My American Unhappiness (28 page)

"Okay, well, I appreciate the heads-up, Romano."

"H. M.'s main concern was that this not be damaging to his family," Romano says. "And I know H. M. was a weird little fucker, but I like his wife. I fucked her a few times. You'd be surprised, Zeke, how some of them older broads look naked. They treat a man well. And I like his kids. So, anyway, don't talk to the press about his, you know, predilection for male ass. Let's try and keep everything as quiet as we can, especially the ass play."

"You're kidding me," I say. "I think that's a moot point."

"Is it?" Romano says. "I hope so."

"Never mind. Anyway, Mr. Romano, what about the estate? Do you know how much money Mr. Logan might have left to the Great Midwestern Humanities Initiative? I know this sounds crass, but we're in a dire way and this story is not going to help our fundraising situation any. Perhaps, if he does do something drastic, which I hope he doesn't do, perhaps we will be in the will?"

"Zeke, I like you. You're as sick and selfish as I am."

"Well," I say, "is there any money left? I'm desperate."

"Zeke, H. M. is pretty much broke. The investments he does have are sketchy. Like I said, I think all the money he planned to will to the GMHI was in a pretty shady Ponzi scheme. He put his money in with some Germans in New York and he couldn't get it out when he wanted to. This isn't going to be a quick process."

"I see," I say. "Well, forgive me for asking about it so quickly and crassly."

"Happens all the time," he says. "Trouble on the horizon, crows and vultures darken the sky."

"Rather poetic," I say. "Did you think that up?"

"Did," he says.

"Romano," I say, "you didn't really have sex with his wife, did you?"

"Somebody had to," Romano says.

"I suppose," I say.

"All right, that's all I know, Zeke. Best thing you can do is avoid answering phone calls from any number you don't recognize if you don't want a reporter or some Senate page harassing you. Am I programmed into your phone?"

"Yeah. It's sad to see that two lonely homosexuals couldn't have themselves a little horny getaway without it becoming national news. Not that I condone married men doing things like this. I respect the institution of marriage immensely—in fact, I'm getting married this year—but, you know what I mean?"

"Well, Leatherberry is—was—pretty much a lock for attorney general if the Republicans win in November. He's a hard-nosed maverick. That's hot right now. Anti-immigration, anti-Arab, you know? His people are scrambling to keep this quiet."

"I see."

"They won't though. That meddling public radio know-it-all Don Gonyea has been calling me all day, looking for dirt."

"Give him my number," I say. "I love Don Gonyea."

I hang up the phone and go back inside the Hospice Center. For two hours I sit beside my sleeping mother, but she doesn't wake up, so I kiss her forehead and go into the hall. One of the nursing assistants is coming into my mother's room as I am heading out.

"Your mother talks about you all the time," she says. "You must have been very close."

"I suppose," I say. "We've gotten closer. Lately."

"It's always my son Cougar this, and my son Cougar that," the nurse says. "She is so proud of you."

"Thank you," I say. "That means a lot."

Later that evening, back home in my study, I sip on a glass of Scotch, and then another. I leave messages for H. M., expressing my support. I leave apologetic messages for Elizabeth Vandeweghe. And for Lara Callahan. I leave a message for Minn at the Starbucks, but the barista who answers the phone is not sure when Minn will be back. And then, when I go into the kitchen for fresh ice, more Scotch, I look up at the
Simply You
prospect list taped to the fridge. After fixing a new drink, I take my phone into the living room, settle into my favorite reading chair, and call Sofia Coppola.

"Hello?" she says.

I nearly fall over onto the floor.

"Ms. Coppola?" I say.

"Who is this?" she says.

I almost say, "You don't know me" but realize, just in time, that there is no better way to invite a hang-up from a celebrity.

"It's Zeke Pappas," I say. "Remember? I'm the director of the Center for the Study of American Unhappiness."

"Okay," she says. "How did you get this number?"

Again, I know that keeping her on the phone is of paramount importance.

