A Permanent Member of the Family

by Russell Banks

  With a certain intensity, as if relieved, everyone drank, as if thirsty, and everyone ate, as if hungry. They talked politics for a while, local and state—they were all slightly to the left of the current governor, a Democrat—and Ted gave a lengthy plot summary of a new PBS series, an Edwardian historical romance now in its fourth week that none of the others had seen.

  There was a lull in the conversation, when suddenly Joan turned to Erik and in a voice shaking with emotion said, “You’ll still be friends with us, won’t you, Erik? Even though you’ll be rich now. And famous.”

  Erik laughed, as much at the absurdity of her concern as the idea of his being rich and famous, and said, “Yes, I’ll always love you and Ted. And I’m not going to be anywhere near as rich and famous as you think. Divide half a million bucks by five, and you come out with a little more than my annual Skidmore salary.”

  “So you say now,” Joan said. “But, Erik, none of us will ever be a MacArthur. None of us will ever be a certified genius.” She looked frightened and a little mystified, as if she’d received a threatening phone call. “We’re not your peers anymore, Erik. Maybe we never were. None of us is ever going to be rich and famous because of our work and our personal magnetism and so on. They’ll never give a MacArthur for touch healing, will they? Or for running a small-town newspaper. Or weaving. Or photography. There’s never been a MacArthur given to a photographer, has there, Sam? You’d know.”

  Sam said, “Actually, there have been a fair number of photographers who’ve received MacArthurs. There was Uta Barth and An-My Lê a year or two ago. Conceptual photographers, not my cup of tea. And of course Lee Friedlander and Cindy Sherman before that. Not my cups of tea, either.”

  “But it’s for creative work, right? The MacArthur,” Ted said. “Or for out-of-the-box scientific research. That’s why it’ll never go to a newspaper editor or a journalist. Of course, we do have the Pulitzers. I can always hope for a Pulitzer,” he said and laughed heartily to show he was only kidding.

  Ellen said, “It’s possible for a weaver, though. Right? I mean, not saying it’s me who deserves one, but if her work is seen as more than just a craft, if it’s seen as art, it’s possible for a weaver to get a MacArthur. Right?”

  Everyone was silent for a moment. Then Joan said, “Right. Of course.”

  Sam said, “Definitely!”

  Ted said, “A hell of a lot more possible than for a journalist or an editor.”

  Erik didn’t say anything. He picked up his wineglass and gently rolled the stem, swirling the wine.

  Raphael looked around the table and said, “Okay, people, enough about your chances for fame and fortune. What about mine?”

  Ellen said, “Yours?”

  “Yes, Ellen. Mine. They give MacArthurs to writers, you know. And I’m a writer, remember?”

  Ted started clearing the dinner plates, and Sam stood up to help him. Erik made a move to help, saw the plates were already gone, and slumped back in his chair.

  Raphael continued, “Speaking strictly hypothetically, why not? I could be a ‘genius.’ Erik’s peer. Even though no one, not even my husband, has read my novel yet,” he said and smiled mischievously at Sam, who stood by the kitchen door, watching his husband back with the same wary eye Ellen kept on hers. After a few seconds, Sam sighed, gave it up and retreated to the kitchen.

  “But someday I will finish my novel,” Raphael said. “And then, who knows, maybe it’ll be published by an obscure avant-garde press in Brooklyn, instead of a big commercial house in Manhattan, and wowie, zowie, in a few years every hot young MFA writing student in the country could be imitating it in their workshops.”

  Erik shook his head and let himself smile.

  “Hey, don’t laugh, Erik, it happens! Which would oblige the professors of creative writing to actually read my novel, so they could know what the kids are raving about. And a few of those professors will be MacArthur jurors, and in the interests of impartiality, to fend off oedipal attacks, to look academically hip and tuned in to the literary Street and to protect their own largely ignored, middlebrow work, they’ll bypass the obviously more qualified novelists and anoint me with a MacArthur. And then I’ll be just like Erik! Then I too can truthfully say, ‘As far as I know, I have no friends or friends of friends or ex-professors of my own among the jurors,’ and can therefore attribute the award to dumb luck. A lottery ticket bought on a whim and forgotten in a jacket pocket like lint. Or, if I prefer, I can attribute it to my charisma and the grace said charisma attracts from above.”

