Russell Banks - A Permanent Member of the Family

Ellen said, “It’s possible for a weaver, though. Right? I mean, not saying it’s me who deserves one, but if her work is seen as more than just a craft, if it’s seen as art, it’s possible for a weaver to get a MacArthur. Right?”

Everyone was silent for a moment. Then Joan said, “Right. Of course.”

Sam said, “Definitely!”

Ted said, “A hell of a lot more possible than for a journalist or an editor.”

Erik didn’t say anything. He picked up his wineglass and gently rolled the stem, swirling the wine.

Raphael looked around the table and said, “Okay, people, enough about your chances for fame and fortune. What about mine?”

Ellen said, “Yours?”

“Yes, Ellen. Mine. They give MacArthurs to writers, you know. And I’m a writer, remember?”

Ted started clearing the dinner plates, and Sam stood up to help him. Erik made a move to help, saw the plates were already gone, and slumped back in his chair.

Raphael continued, “Speaking strictly hypothetically, why not? I could be a ‘genius.’ Erik’s peer. Even though no one, not even my husband, has read my novel yet,” he said and smiled mischievously at Sam, who stood by the kitchen door, watching his husband back with the same wary eye Ellen kept on hers. After a few seconds, Sam sighed, gave it up and retreated to the kitchen.

“But someday I will finish my novel,” Raphael said. “And then, who knows, maybe it’ll be published by an obscure avant-garde press in Brooklyn, instead of a big commercial house in Manhattan, and wowie, zowie, in a few years every hot young MFA writing student in the country could be imitating it in their workshops.”

Erik shook his head and let himself smile.

“Hey, don’t laugh, Erik, it happens! Which would oblige the professors of creative writing to actually read my novel, so they could know what the kids are raving about. And a few of those professors will be MacArthur jurors, and in the interests of impartiality, to fend off oedipal attacks, to look academically hip and tuned in to the literary Street and to protect their own largely ignored, middlebrow work, they’ll bypass the obviously more qualified novelists and anoint me with a MacArthur. And then I’ll be just like Erik! Then I too can truthfully say, ‘As far as I know, I have no friends or friends of friends or ex-professors of my own among the jurors,’ and can therefore attribute the award to dumb luck. A lottery ticket bought on a whim and forgotten in a jacket pocket like lint. Or, if I prefer, I can attribute it to my charisma and the grace said charisma attracts from above.”

Joan said, “I’ll get the dessert from the kitchen,” and left the dining room.

Ellen said, “I’ll help,” and followed, leaving Erik and Raphael alone facing each other across the table. Someone in the kitchen was grinding coffee beans.

Erik reached for the half-emptied third bottle of wine and topped off his glass. “Tell me what the fuck that was all about,” he said. He pointed the open end of the bottle at Raphael’s glass.

Raphael covered his glass with the flat of his hand. “No more for me, thanks. I’m driving.” He yawned and raised his left hand and checked his watch.

Erik said, “Before you have to rush off, tell me what the fuck that was all about.”

“What I’m saying is, you’re both wrong, you and Ted, and you’re both right. It is luck, as you say. But it’s also grace attracted to charisma, as Ted thinks. I.e., you are lucky to be charismatic enough to have attracted the attention of bountiful grace, tonight’s word for the eyes and ears of the world that surrounds us. Or at least the eyes and ears of the MacArthur Foundation.”

“Bullshit. It’s about my work. Nothing else.”

“You’ll agree that the value of any work of art at any given time is in the eye of the beholder. Right?”

“Okay.”

“And we’re talking here about how to influence that eye in order to give significant meaning to the work. Your gigantic bathrooms, for instance, and those outsize kitchens, they could be seen as meaningless. Or clichéd. They could be seen as fakery. But obviously they’re not. At least not anymore.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“No, when your installations are perceived by the MacArthur Foundation as works of genius, they can’t any longer be perceived as meaningless or clichéd. And thanks to the money and prestige of the award, not perceived as meaningless or clichéd by The New York Times, either, or by any of the rest of the media, and thus not by the nation or the world at large. You’ve seen reputations change overnight, Erik. Now it’s your turn. Ten or twelve so-called ‘genius grants’ a year of half a million bucks each gets people’s attention. Changes people’s minds. All of a sudden, tonight here in this room, as we have just witnessed, and in a few days all over the world, your enormous bathroom and kitchen appliance installations have acquired great meaning. You have acquired great meaning. Congratulations, Erik. You are about to be interviewed by The New York Times, NPR, PBS NewsHour, and by Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea. There’s probably already a profile in the works at The New Yorker by whatzizname, Peter Schjeldahl, the art critic who up to now has not once reviewed your work in those august pages.”

Erik’s face had tightened like a fist. “Are you condescending to the MacArthur Foundation? Or to me?”

“I’m not condescending to anyone. I’m ‘just sayin’,’ as the kids say.”

They were both silent for a moment, and gradually Erik’s expression softened, as if he’d begun to agree with Raphael. “What’s happening here, Raphael? How come I’m fair game tonight? Before tonight you wouldn’t dare talk to me like this. You might think it, but you wouldn’t say it to my face.”

“Yes, paradoxical, isn’t it? You win a MacArthur, and while the others feel intimidated and threatened by it, diminished by it, even Ellen, I feel sufficiently emboldened to attack you. Well, not attack you. Confront you. It’s as if in my eyes the MacArthur, by making you rich and famous, as Joan noticed, has weakened you somehow. But maybe, by the same token, since it’s no longer necessary to protect you from the truth, it’s also made you in a sense fair game, Erik.”

Erik pushed his chair back and stood up. He saw Ellen emerge from the kitchen. She stopped at the far end of the table and stared at him. One by one, the others, Ted, Joan and Sam, followed and bunched together beside and behind her, like a chorus, all of them watching Erik as if he were alone on a darkened stage with a spotlight on him. Raphael, seated at the outer edge of the circle of light, hadn’t moved, except to cross his arms nonchalantly over his chest. He turned to one side, away from the others and pointedly away from Erik, as if showing them that he could meet Erik’s struck, angry, hurt gaze if he wanted to, but instead had merely elected to look elsewhere, as if giving Erik a moment alone to survey the damage that had been done to him.

Erik said to Raphael, “Goddammit, look at me!”

Slowly Raphael turned in his chair, and expressionless, as if deciding whether or not to take an incoming phone call, he gazed up at Erik.

Erik turned away. He said to Ellen, “Let’s go. We’re leaving.”

“Now?”

“Now!”

Joan said, “It’s snowing. Don’t you guys want to stay the night and go home in the morning? The guest room’s all made up.”

Erik said, “We have to let the dogs out.”

“They’re already out, Erik. They’re huskies,” Ellen said. “They love the snow.”

Erik glared at her.

“You’re gonna miss my rhubarb pie and ice cream dessert,” Joan said.