"Giovanni gave it to me," I say, flailing to make a credible guess.

"Rabissi?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"Okay," she says.

"He thought, well, he decided it would be okay because he really liked my project. He thought you'd be interested in it. It's a film version of an oral history I've been working on for a long time."

"You're serious?"

"Yes."

"Well, this isn't a good time. I'm about to meet some friends for dinner."

"Oh, who's that?"

"Pardon?" she says.

"Who might that be?" I ask, and then realize I have made a colossal error.

"Why don't you call my manager?" she says. "You can discuss that with her."

"And who is that?"

I take down a name and phone number, write it on a Post-it note, and then quickly type it into my laptop's phone book as well.

"Okay, well, thank you," I say. "I'll be in touch."

"And tell me your name again?" she says.

"Zeke Pappas. The Center for the Study of American Unhappiness. Madison, Wisconsin."

"Sounds interesting, Zeke," she says. "American Unhappiness. A good title."

"You think so?"

"Sure. Call my manager," she says.

"I will," I say. "I most definitely will!"

"After dinner, I need to board a plane with my husband," she says. "I gotta go."

"Pardon?" I say.

"I'm leaving, after dinner, on a plane with my husband. His band is doing a European tour and I've decided to go along."

"Jesus," I say. "How can that be?"

And then Sofia Coppola hangs up.

I have had dinner some evenings in the past, alone in the house, tucked away cozily in my small breakfast nook with a nourishing dish of chicken and peanut sauce or rice and beans, with Sofia Coppola's beaming face dining across from me, smiling in the modest blue glow of my iBook. Our conversation is jaunty and allusively flirtatious. Our courtship is torrid and brief. We can hardly get through our meal, her foot moving up and down my calf.

After dinner, I take my laptop up to the bedroom and do a Google image search for Sofia Coppola. What will she be wearing tonight when she comes to bed? But when I Google her name tonight, a terrible thing emerges. I knew she'd been divorced from her celebrity director husband, Spike Jonze, but through Google I find out she is married again. Already! Again! It seems much too soon! And then I see that she and her husband, a French rock star, have a child!

How did I miss this? Where have I been?

My desire vanishes. And Sofia Coppola, regrettably, falls off my prospect list.

That night, I dream of Valerie. In my dream, she is asleep in a vast library, nude. I cannot wake her. Her red hair fans out on a wooden table where she rests her head. Her hair dances above her head, the only part of her moving, a halo made of fire.

I scream in her ear. The patrons of the library shush me. Finally, she looks up at me, and she turns white, her already fair skin going entirely translucent. Then she begins to scream. All the books begin to fall from the towering shelves. The patrons shush and scowl. I say nothing.

When I wake up, it's four o'clock in the afternoon and my headache is gone.

In the early weeks (and what ended up being the final weeks, as well) of my marriage to Valerie, I would often sit on an old wooden chair we had next to the futon on which we slept, and I would watch my wife sleeping. I was young and unable to predict the relentless nature of loss and failure that would dominate my early adult life. When I gazed down at Valerie, sleeping, I had a sense of victory, a strange and warm feeling that my adult life would go easily and brilliantly, and that loneliness, despair, and, in fact, unhappiness were demons I had quelled—prevented—by marrying young. I would watch Valerie, sometimes for hours, until she stirred, and then I would pad across our drab, love-struck efficiency and make coffee, returning, just as Valerie woke, with two steaming mugs in hand.

I get out of bed and go downstairs. After making coffee, and drinking a cup in a state of absolute stillness, I move into my study, open my computer, and log in to Facebook. Once there I click on Accept. And I am now friends with Valerie Somerville, and I am now free to view her profile. She's in a relationship, she lives in Ely, Minnesota, she has posted only one profile picture, and she has one hundred thirty-six friends.

And then, within five minutes, she sends me a message on the chat module.

Valerie

Zeke!!!!

Zeke

Jesus.

Valerie

I know, right? Oh my god, how are u?

