“Are you going to get that?” Robert said, hearing the phone, located in a hallway that connected the kitchen with the foyer, start to ring. He turned around to see that Molly was looking in the refrigerator. She must not have been able to hear it.
The answering machine clicked on. Fascinated with the device—he didn’t know anybody else who had one—Robert always liked to listen to it work, Molly’s voice saying, “Please record your name and number into this contraption and later on I will return your call,” followed by a robotic screech. That was why, in the weeks to come, he didn’t think of himself as having eavesdropped, at least not with ill intent. He’d just been curious about the technology.
“Honey, it’s Mom,” a voice blared from the machine. “Give me a call.”
Robert became so aware of his reactions it felt as though he were performing them: a stiffening of his back, his eyebrows making M-shapes across his forehead, a tilt of his chin, then the slow swivel of his body until he faced Molly. She held a bunch of green onions, the refrigerator open at her back. She looked at him with what he thought of as her muscadine eyes, preposterously large, exaggeratedly round.
“But I thought . . .” he said.
“I was going to tell you, I swear.”
“But you said . . .” he said.
“When I told you they died, I mean, how could I know we’d start dating?” Her voice rippled with the kind of panic that sounded like laughter. “You were just some guy I was talking to in some diner!”
“They’re both alive?”
“Divorced, but yeah.”
Not the type of person to pace, Robert began to pace. Not the type of person to yell, Robert began to yell. His awareness that he’d become a yelling, pacing cliché only made him more of one as he asked of her, demanded of her, begged of her, “How could you?” “Lie to me” was the implied second half of that question, but the actual one easily could have been “have parents.” It was absurd of him, and he damn well knew it. Molly said he was taking the whole thing out of proportion. So, of course, he took the whole thing further out of proportion.
“You’re the most morally corrupt person I’ve ever met.”
A pot of beans gurgled on the stove. In the frying pan a link of sausage spat grease. “I’d like you to leave,” Molly said, pointing the way with an inherently furious, belittling, and accusatory calm. Robert did as ordered, not telling her the recipe for red beans and rice he had claimed was an old family secret he’d actually gotten from page 172 of the cookbook Southern Sideboards.
5.2
Thesis—Antithesis—Synthesis
Fate only exists in stories, and stories only exist in the past: one of those statements is true. Robert was trying to decide if that would make a good first line for his thesis as he walked into the office of Leo Marunga.
It was the morning of September 2, 1985. Campus was quiet due to Labor Day.
From behind his desk, acting more formal than usual, Leo said, “Take a seat, Vaughn,” between sips of coffee. His eyes were bloodshot, not in the smudged scribble pot tended to give them, but from what looked like, given the bags underneath, a lack of sleep. He kept his feet on the ground rather than atop his desk. “Thanks for coming in on the holiday,” he said. “I figured it’s best we get things squared up before classes start.”
“No problem.”
“How’ve you been? Everything dandy in your personal life?”
So it was that obvious. Almost a month had passed since the incident with the answering machine, when Robert stood in Molly’s kitchen, flushed with anger and absolute shame, experiencing a moment he figured was common in most relationships, a moment when you think, What the fuck did I just do? He’d always considered himself so much less volatile than that. How could he have let go of the one person who’d managed to disinter what years of heartbreak had buried? Throughout the past month, maybe because he and Molly had been cooking dinner when the incident occurred, Robert hadn’t had much of an appetite, only managing to keep down a sleeve of cashews every so often. He hadn’t been outside much either. His rolled sleeves revealed the fluorescently pale skin of his forearms.
“Everything’s going great. Just been spending a lot of time at the library. You know, grinding away.”
“Okay, then.” Leo leaned back in his chair. “What have you got for me?”
Despite his claim to have been working, Robert hadn’t made a great deal of progress on his thesis, focusing instead on his research into the Forsters. The notebook he began flipping through bore the proof. It was a veritable Bartlett’s of the soda industry. In the November 21, 1891, issue of Harper’s Weekly, for example, Mary Gay Humphreys wrote, “Soda water is an American drink. It is as essentially American as porter, Rhine wine, and claret are distinctly English, German, and French. The millionaire may drink champagne while the poor man drinks beer, but they both drink soda water.” Beneath that quotation Robert had scrawled another:
What’s great about this country is that America started the tradition where the richest consumers buy essentially the same things as the poorest. You can be watching TV and see PanCola, and you know that the president drinks Pan, Liz Taylor drinks Pan, and just think, you can drink Pan, too. A Pan is a Pan, and no amount of money can get you a better Pan than the one the bum on the corner is drinking. All the Pans are the same and all the Pans are good. Liz Taylor knows it, the president knows it, the bum knows it, and you know it.
—Andy Warhol
Robert began to talk while he stared at the quote by Warhol. “Lately I’ve been thinking about the South. I’ve been thinking about the people down here.” He resituated himself in his chair. “Southerners don’t lie. They tell lies. Have you noticed that yet? Our instances of not being truthful have a performative aspect.”
“You’ve got my tail wagging.”
“Remember that Didion line ‘We tell ourselves stories in order to live’?”
“Oh God, that woman,” said Marunga. “It’s hard for me to take seriously anyone who takes themselves that seriously.”
“Sure, okay. But that line of hers. People love, love, love to quote it, which is idiotic, because Didion immediately refutes it. It’s basically, ‘We tell ourselves stories in order to live, but we shouldn’t.’ And she’s right. The truth of it is we tell ourselves lies in order to live.”
“This sounds in complete opposition to the sample chapter you gave me.”
“I think it is.”
The fight with Molly had given Robert the new idea. After he asked her why she’d lied about her parents, she looked at him in a way that meant, Because you wanted a story.
Leo clasped his hands together with his index fingers pointed upward. He bounced them against his lips. “Then I’ve got just one question,” he said. “Was my wife a good fuck?”
Over the next few seconds, while his blood thickened from the sudden loss of hydration through sweat, Robert became something of an antiunion capitalist. If today were not the first Monday in September, the hallways and offices of the philosophy department would be bustling with professors, secretaries, teaching assistants, students, janitors, and security guards. If today weren’t Labor Day, there would be dozens of potential witnesses to the murder of Robert Vaughn at the hands of his thesis adviser, Leopold Marunga.
“I don’t know what she told you,” Robert said, trying to keep his voice calm.
“Calling my wife a liar is not the way to go.”
In the middle of Leo’s office, watching his adviser struggle to keep himself from openly weeping, Robert came to a realization. He was the bad guy here. He wasn’t the victim; he was the culprit. It all made sense now, the bloodshot eyes, the staid manner: this man was in grief.
“I believe it goes without saying you’ll have to find someone else to work with on your thesis.”
“Okay.”
“Jane tells me the two of you haven’t seen each other for some time. It’s going to stay that way.”
“Sure.”
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“I’d like to throw you out that window. Ruin your entire academic career? Nothing would make me happier in the whole goddamn world.” Leo’s chest deflated. “You aren’t to mention this to anyone. It ends here. Am I being understood? Lovely. Now get the fuck out.”
The hallway was as eerily quiet as it had been when he arrived. All down the length of it, suggestive of the approaching season, everything was ochre-tinted, the leather chairs by the reception area, the wood panels on the walls, the linoleum floors, the drop ceiling tiles, even the ancient, faded sign that read fallout shelter. Robert walked toward the stairwell. Because of his echoing footsteps, it was difficult to tell, by sound alone, whether he was coming or going.
5.3
Long Way Down, One Last Thing—Caesar’s Harem—The Lemurian Confederated Militia—Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
On the set of Boogie into the Night (Five Olde Entertainment, 1975), a roller-skate picture in which a teenager hopes to parlay her skills at the rink into big-time movie stardom, Nicholas Forster damn near had a fit. They were overbudget by more than a quarter million dollars. The script’s third act needed a punch-up. His lead actress was clearly ten years older than her character. Worst of all, craft services had stocked Coke and Pepsi products but nothing from PanCola. The hell did they think was bankrolling this whole thing?
