by Ann Beattie
With his free hand, Noonan reached in his pants pocket. Noonan had stolen the ashtray.
7
THE newspaper assigned Myra DeVane to write the Country Daze story. There was no background information on any of the staff, so for most of the story she was going to have to rely on interviews. She wanted to do a good job, because she wanted to move on from Vermont to an important paper like the Boston Globe. She needed some more impressive press clips before she applied for a job like that though. If this group of people was anywhere near as interesting as their writing, it wasn’t going to be difficult to write a good story. The new publisher, whom she had spoken to in person, had about as much class as John Belushi, doing Samurai Swordsman. She couldn’t wait to see what the editor was like.
On Monday she went to the Country Daze headquarters, a remodeled turn-of-the-century house off the main street. Tomato plants were staked on the front lawn. It had been recently painted, but the yard, with patches of burned grass and bushes in need of trimming, made it look a little run down.
The law office to the left had a neat privet hedge across the front and window boxes filled with geraniums. The window boxes on the Country Daze house were empty. Perhaps this lack of concern with exteriors indicated that real work was going on inside and there was no time for perfecting their image. If she liked them, she would mention that in her lead.
Downstairs, as she came in, was a young woman in her twenties. Her bangs looked like overcooked bacon. The rest of her hair was pulled back in a bun. She was typing on what looked like the horizontal control panel of a jet plane. The typewriter looked particularly out of place next to the telephones, both circa 1950 black, that sat beside it on the desk. The desk was a round oak table. There was a straight-back oak chair pulled up to one side, as if someone might be dropping by for tea. A two-foot-high plastic pig carrying a red suitcase stood at the front of the desk, in lieu of a bud vase. It was studded with memos. As she answered the phone, the secretary took messages and peeled pieces of paper off a pad, which she stuck to the pig. Someone had put a little toupee between the pig’s ears.
The secretary led her up the stairs to Hildon’s office. He had on white gym shorts, a black T-shirt, socks, and running shoes. His feet were on his desk. He smiled at her when she walked in, and kept talking on the phone. “Quote, He’ll be right with you, end quote,” the secretary said, and turned and left.
Myra had seen him before but she couldn’t think where. He was too handsome for her to be mistaking him for someone else. She felt herself stiffening, going on guard against someone who exuded such confidence. She found out his background: an only child from a middle-class family who went to prep school and to Yale, dodged the draft, was admitted to law school at the University of Virginia and dropped out. A year as a reporter himself, for the Detroit Free Press. Married, no children. Got tired of city life, moved to the country, turned a profit selling real estate and decided to start a magazine. According to Hildon, he had just been in the right place at the right time; instead of the Let’s-Open-a-Restaurant dream, he had started a magazine and put a lot of his friends to work. He saw the magazine as an extended family, a continuation of the life he and his friends had led in college. Obviously they were beating the system, and while he didn’t think he or this bunch was representative, he was sure that they all felt very lucky and grateful. The staff had been expanded—no, no one had left, except for one reporter who was going to leave, but that was because he had decided he wanted to be on the West Coast; it had nothing to do with dissatisfaction with the magazine. Social satire was perhaps too vague a description of what they did, really; some of it was satirical, but much of it he simply thought of as eclectic. The magazine, then, was really what he was inclined to publish—something that had to do with his own concerns and the things that amused him? Yes, but he didn’t think that he was unrepresentative either, and in a way the success of the magazine proved that: he wasn’t the only one who cared about social issues and who also had a sense of humor. While he didn’t want to seem to wave the flag, he didn’t think that a lot of stereotypes about Americans pertained anymore; most Baby Boomers were well-educated, united by their opposition to the Vietnam war, people who had had their consciousness raised about nutrition and ecology … he really thought that there was a large thinking population out there, and he was pleased that they were pleased with Country Daze. Could he characterize his audience? Well—he did not think that many farmers wanting advice about what fertilizer to use took the magazine home after flipping through it on the stands. Something for coffee-table flipping in New York? Well, they got a lot of mail and it wasn’t all from New York. Look at what a cross section of the population tuned in to the Prairie Home Companion. Snob appeal? He hoped that it was promoting a sense of mutual amusement, a sense of camaraderie, rather than being something taken up by an elitist minority. The mail suggested …
She asked if she could see some of the mail later.
Of course.
If he preferred to talk in the office or whether he would have time for lunch.
Fine, if she had time herself for lunch.
Surely he must be aware that the magazine was seen as a rather cultish …
Oh, because people were devoted to something, he would not jump to the conclusion that they were a cult. Perhaps, too, she was overestimating the influence and even importance of the magazine, which was only natural because of the nature of her assignment: when she had to take it out of context, that always focused a lot of attention on something, whereas …
Johnny Carson didn’t bother to put it in context, when he referred to it in his monologue the other night. Something like that elevated the person or thing mentioned to …
And did she think of herself as cultish for watching the Tonight show?
Well, that was hardly something only the cognoscenti knew about, after all these years.