Zeke

I'm not dead.

Valerie

LOL. Don't you love FB. I'm so fucking addicted!

Zeke

Did you seriously just LOL at that?

Valerie

???

Zeke

You're sick.

Valerie

Zeke, you couldn't possibly have ever thought I had really died all these years later. I want to apologize.

Zeke

I consider myself a widower, if that's what you mean.

Valerie

Well, I'm alive.

Zeke

I know.

Valerie

I'm sorry. I want to start by saying I'm very sorry for what I did to you.

Zeke

Don't you find this is an inappropriate medium for such a weighty apology? I mean you faked your OWN FUCKING DETAH.

Zeke

I mean, DEATH!

Valerie

I wasn't a good person back then.

Zeke

But you were! I loved you so much.

Valerie

I loved you too. I got scared.

Zeke

Oh for fuck's sake.

Valerie

Look, Zeke, this is gonna sound weird but this seemed like the best way and least aggressive way to recah you and so I;m sory, okay.

[
Valerie is typing.
]

Valerie

But something important has come up. I'm getting married and I need to be sure that you and I are totally divorced. Did you annul the marriage or what?

Zeke

Why would I do that?

Valerie

I had a lawyer look into it and we can find no public record of our divorce, but he did find our marriage certificate in the Washtenaw County courthouse. I sort of ignored everything the whole time.

Zeke

I'm not very good with details. Paperwork. You remember?

Valerie

I know! Me neither! I sort of figured it was, you know, taken care of. It was sort of meaningless now. But my lawyer here in Ely wanted me to find you to sign some papers. So you know everything is official just in case.

Zeke

I don't believe this. So we're still married?

Zeke is offline.

M
Y LAST VISIT
with Farnsworth and Morris comes the next morning. When I get to my office, I am told that all of the GMHI's assets, including its building and equipment, have been seized by the federal government
—frozen
is the word they use—and they tell me I have five minutes to select my personal items from my office.

Farnsworth hands me a box.

"What about all my books?" I ask.

"Bought with GMHI funds," Morris says. "Weren't they?"

"Some of them," I say.

"Pretend the building is on fire. Take only the most important stuff," Farnsworth says. "Technically, we don't even have to let you do that."

I have no idea if this is true or not. I have no idea what sort of rights apply to this sort of situation.

Five minutes later, I leave the office with a few framed pictures of the twins, one small picture of my brother, a signed copy of Rick Bass's
Platte River,
a handful of files, a baseball autographed by Kirk Gibson, and a small cactus. I also take a small stack of backup DVDs, which I conceal in my pants just in case they hassle me about the contents. I'm thankful that I've left my laptop and jump drive back at my home office, or I might have lost those too.

"We sort of hoped to nail you too," Morris says to me as I exit the GMHI building for the last time.

"But they told us to stick to the big fish," Farnsworth says. "Apparently, you aren't a big fish. They just don't want you to spend another dime of taxpayer money."

"Well," I say, "that's sort of understandable at this point."

With that, I close the door on a long and somewhat happy chapter of my professional career.

That afternoon, as I am on my fourth cocktail and in the midst of reloading the backups of my
American Unhappiness
blog and website onto a private server (to avoid the federal government shutting that down as well), a National Public Radio piece runs about H. M. Logan and Quince Leatherberry's affair. By dinnertime, my website, newly relaunched, becomes one of the most popular websites in the country, because Robert Siegel managed to ask a
Washington Post
reporter one simple question:
One of the most obscure projects that Logan was able to get funded with Leatherberry's help is something called
An Inventory of American Unhappiness.
What can you tell us about that project?

And the
Washington Post
reporter responded:
Well, Robert, that's a really interesting one. Apparently, it's a project run out of Madison, Wisconsin, Logan's hometown, and it basically asks people to post a response to the question
Why are you so unhappy?
As of this morning, the website still seems to be up and is still taking responses.

Some of those responses, which arrived on my laptop, were these: