by Ben Greenman
“These cards aren’t yours,” said Ireland, turning around. “Mom gave them to me.”
“You are telling lies, you are telling lies!” said Alec Baldwin, growing more and more irritated. “You are always lying! What is your problem?”
Ireland leapt up, and moving her face in close, stared at her father. Her big eyes first began blinking, then were dimmed with moisture, and the girl’s face began working.
“But why are you yelling?” said Ireland. “Why are you mean to me? I am not doing anything wrong. I was just sitting here and you’re mad. Why are you yelling?”
The girl spoke with conviction, and cried so bitterly that Alec Baldwin felt conscience-stricken.
Yes, really, why am I doing this? he thought. “Come on,” he said, touching the girl on the shoulder. “I am sorry, Ireland. Forgive me. You are my good girl. I love you.”
Ireland wiped her eyes with his sleeve, sat down, with a sigh, in the same place and began cutting out the queen. Alec Baldwin went off to his own room. He stretched himself on the sofa, and putting his hands behind his head, sank into thought. The girl’s tears had softened his anger, and by degrees the oppression on his conscience grew less. He felt nothing but exhaustion and hunger.
“Dad,” he heard on the other side of the door, “can I show you my collection of insects?”
“Yes, show me.”
Ireland came into the study and handed her father a long green box. Before raising it to his ear Alec Baldwin could hear a despairing buzz and the scratching of claws on the sides of the box. Opening the lid, he saw a number of butterflies, beetles, grasshoppers, and flies fastened to the bottom of the box with pins. All except two or three butterflies were still alive and moving.
“The grasshopper is still alive!” said Ireland in surprise. “I caught him yesterday morning, and he is still alive!”
“Who taught you to pin them this way?”
“Jenny did.”
“Jenny ought to be pinned down like that herself!” said Alec Baldwin. “Take them away! It’s shameful to torture animals. And it’s strange for a girl to do this, at any rate. Cards, insects: it’s almost as if you have your own personality.”
How horribly she is being brought up! he thought as Ireland went out.
Alec Baldwin forgot his exhaustion and hunger, and thought of nothing but his girl’s future. Meanwhile, outside the light was gradually fading. . . . He could hear the summer visitors trooping back from the beach. Someone was stopping near the open dining-room window and shouting: “Do you want any mushrooms?” And getting no answer, shuffled on with bare feet. At last, when the dusk was so thick that the outlines of the flowers behind the muslin curtain were lost, and whiffs of the freshness of evening were coming in at the window, he heard noises up the path, footsteps crunching the gravel, talk and laughter.
“Mom!” shrieked Ireland.
Alec Baldwin peeped out of his study and saw his wife, Kim, healthy and rosy as ever; with her he saw Mary Steenburgen, a tall woman with dark hair and a long thin neck; and two younger men: one a lanky fellow with a manicured look and a goatee; the other a short stubby man with a shaven face and a bluish crooked chin. Jenny was trailing behind them, carrying a box.
“Jenny, can you mix up some drinks?” said Kim. “It looks like Alec has finally shown up. Alec, where are you?” she said, running into the study breathlessly. “So you’ve come. I’m glad. I brought some people over from Mary and Ted’s. Come, I’ll introduce you.”
“Just tell me who they are. They look vaguely familiar.”
“The tall one is Will.i.am. He sings and produces music. The other one, the shorter man, is Tracy Morgan, who is an actor and a comedian. We’re going to use them both for the benefit this weekend. Oh, how tired I am! We were singing while Ted played the piano.”
“Why did you bring them here?” asked Alec Baldwin.
“I couldn’t help it. After dinner I want Will to go through his songs. Oh, yes, I almost forgot! Will you send Jenny to get some thin-sliced prosciutto, cheese, fruit, and something else? Will.i.am and Tracy Morgan might stay to eat. Oh, how tired I am!”
“I don’t have money for Jenny.”
“Sure you do.”
