Bright, Precious Days

by Jay McInerney

  While it looked as if they could probably stay on through Labor Day, it was now clear this would be their last summer there, and that the house itself, after surviving a hundred and fifty years of hurricanes and nor’easters, would succumb to the wrecking ball, a fact that further eroded Russell’s self-esteem, and added to his sense that the world as he knew it was crumbling around him. How was it that after working so hard and by many measures succeeding and even excelling in his chosen field, he couldn’t afford to save this house that meant so much to his family? Their neighbors seemed to manage, thousands of people no smarter than he was—less so, most of them—except perhaps in their understanding of the mechanics of acquisition. Partly, he knew, it was his lack of the mercenary instinct. Never caring enough about getting and keeping and compounding, he’d felt himself above such considerations and stayed true to the ideals he’d formed in college, at the expense of his future. If he’d been savvy and resourceful, he could have bought this house years ago, or, more important, a place to live in the city, but as things stood, he owned nothing; he’d missed the biggest real estate boom of his lifetime and even now that the bubble was bursting, his own finances were more precarious than ever. It was increasingly difficult to avoid the conclusion that he was, by the conventional measures of familial and professional achievement, a failure.

  —

  Russell stayed at the beach throughout August, working mornings at the rickety wicker desk in the den overlooking the potato fields. For the first time in many years, he declined an invitation to play in the artists’ and writers’ softball game—an event that had its origins in a pickup game back in the fifties with the likes of de Kooning and Pollock and Franz Kline nursing their hangovers on a scrubby lawn in the unfashionable town of Springs; the game had later been infiltrated by art critics and other writers, eventually becoming an annual spectacle in which movie stars and politicians vied for spots in the lineup, the painters claiming the actors as fellow artists; the politicians usually played with the writers—an acknowledgment, as one novelist suggested, of their accomplishments in the field of fiction. By virtue of his occasional essays and book reviews, Russell had qualified as a writer and had played for years, and while the mode of the event was more comic than epic, he’d prided himself on his accomplishments on the field, dependable and, occasionally, distinguished. This year, he just didn’t have it in him.

  After moving out to the beach, he found time for simpler pleasures—cooking for the family, seeking out the best tomatoes and corn and fresh fish; fishing, playing tennis and bodysurfing with Jeremy. He watched John Edwards admitting his extramarital affair on ABC; he watched hours of the summer Olympics with the kids. He liked to think he was comporting himself as a model father and husband, largely avoiding the big social events, the benefits under the big white tents, the clambakes on the beach and the movie premieres in Southampton and East Hampton. He told Corrine he was sick of all that, that he wanted to cherish, with her and the kids, these final days in this house where they’d spent their summers for twenty years. Corrine was too smart to buy it but too loving to call him on it, except once. They were curled up together in bed on a night when they’d skipped a party he’d enjoyed for years. “It’s been so nice,” she said, “these past few weeks, I could happily skip the next hundred cocktail parties, but I know it’s like a punishment for you. I’ve waited for years for you to get a little weary of the endless social treadmill, but I hate to see you crawl away and hide like a criminal.”

  “I have gotten a little weary of it,” he said. “Suddenly the whole thing seems empty and exhausting. August in the Hamptons—it’s not relaxing; it’s work. It’s like climbing Everest.”

  “It’s been like that for a long time, but you never complained before.”

  “We all have our tipping point.”

  “Have you given any more thought to whether we’re going to have the party?”

  Russell had previously had the excuse that they might be thrown out of the house on a week’s notice, but now their residency was secured through Labor Day. “It’s a lot of work,” he muttered.

  “Come on, Russell, it’s only three weeks till Labor Day. I can’t believe I’m having to talk you into this party, but people have been calling to ask me about it. You’ve created a tradition.”

  “Corrine’s right, actually,” Washington said the next night as they stood amid the throng at the bar of the American Hotel in Sag Harbor. They’d just finished two sets of tennis at the public courts down the road and Washington had insisted on buying the loser a gin and tonic. “You’ve kept your head down for a while now, but it’s time to get back out there. Not having the party’s like some admission of guilt. I mean, how many books have you published in your career? Two hundred? Three? You made a bad call, and it’s too bad, Crash, but you’ve got to get back on the goddamn horse. You’ve done your time in the wilderness and we’re all ready to forgive, forget and party on.”

  “There’s also a question of funds. Kohout wasn’t just a PR disaster. I lost more than half a million bucks.”

  “How much do you need? For the party, I mean.”

  “I can’t take your money.”

  “Call it a loan, then. I need this fucking party.”

  —

  That same night, Steve Goldberg, the coach of the writers’ softball team, called to appeal to him to play the next day. An old friend or at least acquaintance of Russell’s, Steve was a sportswriter for the Times. “We need you out there, Russell. The fucking artists have a couple of ringers this year; they’ve got this guy Junior Gonzales who played in the minors for the Yankee organization. Apparently, he made a ceramic frog in sixth grade and that qualifies him as an artist.”

  “I’d love to, but I’ve got a lunch,” Russell said.

