On her way back home she stopped at Whole Foods to buy a rotisserie chicken, which she ate with her hands straight from the carton while walking, brown grease gliding down to her elbows. She was sucking the last gray tatters from its thigh when she arrived home and checked her email for the first time in a month. One came in from Roland: he wrote that PBR was psyched with the turnout and wanted to continue the partnership. They’d put Socialize on a six-month $100,000 retainer, and if the buzz was good, they’d talk promotions and contract renewal. It wasn’t an acquisition or anything, Roland said; the company might have to change its tax status, but it would still be Socialize, Cory would still be in charge, and Roland would be around for logistical heavy lifting—Think on it and get at me.
If she took the offer, she could finally promote John, Martina, and Pascal to full-time as promised. The work would be steady, no more hustling.
While she decided, Cory was determined not to remain in Iniquity long enough to be voted out. She would find a sublet. She invited Linda to help her pack and move boxes into a Barr None truck. Linda arrived with her new bleached hair wind-fluffed, and ripples blown into her green cape coat. She sat in front of the closet sorting through Cory’s clothes, comfortably prim with her bad leg outstretched by a glass of Charles Shaw Shiraz, while Cory winnowed her piles of neglected mail.
The phone rang. It was Socialize’s CPA, who said there were questions about the nature of her sponsors as declared in her 990 and their relevance to the company’s mission. Socialize’s exemption status was in danger.
“Looks like I fucked up again,” Cory said, hanging up. “With the sponsorship thing. Apparently I might be a white-collar criminal.” Linda tilted her head, and Cory held her breath to steady herself. “Be honest,” she resumed. “Since you’ve known me. Was I always ridiculous? Do I always—always set myself up to fail? I mean, is this why people hate me? Am I one of those clueless, earnest, humorless—”
Probably to feign casualness, Linda continued folding a tank top. “Sometimes, yeah. That line of questioning is one example.”
“I try to do the right things. Then I do them wrong. And then they end up having been the wrong things all along.”
“Doing the wrong thing is supposed to feel good.”
“But I don’t. I never feel good. And then you see all these shitty people everywhere getting what you want, which tricks you into thinking you deserve it. But it’s not like anyone gets anything because they deserve it.”
Cory meant to reel in some of this messy whining, but she opened her mouth to a staircase of dry sobs. Linda did not offer a hug, no, too cool for that; instead she’d gotten up to pace around, in her typical way of disengaging at the wrong moment. She was making odd balletic motions—poses, static postures.
“I used to just hate my mind and body. Now it’s worse. Now I believe in the soul and I hate it most of all. I mean the conscious part of me. Maybe I’ve tricked myself into thinking it’s part of the social contract, you know: I do useful work, and you fix my soul. That self-love is moot if you’re selfless. But it’s an ego trip after all, like everyone said, and when I’m standing on the corner bothering strangers I’m just begging for attention.”
This was what she ought to have shouted at the Recreate protest. If it didn’t matter what she said, she could’ve at least said what she meant. Meanwhile Linda whisked the belt from her waist.
“Whatever, this probably sounds eye-rolling and weepy to you. I hate that too. I resent my friends.”
Linda went liquidly into point and then bent in a shaky plié, and with one hand she undid her blouse, revealing the white bra and pale scalloped torso underneath, both reflecting lamplight. Cory’s puzzlement slowed her crying. “I’m including you, Linda. You never helped me.”
“I was in the hospital,” Linda said, easy as that, shucking off her shoes and flashing wine teeth.
“I know, I know, and I wasn’t there for you either, so I can’t complain. I guess since all I do is complain, I can hardly blame you for keeping a distance.” Linda seemed to be thinking about something in the other room. Leaning aside, she skimmed her blouse off the shoulder and down the arm, draping the cloth like a matador. Cory turned away. “I hate my soul, I annoy my friends. So all I have is my awareness, and it’s all twisted up with self-pity and dread. There’s no going back on awareness.”
“You’re wrong,” Linda said.
