Christopher Beha: Arts & Entertainments: A Novel

I would like to thank the Ucross Foundation for a residency during which a draft of this book was completed.

I would also like to thank: Sarah Burnes, Logan Garrison, and everyone at the Gernert Company; Lee Boudreaux, Libby Edelson, Ashley Garland, Dan Halpern, Michael McKenzie, Ben Tomek, Ryan Willard, Craig Young, and Steve Attardo at Ecco; all of my colleagues at Harper’s magazine; my family, especially Jim and Nancy Beha, Jim and Alyson Beha, Alice and Len Teti, and Sanny Beha; Lynn, Bob, and Palmer Ducommun and Lindsey and Charlie Schilling, mostly for the groom’s cake; Peter and Christine Moyers; and John Carr, Brian DeLeeuw, and Jim Fuerst for invaluable early reads.

If I had not met Alexandra Andrews Beha halfway through the composition of this novel, it would be a far lesser book, as my life would be a far lesser life.

“YOU KNOW WHO I saw on TV last night?” John Wilkins asked the small group of old friends surrounding him. “Dr. Drake.”

They’d been drinking in the St. Albert’s library for less than half an hour, but Eddie was surprised it had taken even that long for the name to come up.

“The show’s in syndication,” he said. “It’s on every day.”

“Not Dr. Drake, ” Wilkins clarified, as though the distinction should have been obvious. “Martha. She was on Entertainment Daily talking about her new boyfriend, Rex Gilbert.”

Wilkins still had his reddish blond hair and the pale, lightly freckled skin that made him look perpetually young. In the years since Eddie had seen him last, he seemed to have aged only by a slight thickening. He wasn’t fat so much as dense.

“She’s a big star now,” Eddie allowed.

“Are you kidding?” Wilkins said. “She’s all over the place. All the talk shows. Reverberator ’s sexiest list. Must drive your wife nuts.”

He said this last part like a joke, though it was true and wasn’t funny.

“Jesus, Wilky,” Justin Price said. “Cut the guy a break.”

Wilkins waved Justin off.

“You still keep up with her?”

“We haven’t really talked since she moved out west.”

“You know who I saw on TV the other day?” Justin broke in again. “Handsome Eddie Hartley.”

He was trying to help, Eddie knew, but in some ways this was worse. The edge of good-natured mockery his old nickname had always carried felt more pointed now. The last thing he wanted was for his acting career to be set beside Martha’s.

“Is that right? Which of my masterpieces was it?”

“One of those old Law & Order episodes.”

“Was I the good guy or the bad guy?”

“You were some kind of pervert. Putting plastic bags over little girls’ heads or something like that.”

“One of my finest roles.”

“Have you gotten any big parts recently?” Tim Reilly asked. Eddie hadn’t seen Reilly since their last reunion, so he couldn’t blame him for the question.

“I gave all that up a few years ago. I just teach now.”

“Not a bad fucking gig,” Wilkins said. “Out at four. Summers off. I’d take it. I’ve been getting killed these days.”

Eddie wanted to say that an opening could be found, if it attracted him all that much.

“The job does have its perks.”

“Plus you get scholarships for the kids, right?”

“I don’t have any kids just yet. But in theory, yes.”

“Lucky bastard.” Wilkins laughed, and his cheeks turned red, his freckles seeming to bleed out into the rest of his face. “We’ve got two, and we’re already sweating how to get the older one into preschool. Do you know how much that shit costs these days? Even if I make partner in a couple of years, I couldn’t pay two St. Albert’s tuitions and keep the place on the North Shore. It didn’t used to be so expensive to be rich in this town. Now it’s just the hedge fund guys like Price here who can swing it. Mere professionals need not apply.”

Eddie separated himself from the group and walked to the far wall of the library, where a makeshift bar stood beneath a large circular window that looked out on the park. A banner stretched across the window: “St. Albert’s School Welcomes You Back.” Beneath it, the young woman working the bar smiled at Eddie with uncertain recognition, a once-common reaction that had become less so in recent years.

“You look familiar,” she said as she filled his glass with ice.

Perhaps she was just flirting. That was still common enough.

“I know what it is,” she added before he could respond. “You buy your morning coffee at the Flying Duck Market around the corner. We’re the caterers for this thing.”

“That must be it,” Eddie said. “I’m the drama teacher here.”

“That’s so funny,” she told him. “I’m an actress.”

Eddie wasn’t surprised to hear it. She was pretty — though not, he reflected, quite pretty enough.

“I work at the Flying Duck to pay the bills,” she continued.

Eddie tried to think of something encouraging to say.

“That’s as good a reason as any to work somewhere.”

He took his drink and turned from the bar just in time to see Max Blakeman arrive. Eddie’s mood immediately lifted at the sight of Blakeman. He’d known what he was in for that night — his classmates with their growing families and easy success, the questions about Martha Martin and his own acting career. The one appeal the evening had held was the chance to see Blakeman. They’d been best friends for years, but it seemed like they hardly spoke these days. Eddie missed him, perhaps more than anything else about his old life. They caught each other’s eyes as Luce made his first attempt to call the room to order.

“If I could have just a moment of everyone’s time, and then I’ll let you get back to catching up with old friends.”

Eddie watched with satisfaction as his classmates continued their conversations, barely acknowledging the effort to silence them. George Luce had been a young history teacher when Eddie’s class was in school. Eddie’s own mother — a secretary at St. Albert’s for more than twenty years — had handled Luce’s application to teach at the school. Only Eddie knew him in his role as headmaster, and the others seemed not to understand why they ought to be listening to him.

“As some of you know,” Luce pressed on, “I’m the kind of man to whom tradition is a very serious matter.” Luce was the kind of man, Eddie thought, who liked to tell people what kind of man he was. “Tomorrow, another class will graduate from St. Albert’s,” Luce continued. “This is the sixtieth graduating class in the school’s history, and its members will go on to the finest colleges and universities in the nation. I take pride in having guided the tradition of St. Albert’s to this auspicious point.” The room came slowly to puzzled attention, as though seeking the source of a faint but persistent buzz disturbing the ambience. Just as Luce secured command of his audience, he seemed to lose the thread of his speech. “I hope you all have as many fond memories of your time here as we who are still here have of you,” he concluded. “Now I’d like to hand things over to your class president, Justin Price.”