Sam Lipsyte - The Ask

"The ancient mariners in your ball sack were the problem!" called the guy with the pink polo shirt.

"Thanks, Kyle," said Purdy. "That's Kyle Northridge, a now former principal in Groupuscule Media."

"You can't afford to fire me!"

"Fire him from what? The whole thing's in the shitter!" called a man next to Kyle.

"True," said Purdy.

"Say it ain't so!"

"But really, folks, it's not about business. It's not. It's about people. And it is a bona fide delight to see you people types enjoying yourselves in my home. Our home, I mean. Soon to be the home of little Arnold Horshack Stuart."

"Don't do it!" somebody called.

"No? What do you guys think of Space Lab Stuart?"

"Sea Monkeys," somebody said.

"Too self-conscious!" somebody called.

"How about Red Dye Number Two Stuart?" called another.

"You're not getting it!"

"Carter Malaise Stuart!"

"Marzipan!"

"I hate marzipan!" said Purdy.

"Hey," called a new voice, high, strained. "How about Fallujah?"

There was a clatter near the kitchen door.

One of the caterers stood with a tray of cups and saucers. Other than his short white jacket he didn't look much like the others. He wore his hair up in a beige bandana. He'd rolled his sweatpants up past his knee. The sunlight spearing through the steep windows made his metal shins twinkle.

"Come again?" said Kyle Northridge.

Don's tray hit the floor with a clap. Cup shards skidded. Don strode toward us, his gait a near glide, smoother than I'd ever seen it. Purdy slid down into a crouch on the chair.

"I said, 'How about Fallujah?' " said Don. "Or Baghdad. Or fucking Anbar. Anbar Awakening Stuart. Or maybe just Surge. What do you think? Surge Stuart?"

"Hey," said Purdy. "Those are all good."

"Really."

"Hey, yeah," said Purdy, gentle, beseeching. "Yes. How are you?"

"How am I?"

"Yes."

"How am I?"

"It's good to see you."

"Oh," said Don. "Is it? Is it good to see me?"

"Of course," said Purdy. "You are like family. I mean, like, family."

"Thanks, Dad."

Purdy looked down on Don from his perch. They both appeared to quiver. It occurred to me that Purdy had never seen his son before. Don had only caught sight of his father in photographs, through motel windows.

"You've earned it, son."

Don's eyes softened, beamed, something boyish and quasi-sainted glowing in them.

Now came the slap of hard shoes, dark fabrics flashing, a glint of jewels. Giant men swooped in from the edge of the room. You could tell they were the bodyguards because they dressed better than the guests. The rangier one guided Purdy down from the chair. The other, his head the size and hue of a glazed ham, cupped Don's elbow with bling-sheathed fingers.

"What the hell?" said Don.

"You really have earned it, son," said Purdy, nodded at Don's legs. "For what happened to you. For what's happened to so many of you. We are all in your debt. And we should all take responsibility."

"Is that a fucking joke?" said Don.

He shook off the bodyguard, but the huge man snatched Don's hand, bent it behind his back.

"I was over there, too," said the bodyguard. "Don't be a fool."

"Blue falcon," said Don.

"I ain't no buddy fucker," said the bodyguard. "This is my job."

"You could have waited to move her until I got back," said Don, looked hard at Purdy.

"What difference would that have made?"

"You rotten shit. I should just-"

"Don."

"Don't even say my fucking name."

"Don, please. ." said Purdy.

"I said don't say it."

Now Michael Florida crossed the oak floor in a pair of alligator boots, leaned forward to whisper in Purdy's ear.

"Right," said Purdy.

"What?" said Don.

Purdy nodded to Melinda, turned stiffly to the tables.

"What's going on?" said Don.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to cut this evening a little short," Purdy said. "I've just this moment received some awful news about a dear friend. Lee Moss has died. I suspect he did so with his loving family at his bedside, as he wanted and deserved. I feel I've lost another father. I think it's better if we grieve quietly tonight."

Purdy pinched his lips, made a short, grave bow, walked off toward the study.

"Where the fuck are you going now!" shouted Don. "Come back, Daddy!"

Michael Florida flicked his chin and the bodyguard let Don go. Don jogged a few steps toward his father, his boat shoes stabbing at the antique oak. His heel caught a scoop in the wood and he slid, twisted, pitched over in an violent braid of metal and meat. Somehow he got to his knees.

"She loved you more than anything!" called Don.

Purdy stopped for moment, seemed about to turn around.

"She did," Don sobbed.

Purdy ducked into the study and shut the door.

"She did," said Don again, softer, as though suddenly aware of the room, his audience, who had already begun to look away and whisper.

I walked over and knelt near Don, rubbed his arm.

"Hey," I said. "It's okay."

"Get the fuck off me," he said.

"Really, Don, it's okay. Let's just get out of here."

"I'll kill you," Don snarled.

I rose, backed away, watched Don sit with his head on his knees, rock. Michael Florida walked over and squatted beside him. He must have said something amusing because Don looked up with an odd half-smile. Michael Florida began to talk, very rapidly, it seemed, and Don cocked his head.

Now Michael Florida stood and hoisted Don up, looped the boy's arm across his neck like they were soldiers in some statue about blood and brotherhood. Together they stumbled out of the room.

I was about to follow them when Melinda stood to speak, worried the thin platinum chain at her throat.

"Please," she said. "Let me apologize for all of this."

"Don't even, Melinda," Ginny said. "It's okay."

"Really," said Charles Goldfarb.

"It's nobody's fault," said Kyle Northridge.

"No, I think I should explain. I doubt any of you knew, because he doesn't like to brag, but that boy, well, Purdy's been doing some work with an organization that helps young vets. A lot of them have severe problems. Don has been one of Purdy's projects. I'm afraid it's not going that well right now. But don't let that dissuade you from getting involved in this very important cause. With everything that's happened in this country, we are forgetting about these poor kids. Not even to mention what we've done to the men, women, and children of those other countries. It may not be fashionable anymore, but that's precisely why now is the time to revisit these issues and really give your support. I hope you'll excuse us this hasty end to the evening. We all love you very much and can't wait to see you in a more joyful context real soon."

Melinda palmed her belly, the context. Other women closed around for soothing squeezes.

"These fucking wars," said Charles Goldfarb, tilted back in his chair. "Only the historians will have a true sense of what they did to us."

"Fantastic," I said. "Blistering."

"Who's Lee Moss again?" said Lisa.

"He's the conveniently dead guy," I said.

I drained my Scotch, scooped a handful of chocolate stag beetles into my pocket. People began to gather their coats and bags.

"Milo, hold up, I'll walk out with you."

"No thanks, Charles. Think I want to be alone."

"Suit yourself."

"Say hello to Constance for me," I said.

"I will. I mean, I hardly see her but. . yes, I will."

"Tell her I'm happy for her," I said. "And sad for her. And also happy-sad. Tell her to get a better haircut. She looks like the middle-aged head of a girl's prep school."

"That's what she is."

"It's the end of us, Charles."

"I'm doing fine, Milo."

"Didn't Adorno say that to write think pieces for mainstream magazines after Auschwitz is barbaric?"