Sincerely,
Phillip
44
THAT NIGHT IT WAS POSSIBLE, for once, to walk into almost any Manhattan restaurant at prime time—including those with secret phone numbers and those with phone numbers that always rang busy—and find a table for two or an empty seat at the bar. Traffic flowed smoothly up and down the broad avenues, and despite the mild weather, there were fewer pedestrians than usual, although here and there, in Times Square and at the intersection of Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard and 125th Street, crowds began forming not long after the polls closed, in anticipation of the celebration to come, although the mood remained subdued, the jubilation kept in check by the knowledge that the future of the republic would be decided elsewhere, far to the south and the west, where people were still driving to the polls in pickup trucks with gun racks in rear windows, or in burgundy Dodge minivans with MY KID’S AN HONOR STUDENT bumper stickers, or in rusted-out 700-series Volvos with faded GIVE PEACE A CHANCE and Grateful Dead STEAL YOUR TERRAPIN bumper stickers.
Meanwhile, in TriBeCa, five floors above West Broadway, in an old-school loft with warped hardwood floors and a tin ceiling veined with wires and pipes, the children had been granted a special dispensation to stay up until the decision was in, the high-pitched din of their play competing with the steady drone of Brian Williams on the television set. Election-night coverage had just begun, but it was far too early to pay attention. Three of their four parents were drinking Sancerre as they prepared for what they hoped would be a historic night, although the incipient euphoria was kept in check by the memory of disappointment four years before, and by the suspicion that the rest of the country, in the end, despite the tentative evidence of the polls, was not ready to elect an African-American president, and, in this particular eighteen-hundred-square-foot sector of lower Manhattan, the mood was also tinged with a melancholy undercurrent, an unspoken sadness due to the conspicuous absence of the fourth parent.
Russell topped off the wineglasses and tasted his Bolognese sauce, which needed salt. Keeping it simple tonight—salad and spaghetti with a choice of two sauces, Bolognese and marinara, the latter for the two teenage girls, who were both vegetarians, although Storey ate so little lately, it was hard to tell; she seemed to have suddenly adopted her mother’s slightly hostile attitude toward food since the separation.
“They just called Kentucky for McCain,” Washington said, looking at his BlackBerry.
“Pennsylvania’s going to be key.”
“And Ohio.”
“I’m so nervous,” Veronica said.
“Remember how we all thought Kerry was going to win?”
“Come to think of it,” Washington said, “weren’t you supposed to move to France if Kerry lost? Whatever happened with that?”
“We knew you’d miss us,” Russell said reflexively.
“We miss you now,” Veronica said.
After an awkward silence, Washington said, “At least we’re drinking French wine.”
“Actually, I’m opening a Chianti with the pasta.”
“You’re so geographically correct, Russell.”
Jeremy rushed over to the adult side of the loft to inform them that Obama had won Vermont.
“We’re on the board,” Washington said, holding his palm out toward Jeremy. “High five, my man.”
“Are we pretty sure Obama’s going to win?” Jeremy asked.
“It’s not a done deal,” Russell said. “I think there’s a lot of white voters who won’t admit to a pollster that they’d never vote for a black man.”
Washington said, “No shit, Sherlock.”
“But I’m cautiously optimistic.”
“I think you were right the first time,” Washington said. “No fucking way this country’s going to elect a blood president.”
“Washington, please,” Veronica said. “The kids.”
He was getting a little strident; Russell wondered if he’d had a few drinks before coming over.
—
“Can I have wine?” Jeremy asked after they were all seated at the dinner table. Russell had lately taken to giving him a small glass on special occasions.
“You can have a sip of mine afterward. Now clink glasses—lightly, no smashing—with the person next to you.”
The kids managed not to break any stemware, though a fair amount of water was spilled.
“Are we going to win?” Storey asked.
“You haven’t touched your spaghetti,” Russell said.
“I had some salad.”
Mingus was looking down at his phone. “Obama just won Pennsylvania.”
“That’s huge,” Russell said.
“Does that mean we win?”
“It means the odds have just improved considerably.”
Veronica said, “Hope you put that bottle of Dom we brought on ice.”
After the dinner plates were cleared, the TV was again turned up. The kids watched briefly, cheering further Obama wins before disappearing into the bedrooms.
A perfunctory hometown cheer went up when New York was placed in the blue column, though there’d never been any suspense about that.
“Anybody else see that interview Brian Williams did with McCain and Palin?” Veronica asked. “Where he said New York and Washington, D.C., were the headquarters of the elitists? Whatever happened to the good McCain? Remember him, the maverick of the 2000 primaries?”
“After the primaries, he hired all the old Bush/Rove apparatchiks,” Washington said, “the same hit men who slimed him in the 2000 primaries with nasty rumors about his war record and his love life. The same assholes who helped smear Kerry with that whole swift boat thing.”
