang up, so I have this message with him telling me that the tide is turning and then heavy breathing for another five minutes.

I’ve gotten similar calls. I opened my palms and raised my eyebrows. What can you do?

Nothing much. But the reason that I ask is that that website, you know, the Alieyinz site, hasn’t been updated for a couple of weeks, and obviously Johnny is on his annual chemical pilgrimage, and somehow I wondered.

Oh, Jesus Christ, I said. Of course. Of course it’s his site. That fucking asshole.

Really? He told you.

No, I’m an idiot. It never occurred to me before. But it’s totally obvious, isn’t it? I mean, who else?

Yeah. And the thing is, I heard from my buddy over in the DA’s office that Kantsky’s really been shaking the police tree on that whole thing I told you about, the picture and all.

Fuck. Is he in trouble?

Probably not for the website. I mean, I suppose Kantsky could ruin his future political career. He laughed. Otherwise, there’s not really anything they can do about the Photoshopping. But what with Johnny’s other, uh, habits and behaviors, let’s say, there’s always the chance that they could get him for something unrelated and nail him to the wall in an act of vindictiveness. I mean, you remember when they busted Ron Javronski’s kid for selling coke.

Who?

Javronski? He was the head of the Health Department and was going to run in the Eighth District against the mayor’s buddy Joe Tallon, but then his kid got busted for minor possession and Kantsky somehow got it bumped up to intent to distribute. Poor guy hadn’t even officially announced his candidacy yet. His kid pled out and got probation and time served for the couple of weeks that they kept him in county, but everyone said the plea deal was contingent on the dad dropping out of the race he hadn’t even entered yet. Then they fired him, the fucks.

Christ, I said. How do you work with these people?

Hey, whaddaya want, a bunch of Republicans? Good God, those people don’t believe in evolution! We laughed. But seriously, if you talk to him, just tell him to watch his ass. The whole thing will blow over when someone else looks at the mayor the wrong way, but until then, Photoshop of the Mayor Getting Diddled by a Little Gray Man is on the agenda. Your Government in Action.

17

As a sidebar, this is a persistent theme in the collected works of Winston Pringle; the narrative tended to dilate around minor disputes between obscure named officials. You kept waiting for the wormhole to open and the ancient evil to pop out, tentacles flailing, and instead you got:

Major Bradley, who was in charge of Project logistics, approached me one evening in the canteen. He reproached me for going above his head to Colonel Nelson regarding my concerns about the environmental impacts of the chemical processing units.

I had long believed that the major resented my presence as a civilian. Also, these guys were visibly upset at the privileges I garnered through my family connections.

I suggested that we resolve our differences by approaching a joint liaison officer with a background in mediation and arbitration, but Bradley worried that this could compromise the deep classification of the Project. “Perhaps someone already involved,” I offered, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Both of us ultimately wrote up separate incident reports detailing . . .

It goes on in that vein for a while. They could’ve been talking about Global Solutions, although, to be fair, at the end of that particular chapter they actually instantiate a yeti out of the interdimensional ether. It rampages through the compound before Pringle figures out how to incapacitate it using a quantum something or other. Then Major Bradley, the hothead, draws his sidearm and shoots the poor creature between the eyes.

18

Because Lauren Sara had to borrow the car on Saturday, I was late to pre-opera dinner with my parents at the Duquesne Club. I told you I needed the car by six, I said. It’s only ten after, she said; it’s cool. What were you doing, anyway? I asked. I was helping Hegemonica get ready for her show tonight. Whatahwhoica? I said. Who’s that? My roommate, she said. Patra? I said. The Greek? No, she said. My roommate roommate. Corey. Hegemonica is his drag name. Hegemonica, I said. Hegemonica Preshun, she told me.

She asked if she could use my Internet; then she was going to his show; then we’d meet up when I got back from the opera. Yeah, yeah, I said, and I ran down the stairs and sped downtown.