Nicholas walked toward the trailers, passing a group of PAs who looked bored, most of them smoking cigarettes rather than working because set-decs couldn’t get the disco ball to spin. He was in a particularly bad mood because the latest earnings report had come in that morning. The company was not doing well. Despite positive results from consumer tests, their most recent product to launch, water that came in a bottle, had failed to gain a foothold in the market. More than just Nick’s brainchild, an idea whose research and development he oversaw, PanH2O had been his Hail Mary.
In a parking lot blanched by sunlight, the heat shimmer transforming it into impressionist art, Nick wandered through columns and rows of trailers until he found Havermeyer Dunn, the director, who was “advising” a slight, blond actress half his age.
“Action!” yelled Nicholas. “Cut!”
After whispering something to the actress, who blushed, nodded, and walked away, Havermeyer turned around to face Nicholas, extending his arms in greeting, hands low and palms up, as though he were carrying a giant pumpkin. “Nicky, my man.”
“Quiet on the set! Roll sound! Roll camera!” Nick crossed his arms. “Uh-oh. Did I interrupt you by doing your job?”
He knew it was a mistake to have hired this guy. A regular at Five Olde, the production company Nicholas had scavenged after his uncle Lance died two years ago, Havermeyer Dunn hadn’t directed a picture since Caesar’s Harem, the subtitle of which Nick liked to joke should have been, “He Conquered, He Saw, He Came.” Dunn had begged him for a job, saying, “Your uncle and me had a verbal agreement. He promised I’d always have work with the Forsters.”
Like hell he did, Nick had thought, and then asked, “Can you roller-skate?”
“Nicky, my man, this is just a snag. We’ll be up and running in an hour. I mean, it’s a disco ball, not the Hoover Dam.”
“One hour.”
“Swear on my life.”
“Wonderful,” Nick said. “That should give you just enough time to talk with craft services. I want nothing but Pan on offer. Throw out all the Coke and Pepsi.”
“Isn’t that something the PM should handle?”
“Havermeyer.”
“Okay, I’m on it.”
“I’ve got a lunch in the hills. This parade better be marching by the time I’m back.”
Nicholas looked at his watch. It was 12:30. He had half an hour to make it to a restaurant that for most people was twenty minutes away. Nick needed the extra time. His friends were often surprised he was such a cautious driver, never exceeding the speed limit, always using his turn signals, interpreting yellow lights as stop rather than caution. He supposed it was the pilot in him.
“Welcome back, Mr. Forster,” said Lagniappe’s valet when Nicholas pulled up at 12:58. Although the restaurant had, over the past few years, lost favor with the younger crowd, Nicholas still went there, primarily due to his girlfriend, who liked Lagniappe for the food, the staff, and because it had, over the past few years, lost favor with the younger crowd. She was as cautious in their relationship as he was on the road. Lagniappe’s hostess, after telling him his guest had already arrived, led Nicholas through a dining room planked with barge board from demolished Louisiana creole cottages, down a stuccoed-brick hallway, past a trompe l’oeil veranda, and onto a patio terrace shaded by fake Spanish moss hanging from real palm trees, where, at a table near one corner, sat his girlfriend. The hostess handed him a menu, said their server would be with them shortly, and walked back through the restaurant. Nicholas leaned in and kissed Susannah.
“Damn it, Nick. We’re in public. How many times do I have to tell you?”
He made an exaggerated frowny face. “So-rry.”
“Fuck off, okay?”
“You and your mother.” Nicholas chuckled, shaking his head. “The language.”