When Russell went to fetch another bottle of wine, Washington followed him to the kitchen.
“Listen, Crash, I hate to bring it up now, but I couldn’t catch you at the office. It’s nothing definite, but Anderson called me in today and gave a big speech about retrenchment and cost cutting. He hasn’t made up his mind yet, but he said we shouldn’t be making any capital expenditures in this climate. I made a strong case for you all over again. He told me he’ll give me a decision next week.”
“I thought it was your decision.”
“Under normal circumstances, yeah, but these are extraordinary times. Everybody’s scared shitless. Nobody knows what’s happening next. Credit markets freezing up, banks going under.”
“Well, we’re reprinting Jack’s book every other week, five thousand a pop. And what if I told you Salon and McSweeney’s are both coming out with pieces on Jeff next month? I’ve never seen anything like this. Sales are doubling every six months.”
“Can’t hurt. What about the movie?”
“You’d have to ask Corrine about that.”
“You guys talking?”
“We communicate. Logistics. Bills.”
“I mean—about your marriage.”
“Couple of summits, a few fraught phone calls.”
“Have you thought about counseling?”
“She has. I don’t really see the point, and I certainly never thought I’d hear you recommend it.”
“Look, man, I know you’re hurt and angry. But we all know you belong together. It’s not like you’ve been—excuse the phrase—lily white through all these years. You need to forgive her.”
“Easier said than done. How am I ever going to trust her again? When she says she’s going to a business dinner, or a baby shower? How am I supposed to forget that she lied to me repeatedly?”
“Like I said, she’s not the first, or the only one.”
“I never loved anyone else.”
“What makes you think she loves this guy?”
“Because she won’t deny it.”
“See, she’s honest to a fault. I don’t think you need to worry about her lying to you again.”
“What are you guys doing over there?” Veronica called out.
“Seriously, though,” Russell said, “if we don’t make this deal, I’m wel
l and truly fucked.”
“Hey, man, I hear you. Our monthly nut’s higher than my salary. Without Veronica’s paycheck, we’re going to burn through our savings pronto.” He drained his glass and held it out for a refill. “Carpe diem, I say. Let’s see if a black motherfucker can get elected president.”
—
Soon they were talking about the meltdown. Veronica said, “If the Fed had stepped in and backstopped Lehman, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Or if Lehman hadn’t been so reckless,” Russell interjected.
“Granted there were bad decisions, but J.P. Morgan and AIG were reckless, too, and they got bailouts.”
“If I go to Vegas and lose my life savings,” Russell said, “should my fellow taxpayers cover the losses?”
“That’s a dumb analogy,” Veronica said.
“I think it’s a perfectly good one.”
“That’s so simplistic. There were so many factors at play.”
“Sure, like greed, stupidity, incompetence.”
“Russell, please,” Washington said. “No need to get ad hominem.”
“I’m just saying it wasn’t some confluence of impersonal market forces that wrecked Lehman. It was a whole bunch of bad decisions made by people who worked there.”
“Are you implying that I’m greedy, stupid and incompetent?” Veronica asked.
“No, only there has to be some accountability.”
“Whoa! Shut the fuck up,” Washington said, reaching for the remote control.
“…the State of Ohio,” Brian Williams was saying, “and can you name one that was fought over with more force?”
“What? Who got it?”
“Obama.”
“That’s huge,” Washington said. A quick check of other stations confirmed the call, including a brief stop on Fox News, where a rueful Brit Hume commiserated with Karl Rove, who seemed stunned.
“Ohio was key,” Russell said as they waited for new results. “Along with Pennsylvania, I think we’ve got it.”
But Washington wasn’t ready to concede victory. “Let’s see what those crackers in Virginia do.”
“You can’t say that about the state of Jefferson and Madison.”
“Both slave owners. Two honky hypocrites.”
“The latest polls had Obama ahead in Virginia,” Veronica said.
“Those rednecks really won’t admit it’ll be a cold day in hell before they vote for a black man,” Washington said. “And you got those Hillary Democrats sulking, sitting out the election. How about you, Russell? Did you get over your sulk and vote for the brother today?”
“I’ve got nothing against Obama. I just thought Hillary was better-qualified.”
“Better a white chick than a black dude any day.”
“Are you accusing me of racism?”
“Why not? What makes you so special?”
“I’m tired of you always being right because you’re not white.”
“What the fuck’s that mean?”
“Hey, shut up, both of you,” Veronica said. “Listen.”
“An African-American has just broken a barrier as old as the republic, Brian Williams announced. “An astonishing candidate. An astonishing campaign. A seismic shift in American politics.”
“Goddamn,” Washington said. “Is that shit even possible?”
Veronica embraced him, even as he continued to stare at the screen in disbelief.
