Dan Wakefield - Selling Out - A Novel

Jane stayed and nursed him, prevailing against his weak avowals of unworthiness that she was simply an intrepid photographer who would go to any lengths to get her assignment. By midafternoon she was teaching him how to make a healthy stew and they were exchanging not only their views about literature and photography but also their personal histories. By the time they sat down to eat and lit the candles she had bought at the superette, Perry reached across the table to take her hand—the first time he had touched her—and said he wanted her to move up there and marry him.

“We’ll see,” she said, and he knew from her eyes this dream would come true and that along with his writing it was the most important one of his life.

The whole thing seemed so natural and easy that Perry’s friends at first were skeptical (especially in light of his track record) and then, as they saw the relationship working, they settled into a mixed attitude of acceptance—relieved and at the same time a little bit envious. That was how good it was.

Perry reached past the glass of champagne on his tray table and took Jane’s hand in his own, wanting and getting the reassuring squeeze.

“I sure am glad you’re going with me,” he said.

Jane took a long sip of champagne.

“Are you sure you’re sure?”

“What does that mean?”

Jane took her hand from his and playfully poked a finger in his gut.

“Isn’t it every man’s fantasy to be on the loose in Hollywood? Have your pick of the sexy young starlets?”

Perry slipped his earphones off.

“Did I really hear you say that? Are you actually laying that old chestnut on me? Me? Your devoted husband and demon lover?”

Jane leaned over and blew in his ear.

“Well,” she whispered, “as a matter of fact, there are those who think Perry Moss may revert to his old bachelor ways when he hits Hollywood. The old kid-set-loose-in-the-candy-store theory.”

Perry could feel his ears get hot. He thought about launching into a tirade against the petty gossip of the campus, then drank down the last of his champagne instead. When he finished off the glass he turned and nuzzled Jane’s neck.

“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,” he said, “are the tongues of jealous faculty wives.”

Jane nestled up against Perry’s shoulder.

“Those bitches,” she said.

“Hey—you didn’t really let them get to you, did you?”

“Well, it is a little bit scary,” Jane admitted. “Hollywood.”

Perry put his arm around her and pulled her closely against him.

“You know, this whole thing’s for you, too. For us . Otherwise I wouldn’t— we wouldn’t be doing it.”

“I know,” she said, fitting right and full in his arm.

They had talked long into the night about it, sitting much like this, staring into the living room fireplace, sharing their dreams of what this unexpected financial bonanza could mean. Solarizing the house. Traveling. Taking time off from teaching, maybe someday being free of it altogether, Perry being able to devote full time and attention to his writing, as Jane would to her photography. They did not want “things” but freedom, the freedom to develop their talent and make an even greater contribution to the culture and beauty of the world. They did not want money for ostentation or for luxury, but for good .

As for fame, well, any of that would only empower Perry to use his name more effectively in causes he and Jane both believed in—the nuclear freeze, the human rights of fellow artists living in nations with oppressive political regimes. Perry would of course not object to his name carrying the added power of one who counted in the world.

Sinking back comfortably in his seat and closing his eyes, he imagined himself on some kind of crucial mission with other responsible people in the television industry, people like Norman Lear and Edward Asner, the sort of people who would welcome the participation of a delegate like himself from the world of serious literature. He saw himself with Lear, Asner, Phil Donahue, and possibly Norman Mailer (after all, he had written the script for the powerful television dramatization of his own book The Executioner’s Song and so must be considered part of the medium now), debarking from a special Air Force diplomatic plane at the Cairo airport, awaited anxiously by leading representatives of the Middle Eastern nations—but just then another voice broke his fantasy.

He looked up to see the flight attendant smiling down, gently tilting the frosty bottle of champagne toward him.

“More?” she asked.

Perry smiled.

“You took the word right out of my mouth,” he said.

“Here’s to ‘more,’” said Jane, lifting her glass.

Bubbles grew like the buoyant feeling between the happy couple as they soared toward this exciting new phase of their lives. Perry touched his glass to the one his wife held toward him.

“ More ,” he said.

“More?”

Perry’s best friend, Al Cohen, was genuinely perplexed.

“I thought you had everything you wanted,” he said. “Didn’t you tell me that, not so long ago?”

“I did. I do. I know this sounds crazy, but lately I’ve had this feeling, like an itch or something. I don’t even know what it is I want more of—I just want more.”

It was early autumn, before any thoughts of TV or Hollywood had entered Perry’s mind. He had gone to join Al, as he often did, for the end, or walking part, of his buddy’s daily five-mile run. Though everyone still marveled at how much Perry had shaped up his life since his second marriage, and his physical as well as emotional condition was now acceptably healthy, he had not gone so far as those colleagues like Al, whose rigorous regimens of diet and exercise made them seem like prizefighters training for the final rounds of life.

Perry puffed vigorously on his well-chewed pipe as he ambled along on this stroll he considered his own day’s virtuous exercise. Al, still breathing heavily from his run, stopped and put his hands on his hips, bending at the waist a few times to limber himself, then stared out at the blue-green hills as if seeking there an answer to Perry’s dilemma.

“Is it women?” he asked, still gazing at the hills. “You want girlfriends again?”

“Oh for God sake, man.”

Perry was disappointed, not only that his wise old friend had failed to come up with some blazing insight into his conundrum, but that this most trusted confidant could be so far off the mark. The very notion of “girlfriends again” suggested regression to the sloppy days of boozy, random beddings that preceded and followed his brief, blighted first marriage, that in fact made up most of his allegedly adult life before he met Jane and achieved some semblance of maturity and order.

“Sorry,” Al said as soon as he saw Perry’s face. “Maybe it was the word ‘itch’ that made me think that. As in The Seven Year Itch .”

“You realize I’ve been almost five years with Jane now?” Perry asked.

He smiled, proud of his record.

“Hell, for me, that’s a miracle,” he said. “And I have every hope of making it twenty-five more. As many more as I’ve got.”

“Right,” said Al, nodding affirmation and starting to walk ahead again on the dusty path, as Perry, locking his hands behind his back, followed along, concentrating, trying to solve his riddle.

“No, it isn’t women,” he mused, as if eliminating categories in a quiz game.

“You’re pleased with the book, aren’t you?” Al asked.

“Like a proud papa,” Perry said. “Maybe more than I should be.”

He had spent the past few weeks reading galley proofs of the new collection of short stories his publisher was bringing out the following spring, and enjoyed the warming sense of satisfaction that comes with seeing one’s words in print, and the larger fulfillment of completion of a work. This would be his third book of stories, and he felt justified and pleased in the expectation that it would bring, not fame and fortune, but a continued growth in what Al had called—with his usual candor and accuracy—the “small celebrity” Perry had earned.