  Joan said, “I’ll get the dessert from the kitchen,” and left the dining room.

  Ellen said, “I’ll help,” and followed, leaving Erik and Raphael alone facing each other across the table. Someone in the kitchen was grinding coffee beans.

  Erik reached for the half-emptied third bottle of wine and topped off his glass. “Tell me what the fuck that was all about,” he said. He pointed the open end of the bottle at Raphael’s glass.

  Raphael covered his glass with the flat of his hand. “No more for me, thanks. I’m driving.” He yawned and raised his left hand and checked his watch.

  Erik said, “Before you have to rush off, tell me what the fuck that was all about.”

  “What I’m saying is, you’re both wrong, you and Ted, and you’re both right. It is luck, as you say. But it’s also grace attracted to charisma, as Ted thinks. I.e., you are lucky to be charismatic enough to have attracted the attention of bountiful grace, tonight’s word for the eyes and ears of the world that surrounds us. Or at least the eyes and ears of the MacArthur Foundation.”

  “Bullshit. It’s about my work. Nothing else.”

  “You’ll agree that the value of any work of art at any given time is in the eye of the beholder. Right?”

  “Okay.”

  “And we’re talking here about how to influence that eye in order to give significant meaning to the work. Your gigantic bathrooms, for instance, and those outsize kitchens, they could be seen as meaningless. Or clichéd. They could be seen as fakery. But obviously they’re not. At least not anymore.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “No, when your installations are perceived by the MacArthur Foundation as works of genius, they can’t any longer be perceived as meaningless or clichéd. And thanks to the money and prestige of the award, not perceived as meaningless or clichéd by The New York Times, either, or by any of the rest of the media, and thus not by the nation or the world at large. You’ve seen reputations change overnight, Erik. Now it’s your turn. Ten or twelve so-called ‘genius grants’ a year of half a million bucks each gets people’s attention. Changes people’s minds. All of a sudden, tonight here in this room, as we have just witnessed, and in a few days all over the world, your enormous bathroom and kitchen appliance installations have acquired great meaning. You have acquired great meaning. Congratulations, Erik. You are about to be interviewed by The New York Times, NPR, PBS NewsHour, and by Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea. There’s probably already a profile in the works at The New Yorker by whatzizname, Peter Schjeldahl, the art critic who up to now has not once reviewed your work in those august pages.”

  Erik’s face had tightened like a fist. “Are you condescending to the MacArthur Foundation? Or to me?”

  “I’m not condescending to anyone. I’m ‘just sayin’,’ as the kids say.”

  They were both silent for a moment, and gradually Erik’s expression softened, as if he’d begun to agree with Raphael. “What’s happening here, Raphael? How come I’m fair game tonight? Before tonight you wouldn’t dare talk to me like this. You might think it, but you wouldn’t say it to my face.”

  “Yes, paradoxical, isn’t it? You win a MacArthur, and while the others feel intimidated and threatened by it, diminished by it, even Ellen, I feel sufficiently emboldened to attack you. Well, not attack you. Confront you. It’s as if in my eyes the MacArthur, by making you rich and famous, as Joan noticed, has weakened you somehow. But mayb
e, by the same token, since it’s no longer necessary to protect you from the truth, it’s also made you in a sense fair game, Erik.”

  Erik pushed his chair back and stood up. He saw Ellen emerge from the kitchen. She stopped at the far end of the table and stared at him. One by one, the others, Ted, Joan and Sam, followed and bunched together beside and behind her, like a chorus, all of them watching Erik as if he were alone on a darkened stage with a spotlight on him. Raphael, seated at the outer edge of the circle of light, hadn’t moved, except to cross his arms nonchalantly over his chest. He turned to one side, away from the others and pointedly away from Erik, as if showing them that he could meet Erik’s struck, angry, hurt gaze if he wanted to, but instead had merely elected to look elsewhere, as if giving Erik a moment alone to survey the damage that had been done to him.

