Russell Banks - A Permanent Member of the Family

“Okay, I got a call today from the MacArthur Foundation,” Erik began. “Out of the blue.” He recounted his conversation with the director as close to word-for-word as he could remember. No one interrupted him, and by the time he’d finished, their faces were glowing with pleasure, Erik noticed, even Raphael’s. Apparently it was cool to have a friend who was a MacArthur. And to judge from Ellen’s proud, uplifted gaze, to be a MacArthur’s lifelong companion and helpmate was even cooler.

“Wow! That’s the most exciting thing I’ve heard in my life!” Joan exclaimed, and rushed over and kissed him moistly on the mouth.

Sam stood up, crossed the room to Erik’s chair. He quickly knelt, took Erik’s left hand, and kissed his wedding ring as if it were the pope’s. “My first MacArthur,” he said, then stood. “Seriously, Erik, congratulations! I’m truly happy for you.”

Joan said, “Sam, you are a riot.”

“You don’t know who the writers are, do you?” Raphael asked. “The usual suspects, I imagine.”

Ted said, “No usual suspect here. This time they got it right, man. That’s such fucking good news! And richly deserved. The genius grant! Congratulations, man!”

Joan said, “People, the hors d’oeuvres! Don’t neglect the puff pastries, they’re from Mrs. London’s.”

“I don’t know who any of the other winners are,” Erik said to Raphael without looking at him. “All the guy told me was the size of the award. They call it a fellowship, actually, not a genius grant. I’ll be able to take a leave of absence for five years.”

Ted said, “I thought you really dug teaching.”

“I can live without it for five years, believe me,” Erik said and laughed. “No faculty meetings! C’mon, Joan, open the champagne and pour!”

She opened one bottle and Ted opened the other, and both poured. They all drank, even Raphael, who rarely took more than a glass of seltzer water with a wedge of lime, and by the time they moved into the dining room for dinner, they were very loud and seemed very happy.

While Joan carefully transported a ceramic tureen of cold leek and potato soup from the kitchen to the table, Ted poured a decent pinot grigio. When he got to Erik’s glass, he paused before pouring and said, “If you don’t mind my saying, man, the truth is, you have a kind of forceful openness that attracts grace. I mean it. Attracts grace, not from above, of course, in the religious sense, but like from the fucking universe at large. From the life force, man.”

“That’s bullshit. I’m just lucky is all.”

“No, Ted’s right,” Joan said. “It’s what they call magnetism. Or charisma. You’re blessed with it, lovey, and it doesn’t come to you just because you’re lucky. You have to will it, you have to woo and win it with hard, sustained work and imagination. And talent. Until the world and everything in the world recognizes it in you and honors it. That’s what Teddy means by grace. Like with this award.”

“Come on, it’s a fucking lottery…,” Erik began.

Joan said, “Let me finish, lovey. It’s not a lottery. You were given the MacArthur Fellowship or grant or whatever, because you deserve it. That’s what Teddy means by attracting grace. From the universe, the life force.”

Raphael said, “God, next you’ll be washing his feet.”

Erik said, “No one ‘deserves’ a MacArthur.”

“Here, my dear,” Joan said and filled his soup bowl from the tureen. “At least you deserve to be first served.” She passed Erik his soup and proceeded to serve the others.

Sam said, “Let me propose a toast,” and raised his glass. The others raised theirs. Erik slowly lifted his, too. He didn’t know why, but he wasn’t happy with the way this was going. He probably should have followed the foundation director’s instructions and just not mentioned the award, let them learn about it next week in the Times. A MacArthur was supposed to eliminate one’s need to compete with one’s friends and colleagues and fellow artists, but somehow it was having the opposite effect on Erik.

“To grace! And to the few among us who attract it!” Sam said.

Raphael pursed his lips and lowered his glass a bit. Then he brought it back to his lips and, with the others, drank. He put his glass on the table with emphasis. “It’s not really a lottery, you know. The MacArthur. It’s not just dumb luck. It’s friends of friends and their ex-students and acolytes and protégés who end up on that list. And I’m sorry, Ted, but it’s not grace, either. The universe really doesn’t give a damn. About Erik or anyone else.”

Erik said, “Let’s just forget the whole MacArthur thing, can we? It’s a wheelbarrow of money, and I didn’t have to peddle my ass to get it, so I intend to enjoy it. End of story. And, Raphael, as far as I know I’m nobody’s acolyte or ex-student. All my teachers are dead. And I’m not friends with anybody who picks the winners.”

“As far as you know,” Raphael said.

Sam said, “Rafe, honey, come on! None of that matters. Those folks who dole out the MacArthurs, they all have loads of friends and ex-students who wouldn’t even be considered for one. Ted and Joan are right, the universe, or the life force or whatever they want to call it, has been kind to Erik because he’s been able to draw its attention to him and his work.”

Rafael rolled his eyes and smiled down at his plate while Ted served the lamb shanks and roasted vegetables and Joan refilled the wineglasses. Ellen had been watching Erik warily, as if she knew he was about to say something he’d regret later. She raised her glass. “Okay, my turn! Here’s to good friends and long winter evenings together!”

With a certain intensity, as if relieved, everyone drank, as if thirsty, and everyone ate, as if hungry. They talked politics for a while, local and state — they were all slightly to the left of the current governor, a Democrat — and Ted gave a lengthy plot summary of a new PBS series, an Edwardian historical romance now in its fourth week that none of the others had seen.

There was a lull in the conversation, when suddenly Joan turned to Erik and in a voice shaking with emotion said, “You’ll still be friends with us, won’t you, Erik? Even though you’ll be rich now. And famous.”

Erik laughed, as much at the absurdity of her concern as the idea of his being rich and famous, and said, “Yes, I’ll always love you and Ted. And I’m not going to be anywhere near as rich and famous as you think. Divide half a million bucks by five, and you come out with a little more than my annual Skidmore salary.”

“So you say now,” Joan said. “But, Erik, none of us will ever be a MacArthur. None of us will ever be a certified genius.” She looked frightened and a little mystified, as if she’d received a threatening phone call. “We’re not your peers anymore, Erik. Maybe we never were. None of us is ever going to be rich and famous because of our work and our personal magnetism and so on. They’ll never give a MacArthur for touch healing, will they? Or for running a small-town newspaper. Or weaving. Or photography. There’s never been a MacArthur given to a photographer, has there, Sam? You’d know.”

Sam said, “Actually, there have been a fair number of photographers who’ve received MacArthurs. There was Uta Barth and An-My Lê a year or two ago. Conceptual photographers, not my cup of tea. And of course Lee Friedlander and Cindy Sherman before that. Not my cups of tea, either.”

“But it’s for creative work, right? The MacArthur,” Ted said. “Or for out-of-the-box scientific research. That’s why it’ll never go to a newspaper editor or a journalist. Of course, we do have the Pulitzers. I can always hope for a Pulitzer,” he said and laughed heartily to show he was only kidding.