Bark: Stories

by Lorrie Moore

  Kit sank down in a large chair next to Rafe. He was tanning himself, she could see, for someone else’s lust. “I think I need a drink,” she said. The kids were swimming.

  “Don’t expect me to buy you a drink,” he said.

  Had she even asked? Did she now call him the bitterest name she could think of? Did she stand and turn and slap him across the face in front of several passersby? Who told you that?

  When they left La Caribe, its crab claws of land extending into the blue bay, she was glad. Staying there she had begun to hate the world. In the airports and on the planes home, she did not even try to act natural: natural was a felony. She spoke to her children calmly, from a script, with dialogue and stage directions of utter neutrality. Back home in Beersboro she unpacked the condoms and candles, her little love sack, completely unused, and threw it all in the trash. What had she been thinking? Later, when she had learned to tell this story differently, as a story, she would construct a final lovemaking scene of sentimental vengeance that would contain the inviolable center of their love, the sweet animal safety of night after night, the still-beating tender heart of marriage. But for now she would become like her unruinable daughters, and even her son, who as he aged stoically and carried on regardless would come scarcely to recall—was it past even imagining?—that she and Rafe had ever been together at all.

  FOES

  Bake McKurty was no stranger to the parasitic mixings of art and commerce, literature and the rich. “Hedge funds and haiku!” he’d exclaimed to his wife, Suzy—and yet such mixings seemed never to lose their swift, stark capacity to appall. The hustle for money met the hustle for virtue and everyone washed their hands in one another. It was a common enough thing, though was there ever enough soap to cut the grease? “That’s what your lemon is for,” Suzy would say, pointing at the twist in the martini he was not supposed to drink. Still, now and again, looking up between the crabmeat cocktail and the palate-cleansing sorbet sprinkled with fennel pollen dust, he felt shocked by the whole thing.

  “It’s symbiosis,” said Suzy as they were getting dressed to go. “Think of it being like the krill that grooms and sees for the rock shrimp. Or that bird who picks out the bugs from the rhino hide.”

  “So we’re the Seeing Eye krill,” he said.

  “Yes!”

  “We’re the oxpeckers.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to say that,” she said.

  “A lot in this world has to do with bugs,” said Bake.

  “Food,” she said. “A lot has to do with grooming and food. Are you wearing that?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Lose the— What are those?”

  “Suspenders.”

  “They’re red.”

  “OK, OK. But you know, I never do that to you.”

  “I’m the sighted krill,” she said. She smoothed his hair, which had recently become a weird pom-pom of silver and maize.

  “And I’m the blind boy?”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to say that either.”

  “You look good. Whatever it is your wearing. See? I say nice things to you!”

  “It’s a sarong.” She tugged it up a little.

  He ripped off the suspenders. “Well, here. You may need these.”

  They were staying at a Georgetown B and B to save a little money, a town house where the owner-couple left warm cookies at everyone’s door at night to compensate for their loud toddler, who by 6:00 a.m. was barking orders and pointing at her mother to fetch this toy or that. After a day of sightseeing—all those museums prepaid with income taxes; it was like being philanthropists come to investigate the look of their own money—Suzy and Bake were already tired. They hailed a cab and recited the address of the event to the cabbie, who nodded and said ominously, “Oh, yes.”

  Never mind good taste, here at this gala even the usual diaphanous veneer of seemliness had been tossed to the trade winds: the fund-raiser for Lunar Lines Literary Journal—3LJ as it was known to its readers and contributors; “the magazine” as it was known to its staff, as if there were no others—was being held in a bank. Or at least a former bank, one which had recently gone under, and which now sold squid-ink orecchiette beneath its vaulted ceilings, and martinis and grenache from its former teller stations. Wood and marble were preserved and buffed, glass barriers removed. In the evening light the place was golden. It was cute! So what if subtle boundaries of occasion and transaction had been given up on? So what if this were a mausoleum of greed now danced in by all? He and Suzy had been invited. The passive voice could always be used to obscure blame.

  The invitation, however, to this D.C. fund-raiser seemed to Bake a bit of a fluke, since Man on a Quarter, Man on a Horse, Bake’s ill-selling biography of George Washington (in a year when everyone was obsessed with Lincoln, even the efficiently conflated Presidents’ Day had failed to help his book sales), would appear to fit him to neither category of guest. But Lunar Lines, whose offices were in Washington, had excerpted a portion of it, as if in celebration of their town. And so Bake was sent two free dinner tickets. He would have to rub elbows and charm the other guests—the rich, the magazine’s donors, who would be paying five hundred dollars a plate. Could he manage that? Could he be the court jester, the town clown, the token writer at the table? “Absolutely,” he lied.

