“Ernestine,” he says, before he can give it any thought, “would you let me take you to dinner?”
Still smiling, she pauses, appraising him. Then she shakes her head.
“No luck?” he says.
“Next round, maybe. How’s that?”
“Pardon?”
“You may try again later.”
A man accosts him on the sidewalk as he comes out of the building.
“Kenny Saint Claire! Oh my God, it’s you!”
“Hullo,” Kenyon mumbles, demurring. And though he keeps walking, the man comes alongside, shoulder to shoulder. They seem to have stepped onto the same moving track. The man wears an overcoat and tie, good shoes, carries a briefcase.
“My God, I watch you every week, Kenny! You’re a hell of a champ. Hey listen, I’d like to give you a little something, could I? Would you hang on just a second and let me give you something?”
“You’re very kind,” says Kenyon, “but I have to be going.”
“Of course no I understand I’ll just walk with you a bit, you see I’d just love to give you a little something and I think you’ll appreciate it—knowing you’re a writer and all—the reason being that I watch you every single week—you understand don’t you—just a little show of my appreciation—here they are, Kenny, I’d like you to take these—would you allow me to give them to you?”
In the man’s outstretched hand are two gleaming ballpoint pens, thick and metallic, of very fine quality.
“You’re too kind,” says Kenyon. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“No please it would mean the world to me if you took them Kenny—you understand don’t you—and I know you’ll make good use of them.”
“I’m afraid I can’t accept. You’re too generous—”
“Listen Kenny c’mon what am I gonna do with them—I sell radiators for pete’s sake, my boss gave me them, some kind of bonus and they’re awfully solid made of real gunmetal or something but really what am I gonna do with them whereas somebody like you—”
They’ve reached the subway entrance. People pour past them down the stairs as Kenyon stops and turns.
The man draws back a bit, hand still outstretched. He’s an older fellow, retirement age or beyond. His eyes are a yellowish green recessed amid the folds of a weathered brow, but they have a bright look, an innocent gleam.
“Just take them, Kenny,” he says, almost softly.
“I could buy one from you, how about that?”
“No sir. They’re a gift.”
“I—I’m not sure I understand.”
The man shrugs. A small smile. “What’s to understand? You could write me a check but I wouldn’t cash it, just hang it on the wall.” His stare is very steady. “A token of thanks,” he says. “For your inspiration.”
So Kenyon, helpless, puts out his hand.
Time wants a story (rumors of a cover, Lacky tells him).
The Detroit News wants a story.
NBC is looking, says Lacky, into how they can keep him on. The TODAY Show wants him to call.
It’s as if they’ve all started to worry that his winning streak cannot last.
Meanwhile, the glass booth has become a kind of sickness. Standing in that sense-deadened box, ears clamped under muting headphones, sweat-slicked shirt clinging beneath the jacket, he will crease his brow, grimace, kiss his kerchief repeatedly, counting, always counting to the maximum quantity of suspense—and always already the answer is installed in his brain. These nauseating contortions, and the prospect of doing it all again (and he must do it again, and again after that, for another few weeks at least) makes him ill.
Yet here he is once more, flayed under studio lights, the teeth of the cameras gnawing hungrily at his suited figure, the camera’s sinister red all-seeing eye confirming his reduction in the lens. Once more the audience applauds, gasps, and the tympani boom, and the studio orchestra crescendos upward, and Fred Mint soliloquizes on Geritol, while Kenyon agonizes in his isolation booth before them all—before how many millions?—and professes to know the answers, or pretends to not know, and drives the numbers of his scorebox up, down, and up again.
But first the easygoing banter, as rehearsed from the cards …
“And Kenny,” says Fred Mint, “with your one hundred twenty-two thousand dollars really at stake now, how do you feel tonight?”
“I feel nervous tonight.”
“Oh, you really are nervous? But you’ve been nervous before.”
“I don’t know. I feel nervouser.”
The audience laughs as planned. He winces out a smile, groping the wing of Mint’s podium, hunched inside the camera’s frame.
“Nervouser? That may cost you about one hundred thousand dollars there, that little grammatical error. But I’m sure you said it just kind of in the spirit of cuteness. And Kenny, you have no decision to make this week, which should be a blessing, because last week you were tied by Missus Dearborn. You both understand that instead of the customary five hundred dollars a point, and since you tied twice last week, you’ll be playing for fifteen hundred dollars a point. Which means, Kenny, that you can either win or lose sixteen thousand five-hundred dollars. That is possible in the next few moments. Or it could be anything up to that amount too. Are you both ready to play? Missus Dearborn, are you? Kenny?”
The question is only a courtesy. Fred Mint has already said it for all to hear—Kenny Saint Claire has no decision in the matter.