  “What fucking lunch? This is the game, Russell. Lunch happens every day. The writers need your help.” It was supposed to be a fun, even frivolous, event, a fund-raiser for local charities, but Steve took it very seriously.

  In the end, Russell allowed himself to be bullied into it. Applying Washington’s rationale for the party, he told himself this was as good a way as any of showing that he wasn’t down-and-out; the game was virtually the only public event of the season out here, most functions taking place behind tall hedges, at the end of gated driveways manned by security guards with guest lists on clipboards.

  “I’m glad you’re playing,” Corrine said. “I’ll be over after I drop the kids off at the Toomeys’.”

  By the time the first ball was thrown out by an Iraq vet with prosthetic legs, some five hundred spectators had gathered along the first and third baselines. Color commentary was provided by Tim Watkins, the NBC correspondent, who introduced Russell as “editor extraordinaire and Most Valuable Player in 2004.”

  He started as catcher and hit a hard grounder for a single in the second inning. Corrine arrived as he was donning his mask for the third inning. Three plays later, with the bases loaded, Tom Jarrow, the artist, whacked a high fly into center field. Russell ripped off his mask and took a wide stance over home plate. The runners held their bases until the center fielder made the catch and threw the ball to the second baseman, who spun and threw it to Russell as the runner on third charged in. It wasn’t a great throw and Russell had to reach high for it as he kept his foot on the plate. Though he was confident the ball was within reach, it somehow tipped the top edge of his glove and bounced off, hitting the backstop as the runner scored home. Russell couldn’t believe he’d blown the catch, and the shock of it paralyzed him even as he registered the runner from second base approaching at full speed; he felt as if he were swimming through mud as he launched himself toward the backstop and finally snatched the ball just as the second guy sailed over home plate for another run.

  The hubbub from the artists’ side of the field underscored the terrible silence on his own side. No one said a word as Russell threw the ball back to the pitcher.

  The writers were stoic as the next
batter drove in the last man on base, giving the artists a two-run lead. When the inning finally ended with the next batter popping up, Russell had no choice but to remove his catcher’s mask and join his teammates on the third baseline, standing among them like an invisible man, a pariah, as they encouraged one another with formulaic exhortations. But after four innings of steady hits, his side went down in quick succession—three batters and three outs—as if his error had disheartened and deflated them.

  “I’m putting Riley in as catcher,” Steve told him as the writers took the field. Benched for the rest of the game and thus denied an opportunity for redemption, Russell felt himself excluded from the camaraderie of the dugout, the backslaps and the high fives. He found himself wishing the artists would widen their lead beyond two runs, the margin of his error, but in the end that’s what the writers lost by, and while no one expressed the sentiment, he knew they all thought he’d lost the game.

  “You have to let the artists win once in a while,” Corrine said, taking his arm as they retreated to the parking lot. “I mean, haven’t you guys won the last three years?”

  “Please don’t try to cheer me up,” Russell snapped. “That was possibly the most mortifying moment of my adult life,” he added.

  “Oh, come on, it’s just a game.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s never just a game.”

  —

  Two weeks later, their friends came out in force, including Steve Goldberg, who made no reference to the game. What he could not have predicted was the number of strangers who showed up, some in the company of invitees and some simply drawn by the buzz, like fish responding to chum in the water. A rock star with a home down the street arrived with a brand-new girlfriend on his arm—a debut that dominated the coverage of the party in the gossip press, which identified the mystery woman as a celebrity spinning instructor who’d previously been involved with the former wife of a hedge fund manager.

  More significant to Russell were the graying literary lions who paid their respects. As the night progressed, the new arrivals became younger and less familiar, a fistfight broke out between romantic rivals, and the booze ran out just as the cops arrived in response to complaints from the neighbors.

  The success of the party briefly revived Russell’s spirits, although the hangover the next morning and the eventual bill for damage and cleanup quickly dampened them, as did, later, after they’d returned to the city, the description of him in New York magazine’s paragraph on the party as “the editor behind the recent faux hostage scandal.”

  38

  WHERE? WHAT?

  She woke feeling anxious, as if she’d left some mundane but important task unfinished the day before, and it wasn’t until she turned on the news that she was reminded of the date. Outside, according to the local Eyewitness News team, it was once again sunny and clear, as it had been that brilliant, balmy day seven years ago, with its cleansing breeze from the west, which bent the plumes of smoke from the towers east toward Brooklyn and beyond, as if pointing toward the ultimate source of the destruction. Russell had already fed the children and taken them up to their new school.

  She carried her coffee to the front of the loft, looking out the windows, which needed washing, past the fire escape at the brilliant slot of blue sky where the twin towers had once loomed. Her phone chirped as she sipped her coffee. The caller ID showed Luke’s number.

  “Are you back in the city?”

  “Indeed,” Luke said. “Would it be disrespectful to say ‘Happy Anniversary’?”

  “Actually, we met on the twelfth,” she said.

  This summer he’d been traveling in Europe with his daughter and winding things down at the winery in South Africa, which he was in the process of selling. They’d spoken frequently, but she hadn’t seen him since just before she’d moved out to the Hamptons, and he hadn’t bombarded her with proposals.