  Why had he come? Though it was named after the man he had devoted years of affectionate thought and research to, he had never liked this city. An ostentatious company town built on a marsh—a mammoth, pompous chit-ridden motor vehicle department run by gladiators. High-level clerks on the take, their heads full of unsound sound bites and falsified recall. “Yes! How are you? It’s been a while.” Not even “It’s been a long time,” because who knew? Perhaps it hadn’t been. Better just to say, neutrally, “It’s been a while,” and no one could argue.

  He clung to Suzy. “At least the wine is good,” she said. They weren’t really mingling. They were doing something that was more like a stiff list, a drift and sway. The acoustics made it impossible to speak normally, and so they found themselves shouting inanities, then just falling mute. The noise of the place was deafening as a sea, and the booming heartiness of others seemed to drown all possibility of happiness for themselves.

  “Soon we’ll have to find our table,” he shouted, glancing out at the vast room filled with a hundred white-clothed circles, flickering with candlelight. Small vases of heather sprigs that could easily catch fire had been placed in the centers as well. So were little chrome cardholders declaring the table numbers. “What number are we?”

  Suzy pulled the tag from what he facetiously called her “darling little bag,” then shoved it back in. “Seventy-nine,” she said. “I hope that’s near the restroom.”

  “I hope it’s near the exit.”

  “Let’s make a dash for it now!”

  “Let’s scream ‘fire!’ ”

  “Let’s fake heart attacks!”

  “Do you have any pot?”

  “We flew here—remember? I wouldn’t bring pot on an airplane.”

  “We’re losing our sense of adventure. In all things.”

  “This is an adventure!”

  “You see, that’s what I mean.”

  At the ringing of a small bell everyone was to sit—not just the ones already in wheelchairs. Bake let Suzy lead as they wended their way, drinks in hand, between the dozens of tables that were between them and number 79. They were the first ones there, and when he looked at the place cards and saw that someone had placed Suzy far away from him, he quickly switched the seating arrangements and placed her next to him, on his left. “I didn’t come this far not to sit next to you,” he said, and she smiled wanly, squeezing his hand. These kinds of gestures were necessary, since they had not had sex in six months. “I’m sixty and I’m on antidepressants,” Bake had said when Suzy had once (why only once?) complained. “I’m lucky my penis hasn’t dropped off.”

  They remained standing by their seats, waiti
ng for their table to fill up: Soon a young investor couple from Wall Street who had not yet lost their jobs. Then a sculptor and her son. Then an editorial assistant from 3LJ. Then last, to claim the seat to his right, a brisk young Asian woman in tapping heels. She thrust her hand out to greet him. Her nails were long and painted white—perhaps they were fake: Suzy would know, though Suzy was now sitting down and talking to the sculptor next to her.

  “I’m Linda Santo,” the woman to his right said, smiling. Her hair was black and shiny and long enough so that with a toss of the head she could swing it back behind her shoulder and short enough that it would fall quickly forward again. She was wearing a navy blue satin dress and a string of pearls. The red shawl she had wrapped over her shoulders she now placed on the back of her seat. He felt a small stirring in him. He had always been attracted to Asian women, though he knew he mustn’t ever mention this to Suzy, or to anyone really.

  “I’m Baker McKurty,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “Baker?” she repeated.

  “I usually go by Bake.” He accidentally gave her a wink. One had to be very stable to wink at a person and not frighten them.

  “Bake?” She looked a little horrified—if one could be horrified only a little. She was somehow aghast—and so he pulled out her chair to show her that he was harmless. No sooner were they all seated than appetizers zoomed in. Tomatoes stuffed with avocados and avocados with tomatoes. It was a witticism—with a Christmasy look though Christmas was a long way away.

  “So where are all the writers?” Linda Santo asked him while looking over both her shoulders. The shiny hair flew. “I was told there would be writers here.”

  “You’re not a writer?”

  “No, I’m an evil lobbyist,” she said, grinning slightly. “Are you a writer?”

  “In a manner of speaking, I suppose,” he said.

  “You are?” She brightened. “What might you have written?”

  “What might I have written? Or, what did I actually write?”

  “Either one.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve written several biographies. Boy George. King George. And now George Washington. That’s my most recent. A biography of George Washington. A captivating man, really, with a tremendous knack for real estate. And a peevishness about being overlooked for promotion when he served in the British army. The things that will start a war! And I’m not like his other biographers. I don’t rule out his being gay.”

  “You’re a biographer of Georges,” she said, nodding and unmoved. Clearly she’d been hoping for Don DeLillo.

  This provoked him. He veered off into a demented heat. “Actually, I’ve won the Nobel Prize.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! But, well, I won it during a year when the media weren’t paying a lot of attention. So it kind of got lost in the shuffle. I won—right after 9/11. In the shadow of 9/11. Actually, I won right as the second tower was being hit.”

  She scowled. “The Nobel Prize for Literature?”

  “Oh, for literature? No, no, no—not for literature.” His penis now sat soft as a shrinking peach in his pants.