Still: couldn’t she see Country Daze as something that united people, instead of—as she implied—something divisive?
Could he describe himself as a counterculture Johnny Carson, then?
He wouldn’t be happy with that. He wasn’t a public figure, and that was as it should be.
Didn’t he think that as the magazine circulated more, he was going to have to deal with personal fame?
No no no; movie actors were glamorous, not writers and editors.
Clark Kent.
That was so clearly a figure of masculine authority that it was rather irrelevant that he had been a mild-mannered reporter. What that was really about was macho defensiveness, a maintenance of the status quo by showing that even the meepiest, most inconsequential man can dash …
He excused himself, and changed into more formal attire (jeans) for lunch.
If he couldn’t have predicted that the magazine would be such a success, maybe his sense of a large, homogeneous group of Americans wasn’t as sure as he said.
Luck was a factor. It was certainly less of a gamble than Pet Rocks or Trivial Pursuit. He realized he was taking a gamble and he hoped that it would work; this success was just very gratifying.
But he did feel that he had his finger on the pulse …
Well—since he had mentioned Trivial Pursuit, was it really the case that those guys, sitting around brainstorming in a bar, thought that they were brilliant sensors of what people wanted at just that moment? Didn’t they just decide that taking a long shot would be worth the gamble?
He had an Amstel Light. She had a glass of white wine. They were sitting at a sidewalk café with red tablecloths and uncomfortable chairs. Her knee kept hitting his by mistake.
Was it true that Garry Trudeau was doing the comic strip, under a pseudonym?
No. Cameron Petrus did it.
Quite a few people loved that strip. They liked the fact that the main character always had such a bad time that he dropped dead in the last frame. Wasn’t this a serious social comment, disguised …
Have to ask Cameron.
; But taken all together: the inevitable death in Petrus’ column, the unhelpful, off-the-wall advice given by Cindi Coeur to people with problems, the—what would you call it?—fantasy fiction in which people killed IRS agents and their landlords … Did he really think that the people who liked those things were just having a lighthearted laugh, or wasn’t it possible that people actually felt alienated and angry, and that out of their despair …
She’d be talking to people about their reaction to the magazine. What she found out would be telling, of course.
But people weren’t good at psychoanalyzing themselves.
He ordered spinach ravioli. She ordered an avocado stuffed with crab. One more Amstel. One more wine.
He was always amazed at how much people would tell writers. They probably would try to analyze their reactions for her. Wasn’t she amazed at what people would say, for the record?
Yes. But that might have to do with the fact that she was a woman, and in spite of knowing that she was a reporter, they didn’t quite take her seriously.
People had always told him things for the record when he had been a reporter. It was almost suicidal.
She asked whether, apropos of his earlier remark about psychoanalysis, the column Analysts Say the Darndest Things was made up, or whether people sent in these howlers.
It started as a made-up column, but the readers began to send in true stories that were better than the things the staff had been thinking up.
The cooking column?
That was made up. And he must say, the suggestions for preparing field mice …
What magazines did he read?
The New Yorker, the Atlantic, Time, Geo, Connoisseur, Paris Review and Architectural Digest.
What did he do when he wasn’t working on the magazine? He really worked very hard putting out the magazine. He had a wife, didn’t he? She enjoyed gardening. What about Cindi Coeur?
Lucy? He had known her for fifteen years. Since college. An extended family, indeed. It was too bad Myra had missed the annual staff party. But she might want to come to the Friday meeting and see if she could line people up to talk to afterward.
He picked up the check. She asked if she could go back to the office with him—try to get a feel for the place, keeping out of the way, of course—perhaps take a look at some of the mail if that wouldn’t be an inconvenience.
Last sip of beer. He paid the bill in cash.
Who put the pig on the desk?
Instead of a water cooler, they had Bennie the Seltzer Man deliver. It wasn’t Madison Avenue, after all.
Had he ever been tempted by that?
Madison Avenue? Of course not.
What if Country Daze hadn’t been a success?
He’d probably be doing what she was doing: a reporter, somewhere.
Who did put the pig there?
Noonan. And from time to time he decorated it: a scarf in the winter. That was a merkin on its head right now.
A what?
You’re the reporter.
Must be nice to work in a casual environment. Did he get along with Matt Smith?
A great guy.
He had sold the magazine at quite a profit.
Yes, he had.
Was there a new project on the horizon?
He was very happy editing the magazine.
He certainly did present himself as being complacent, happy, grateful—somebody who had just been very lucky.
He had been.
What about the other part?
He hoped that he was a little more complicated than that.
If the staff felt as grateful to be escaping Madison Avenue and the system in general as he did, they must be quite devoted to him.
There were disagreements. No matter what business you’re in, there will be disagreements.
It was an unusual success story. She didn’t mean to suggest that things were other than what he said—it was just a very untypical situation.
He started the car.
“Where are you from?” he said.
“Washington, D.C. I grew up there and in Alexandria.”
“My roommate at Yale came from Alexandria. His father owned some restaurants around Washington. Ever eat at La Toque?”
