by John Kenney
* * *
• • •
The Uber driver had no idea who they were. But he got a sense they were someone when he pulled up to the gate and saw the photographers waiting. Franny had a gate fob in her bag and Ted fished it out and told the driver he’d give him two hundred dollars if he could make it through the gate at sixty miles per hour, which he came close to, exhibiting remarkable driving acumen. Ted pulled Franny close to him but did nothing to hide his own face. In fact, he stared out the window, as if daring someone to try to get to his daughter.
Claire was waiting for them and when Franny saw her tears rolled down her cheeks. She sat Franny down on a sofa off the kitchen, the family room. Bismarck looked at the three of them. Ted felt the dog was confused.
Claire put the kettle on, found an old fleece, and draped it over Franny. It was only then she really looked at Ted. She started to speak but stopped. She reached out an arm and touched his shoulder. Something about the gesture. She leaned into him and held him, for just a few seconds.
Ted realized he’d have to call a cab, take the train back. He didn’t mind. He’d walk back if he had to.
Franny stood up.
“Dad.”
Ted looked at her.
“Why . . . I mean . . .”
She was a little girl. Her face looked so much like little Franny. Her head to one side, her hand rubbing her chin. Ted was suddenly very tired, the force of it all. Of lost time. Of what she was to him. Dear God, forgive me, he thought. How little she understood about anything real or valuable or lasting. About being a parent.
He looked at Claire, who was staring at him.
“Someday you’ll understand,” Ted said.
And here Claire turned her back to them, faced the sink, held on to the counter, her head down.
“I should go,” Ted said quietly.
Franny started to protest but Claire beat her to it.
“I thought I might roast a chicken,” she said to the window.
* * *
• • •
Dusk turned to dark and it started to rain, a cold rain. The cameras dispersed, as there were almost no lights on in the front of the house, though one of them noticed wood smoke coming from the chimney at the back. And what was there to see here, anyway? Just three tired, wounded people sitting by a fire, watching an old movie. How was that interesting? There was no story here. Nothing worthy of news. Just their life.
* * *
• • •
TMZ ran a photo of Ted standing above Henke, who lay on the beige carpeted lobby of CNN, face contorted in pain and fear, Ted looking like Ali over Liston. Some writer or editor put the headline, DON’T MESS WITH MY DAUGHTER. At no point during the confrontation did Ted say these words. But the line was repeated dozens and dozens of times on network news, cable news, talk shows.
And a strange thing happened. Others picked it up. Not just the bottom feeders. The Guardian in London ran a piece. The Times ran a piece about the reaction, which was swift and sustained, the comments almost uniformly supportive of Ted. Calls came in from the Today show and Good Morning America. He didn’t return them, though. He had no interest in being on TV anymore.
In the weeks that followed, the news programs and websites talked of social media, of the conscience of the nation, about the need for rules and reform, of accountability, of veracity. It faded, of course. There were new scandals. There were mistakes made, foolish things uttered. There were people to shame. To ruin.
* * *
• • •
They would go for walks in the afternoon, Ted and Franny, along the trails of the Pound Ridge reservation. At first, they said little, as if finding their way again. But after a time they found their own rhythm. She talked of graduate school, maybe documentary filmmaking. But often they just walked and listened to each other’s silence in the cool spring days.
“Venezuela,” he said on one of these walks through the woods.
It took so much to do it because he feared the response. For Chrissakes, Ted, he thought. Try.
She was confused at first, thinking perhaps that he was suggesting she move to South America and not understanding, until she looked at him, saw him looking back, saw him swallow with difficulty, saw that his eyes appeared watery, right before he turned his head and looked forward.
“Venezuela,” he said again.
And she recognized that voice, that tone, from a long time ago. A lifetime happened in that moment. A chance for both of them.
“Caracas,” she replied. She was looking straight ahead now, a little grin on her face.
Something lifted in him at the sound of the word. It was a key. It unlocked everything.
“Benin,” he said, his throat tightening, a smile on his face.
It took her a minute but it was there, a long-hidden trove.
She smiled. “Porto-Novo,” she said.
He turned and looked at her. What a thing. To be forgiven. To watch yourself be given life.
“Burkina Faso,” he said.
* * *
• • •
The tweets continued.
That’s a good father.
I would have done the same thing.
A real man.
God bless him.
He’s so handsome.
#BringBackTedGrayson.
The network noticed. A movement grew. An angry, self-righteous mob. They weren’t marching or voting or calling their congressmen. They weren’t writing editorials or taking up arms. They were doing something far more powerful. They were commenting. They were clicking. They were posting.
Ted was trending.
Acknowledgments
You write a book only partially alone. You rely on a lot of people for help.
To my editor and dear friend, Sally Kim, for believing in me and making this book better. I feel exceptionally fortunate to have an editor who supports her writers like a mother bear. Assuming that a bear could use a pen.
Thanks to many other wonderful people at G. P. Putnam’s Sons. Danielle Dieterich, Gabriella Mongelli, Alexis Welby, Ashley Hewlett, Ashley McClay, Brennin Cummings, Jordan Aaronson, and Bonnie Rice. There are also men who work at Putnam. Ivan Held is one of them and I thank him (not for being a man, but for being a kind, supportive man).
Also at Putnam, Joel Breuklander. I missed several crucial production deadlines and Joel was kind enough not to use his extensive collection of samurai swords on me. I would like to thank him and the entire production team for the most valuable thing a writer needs besides wine. Time.
To Andy Bird, my boss and mate at my day job. Andy routinely walked by my work desk and saw me working on my novel instead of, say, the things he actually pays to work on. “Ya awright?” he said with a smile. At least I think that’s what he said. He actually may have fired me. But he’s from Newcastle and thus has a Geordie accent so it can be hard to tell. A kinder, more creative soul I have never met.
Several trusted readers gave guidance and support, including my brother, Charlie, and my good friends Debbie Kasher, Rick Knief, and Bill Landay.
A special thanks to my mother-in-law and friend, Linda Funke, for reading and guiding and catching my many mistakes. Thank you, Ninna.
My children, Lulu and Hewitt, for their patience.
My wife, Lissa. Reader, editor, tireless listener. Thank you.
About the Author
John Kenney is the author of Truth in Advertising, which won the Thurber Prize for American Humor in 2014. He has worked as a copywriter in New York City for seventeen years. He has also been a contributor to The New Yorker magazine since 1999. Some of his work appears in a collection of The New Yorker's humor writing, Disquiet, Please! He lives in Brooklyn, New York.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
<
br /> great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.