“I definitely feel wrong.”
Cory lowered her head, but before the shiver in her chest had time to open her lips, she felt a swift shrinking of personal space, and a hand on the back of her neck—Linda was kissing her, ridiculously going for it, her tongue giving chase. Was she serious? Cory toppled back into the instability she’d been heading for, letting her tears wet Linda’s face. They made a unison stumble to the futon. Cory tried blocking Linda’s hand from reaching between her legs, but Linda kept scrambling it down, crossing the mat of hair until it reached soft concealed skin that flinched. Some of Cory’s clothes were struggled off, others half removed. There was nothing gentle about it: Linda’s skirmishing fingers were a little offside, doing quick circles and come-hithers, and when things just had to get better, Cory steered her to the soundless chime at the center. Time went along, escorted by bliss. Cramps of lust squeezed up through Cory’s stomach in a widening cone, ribboned down into chattering feet. It was happening; she arched and strained like a longbow; it happened, it was over.
She shrank to a more familiar scale of shame. She wanted to say it was nice, though it wasn’t nice, it was pity. But not the worst way to be condescended to. Cory waited through a stupid shy smile that came and went before she turned to face Linda, who lay prone. “Why did that just happen?” Cory said.
“Dunno! I must’ve seen it on TV or something.”
“Seriously, though.”
“Because I fuck.” Linda hadn’t removed her bra, and was rashing where its straps and cups had chafed. “One does like to fancy oneself a writer, but where raw talent is granted, one is essentially a fucker.”
“That’s insanely self-objectifying.”
“Whatever,” Linda said, and then rolled onto her back; her stomach bore a pale engraving of the sheet’s rucked creases. “Hey, have you talked to Will lately?”
“Not really. He gave me some computer help a while ago. Why?”
Linda rubbed her nose, and Cory felt a nibble of regret to see Linda’s skin disappear back behind the fastenings of her white blouse. “Put on some tea. It’s bad news, but it might make you feel better.”
SOME TIME AFTER Vanya left, Will heard the stairwell door open again. Socked feet approached him. “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Linda said. “Thin walls. You okay?”
“I’m such an idiot.”
“But an independent idiot.”
“What is it about hot girls?” Will covered his bandaged face. “It’s like mind control. I get bored of everything; how did I never get bored looking at her? As long as she was hot I could tell myself anything. It felt nice having that kind of drive. But it leaves you so fucking raw. I mean, I was really planning to marry her.” He bit his lips. “Do you think I hate women?”
“I don’t suppose it’s as simple as that,” Linda said. He waited for a better answer. “I think it’s nice you’re asking,” she added.
“Fine. And I know I’m a shitheel for thinking you could give me a pass. Then let me ask you this. Did you ever think Vanya and I would actually work?”
“This thing just had to play out, trust me. That said, um, she does post a lot of dumb shit online. Maybe it’s better you didn’t settle.”
“Yeah, I settled. I settled for a smart, rich, successful, beautiful nymphomaniac. I deserve better.” He turned in her direction. “I always wanted exactly what you and Henrik had. And I fucking got it, all of it.”
“Let’s change the subject,” Linda said, and moved to sit on the ottoman in front of him. “So now what?”
“Now you leave.”
&nbs
p; “Will, come on.”
“Don’t suck up. You just landed a sweet caretaking gig, good for you. Now go away.”
“You think I’m here to mooch? It might kill you to hear this, but people like you. I do,” Linda said, with shyness wobbling her voice at the rare moment of wanting to get a compliment right. The leather couch cushion inhaled as she got up to pace. “You’re the only one who visited me in the hospital. You let me and Henrik stay here. You’re generous.”
“It’s not generosity when you’re rich,” Will said. “See, watch. Henrik, you there?”
A pause. “Yeah, man.”
He took his keys from his pocket and threw them somewhere. “Want my car? It’s got, like, a thousand miles on it. Sell it, drive it into the sea, I don’t give a fuck.”
“Okay.”