  Erik said to Raphael, “Goddammit, look at me!”

  Slowly Raphael turned in his chair, and expressionless, as if deciding whether or not to take an incoming phone call, he gazed up at Erik.

  Erik turned away. He said to Ellen, “Let’s go. We’re leaving.”

  “Now?”

  “Now!”

  Joan said, “It’s snowing. Don’t you guys want to stay the night and go home in the morning? The guest room’s all made up.”

  Erik said, “We have to let the dogs out.”

  “They’re already out, Erik. They’re huskies,” Ellen said. “They love the snow.”

  Erik glared at her.

  “You’re gonna miss my rhubarb pie and ice cream dessert,” Joan said.

  “Then we have to let the dogs in,” Erik said. “In, out. It doesn’t matter, goddammit, we’re leaving,” he said.

  “You’re the one who wants to leave,” Ellen said and retook her seat next to Raphael. The others stood together in a group at the end of the table.

  Ted said to Erik, “C’mon, man, have another glass of wine and chill. Tonight’s huge, man. A cognac, maybe?”

  “Leave him alone,” Joan said to her husband. “He’s upset.”

  Sam said, “Rafe, honey, what’d you say that upset Erik? Do we need a time-out?” he said and laughed nervously.

  Raphael turned to Sam and said, “Erik was boiling mad and all conflicted when he got here. It wasn’t me who upset him. Erik wants his MacArthur to prove he’s a genius but fears it was given to him by mistake. That’s all.”

  Erik said, “Ellen, I’m going home. You can come with me or not, your choice,” he said and strode from the dining room.

  Ellen said to the others, “I guess it’s his party and he can ruin it if he wants to.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. To Raphael she said, “You’re not wrong about him. But you didn’t need to rub his face in it.” Then she lowered her head and left the room.

  By the time she got to the front hall coat closet, with Ted, Joan and Sam close behind her, Erik had already pulled on his shearling jacket. Sam placed a hand on Erik’s shoulder and in a low voice said, “Don’t let Rafe spoil anything for you, Erik. Really, it’s not personal. It’s just . . . I don’t know, maybe it’s his novel. He works so damned hard on it. But nothing ever satisfies him. He’s a perfectionist. So he tears it up and starts over. The frustration makes him seem intolerant sometimes. Or bitter.”

  Ted said, “For most of us life’s too short to be a perfectionist. And too sweet to be bitter. Right, Erik?”

  Erik looked back in the direction of the dining room and said nothing.

  Ted said, “Hey, listen, man, you drive carefully. And watch for cops. We’ve all had a few tonight, remember. And congratulations again, man. We are truly happy for you.”

  Erik nodded, opened the door and stepped outside into the blowing snow.

  Ellen gave Joan a quick hug and let Ted and Sam kiss her on the cheek. Then Raphael appeared and leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, too.

  She stood for a second at the open door and watched Erik walk heavily down the path, his tracks traipsing behind in the snow. She seemed to look more at the tracks than at the man making them, as if to see where he had been and not where he was going. Beyond the range of the porch light, his footprints diminished and disappeared in the darkness. They heard the car door open and thump shut.

  “I wonder if I should drive,” Ellen said.

  Sam said, “M’thinks so, m’dear.”

  “I’m sorry to leave so early,” Ellen said. “But it’s for the best.”

  “That’s all right,” Ted said. “We love Erik the way he is.”

  Joan said, “He’s our Erik, after all.”

  “And Rafe is our Rafe. And neither one of them is going to change,” Sam said and put a loving arm around his husband. He called into the whirling darkness, “Good night, Erik!”

  Ted said, “Hey, good night, man!”

  Raphael said, “Congratulations, Erik!”

  Joan said, “Yes. Good night, Erik. Goodbye, Ellen!”

  Ellen stepped down to the walkway and saw that Erik was in the driver’s seat and had started the car. The headlights cut pale wedges through the falling snow. She stood watching for a few seconds. Then she slowly turned around and walked back up the steps and through the open door into the house. The others followed her, and Raphael, the last to go inside, closed the door on the falling snow and the night.

