Rafael Yglesias - The Work Is Innocent

“Yeah,” Richard said.

“Well, the fact of the matter is that most of the great writers began publishing their novels in their twenties and had begun writing as teen-agers. In fact, if you had not written a novel by now I should doubt seriously that you’d ever be a writer.”

Richard began to laugh tearfully at this absurdity along with Betty, who said, “And I was listening so seriously to you!”

“But I was serious,” Aaron said. “In my fashion. Having achieved young doesn’t doom one to neurosis and failure. Most successful people are successful when young. That’s all. Richard, I mean that. In an odd way you have lived a more sane and healthy life than anyone. You did what you wanted to do. And unlike Anna Karenina, there’s something a little more meaningful about what you did than simply screwing the person you want to. It doesn’t matter if you get those honors you want. You have done everything to get them and that alone is a satisfying thing. You’re just feeling the blues from having gone through such a momentous existence for a few months, and now everything is back to normal and it seems duller than ever. That will pass.”

“So the work is innocent, right?”

“What?”

“I never told you I found that in my contract?” Richard asked. “Quote, The Author warrants that The work is innocent, and contains no matter whatsoever that is obscene, libelous, in violation of any right of privacy, or otherwise in contravention of law, unquote.”

It was the fanciest Christmas Richard’s family had staged in years. The shopping trips seemed endless as more and more dishes and drinks were found in cookbooks or remembered from novels and movies. Buying presents, though hectic, couldn’t compare to the confusion in the kitchen. The stove didn’t rest, even when they did, so, for once, Richard’s late night schedule not only met with approval from his parents, but with great thanks, as he was charged with checking on various pastries—turning the stove on and off at unlikely times. The night before Christmas Eve his mother asked him to stay up until 2:00 a.m. to keep something from burning. John, after everyone else was in bed, joined him in the kitchen and Richard suggested slyly that they drink some of the rum for the eggnog.

“No,” John said. “We might get carried away. Let’s stick to the liqueurs.”

“Yeah, but they use them in the cakes. I think.”

“They only use a little.” John went into the living room and returned with a bottle and two brandy glasses.

“Don’t pour me too much,” Richard said. “I can’t afford to try and outdrink you. Besides, getting drunk is the worst sensation in the world.”

“Especially the way you go about it.”

“Well,” Richard said, annoyed. “I was a kid. I wanted to prove something. I hope it wasn’t my masculinity. That’s a hopeless cause.” He sipped his drink. “Wow. What’s this?”

“Cointreau. To Live. To Love. To Laugh. Cointreau.”

Richard laughed. “Oh, that’s right. Those ads.” He watched John light a cigarette before saying, “It’s been a long time since we did this.”

John nodded slowly, deliberately. “Too long.”

“Well, you know what happened to me. So?”

John scratched his beard. “Your life is a matter of public record.” Richard chuckled politely and John, after a moment’s thought, continued, “Things have been good. Better than ever.”

“I heard that. How come?”

John smiled knowingly. “You’re pretty nosy.”

“Oh, come on. What am I supposed to do? Pretend our conversations never happened? You were not happy. Now you are. Why?”

“Boy, this family! Everything’s got to come out.” Richard began to object, but John hurried on. “You were the best about it, actually. I mean, your folks went nuts about Naomi going to Europe.”

“They were worried.”

“More than that.” He looked at Richard. “You know? They thought I was gonna desert her, or something.”

“They just thought you were divorcing. Obviously they’re gonna support their daughter, right?”

“But we weren’t.”

“I know,” Richard said, not only to inform but also to prevent John from explaining that distinction. “I’m just trying to get across the idea that my parents still love you, and did then, it’s just that they thought Naomi was in big trouble and needed unilateral support.”

“Well, they went overboard. They also didn’t trust us, didn’t trust what we were telling them.”

“That’s true,” Richard said, and then felt amused scorn for himself, since he had sworn just recently that he would refuse to see both points of view. “Fuck it. Who cares? That’s your problem and theirs. I have my own difficulties with them.” John looked astonished and Richard tried to soften it. “I just want to know, in a friendly way, what’s changed that’s made things so pleasant.”

“We worked out a lot of the tension about the house and taking care of Nana.”

“You mean, you made arrangements like who takes care of her when—”

“Right. So that Naomi has time to be alone and, anyway, she’s going to get a job counseling people. As part of the poverty program.”

“Really? How come nobody told me that?”

“You haven’t been in touch with us.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, but things have been really, uh, absorbing.” John asked Richard to tell him about the novel’s publication, and Richard got through it rather quickly. His story, including explanations of the influence of various events, had been made succinct by frequent practice.

They continued drinking, John at a rate that Richard didn’t bother to pretend he could equal. Richard’s sipping was steady, nevertheless, and he felt the delicious wooziness and indifference that characterized the only safe kind of drunkenness he could achieve. They talked about the other times they drank with an air of sad nostalgic longing, and an ignorant observer would have thought Richard wanted a return to those nights with John when he talked compulsively—elaborately and romantically—about his feelings. What he really wanted, and the reason for his encouraging John to think he had enjoyed those bouts, was John’s good opinion, and Richard knew the key to that was deceiving John about the good old days.

The following morning, Christmas Eve, Richard woke up late with a hangover and enjoyed the care he received first from Joan and then from his mother, whose opening line upon seeing him was, “So looking after my cooking drove you to drink.”

She was serving him lentil soup in the kitchen and his father looked in from the living room, the Times in one hand and his glasses perched on the end of his nose. “You know,” he said to Richard. “In our discussion the other night I forgot to mention that you mustn’t become an alcoholic.”

“Shucks, Dad, you told me too late.” Richard enjoyed this casual attention to his degeneracy. “How did you know we were drinking?” he asked Betty.

“John made a joke about it when he got up with the baby in the morning.”

So he was open about it, Richard thought. “He got up with the baby? The man’s body is amazing.”

“Why?” Betty asked with a look of concern. “Did you two drink a lot?”

“Ah ha!” Richard laughed and looked at Joan. “You see, she was faking this lack of interest. Just trying to wheedle it out of me.”

“I knew she was trying that all along,” Joan said.

“Don’t worry, Mom. We didn’t drink that much. Two glasses of wine give me a hangover.”

“John had stopped drinking before he came here, so don’t you get him started again.”

“Me get him started. Oh boy, I’m in trouble. Listen, Mom, what is it? What did I do? Is my room not clean enough?”