“And there’s a ring somewhere around here, take that too. I paid twenty G’s for that. See? I’m fucking loaded. Now leave.”
“Will, you shouldn’t be alone,” Linda said. “You hungry? I’ll make you a milkshake.”
The laugh that began in Will’s throat dropped into his chest, and he shook his head while he cried. The terrible news of the present kept coming in, how right life always was. He reached to cover his face but withdrew before he touched it.
Linda pressed a tissue into Will’s hand. “Okay. I really don’t know what to do. Henrik? Got anything?”
A pause as Henrik muttered in his head. “When Euler lost his eye, he said, ‘Now I will have less distraction.’”
“Henrik!”
“What? I don’t know! Sorry.”
The nap of Linda’s sweater kept grazing Will’s neck as she made ironing strokes across his back. “Will, what do you want?”
Will had no answer. He’d probably need a seeing-eye dog. Somehow he’d have to feed it and clean its shit. It would sleep at his feet, mush its damp snout into his palm, conduct him through the world of solids. Some kind of Labrador, with its jiggling pink tongue and plain pedigree. He would never know what it looked like, but it’s not like dogs minded. He would get a dog and have it until it died.
“I need air on my face,” Will said.
“Does that thing come off?”
“It’s not supposed to, but it does. You’re gonna want to look away because—”
“I know. No eyes.”
With slow crackles, Will peeled up his sodden mask halfway and gave the inflamed rims of his hollows a tender scratch, aware he was every last bit a terror.
“It’s not that bad,” Linda said. “Don’t touch it, though.”
“Get my laptop. Help me shop for eyes.”
“Right on. State of the art. Laser beams and GPS.”
“Just normal glass ones.”
“Brown still a good color?”
“Yes, and before I forget, there are some things I need you to delete.”
CORY CALLED BARR, having free time and no excuse not to. She dialed the number while smacking on a cube of chilled sugar cane she’d stolen from Roopa, spitting the pulp into her palm when the line picked up. “Barr Rosen,” he said. His voice still sounded grainy.
“Cordelia Rosen,” Cory grunted back. “Just calling to tell you I’m finally getting around to returning your van. And yes I’ll fill the tank.”
“Very good.”
“So yeah, I think I might be scaling back my company involvement. I could probably come home to visit soon. But I should warn you, I sort of got rid of my hair.”
A pause followed that felt disapproving. “I suppose,” Barr said, “I should warn you likewise.”
“Likewise of what?”
Barr seemed to wait for her to guess. “I wish I had better news, but the news is thyroid cancer. Fairly advanced. Or unfairly, I should say.”
Cory felt shoved while remaining in place, like the grasping reflex that woke you from a falling dream, as if she would seize the bygone minute in which Barr was indefinitely well. “You’re what?”
“It was tricky finding a proper moment to tell you. Uncle Adam outlived his prognosis by seven years. I’m excellently covered. Surgery and radioiodine treatments are through, and adjuvant chemo wraps up in a while. I’m told I won’t be able to enter an airport for several months without setting off Geiger counters. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Does Deedee know?”
“Your sister visited for the seder. The evidence is tough to conceal.”
“Seder? So, three months? She knew for three fucking months?”
“I told her not to worry you. You’ve been busy.”
Cory brought out her special-occasion cry, the good silver and bone china. She hugged herself to contain the bucking force of her sobs, and didn’t wait to stop crying to say, “Did you think you were being noble by not telling me?”
“Well, I was discouraged from having visitors while taking nuclear medicine. And I’m telling you now. I was respecting the independence you’ve always strongly defended.”
Barr was right. And she’d always depended on Barr’s wrongness to index her rightness. A memory came over her—him driving her to private school, listening to OK Computer on her Discman and tracing an anarchy symbol into the mist of the passenger’s-side window, Barr powering the window down and up to smear it away. Anarchy, an ideal suited to obscure disorder. The symbols had come first, then the anger, then the books. But now Barr was right.