Half an hour later Jenny was sent to the store. Alec Baldwin, after drinking a glass of red wine and eating a whole loaf of bread, went to his bedroom and lay down on the bed, while Kim and her visitors, with much noise and laughter, set to work to rehearse their songs. For a long time Alec Baldwin heard Tracy Morgan’s voice and some kind of drumming he supposed came from Will.i.am. The rehearsal was followed by a long conversation, interrupted by Mary’s shrill laughter.
Then followed more singing, and then the clattering of crockery. Through his drowsiness Alec Baldwin heard them persuading Patton Oswalt to perform scenes from movies he had been in, and heard him, after affecting to refuse, begin to recite. He hissed, beat himself on the chest, wept, laughed in a husky bass. Alec Baldwin scowled and hid his head under the quilt.
“It’s a long way for you to go, and it’s dark,” he heard Kim’s voice an hour later. “Why shouldn’t you stay the night here? Will.i.am can sleep here on the sofa, and you, Tracy Morgan, in Ireland’s bed. I can put her in Alec’s study. Do stay, really!”
At last, when the clock was striking midnight, all was hushed, the bedroom door opened, and Kim appeared.
“Alec, are you asleep?” she whispered.
“No; why?”
“Go into your study and lie on the sofa. I am going to let Mary sleep in here with me. I’d put her in the study, but she is afraid to sleep alone. Come on.”
Alec Baldwin got up, threw on his robe, and taking his pillow, crept wearily to the study. Feeling his way to his sofa, he reached for a lamp, turned it on, and saw Ireland lying on the sofa. The girl was not asleep. She was staring at the ceiling with wide eyes:
“Dad, why don’t mosquitoes sleep at night?” she asked.
“Because we’re not wanted. We have nowhere to even rest for a minute.”
“And why does Mary have dark hair now when her hair used to be light?”
“That’s enough questions for today. Maybe forever.”
After a moment’s thought Alec Baldwin dressed and went outside to walk along the road. He looked at the gray sky, at the motionless clouds, heard the lazy call of a seabird, and began dreaming of the next day, when he could send Kim off to practice for the benefit, and Ireland with her, and he could tumble into bed. After a little while he saw a car parked on the shoulder. It was running and the lights were on. A man was sitting in the driver’s seat.
Maybe it’s the police, thought Alec Baldwin. They patrolled sometimes late at night. He waved, as he was accustomed to doing with police. But as he drew closer, he recognized the man from the ferryboat, the one with the salmon pants.
“Hey,” Alec Baldwin said, tapping on the window. The man rolled it down. “You live around here?”
“Just up the road,” sighed Salmon Pants.
“Why aren’t you there now?”
“My wife’s mother came in late this evening. She brought our nieces with her. Great girls, but when you get three generations of related women together, well, let’s just say that it was time for me to go for a little drive. Are you enjoying your evening?”
“Yes,” said Alec Baldwin. “It’s hard to imagine anything quite so pleasant. Do you know if there is any kind of restaurant open this late on this part of the island?”
Salmon Pants raised his eyes to heaven and meditated profoundly.
Chapter 11
Joy
IT WAS TWELVE O’CLOCK AT NIGHT.
Kim Kardashian, with excited face and ruffled hair, flew into her family’s house and hurriedly ran through all the rooms. Her parents had already gone to bed. Her sisters were awake, trying on lingerie. Her stepbrother was looking at himself in the mirror.
“Where have you come from?” her sister Khloe cried in amazement. “What is the matter with you?”
<
br /> “Oh, don’t ask! I never expected it; no, I never expected it! It’s positively incredible!”
Kim laughed and sank into an armchair, so overcome by happiness that she could not stand on her legs.
“It’s incredible! You can’t imagine! Look!”
Her other sister, Kourtney, threw a quilt round her and went in to fetch their stepbrother Brody. He came into the room, holding a hand mirror. Within a moment Kim’s parents were in the room as well.
“What’s the matter?” her mother said. “You don’t look like yourself!”
“It’s because I am so happy. The whole world knows me! The whole world! Until now only you knew that there was a girl called Kim Kardashian, and now the whole world knows it! Mama! Thank heavens!”
Kim jumped up, ran up and down all the rooms, and then sat down again.