It drove Susannah crazy how flippant Nick could be. Ever since they had started seeing each other three years ago, a consummation made possible only after her mother confessed about the adoption, Susannah had been more of the adult in her relationship with Nicholas, constantly worried a tabloid reporter was lurking nearby, steno pad ready. Nick didn’t worry about a single thing, which, if she were being honest with herself, was part of why she loved the little shit. People like him were allowed to be children their entire lives. He had that movie star quality, exuding a sense that the country, the world, the cosmos had been authored into existence for him and him alone, with everyone else, in their normally progressing lives, happy to oblige his stunted one.
Take his travel habit. Susannah understood all too well that Nick, like most beautiful people with means, loved to travel, ostensibly so that he could experience new cultures, but really so that he could be seen by new people and in new settings. Unlike most others of his kind, at least, he was never trite or clueless or plain silly enough to say, “I love to travel.” Who didn’t?
“I’ll have the jambalaya flatbread,” Susannah said when their waiter arrived, headlines scrolling through her mind. incest cola! one read. forster family confirms mississippi roots.
“And I’ll go with the risotto étouffée,” said Nicholas.
Susannah said, “No onions in his. He can’t do onions.”
Even if they told everyone they weren’t related by blood, she figured only a few people in the world would believe them, the rest seeing nothing but two rich, entitled cousins who, besides committing the sin of being rich and entitled, committed the one of sleeping together. Susannah blamed herself for the necessity of discretion when going out in public with Nicholas—herself and the LCM.
The Lemurian Confederated Militia was a cross between the Merry Pranksters and the Black Panthers. It was founded on the philosophical underpinnings of Maoism, Marxism, vaudeville, Scientology, and pre-Atlantean occult, in particular the theory of a “third root race.” Prior to joining the group, Susannah had been just another student at Stanford, deputy editor of the literary magazine, British lit major, occasional lifeguard at the campus pool. Afterward, however, she became Susannah Forster, famed heiress and brainwash victim. Whether robbing a convenience store by claiming a jar of baby oil was nitroglycerin, setting free animals from a pet shelter, tossing red paint on police vehicles, or holding the school president hostage with a banana wrapped in a paper bag, all while wearing a T-shirt on which was printed i am andy devine, god of death, destroyer of worlds, she was omnipresent in security-camera footage shown on every major-network news program. Reproductions of the T-shirt sold out nationwide. Although Susannah was eventually found not guilty—her lawyers used “coercive persuasion through involuntary intoxication” as her defense—the public celebrated her as
an outlaw provocateur. She’d had to learn to handle being recognized, by shop clerks letting her into the dressing room, by people in the car across from her during a traffic jam, and by, she suspected, the waiter placing a dish in front of her at Lagniappe.
To distract from her suspicions, Susannah focused on her food, an example of a new culinary style described as Marigny Mélange. So that’s how you make something new, she thought while taking a bite, combine at least two things that are old.
“Yours good?” she asked Nicholas.
“Uh-huh. Basically a creamier version of regular étouffée. You?”
Susannah swallowed. “They should just call it Chicken, Sausage, and Shrimp Pizza.”
“Everybody’s afraid to sound too California.”
“Tell that to Alice Waters . . . Yes, please.”
The waiter, holding a carafe of iced tea shawled in a napkin, refilled Susannah’s glass. She was still suspicious of the guy. Lingering near their table for too long, spilling some of the tea because he was distracted, and tilting his head to listen to their conversation: he had eyes blue as toilet blocks and a nose stuck in business not his own. Susannah remained silent until he had left their vicinity. “How’s the new toy?”
Nicholas wiped his mouth. “She flies smooth as red velvet. Plus, the throttle doesn’t jam up like on the last one. I’ve been trying to think of a name for her. Too bad PanAm’s taken.”
“We should make another trip up to San Francisco.”
“I can’t right this minute. Business. The bottled water’s not selling.”
“Told you no one would pay for what they get for free at a fountain down the hall.” Susannah took the last bite of her jambalaya flatbread. “Hey, remember when we were kids, in the summer, drinking water from the hose? Tasted kind of rubbery but also kind of perfect? That’s what you should bottle. Remind people of their childhood.”
American Pop Page 33