  Suzy leaned in on his left and spoke across Bake’s plate to Linda. “Is he bothering you? If he bothers you, just let me know. I’m Suzy.” She pulled her hand out of her lap, and the two women shook hands over his avocado. He could see Linda’s nails were fake. Or, if not fake, something. They resembled talons.

  “This is Linda,” said Bake. “She’s an evil lobbyist.”

  “Really!” Suzy said good-naturedly, but soon the sculptor was tapping her on the arm and she had to turn back and be introduced to the sculptor’s son.

  “Is it hard being a lobbyist?”

  “It’s interesting,” she said. “It’s hard work but interesting.”

  “That’s the best kind.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Oh, really,” she said, as if he had announced his close connection to Al Capone. Anyone he ever mentioned Chicago to always brought up Capone. Either Capone or the Cubs.

  “So you know the presidential candidate for the Democrats?”

  “Brocko? Love him! He’s the great new thing. He’s a writer himself. I wonder if he’s here.” Now Baker, as if in mimicry, turned and looked over both of his shoulders.

  “He’s probably out with his terrorist friends,” Linda said.

  “He has terrorist friends?” Bake himself had a terrorist friend. Midwesterners loved their terrorist friends, who were usually fine and boring citizens still mythically dining out on the sins of long-ago youth. They never actually killed anyone—at least not intentionally. They aged and fattened in the ordinary fashion. They were rehabilitated. They served their time. And, well, if they didn’t, because of infuriating class privilege that allowed them to just go on as if nothing had ever happened, well, they raised each other’s children and got advanced degrees and gave back to society in other ways. He supposed. He didn’t really know much about Chicago. He was actually from Michigan, but when going anywhere he always flew out of O’Hare.

  “Uh, yeah. That bomber who tried to blow up federal buildings right here in this town.”

  “When Brocko was a kid? That sixties guy? But Brocko doesn’t even like the sixties. He thinks they’re so … sixties. The sixties took his mother on some wild ride away from him.”

  “The sixties made him, my friend.”

  Bake looked at her more closely. Now he could see she wasn’t Asian. She had simply had some kind of plastic surgery: skin was stretched and draped strangely around her eyes. A botched eye job. A bad face-lift. An acid peel. Whatever it was: Suzy would know exactly.

  “Well, he was a young child.”

  “So he says.”

  “Is there some dispute about his age?”

  “Where is his birth certificate?”

  “I have no idea,” said Bake. “I have no idea where my own is.”

  “Here is my real problem: this country was founded by and continues to be held together by people who have worked very hard to get where they are.”

  Bake shrugged and wagged his head around. Now would not be the time to speak of timing. It would be unlucky to speak of luck. Could he speak of people having things they didn’t deserve, in a roomful of such people? She continued. “And if you don’t understand that, my friend, then we cannot continue this conversation.”

  The sudden way in which the whole possibility of communication was now on the line startled him. “I see you’ve researched the founding of this country.” He would look for common ground.

  “I watched John Adams on HBO. Every single episode.”

  “Wasn’t the guy who played George Washington uncanny? I did think Jefferson looked distractingly like Martin Amis. I wonder if Martin is here?” He looked over his shoulders again. He needed Martin Amis to get over here right now and help him.

  Linda looked at him fiercely. “It was a great miniseries and a great reminder of the founding principles of our nation.”

  “Did you know George Washington was afraid of being buried alive?”

  “I didn’t know about that.”

  “The guy scarcely had a fear except for that one. You knew he freed his slaves?”

  “Hmmmm.”

  She was eating; he was not. This would not work to his advantage. Nonetheless he went on. “Talk about people who’ve toiled hard in this country—and yet, not to argue with your thesis too much, those slaves didn’t all get ahead.”

  “Your man Barama, my friend, would not even be in the running if he wasn’t black.”

  Now all appetite left him entirely. The food on his plate, whatever it was, splotches of taupe, dollops of orange, went abstract like a painting. His blood pressure flew up; he could feel the pulsing twitch in his temple. “You know, I never thought about it before but you’re right! Being black really is the fastest, easiest way to get to the White House!”

  She said nothing, and so he added, “Unless y
ou’re going by cab, and then, well, it can slow you down a little.”

  Chewing, Linda looked at him, a flash in her eyes. She swallowed. “Well, supposedly we’ve already had a black president.”

  “We have?”

  “Yes! A Nobel Prize—winning author said so!”

  “Hey. Take it firsthand from me: don’t believe everything that a Nobel Prize winner tells you. I don’t think a black president ever gets to become president when his nightclub-singer mistress is holding press conferences during the campaign. That would be—that would be a white president. Please pass the salt.”

  The shaker appeared before him. He shook some salt around on his plate and stared at it.

  Linda made a stern, effortful smile, struggling to cut something with her knife. Was it meat? Was it poultry? It was consoling to think that, for a change, the rich had had to pay a pretty penny for their chicken while his was free. But it was not consoling enough. “If you don’t think I as a woman know a thing or two about prejudice, you would be sadly mistaken,” Linda said.