The club was on Sixth Avenue, just around the corner from the theater in a square stone building that was meant to recall a London club but which managed to look merely institutional. I mean, mental institutional. Incidentally, my offices were just up the street. It had been founded back in the 1870s by exactly whom you’d expect, and the front hall still bore a prominent and terrible oil portrait of Andrew Carnegie gazing down in beneficent disdain. The captains of industry still belonged, although they tended toward the lunchtime hours, and the membership had long since declined in aristocratic quality so now any asshole with an MD or a buck-fifty paycheck from a bank could join. And did. Johnny was fascinated by the place and had once pestered me into sneaking him in so that he could seek out the Masonic initiation chamber in the basement. I told him I was pretty sure the kitchen was in the basement, but he insisted. It involved several trips to the thrift store to find a suit and tie sufficient to his dimensions, but eventually we did go. Fearing repercussions, I’d confessed the whole plan to my father. I’d expected him to try to dissuade me, or forbid me. Lord knows what I was thinking, because my father wasn’t the sort of man who forbade things. He laughed and said delightful several times, then insisted on taking us to dinner himself. While he engaged the waiter in a colloquy about Italian varietals, Johnny and I slipped down a service stairs to the basement, where we found the kitchen. Of course, Johnny pointed to the floor. Black and white tile! he exclaimed. Didn’t I tell you? It’s a goddamn Masonic temple. It’s part of the sacred geometry and architectural symbology of the whole underground stream! Johnny, I said. It’s linoleum. Nevertheless, he said, and he grinned and grinned for the rest of the night. I was too embarrassed tonight to valet my little car at the club, and parking made me even later. I took the steps to the front door two at a time, but the host stopped me before I could dash past him and indicated with a subservience calculated to indicate his social superiority that I’d be required to wear a tie. I’m wearing a tie, I snapped, but then realized that, although I’d picked one out, I’d forgotten to put it on, having got too caught up in anticipating Lauren Sara’s lateness to remember. Oh, Jesus Christ, I said. Really?

I’m sorry, sir. The host shrugged. He wore a tuxedo and his black hair was combed and pomaded in an old-fashioned slick away from his forehead. He was chubby. He looked like a cartoon killer whale. I should not, I decided, have smoked some more of that weed while I waited for Lauren Sara. He gave me a paisley tie that looked like it had been salvaged from the costume of a college glee club. Really? I said. I’m sorry, sir, he said. We used to have more, but people always forget to return them. Whatever, I said, and I tied it in the mirror above the foyer fireplace and then found my parents at a table in the Laurel Room.

Peter, Dad said, we wondered if you’d make it.

Traffic, I said.

I didn’t notice any, said Mom.

Well, Suzanne, we did come from the other direction, Dad said. Would you like a drink? He motioned for the waiter.

What are you having? I asked.

Gin and tonic, my mother told me.

My father had a bowl of red wine. I’m having this very interesting Petite Sirah, he said.

I’ll have Syrah also, I told the waiter.

Actually, my dad said, it’s not Syrah; it’s Durif. The name is rather misleading. Of course, Durif actually
is
related to Syrah, a cross, I believe, between Syrah and Peloursin.

The waiter looked at me as if this might change my mind.

It’s fine, I said.

Very good, he said.

We’ll just have a bottle, Dad told him. You’ll have a glass, won’t you, Suzanne?

When was the last time you saw me drink red wine? she asked.

Yes, that’s very true. You’ve never cared for the tannins. Well—he patted my shoulder and winked across the table—I’m sure Peter and I will manage, won’t we?

The wine arrived. My mother ordered a scotch. My dad asked my mom what she was going to order. You always ask me what I’m ordering, she said, and then you order the same thing.

You’re a good orderer, he said. Left to my own devices, I always make the wrong decision.

The filet, she said. Just like every time. It’s the only thing they don’t routinely fuck up. I snickered. She looked at me. Peter, she said, where on earth did you get that tie?