Q:
You’re gonna try to go to twenty-one?
A:
Yes.
Q:
I can tell you now, Kenny, that your
opponent has already scored
twenty-one points. If you answer
this next question correctly,
you’ll also have twenty-one and
we’ll have another tie, which means
we’ll have to play another game.
If you miss, of course, I don’t want to scare you,
but she will become our new champion.
Here is your question and take your time.
You may have some extra time if you need it.
Four great voyages were made by Christopher
Columbus and many different places were among
his discoveries. Tell us on which voyage, the first,
second, third, or fourth, each of the following places
was discovered: the Virgin Islands, Martinique, or Santa Lucia,
Hispaniola or Haiti, and South America.
Do you need a little while to think this over, Kenny?
A:
I sure do.
Q:
I’ll tell you when your time is up…
KENYON
He’d called the number on the telegram, Universal International Pictures. Who wouldn’t have done so? He remembers the surge of confidence with which he picked up the receiver, the clarity of purpose with which his finger guided each numeral around the dial, the rotary whirling back.
He was nonplussed to hear the secretary say, “I’m sorry, who?”
“Kenyon Saint Claire. Mister Dover asked me to contact him.”
“Did he phone you, Mister Saint Claire?”
“No, it was a telegram. You see, he expressed some interest—”
“Please hold.”
And then a rather long wait…
Until there came a gruff voice: “Bill Dover here”—and then Kenyon was fairly chattering: …in response to your telegram…A manuscript…your telegram, yes…on national television…Country of the Father, it’s called…Yes, that’s me…well, it is quite hot in that booth, sure…Kenyon Saint Claire…no, it’s still unfinished, but when you expressed interest—
“Unfinished you say?” Dover seemed to be gnawing a cigar—or chomping ha
ndful after handful of cashews, hard to tell. “Well, that is somewhat irregular. But how’s this, Mister Saint Claire, you send the manuscript along I’ll give it a glance, OK?”
And Kenyon had hardly thanked him before Dover’s receiver clattered down. Embarrassed, confused, Kenyon hung up. He mailed the manuscript to International City the following day, without hope of response.
Q:
… Your time is up, Kenny—for ten
points which will either give you twenty-one
or put you back down to one point,
four great voyages were made by Columbus,
different places were among his discoveries,
tell us on which voyage each was discovered.
Want to take a crack at
the Virgin Islands?
A:
Uh, I’ll try Hispaniola.
Q:
All right. Which voyage was it?
A:
That was on the first voyage.
Q:
All right. And another?
A:
South America was on the third voyage.
Q:
Let me see now…that is correct for the second part.
Now Martinique or Santa Lucia and the Virgin Islands?
A:
Martinique is on the fourth voyage.
Q:
That is right, and then—
A:
So the Virgin Islands must be the second.
Q:
You’re right and you have twenty-one points!
Kenny Saint Claire, Mrs. Dearborn, we have another tie game!
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The studio audience gasps…
KENYON
Early Thursday morning and Kenyon stands in the lobby of Sam Lacky’s office, Lacky not yet in and Kenyon somewhat afloat in the middle of the green neatly vacuumed carpet as Ernestine arrives. She must have caught the very next elevator after his. Her hair is in a kerchief and she’s carrying a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums in a funnel of paper.
“Mister Saint Claire,” she says, surprised.
“Kenyon.”
“Kenyon. Were you hoping to see Mister Lacky? He won’t be in till after lunch.”
“No,” he says. “Round Two.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m here for Round Two. And already I’m remiss. Should be me bringing those to you.”
“They’re for the lobby.” She holds the flowers out. “Would you mind? I need to fill a vase.”
“My mother grows these,” he says.
“Oh?” she says, but she’s already moving down the hall and turns through a door out of sight.
Kenyon waits.
After a few moments she comes back and stands in front of him, a cut glass decanter in her hands, water lapping its sides.
“Did you empty Fred Mint’s whiskey to get that?”
She smiles, holding up the decanter. “In they go.”
“Before I ask you anything, before you answer, let me assure you that I’m prepared to go several rounds with you if necessary.”
“Fair warning,” she says. She moves to arrange the flowers on a low end table in the corner.
“Where do you come from, Ernestine?”
“New York.” She straightens, stands with hands on hips looking at the flowers. “Why do you ask?”
“I wouldn’t have guessed New York. I was thinking Wisconsin, Ohio, maybe Maine.”
“That’ll cost you four points, Kenny Saint Claire. I watched you last night. Were you feeling unwell?”
“Did I look it?”
“I wouldn’t call it hale and hearty, whatever it was.”
“Could have been the makeup. I mean, the fact that I skipped it. Maybe that was it.”
“Won that little battle, did you?”
