Bark: Stories (9 page)

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, waiting 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 you’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.

“Hey, it’s not that easy being a man, either,” said Bake. “There’s all that cash you have to spend on porn, and believe me, that’s money you never get back.”

He then retreated, turned toward his left, toward Suzy, and leaned in. “Help me,” he whispered in her ear.

“Are you charming the patrons?”

“I fear some object may be thrown.”

“You’re supposed to charm the patrons.”

“I know, I know, I was trying to. I swear. But she’s one of those who keeps referring to Brocko as Barama.” He had violated most of Suzy’s dinner talk rules already: no politics, no religion, no portfolio tips.
And unless you see the head crowning, never look at a woman’s stomach and ask if she’s pregnant
. He had learned all these the hard way.

But in a year like this one, there was no staying away from certain topics.

“Get back there,” Suzy said. The sculptor was tapping Suzy on the arm again.

He tried once more with Linda Santo the evil lobbyist. “Here’s the way I see it—and this I think you’ll appreciate. It would be great at long last to have a president in the White House whose last name ends with a vowel.”

“We’ve never had a president whose last name ended with a vowel?”

“Well, I don’t count Coolidge.”

“You’re from what part of Chicago?”

“Well, just outside Chicago.”

“Where outside?”

“Michigan.”

“Isn’t Michigan a long way from Chicago?”

“It is!” He could feel the cold air on the skin between his socks and his pant cuffs. When he looked at her hands they seemed frozen into claws.

“People talk about the rock-solid sweetness of the heartland, but I have to say: Chicago seems like a city that has taken too much pride in its own criminal activity.” She smiled grimly.