  BLUE

  Ventana steps off the number 33 bus at 103rd Street and Northwest Seventh Avenue in Miami Shores. It’s almost 6:00 P.M., and at this time of year the city stays hot and sticky thick till the sun finally sets at 8:00. She walks quickly back along Seventh, nervous about carrying so much cash, thirty-five one-hundred-dollar bills. She doesn’t want to pay for the car with a check and then have to wait till the check clears before she can drive it home—no way a used-car dealer who doesn’t know her personally will accept a check from a black woman and let her take the goods home before the check clears. She wants the car now, today, so she can drive to work at Aventura tomorrow and for the first time park in the employees’ lot and on Sunday after church drive her own damn car, drive her own damn car, to the beach at Virginia Key with Gloria and the grandkids.

  The credit union closed at four so she took the money—one hundred dollars a month secretly saved over nearly three years—out of her account during her lunch break and later in the American Eagle ladies’ room stashed the packet of thirty-five bills in her brassiere. She wore a high-necked rayon blouse, even though she knew the day would be hot as Hades and the air-conditioning in the buses would likely be busted or weak. The number 33 at seven o’clock in the morning leaving from her block in Miami Shores to the number 3 in North Miami all the way out to Aventura Mall and then back again over the same route in late afternoon, early in the day or late, air conditioner working or not, it didn’t matter, she’d be in a serious sweat just from walking from the bus stop across the long lot to the entrance of the mall and back. And the day was hot from early to late, and she did sweat more than if she wore a sleeveless blouse or T-shirt, but she got through the afternoon with no one at American Eagle Outfitters knowing about the money she was carrying and is relieved now to be walking up Seventh and finally arriving at the gate of Sunshine Cars USA with the money still intact in her bra.

  She’s forty-seven years old and for twenty-five of those years has been a legally licensed driver in the state of Florida, but this will be the first car Ventana has ever owned herself. Her ex-husband, Gordon, when she was still married to him leased a new Buick every three years and let her drive it with him riding in the backseat as if she were his chauffeur; her son, Gordon Junior, when he went into the Navy bought a new Camaro with his enlistment bonus and parked it in her driveway and let her drive it while he was at sea until he couldn’t afford to insure it anymore and had to sell it; and for a few years her daughter, Gloria, owned an old clunker of a van she let Ventana borrow from time to time to help friends move in or out, but then the finance company repossessed it. In all those years Ventana did not have a car of her own. Until today.
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br />   Well, she really doesn’t own it; she hasn’t even picked her car out yet. Most of the vehicles for sale by Sunshine Cars USA are out of her price range, but she knows from reading the listings in the Miami Herald that Sunshine Cars USA nonetheless has dozens of what they call pre-owned cars for thirty-five hundred dollars and under: cars with one previous owner, cars with low mileage, cars less than ten years old, cars still shiny and stylish; Tauruses, Avengers, DeVilles, Grand Vitaras, Malibus, Fusions, Cobalts and Monte Carlos. Nearly every day for three years she has stopped on her way to catch the bus in the morning and on her way home at the end of the day and peered through the eight-foot-high iron spiked fence surrounding the lot and checked out the rows of sparkling vehicles for sale. She almost never passed the lot without saying to herself, That Chevrolet wagon looks about right for a woman like me, or, The black Crown Vic is more Gordon’s kind of ride, but I could live with it, or, Those SUV type vehicles are ugly, but they safe in an accident. Over the last three years she selected for herself hundreds of pre-owned cars and bought each of them on layaway, and until the car was actually sold off the lot to someone else, in her mind it remained hers. It was a trick she played on herself. It’s how she managed to accumulate the thirty-five hundred dollars—pretending each month that she was not saving the money, which is hard to do when you’re always short of cash at the end of the month. No, she wasn’t saving up to buy a car, she told herself, she was making a one-hundred-dollar layaway monthly payment toward her car, that’s what, and if she didn’t make her payment on time, she pretended the dealer would sell her car to a customer who had the cash in hand, and all the money she paid on it up to now would be wasted and gone. So she made her payment at the credit union, made it on time. Today, finally, Ventana is going to be the customer who has the cash in hand.