“What has happened? Tell us sensibly!”
“You live like wild beasts, you don’t watch very much television and take no notice of what’s online, and there’s so much that is interesting there. If anything happens it’s all known at once, nothing is hidden! How happy I am! Oh, Lord! You know it’s only celebrated people whose names are published online, and now they have gone and published mine!”
“What do you mean? Where?”
Kim’s stepfather, Bruce Jenner, turned pale. Her mother crossed herself. Brody looked at her and then looked back into the hand mirror.
“Yes! My name has been published! Now all the world knows of me! Bookmark that page and print it out in memory! We will read it sometimes! Look!”
Kim went to the computer, tapped a series of keys, and then pointed to a paragraph on the screen.
“Read it!” she said to Bruce Jenner.
He put on his glasses.
“Read it!”
Kim’s mother crossed herself again. Bruce Jenner cleared his throat and began to read: “ ‘We will all be hearing more of Kim Kardashian soon . . .’ ”
“You see, you see! Go on!”
“ ‘. . . since an intimate video starring Kardashian and her ex-boyfriend has been confirmed . . .’ ”
“That’s me and Ray J . . . it’s all described exactly! Go on! Listen!”
“ ‘. . . and will be released later this month. The tape, which Vivid reportedly acquired for one million dollars, includes more than thirty minutes of explicit sexual activity . . .’ ”
“Go on! Read the rest!”
“ ‘It was filmed a few years ago, when Kardashian and her boyfriend, an R&B singer named Ray J . . .’ ”
“I told you. Ray J! But keep reading. There’s more about me.”
“ ‘Initially, Kardashian tried to block the release of the tape, but at length came to an agreement with the distribution company.’ ”
“That’s right. I’m being distributed. You have read it now? Good! So you see. It’s all over the Internet, which means it’s all over the world! Give it here!”
Kim closed the window and turned away from the computer.
“I have to go around the neighborhood and show this to a bunch of other people . . . the Gastineaus . . . the Hiltons. . . . Must run! Good-bye!”
Kim put on her hat and, joyful and triumphant, ran into the street.
Chapter 12
At the Barber’s
IT IS NOT YET SEVEN O’CLOCK, BUT THE BARBERSHOP IS ALREADY open. The barber himself, an unwashed, greasy youth of twenty-three, is busy clearing up; there is really nothing to be cleared away, but he is perspiring with his exertions. In one place he polishes with a rag, in another he scrapes with his finger or catches a bug and brushes it off the wall.
The barber’s shop is small, narrow, and unclean. The walls are hung with faded paper decorated with cowboy hats and tin stars. Between the two dingy, perspiring windows there is a thin, creaking, rickety door, and above it a bell that trembles and gives a sickly ring of itself without provocation. Glance into the mirror that hangs on one of the walls, and it distorts your face in all directions in the most merciless way! The shaving and haircutting is done before this mirror. On the little table, as greasy and unwashed as the barber himself, there is everything: combs, scissors, razors, wax for the moustache, powder, watered-down cologne. The whole shop is not worth more than five hundred dollars.
There is a squeaking sound from the bell and an older man in a tanned sheepskin coat and high felt overboots walks into the shop. His head and neck are wrapped in a black scarf.
This is Billy Ray Cyrus, who patronizes the shop as a result of his friendship with the barber’s father.
“Good morning, son!” he says to the barber, who is absorbed in tidying up.
They shake hands. Billy Ray Cyrus drags his scarf off his head and sits down.
“What a long way it is!” he says, sighing and clearing his throat. “It’s no joke! From my house to here is almost two hours.”
“How are you?”
“Feeling poorly. I’ve had a fever.”
“A fever!”
“Yes, I have been in bed almost a week; I thought I might die. Then I had some complication, some vitamin deficiency, and a clump of my hair came out. Now my hair’s coming out. The doctor says I must be shaved. He says the hair will grow again strong. So that’s why I’m here. Better you than a stranger. You’ll do it better and won’t make me feel strange about it. Plus, it’s free. Except for the two-hour drive.”
“Of course. With pleasure. Please sit down.”
