A Likely Story

Tuesday, September 27th

I have just received the most astonishing phone call. I was sitting here revising the Mayan piece for Geo — I am having to fudge the fact that we really don’t know much about their interior decorating — when the phone rang and a heavy, loud, authoritative male voice barked, “Thomas J. Diskant?”

My first assumption, of course, was that this was something horrible to do with the lawsuit, and I came very close to denying my identity; but then I thought, They’ll get me anyway, so I said, “Speaking.”

“This is F. Ringwald Heffernan,” the voice commanded. He sounded like a cross between a Marine drill sergeant and an oldtime factory owner.

I didn’t quite catch the significance of the name at first, still having lawsuits on the brain, so I merely said, “Yes?”

“My son told me all about that book of yours,” he ordered.

“Son?”

“Dewey!”

“Dewey; Dewey Heffernan?”

“Certainly!”

“Wait a minute. You’re... I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the name.”

“F. Ringwald Heffernan. I’m calling to tell you there won’t be any more trouble from Dewey.”

I stared at the phone. Who did I know who would play such a bizarre practical joke? I couldn’t think of a word to say.

F. Ringwald hollered on, without my help: “He told me about that piece of trash he had that fellow draw, told me the trouble you made—”

“Oh, now—”

“—I told him, ‘Goddamit, Dewey, what’s the matter with you, boy? You had no business acting like that. It’s that man’s book, Dewey, it isn’t yours, you’re the midwife, boy. Wouldn’t put up with such balderdash in my business, and don’t you forget it.’ Sat him down in the library after dinner, gave it to him straight from the shoulder.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Told him, ‘Crawl before you fly, boy.’ Told him, ‘When you come to work for me, you’d better have all this nonsense out of your system.’ Told him, ‘I sent you out into the world to make your mistakes and get them over with, and they’re turning out to be beauts.’ Told him, ‘Any more of this and I take the car keys.’ Straightened him right up.”

“I guess you did,” I said.

“Got a pencil?”

I lunged for one. “Yes, sir!”

“Write this down. Area code two oh three. Four six five, nine nine five oh. Dewey gives you any more trouble, you phone me.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“But there won’t be any more trouble. I straightened him right up.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Nice talking with you,” he demanded. “Looking forward to the book.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Very fond of Christmas,” he decreed, and shot the phone. At least, that’s what it sounded like.

I can’t think about the Mayans now, not after F. Ringwald Heffernan. Could that call possibly have been on the level? I didn’t recognize the voice, and it’s too weird to be a joke. Anyway, it’s time to go turn the oven on to three-twenty-five.

Done. In lieu of the Mayans, for the next half hour until Mary gets home, I’ll think about my own imperiled and changing lifestyle. I don’t quite know what’s happening any more, except that I seem to be spending more time downtown than uptown. This is partly caused by the continuing saga of the drifting Lance, and partly by Ginger’s sudden urge toward self-improvement.

Lance first. The apartment sharing with his co-worker Bradford lasted just seventeen days. On the thirteenth of this month, two weeks ago today, he moved out, and I mean out. He’s gotten himself transferred to some other wholly-owned CBS subsidiary, doing some other arcane sociological research, but the point is that the new job is in Washington. Our nation’s capital. We had a drink before he left and he said, “There’s more women down there, the male-female ratio is very very good from my point of view. But better than that, I understand they’ve still got some women that are interested in men. Just think; never again will I be in a discussion about Givenchy.” He also said they don’t have herpes down there, but that sounds like fantasy.

Anyway, now that he’s living in Washington he’ll be performing his daddy obligations a bit differently Every other weekend he’ll take the shuttle up to New York Friday afternoon and back down to DC Sunday evening. And guess where he’ll spend Friday and Saturday nights?

Well, as he himself said (while Ginger stood thin-lipped and narrow-eyed in the background), “You’re not really using the office any more, Tom, and it saves me a lot of hotel money.”

As for Ginger, for reasons best known to herself she is suddenly taking two evening courses at the New School — Japanese political history on Tuesday and Thursday, European silent film on Wednesday — which has altered our lives in other ways. Three evenings a week, Gretchen and Joshua dine with their babysitter while I meet Ginger at seven thirty-five, when her courses get out, and we eat in some Village restaurant before going uptown.

Changes make more changes. Since I’m working on 17th Street and the New School is on 12th Street, it makes no sense for me to go way uptown on those days, so I hang around here when the day’s work is done. I’ve been helping Bryan with his English homework, and Jennifer and I have a massive Scrabble tournament under way. I usually sit down at table with them and Mary, because what else would I do while they’re eating dinner? I eat lightly, but nevertheless this means I’m downing two dinners three nights a week, and I’m beginning to put those pounds back on that Vickie took off.

I wonder what the Mayans did when things got too confusing.