Richard Russo - Everybody's Fool

Who knew? Maybe Bath was bad luck. Out at Hilldale the dead were resurfacing after decades in the ground, a triumph of the past over the present. How could you expect people to imagine a better future when Great-Great-Grandma Rose launched herself out of the poisoned earth, seemingly in protest. In town the ground was so full of yellow pus that when it rained, the air became not just disgusting but probably toxic. On what basis could you tell people they were wrong to concede defeat? Or convince them that every problem has a solution when those you offer in good faith turn out to be so rickety and jerry-rigged that they tumble down in the street? How do you get a community to believe in itself, in its own fundamental goodness, when in its midst there are people who secretly fill apartments with illegal poisonous reptiles? How do you keep everyone else from peering into their own flawed hearts and seeing vipers stirring there?

The other thing that Kurt had understood was that Gus wouldn’t be able to resist the challenge of fixing Alice. Not only would he want to repair whatever was wrong with her, he’d confuse his compassion for a damaged soul with love. Okay, he’d tried. Give himself that much credit. Like Bath, however, there was more wrong with Alice than he’d realized, and nothing he’d tried had worked. Though he hated to admit it, he’d bitten off more than he could chew, and now he was gagging. This sin had a name: pride. Nothing now remained but what pride goeth before.

From somewhere outside the park came the squeal of brakes, and Gus winced, expecting the crashing sound of torn metal and shattered glass. When none came, he pictured Alice crumpled on the pavement. Would it be a blessing? The question was just there, shocking, vile. How could he think such a thing? What kind of man permits such a thought, even in passing?

The police scanner crackled, then was silent.

—

ONE AFTERNOON, not long after he’d called on Alice, Gus returned home to find a man seated back on the patio, staring off into the woods with his feet up on the table. It took him a moment to recognize Kurt without his beard. He watched him for a moment from behind the drape, trying to decide what the chances were that his visit here was related to his own next door. Pretty good, he concluded. Also pretty good that Kurt had heard him drive up and was only pretending to be lost in thought.

Hearing the patio door slide open, he looked up and offered Gus his unpleasant smile, though he neither rose nor lowered his feet.

“Glass of wine?” Gus offered.

“I thought you’d never ask.” His point being that it’d been nearly a year since he’d invited Gus over, an invitation that had never been returned.

He opened a bottle of white and brought it outside, along with three glasses. “Would Alice like to join us?”

“It would be better if she didn’t.”

Gus poured wine into two glasses and left the third sitting there on the table. He made sure one pour was slightly more than the other and handed that one to Kurt, who chuckled and said, “You noticed that.” A manila folder with Gus’s name on it sat in the center of the table. “People generally do notice things,” Kurt continued, “especially when you direct their attention, but they act on very little. Then they wonder why their lives are so full of regret.”

Gus took a sip of wine and winced. Was the bottle corked, or was he tasting the acid that was suddenly in the back of his throat? Probably the latter, since Kurt didn’t seem to notice.

“For instance, you knew right from the start that something was wrong with Alice, but did you bother to ask? Did you own your curiosity and say, Kurt, buddy, what’s wrong with that fucking woman? Did she get dropped on her head as a kid, or what?”

“What is wrong with Alice, Kurt?”

“The fuck should I know?” he said, picking up the third, unused glass and examining it closely, as if for smudges. “Something, though, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gus felt a surge of anger at this, followed by a welcome jolt of courage. “Okay, then, what’s wrong with you ?”

At this Kurt tapped the empty glass against the edge of the table. It didn’t shatter, but a crack now zigzagged from rim to stem. “Kurt’s not a very nice man, is he,” said Kurt, and it was true, he did do Gus’s voice amazingly well.

And just that quickly Gus’s courage was all used up. “Please don’t do that,” he said weakly, meaning the mimicking, not breaking the glass.

The other man had leaned toward him confidentially. “If you need a friend,” he said, “I’m right next door.”

“I said don’t.”

Kurt shrugged and poured more wine into his own glass.

“What do you want, Kurt?”

He appeared to think about it. “What do I want? It might be hard for you to believe, but the truth is I never know for sure. I try to live in the moment. Right now, for instance? This little bit of time we’re sharing? Is very rewarding. Honestly, the look on your face when you heard your voice, your words, coming out of my mouth? Wonderful. You didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.”

“You really are evil, aren’t you.”

“Hey, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” When Gus blinked at this, Kurt continued, “You do not want to hire Kurt Wright…We want him out of here…”

Gus felt a wave of nausea wash over him. For a moment he thought he might faint. “That was you.”

“Well, I thought you deserved a heads-up.”

“How did you learn to do voices?”

“Same way you get to Carnegie Hall, pal. Practice, practice, practice. I record important phone calls. All I need is a sentence or two. Man or woman, doesn’t matter. Children are tougher.”

“Except my conversation with Alice wasn’t over the phone. I was in the room with her. You weren’t.”

“Yeah, pretty darned sneaky there, Gus. Waiting until I left? But I forgive you. Anyway, sometimes when I go out, I leave a tape running. Not that I distrust Alice. She’d never. But honestly? Some of the things that woman says when she’s alone are fucking priceless.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Because a sane person wouldn’t, would he?

“Every artist wants to be appreciated, is part of it,” Kurt said, pouring again. “But also I’m easily bored. Take now. Rich though this experience has been — and I’m not just talking about you here, don’t flatter yourself about that, but also the college, this whole fucking upstate New York backwater — it can’t help getting old. The planning is always fun, but the execution? At some point the law of diminishing returns always kicks in, and things become rote. I’ve been bored with you and yours for a while now.”

“I’m sorry to be such a disappointment.”

“Hey, not your fault. You were way overmatched. Anyway,” he said, pushing the manila folder toward him. “I need a couple small favors, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Inside the folder was a preaddressed, stamped envelope, as well as a one-page letter of recommendation, marked SAMPLE.

“I warned you about this, too, if you recall,” Kurt said. “You can disregard that letter, if you want. I only include it for possible talking points. But by all means use your own — what’s the word I’m looking for? Voice, that’s it. However, as this new post I’m about to be offered is administrative, I’d take it as a personal favor if you stressed how well I play with others.”

“Should I really use that phrase? ‘Play with others’?”

“Knock yourself out. Nobody will hear the double meaning until it’s too late. And don’t trouble your conscience over all this. When I’m hired, which I will be, it won’t be because of your recommendation. As you know, these things are pretty pro forma, a hedge against regret — for which, it inevitably turns out, there is no hedge.”