You don’t like it? I said.

You look like a game show host.

The front desk, I said.

Ah. She drank the rest of her G&T and switched to her new drink. I told you we should have gone to the Carlton, she told my father.

Did you? he replied. I do like their wine list.

So I have some news, I said.

Oh dear, my mother said.

Suzanne, said Dad.

I got promoted, I told them.

Thank God, Mom said. I thought you were going to tell us you were getting married.

Married? I said. It sounded as improbable as encountering extraterrestrials, except of course that I had, perhaps, encountered extraterrestrials, and people my age did get married, quite often, in fact, and it occurred to me without warning, as if the whole world had briefly slammed on its brakes and sent my body surging against the restraint of the present moment in time, that I would be thirty in July.

Congratulations, buddy, my dad said. That’s great. What’s the new job?

It’s, well—I considered my phrase book of management mumbo-jumbo—it’s a new position, I said. So it’s going to be a collaborative development process that’s going to involve my input as well as a lot of the senior staff group. It’s pretty cool, actually; I basically get to design my own job.

Hm, my mother said. Like when you designed your own major? I’d flirted with this option in college, a tantalizing prospect that involved movies and books and trips abroad, which had amused my dad and infuriated my mother, who’d suggested that I might also design my own funding mechanism for tuition, which in turn sent me scuttling back to econ. In retrospect, it made no difference; economics was a far more elaborate fake than anything an undergraduate could ever come up with on his own; it inhabited a world of Tolkienian depth and ingenuity, a mythic creation with its own gods and greater and lesser spirits and heroes and conflicts and magic: a monument of imaginative world-building, albeit a little embarrassing as an adult enthusiasm. Fortunately I could tell the difference between a supply function and an indifference curve about as readily as I could tell the difference between a wizard and a wood-elf.

No, Mom, I said. Not like that. And I got a raise.

Well, now, that’s more like it, she said. She smiled. You can pay for dinner.

Now, Suzanne, we need to make our minimum, Dad said.

I was kidding, she told him.

On occasion, sweetheart, it’s a little hard to tell.

Seriously, honey, we’re very proud of you, Mom said, and she patted my hand across the table. Keep me in the loop.

We all ordered the filet, which arrived too soon and at mysteriously different temperatures. Mine sat in a pool of its own blood; Mom’s was medium. My father touched his gingerly with his fork. It seems, he said, a bit crisp.

Send it back, I said.

Well, he told me, they can’t exactly
un
cook it, I suppose. And he tucked in methodically. I glanced toward my mother. Don’t look at me, she said. I never send anything back. Why give them the opportunity to compound what they’ve already fucked up? Give me yours; take mine. I don’t mind blood.

We exchanged. Well, I said, you’re a surgeon, after all.

I’m not a cow surgeon, she said.

During the meal, the conversation turned to my grandmother. I hear you ran into Nanette at the museum, Mom said.

Yeah. You didn’t tell me that she’d broken her toe.

She broke her toe? My father was surprised.

She didn’t break her toe, Mom said. I looked at it, remember. She just bruised it.

She was in a wheelchair, I told them.

Oh, good Lord, Mom said. She stared at my father. Peter, honestly, we have to do something.

That seems a bit precipitous, don’t you think?

We’ve been talking about it for years. It’s the very opposite of precipitous.

I’ll talk to her, Dad said.

If she’s in a wheelchair, Mom said, then she’s doc-shopping again. You know how I feel about all this. How many Dr. Feelgoods does one aging matriarch need?

Believe it or not, I said, she seemed fine, despite the wheelchair.

She was very pleased to see you, my dad said, although she did say that you never call unless you need something.

It’s hard to get off the phone with her.

Honestly, Mom said.

I never noticed, my father said. He was finishing his steak. He poured himself more wine. I find that as long as I have something to work on or read, then I don’t mind that she goes on a bit. What did you talk about, buddy?