“I’ll admit. I’m surprised to have felt a measure of shame. Shamed by sickness. But my care is managed, and in the worst case neither you nor Deedee will lack. In fact, you stand to inherit.”
“That’s awful to say. That’s so awful.”
“I’m sorry. Ha. Illness is a gross entitlement to self-pity. I’m only saying that I know things will work out. Still, we need a plan. Let me offer you a job as my assistant. Twelve hundred dollars a month, plus my health benefits. Until you’re twenty-six, anyway.”
“Dad, no.”
“It is an offer of employment in a down economy.”
“Why not hire a nurse?”
“Because I wouldn’t. I might be dying but I hate being considered sick.” Barr coughed, then cleared his throat in ascending tones, as if to disavow any significance to the cough by sending it off musically. “My energy is gone, and my head’s a mess of chemo brain. I’m not gathering the mourners. I just think you’re the person for the job. You understand my preferences.”
“No more loans,” Cory said.
“A wage, not a loan. But as you’re keen on squaring your debts, I’m prepared to withhold some of your salary. Or you can consider it an advance on your inheritance.”
“Oh my god, Dad, that’s not funny.”
Barr laughed. “Illness gives me that monstrous entitlement. The decision is yours. I won’t force you to leave your work, nor have I asked your mother to.”
“Why isn’t Mom at home with you?”
“Away on business.”
“Still?”
“Not still. Again.” So he’d been in that huge three-story house alone. Barr did not sound bitter. He seemed to scrutinize the notion as he would a mosquito on his finger. “Your mother and I have grown more independent. But separation would make us no freer. Work took over.” Barr ahemed. “It’s been tough, being idle. But in the meantime I’ve enjoyed the Recreate ’08 coverage.”
“Recreate? What coverage?”
“The SF Bay Guardian, SF Weekly, and the Examiner, the closest thing to news outlets in our benighted region. I have all the clips. Some are negative, but criticism is good. Means it’s a real accomplishment. I should have known you’d succeed. The egg on my face is frying.”
“Stop, stop.” Cory cried again until her stabs of hiccups lengthened back to breathing. “No more gags. Just don’t. It’s just something we do instead of argue politics.”
“We did argue. It was never necessary.”
“It’s always necessary. Everything really is political. Like, you want me to take care of you,” Cory said, rubbing her eyes, “but I’m
not qualified. Even with the salary and everything, it’d be welfare. Caring, the big libertarian loophole.”
“What I’ve offered as support, you’ve scorned as privilege. And you’ve tried to dismiss it even when what you value most, your liberal education, comes straight out of it. Well, I don’t think I have to tell you that you can’t get rid of your privilege. From what I can tell, you’ve tried to earn it by extending it. If that’s what you want to do, that’s fine.”
“You’re shoehorning me into your ideology again,” Cory said, feeling beyond worthless for scolding her dying father but hoping he would see that she was not mollified by pity.
“Our ideologies are maybe not so different. Take your advanced socialist states,” Barr said, winding up into a comfy oration. “France, Sweden, Greece, Singapore. National health care, arts funding, vacation time, what could go wrong? With all that comfort the Enlightenment scaffolding feels obsolete, so they kick it away—close off, become nationalist and conformist, turn against foreigners and minorities. We both hate tyrannical majorities, we hate panacea and utopia, we like dissent.”
She disagreed, which meant she agreed. As he spoke she heard his stubble grate against the receiver. She pictured him in the mutt-colored easy chair in his study with his slippers pointing toward the bookcase at Ovid, Sophocles, Heraclitus. She’d never thought Barr thought. “You’re abusing Plato.”
“Ideally parents would make things safe but not easy. A tricky balance. If you’re worried about redeeming your privilege, you have to work at being happy. Conscience you’ve taken care of. Now you must be healthy and strong and effective. Having everything you’ve got, then being sick and miserable, that would be the real waste.”
“I’ll come home. But I’m not taking any money.”
“Cordy, never mind the job. You’ve been away a long time. We’ll just have a rest.”
Private Citizens: A Novel Page 31