With a scrape of his foot the barber indicates a chair. Billy Ray Cyrus sits down and looks at himself in the glass and is apparently pleased with his reflection: the looking glass displays a face awry, with thin lips, a sharp nose, and eyes set high, almost in the forehead. The barber puts round his client’s shoulders a white sheet with yellow spots on it, and begins snipping with the scissors.
“I’ll shave you clean to the skin!” he says.
“Do it. I want to look like a bomb. The doctor says it’ll grow back thicker.”
“How’s Jackie Chan? The two of you are working on a movie together, right?”
“Yes. He sprained his ankle earlier this month.”
“His ankle? Too bad, though he must be used to that kind of thing. Hold your ear.”
“I am holding it. . . . Don’t cut me. Ouch! You are pulling my hair.”
“That doesn’t matter. We can’t help that in our work. And how is your daughter Miley?”
“Good, good. She was single for a bit, but then she got engaged. She’s going to have a big wedding. You should come.”
The scissors cease snipping. The young barber drops his hands and asks in a fright:
“Who is betrothed?”
“Miley.”
“How’s that? To whom?”
“To some guy named Steve. Steve Adams? He has a few stores near Sacramento. She swore off actors and celebrities, you know, because she doesn’t really need money. We were worried she wouldn’t find someone she could be herself around, but this guy seems great. We are all delighted. The wedding will be in two weeks. You should come; we will have a good time.”
“This is impossible,” says the barber, pale, astonished, and shrugging his shoulders. “It’s . . . it’s utterly impossible. Why, Miley . . . why I . . . why, I cherished sentiments for her, I had intentions. We spoke at length last summer about her decision to be done with actors. I thought she had a sense of me, of how I could make her happy. How could this be?”
“Why, we just went and betrothed her. He’s a good fellow.”
Cold drops of perspiration come on the face of the barber. He puts the scissors down on the table and begins rubbing his nose with his fist.
“I had intentions,” he says. “It’s impossible. I am in love with her and have just recently sent her a letter offering my heart. I have always respected you as though you were my father. I always cut your hair for nothing. When my father died you came in here and took some paintings off the walls and gave me nothing for them. Do you remember?”
“R
emember! Of course I do. I love you like a son. But do you think you are a pair with Miley? It seems unlikely. You have no money and no standing. You are a barber.”
“And is Steve Adams rich?”
“Steve Adams is in sporting goods. He’s a little older than you are. He owns his house. Look. It’s no good talking about it. The thing’s done. You must look out for another bride. The world is not so small. Come, cut away. Why are you stopping?”
The barber remains motionless for a while. When he moves, it is to take a handkerchief out of his pocket. He begins to cry into it.
“What is it?” Billy Ray Cyrus comforts him. “Stop it. Damn it, you’re crying like an old woman! Finish my head and then cry. Don’t put down the clippers!”
The barber takes up the clippers, stares vacantly at them for a minute, then drops them again on the table. His hands are shaking.
“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t do it just now. I haven’t the strength! I am a miserable man! And she is miserable, I’m sure, with Steve Adams! Last summer we pledged our love to one another. We gave each other our promise. Now we have been separated by unkind people without any pity. Go away! I can’t bear the sight of you.”
Billy Ray Cyrus comes to his feet. “So I’ll come tomorrow. You’ll finish up then.”
“Right.”
“Get calm, and I’ll come by early in the morning.”
Billy Ray Cyrus has half his head shaven to the skin and looks like a convict. It is awkward to be left with a head like that, but there is no help for it. He wraps his head in the scarf and walks out of the barbershop. Left alone, the barber sits down and goes on quietly weeping.
Early the next morning the bell squeaks and Billy Ray Cyrus comes into the shop.
“What do you want?” the barber asks him coldly.
“Finish cutting my hair. There is half the head left to do.”
“Kindly give me the money in advance. I won’t cut it for nothing.”
Without saying a word, Billy Ray Cyrus goes out, and to this day his hair is long on one side of the head and short on the other. He regards it as extravagance to pay for having his hair cut and is waiting for the hair to grow of itself on the shaven side.