Russell, too, was stunned. He’d grown so accustomed to thinking of himself as representing the minority opinion in his homeland that it was hard to believe that a majority of his fellow Americans had chosen as he had.
The kids poured in from the bedrooms, cheering. It had been weeks since Russell had seen his own kids so buoyant.
Washington advanced on Russell and crushed him in a bear hug. Through the open windows could be heard the sounds of celebration from West Broadway, which blended with those from the crowd in Chicago’s Grant Park, coming from the television set.
“I wish Mom was here,” Jeremy said.
Storey said, “You’ve been texting her all night.”
“You wish Mom were here,” Russell said.
“Don’t be a dick, Russell,” Washington said.
After listening to Obama’s speech, they went down to the street to mingle with their neighbors. The kids found some of their former classmates; Jeremy and Mingus disappeared and came back with sparklers. A heavily freckled young woman who walked her fox terrier in the morning when Russell was taking the kids to school threw her arms around him, alarming the dog, who started barking.
“Isn’t it amazing?” she said. “I’m Zoe, by the way.”
“I’m Russell. Pleased to meet you.”
“Stop it, Zeke. He’s our neighbor.”
Like nervous laughter, the cheers and cries of victory echoing through the streets of Manhattan and beyond seemed to him to mask a deep sense of anxiety. The prosperity of the past two decades appeared to be coming to an end and the country was still at war. It was hard to believe that any individual of any color could lead them out of the dark woods into which they’d stumbled. But for the moment, Russell and his friends and neighbors were willing to believe.
—
Corrine called shortly after midnight.
“Isn’t it amazing?”
“It is.”
“It gives me hope.”
“We could all use some of that.”
“I spoke to the kids earlier.”
“I know.”
“Is there any hope for us, Russell?”
“I guess anything’s possible.”
“Can I see you soon?”
“Soon. Maybe.”
45
THE CITY WAS HOLDING ITS BREATH. It seemed as if a seismic event was in progress, shifting the tectonic plates beneath the island, toppling monuments and sucking rivers of wealth into the sewers. Billions had somehow disappeared. One heard rumors of overnight cash transactions, of Picassos and Southampton beachfront homes dumped by investors to make margin calls, of moving trucks arriving at town houses in the middle of the night.
“This is beginning to look like a bloodbath,” Casey said.
They were sitting on flimsy chairs near the back of a crowded room at Christie’s. The auctioneer stood at the front of the room, beneath a screen displaying the paintings on offer, the estimates, and up-to-the-minute bids. Casey had insisted that Corrine accompany her to the auction, out of a professed desire to get her out of the house, though, in fact, she didn’t want to appear unaccompanied at such an important social event, and the two walkers she sometimes relied on were otherwise engaged. Although Corrine had been initially reluctant to come along, she had an ulterior motive for relenting.
Casey was selling a small Mao by Warhol, which she’d consigned this past summer, after Tom left her, when the market was still robust. Corrine had never failed to marvel at the irony of this gaudy image of the Great Helmsman hanging on the wall of an Upper East Side town house, but in the wake of one of those violent contractions that he would have recognized as revealing the internal contradictions of capitalism, he was about to find a new, possibly even more opulent home.
The trouble started early. The third lot, a small red-and-yellow Rothko oil on paper from 1958, estimated at four to six million, hammered for three and a half. The Roy Lichtenstein self-portrait that followed likewise failed to reach the low estimate. The room was increasingly hushed. “Purchased from the artist by a distinguished collector,” Corrine read in the catalog, and remembered a moment—ten, twelve years ago—when Russell had been flipping through one from Sotheby’s, reciting the text to her, mocking the descriptions of the consigners: “ ‘From the collection of a distinguished New York gentleman, a longtime friend and former consigner,’ ” he’d read. “Wouldn’t it be nice for once to read a noneuphemistic version, like ‘From the collection of a scumbag arbitrageur whose wife is divorcing him for sleeping with the yoga instructor.’ That would make fo
r some diverting reading,” he’d said. She hadn’t thought of that day since, Russell stretched out on the couch in the loft, reading a catalog, laughing at the prices and the faux Brit gentility of it all.
Ten minutes into the auction, most of the lots had hammered below the low estimate and five had failed to find bidders.
The depression was alleviated briefly with a manic burst of bidding on lot nineteen, when Jean-Michel Basquiat’s Untitled (Boxer) burst through the high estimate of fifteen million, as Corrine recalled meeting him once with Jeff. But the next lot failed to sell.
Meanwhile, she’d recognized many of the faces in the room, familiar from the society and business pages, although much of the bidding, tepid as it was, came from the ranks of Christie’s employees manning the phones along one wall of the room, raising their hands as they pressed receivers to their ears. The identity of these phantom buyers in Asia and Russia was the source of fevered speculation. As the auction progressed, it became clear that their mood was subdued, to say the least.