  “Can we meet for a drink?”

  “Is that a euphemism?”

  “If you want it to be, it is.”

  “Where?”

  “You could come here, see my new place. I’ve sublet a loft in SoHo.”

  “Well, that’s certainly convenient,” she said. “I can’t tonight, we’ve got a screening.”

  “Tomorrow night, then.”

  —

  It would have been simpler, less nerve-racking, less fatal to her sense of the innocence of her intentions, to go to Luke directly from the office. She’d already told Russell that morning that she was having drinks with her colleague Sandy, preparing her excuse in advance. Yet here she was again in front of the vanity, having left work early, touching up her makeup and her hair. As she waited for Russell to get home, she gave herself a final check in the mirror and was startled when she saw Storey framed in the glass, behind her.

  “Gosh, you scared me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m having a drink with Sandy, from work. She’s getting married.”

  Storey seemed on the verge of delivering some sort of challenge, but then she turned and disappeared.

  When Corrine emerged from the bedroom, Russell was at the kitchen counter, pouring Maker’s Mark into a glass. It was not a festive cocktail, but a palliative one—such was clear from his drawn mouth and drooping posture.

  “Are you going out?”

  “Meeting Sandy for drinks. Remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  “You’re awfully dressed up for just Sandy,” Storey said.

  “I’ve had this dress for ages,” Corrine said, trying to control the timbre of her voice.

  “Why are you wearing your black lace bra?” Storey said.

  “What? How could you possibly know what bra I’m wearing?”

  “I saw it laid out on your bed.”

  She froze, trying to decide whether to deny the charge, but Russell seemed indifferent.

  “You only wear that bra on date nights with Dad.”

  “Sometimes it makes me feel better to wear something nice underneath. Especially when I don’t feel like going out. It’s a way of psyching myself up.”

  That Storey’s suspicions were essentially correct only served to exasperate Corrine. Why was she so mistrustful and hostile to her own mother? So bitchy? She clearly sensed something was not as it should be. Corrine had always worried about Russell finding out, imagined the scenes and the possible outcomes, but the idea that one of her children might discover her secret had somehow never occurred to her. And had Russell just now turned and walked to the couch, plunking himself down in front of the news, because he was suspicious, or angry? Or was he utterly oblivious? The latter, she decided, when she walked over to check, ostensibly to bid him farewell. He was watching something on CNBC about Lehman Brothers—the company logo plastered at the top of the screen above a bunch of talking heads. Jeremy plopped down beside his father. She kissed them both on the top of the head.

  Storey allowed herself to be kissed on the cheek. Corrine couldn’t think of anything to say to her; instead, she tried out an indulgent smile that was meant to indicate tolerant bemusement. If she thought she was going to shame Corrine into changing her course of action, she was entirely mistaken.

  —

  Decanted from the cab into the glistening street, contemplating the entrance of the building, she felt a weird frisson of recognition. She was almost certain she’d been here many years ago, visiting Jeff—thought she recognized the elaborately ornamented cast-iron facade and Corinthian columns framing the tall, arched windows, although the building she remembered had had a filthy, sooty facade, with rust showing through the peeling paint. But, of course, the neighborhood had been transformed, like the rest of the city. It sort of made her sad, how polished and prosperous and tasteful it had become, like the streets of SoHo, the real art galleries long ago replaced by shopping mall versions selling mass editions of Erté and Dalí and Chagall to the tourists—as if gentrification were a disservice to Jeff’s memory, as if everything should have stayed di
rty and dangerous forever.

  Beside the door, in place of the series of assorted buzzers and doorbells mounted on plywood that she thought she remembered was a sleek stainless-steel panel with five identical buttons, each with an apartment number engraved beside it. Pressing 5, as instructed, she remembered Jeff leaning out of a window four or five stories up, throwing down a piece of wood with a key attached by a chain.

  Luke’s metallic voice on the intercom: “Come in. I’ll send the elevator down for you.”

  There hadn’t been an elevator then, had there? Or if there had been, it was broken, like practically everything else in the city back then. She recalled a long, ramshackle staircase, rising and receding toward the back of the building.

  Luke was waiting at the elevator door, which opened directly into the loft. “Welcome.”

  She wasn’t sure how it would feel to see him, but once she kissed him, everything came back to her.

  He beckoned her inside with a broad sweep with his left arm to encompass the wide-open space, the high ceilings supported by a central colonnade of Corinthian columns with tall, arched windows on either end. Unlikely as it was, it might have been the same apartment, but she couldn’t be certain. The furniture was haute loft—two chrome and leather Corbusier sofas, Marcel Breuer chairs. Big colorful Frank Stella geometric prints on the far wall, along with an Andy Warhol flower series litho and a big abstract color-field painting she couldn’t identify. This could be any loft in SoHo, she thought, or, for that matter, in any city in the country.

  “It came furnished,” he said, observing her scrutiny. “Though the owner removed the expensive artwork and put it in storage. Apparently, he had a Bacon. All in all, not particularly original, I admit.”

  “No, it’s nice,” she said. “It’s just, for a minute I thought I’d been here before.”