Jay McInerney - Bright, Precious Days

“You wrote the screenplay for The Heart of the Matter. ”

“Well, yes, that would be me.”

“I thought it was great,” he said. She was pleased but flustered as he scrutinized her with those black eyes.

“How did you even come across it?”

“Russell gave it to me. He knows I’m a big Graham Greene fan. I thought it was cool the way you managed to humanize Scobie in a way that Greene didn’t.”

She found herself surprised at the erudition implicit in this statement — not just the fact that anyone remembered her little film — even as she realized there was nothing inherently contradictory about the accent and the sentiment; she knew she shouldn’t equate southern with ignorant. Luke came from Tennessee, and they didn’t get much smarter, though his accent was barely noticeable compared to Jack’s. He’d called a few days ago to say good-bye; she supposed she should be happy that he was halfway around the world again, though she’d felt strangely bereft at the thought of his departure.

Russell bounded over and wrapped his new discovery in a bear hug. “How’s the city treating you? So, you met Corrine. And you found us all right?”

“Well, yeah, after I spent about half my advance on the goddamn cab.”

“It’s a bitch, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll call you a car service for the ride home. Come on in, let me get you something. Storey, can you come over and say hello to Jack?”

Corrine slipped away to check on Jeremy.

“What are you doing, sweetie?” He was sprawled on his bed on his Pokémon duvet, with Ferdie the ferret sprawled on the pillow beside him.

“Super Mario Sunshine.”

“What day is today?”

“I dunno.”

“Isn’t it a Tuesday?”

“Maybe.”

“Which would be…a weekday?”

“I guess,” he said, not looking away from the screen, where the little red man traversed a tropical island.

“And are we supposed to play video games on weekdays?”

“I thought it was like a holiday.”

“It’s Election Day, which is not a holiday. Holidays are when you don’t have school. Now turn that off before I take the controller away.”

“Let me just save it.”

“What’s to save? That’s what you always say when you want to keep playing for another five minutes.” She still wasn’t sure if this “saving” gambit was legitimate or not.

When he appeared to keep playing, she walked over to the bed and took hold of the control unit in his hand. Ferdie, snakelike, opened his eyes and regarded her languidly.

“Okay, okay.”

“I don’t want to come back and find this going again. What’s the homework situation?”

“I’m done with everything except math.”

“Well, let’s do math, then.”

She left before he’d actually turned the game off, weary of the struggle. At the same time, enacting these little family rituals was reassuring; she’d felt thoroughly unsettled these last few days, after seeing Luke, and eager to convince herself that she was over him, that he had no bearing on her actual life.

Storey was sitting on the couch with Jack, pointing out a passage in her book. “Are you a Democrat?” she asked. “My dad says friends don’t let friends vote Republican. That’s a joke; it comes from that ad that says friends don’t let friends drive drunk. Everybody we know is a Democrat.” The buzzer rang before Corrine could hear the answer.

“It’s Hilary and Dan.” Two Republicans, in fact. Just barely audible on the crackling intercom. Corrine’s younger sister and her fiancé, the ex-cop, who’d finally gotten divorced from his devoutly Catholic, supremely bitter wife a few months ago. Arguing that Hilary had been with Dan for five years now, Corrine had finally gotten Russell to stop referring to her as “your slutty little sister.”

“Who’s that?” Russell asked, approaching from the kitchen.

“Hilary and Dan.”

“Ah, your formerly slutty little sister and her police escort.”

“Jesus, Russell.” She nodded toward the couch.

Chagrined, Russell glanced over to see the blond crown of Storey’s head just visible above the couch cushions. “Sorry.”

They listened to the elevator rattling upward and finally shuddering to a stop, the doors groaning open.

Kisses and handshakes…

“Happy birthday, sis,” Hilary said. “Oh shit, I forgot we’re not allowed to mention your birthday.” She held a finger to her lips. “Top secret.”

“Not so secret now, thanks,” Corrine said. She’d insisted that this was not a birthday party, having no desire to commemorate the fact that she was turning fifty, unlike Russell, who’d had a big bash a few months ago to celebrate his own semicentennial.

“Where are my little chickadees?” Hilary chirped.

Corrine glanced over at her husband, who was studying her ruefully. He knew how much it pissed Corrine off when her sister used the possessive adjective with reference to the kids, as if determined to reiterate her maternal claim and give them hints about their complicated origins, whether they were ready for this knowledge or not.

Storey rose from the couch and marched over to greet the newcomers.

“There she is!” Hilary lifted Storey in her arms without losing her grip on the Pinot Grigio. “How’s my favorite girl?”

“Good.” It warmed Corrine’s heart to see how Storey stiffened and struggled in her grasp. Hilary was one of those people who just couldn’t connect with children, who seemed unable to speak their language, having spent all her adult energy learning the idiom and gestures of seduction. She’d been a professional girlfriend for years, a concubine without portfolio, a groupie.

Dan rescued Storey from Hilary’s awkward embrace, hugged her and set her down again. “How’s my storybook princess? And where’s your stinky brother?”

“I’m good. He’s playing video games even though it’s a weekday.”

“We’d better go make a citizen’s arrest,” Dan said.

The buzzer interrupted this interdiction, followed by the crackling baritone of Washington Lee on the intercom. The elevator soon debouched Washington and his wife, Veronica, Russell’s best friend natty in a black suit and crisp white shirt; his wife, who worked for Lehman Brothers, wearing a businessy charcoal suit. Russell dragged Jack into the group, introducing him to all as the author of the most brilliant collection of short stories he had ever had the privilege to publish.

What about Jeff? Corrine thought. What about our dead friend?

“Jack’s from Fairview, Tennessee,” Russell said, relishing, she knew, the idea of gritty Americana. Much as Russell liked his adoptive home, this slender, crowded island at the eastern edge of the continent, he believed in his heart that America was elsewhere, off in the South or the West, the big sprawling vistas beyond the tired ramparts of the Appalachians; that the country’s literature was about the strong, silent men and women of the hollows and the heartland — although to judge from Jack’s stories, which showcased babbling, toothless speed freaks, they were no longer necessarily silent.

“So did you vote for the cracker or the brother?” Washington asked him.

“Are we to assume you’re inquiring about the Senate race in Tennessee?” Russell asked.

“Indeed, Corker versus Ford,” Washington said.

“I think they both suck,” Jack said, catching everyone by surprise.

“Well, sure, but there are degrees of suckiness,” Washington said. “Last time I checked, Ford wasn’t running ads that implied Corker fucked black girls.” Typical Washington, Corrine noted, making assumptions about racism based on accent. Come to think of it, the kid could be a racist, for all she knew. But if he acted like one, Washington would eat him alive. He’d always relished playing the race card, using his blackness when it suited him; the only thing he enjoyed more than twisting liberal white people into pretzels of self-consciousness was messing with unreconstructed racists.