He smiles. And then, to his surprise, she crosses the carpet and stands directly before him, no flowers between them this time.
“Well, it’s your own face, isn’t it.”
In the bright tunnel of her blue eyes he sees himself contained, very small, like a man high up at a twentieth story window. But there’s no doubt that the man is him—not his television stand-in, not some other person.
“You said something about Round Two?” she says.
They both still have their coats on.
“Yes, for eleven points, here is my question—”
“Oh stop. No one’s watching.”
He looks around the room, over her shoulder, over his own. “No sponsor?”
“No sponsor, no audience, no ratings.”
“Dinner?” he says. “Please. I’d be flattered.”
She draws a breath and seems to hold it, her eyes on the knot of his tie. “Tell me something first.”
“Sure, anything.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Pardon me?”
“I asked if I—”
“Of course you can trust me. Of course.”
“I’ll tell you frankly, Kenyon. I’ve heard a few things.”
“Have you really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s nothing. Whatever you’ve heard.”
“Park Avenue princesses? That sort of thing.”
“It’s nothing, believe me.”
“I’m a different breed, Kenyon. So long as you understand that about me.”
“Understood.”
“And I have one condition,” she says.
“OK.”
“No photographers.”
“Oh, you’ve seen my contract.”
“Can you meet my condition or not?”
“It might cost me. Are you camera shy?”
“I’m not the issue. Stand up to them, Kenyon. Stand up for real life. Disobey.”
“We don’t have to tell them. They may find out, though.”
“Just refuse to cooperate. Have you thought of that? I mean, how are we supposed to get to know each other with some photographer lurking around? How are we supposed to talk?”
“I don’t think that’s the point. Not for them anyway.”
“But what is the point?” says Ernestine. She steps behind her desk, slips out of her coat and drapes it on her chairback. Then, planting her fingers on the desk, she leans forward. “What’s the point for you, Kenyon?”
He takes this in, silent before her—breathes it in as she holds him with that uncanny blue stare. It seems a very long time since someone asked him a question as real as this.
“You’re remarkable,” he says.
“Lucky to have me, I know.”
“Dinner with my parents,” he says. “How about that? The most unphotogenic evening imaginable.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I accept.”
FAMILY TABLE
Dad says the grace as always. Thanks for the gathering of family, for friendships new and old, and for the first sprouts in Mom’s garden. On the supper table, pork loins and mashed potatoes steam. In the old Delft tureen simmers Emily
Saint Claire’s traditional winter stew—leeks, turnips, squash. A February evening in the country, on the 55-acre farm. The eighteenth-century house is sturdy, though the floors creak like mad. Kenyon and Ernestine have driven up from the city and everyone is charmed to meet her. George is down from Newport. Kip Fadiman is visiting too. Always to Kenyon he looks the same, old Kip: clean-shaven and handsome in double-breasted jacket, dark-rimmed glasses, the impeccable swoop of that pomaded hair. It’s just the way he looked when Kenyon and George were boys peering down through the banisters in the Bleecker house, back in those days of frequent gatherings: Adler, Fadiman, Krutch, Wilson, and Lewis altogether in the living room talking away. He’s never aged a minute, Kip. And how familiar, too, are the rich deeps of his speaking voice, heard so often on the radio.
Kip: Does it shock you, Ernestine, to be with a family that still says grace at dinnertime?
Ernestine: Why, no. (Smiles) Should I be shocked?
Kip: I was, I confess it, first time I sat down with these good people.
Dad: Were you really, Kip? I never knew.
Kip: Oh, that was a long time ago. I’d imagined you a Marxist, Maynard.
Dad: I?
Mom: You hadn’t read Maynard’s poetry then.
Kip: I admit I hadn’t. I’ve long since been corrected, of course—by the poems and the man. We were all communists of a kind, though, back then. Malcolm Cowley still is. But never Maynard.
Ernestine: Well, my family has always said grace.
Kip: Have they? Protestant or Catholic?
Ernestine: Protestant, though not for any particular reason.
Laughter.
Kenyon: Marxists or not, it’s always been a religious country.
Kip: Nominally, Kenyon, nominally. Our real religion—it’s what all those party members were protesting back then—has always been the dollar. We’re putting God on our money, in fact. You’ve heard, haven’t you?
Dad: Yes, I’d heard that. Care for some pepper?
Kip: Thanks, yes. Congress decided last fall. In God We Trust. All our coins and bills will carry the words. The dollars trust God, while we trust the dollars.
Dad: Oh Kip, it hasn’t always been so. We used to be made of other stuff.
Kip: True, true. I mean since the industrial revolution—that’s where we start to see more interest in the counting of dollars than … the subtleties of Shakespeare.
Q & A Page 14