“I took my mother there for her birthday!”
“Still live there, huh?”
“They’re divorced. My mother lives in Old Town. My father lives in Paris.”
“Visit him in Paris?”
“Once. In London, actually. I was in London for a week, and he flew there to see me.”
“I spent a year in Europe when I got out of college. The dollar’s so strong now, I wish I had the time to go back there. Even Paris is cheap.”
“At least you’re not a nine to fiver. You’ve got so much freedom. People must envy you.”
“Some people think I’m a bum. They don’t understand that you’ve been awake all night on deadline night if they catch you out in a rowboat the next day.”
“Lake Venue?”
“I’ve been there a few times. It’ll be better next week, when the mosquitoes disappear.”
He had taken a Valium before lunch, because he knew he would have to speak to a reporter, and the effect of the pill and the beer was drowsiness.
The silver Checker was parked in front of the driveway beside the Country Daze building. They parked a block away and walked back. Remembering the Fourth, Hildon thought what a welcome thing a hit of grass would be, to smooth things out even more. With his luck—with Myra DeVane in tow—Noonan would be there smoking a joint, as casually as George Burns out on the porch, smoking a cigar.
When they walked in, Noonan was walking out the door. “You the reporter?” he said to Myra. “I’m Noonan, the one who holds everything together here. Off the record, this man is a Communist and is planning to run for office as a Republican. I’m on my way to lunch or I’d tell you more.” Noonan continued out the door.
The secretary had on earphones. She smiled when Noonan started talking, but did not stop typing. A month ago, when Hildon had gone to bed with Elena, she had not removed her earphones. She had been listening to a tape of a Jerry Lewis Telethon. Hildon noticed that the pig had epaulets of memos, and its stomach was entirely covered with white paper. He cocked his head and read a few of them without removing any, and walked up the stairs, with Myra behind him.
He gestured for Myra to walk into the mailroom. There was a Victorian sofa he and Lucy had bought at an estate sale the year before, and he had brought some lamps from his house—things Maureen didn’t want when she redecorated. It was a comfortable room; sometimes at the end of the day Hildon went there and stretched out and read mail. There were more letters stacked in trays marked “In,” “Out,” and “Coitus Interruptus.” There were several letter openers on the table.
“Make yourself at home,” Hildon said. “Come and get me, or go downstairs and get Elena if you have any questions.”
When Hildon left, she walked to the window and looked out. It was a view of town she hadn’t seen; a few stories higher up, she could have looked down on the domed roof of the bank. She looked into the empty window boxes. A squirrel ran up the trunk of a dead elm, then ran down again, circled the tree, and dashed into an alleyway.
She had only read half a dozen letters in the In basket when she came to one that interested her so much that she read it again, and then transcribed it:
Dear Cindi Coeur,
My problem is my former lover. She writes an advice column for messed-up people, but the joke is, she is very messed up herself. She has never broken the tie—or made a real connection—with the man who is now her boss and longtime on-again, off-again lover. Years ago, I thought that if we left New York and moved to Vermont, they could confront the situation (Vermont is also where he is in hiding from being a serious person) and find out for themselves what was real and what was a delusion. Are they hedonists or masochists? Nothing has made them figure it out, including my leaving. Don’t you miss me? Aren’t
you tired of avoiding yourself and of parodying somebody who does care about people’s problems? Now that you don’t have me to analyze anymore, have you spent any time trying to figure yourself out? I’ll tell you one thing: you’re a hard act to follow. Can we see each other?
Love Always, Les
8
LIKE the heroine of her favorite novel, there were many things that Maureen would never do: drink tequila; give blood; do volunteer work; put into practice what Hildon had taught her about changing a tire; sharpen her own knives; read Proust; bargain for lower prices at the vegetable stand at the end of the day; have oral sex; learn the metric system; snorkel; have a conversation with a Jehovah’s Witness; do acrostics.
She had just done one of those things, and it was the most horrible thing imaginable.
Maureen had decided that she needed to change her life. She had lost her sense of herself, and she had to regain it. It was not that she had been Hildon’s wife too long, but rather that it did not seem that she was anybody’s anything. When she decided to be Matt Smith’s lover, she thought that would spite Hildon, but actually doing something like that was self-destructive: she was only being spiteful to herself.
She did what people always did in the movies when they were having a crisis. She looked in the mirror. Even trying as hard as she could, her face was so familiar to her that she did not know how objective she could be.
She was at least attractive. It might make her prettier if she had her hair streaked, lightened around the face. She might go back to buying and wearing the candy-colored clothes she had liked as a student at Mary Baldwin College. She might affect that southern accent again, slightly. None of it would do any good if she continued to be surrounded by the bizarre, self-indulgent people who had been part of her life since Hildon’s magazine became such a success. But before she could meet new people, she would have to restore her self-confidence. And today, Davina Cole, for a mere $50 an hour, was going to help her to be the best person she could be.
As Davina explained it, her approach was part psychotherapy, part whole body reconditioning, and part assertiveness training.
