The Ask

Twenty-six

Purdy's chef wore the sideburns of a Vegas legend. They poked down below his purple toque. He lurched around Purdy's enormous Tribeca kitchen with some kind of digital cleaver, shouted into a wire that fell from his ear. He cursed himself, his food, the kitchen, his crew. He castigated various assistants en route with ingredients, though I wondered how much these outbursts counted as theater for the half-dozen party guests gathered near the cutting boards.

"Leave it to a fucking Turk to forget the tarragon!" he said into his wire. "Soon as you get here I'm handing you a ticket back to Istanbul. Freight. You can go back to work in that fusion nightmare I found you in, though perhaps you'd be better off sterno-braising anchovies for the smugglers in stir, you greasy bastard."

"Must be gunning for his own show," said the man beside me, a handsome silver-haired fellow in a pink polo shirt. He had the collar of his polo shirt up. Maybe he liked it that way, or else it was some kind of comment about people who liked it that way. When it came to sartorial irony, the rich had it tough.

"A cooking show?" I said.

"A screaming show," said the man.

"I have an idea for a cooking show," I said.

"Good for you," said the man, and walked away.

A few more moments of baster-based antics and I followed the him into a space the size of a small ballroom. Purdy's parlor was a design-porn paradise. Here twinkled every chrome and leather marvel Maura had ever circled with affecting sanguinity in her catalogs, all the sofas and chaises and cabinets and floor lamps we could never afford. That was half the room. The other brimmed with mahogany bookshelves and gleaming antique credenzas and Persian rugs. One end was for high-tech pleasures, the other for reading Gibbon while getting blown in a wingback chair.

I walked over to the liquor table, to a young barman in a braided jacket.

"Scotch rocks," I said.

It was not my drink, but then again, this was not my world.

"Okay?" said the barman, pointed to a handle of inexpensive blended whisky beside the silver ice bucket.

"No," I said. "It's not okay."

Always it had been okay, but not tonight. Something had changed. I had demands. Certain people might have called it personal growth. These were the scumbags the new me would learn to admire.

The barman shrugged, squatted, came up with a bottle by the same distiller. The label was another color. This was the good stuff. The better stuff. The kid poured me an important man's pour.

"Thanks," I said.

"You're welcome, sir."

"Do you do this full-time?"

"I'm still a student."

"What do you study?"

"Bartending."

"Oh."

"Mr. Stuart always hires student bartenders."

"What a saint."

"I guess it's a lot cheaper, yeah," said the barman. "But it gives us a chance to practice in an LLS."

"A what?"

"A live liquor situation."

"Right."

"Milo!" called a voice. "Over here!"

Here it was, here they were, for to see them stand together, even as they beckoned, made it clear for all time how much I was not of them. There was Purdy, tall, becalmed, nothing like the fiendish candy-store man or the late-night dialer I'd come to know, his taut arm slung over the shoulder of an even taller fellow, bald, with fringes of curly hair: Billy Raskov. Billy looked better bald. Others I did not recognize stood with them, Purdy still the nucleus, the germ seed, the one who could somehow corral us all into a mood of sweet boisterousness, private pangs be damned.

"Milo!"

Another man joined Purdy's group just as I did. We shook hands, but somebody nearby squealed and I caught only the end of Purdy's introduction.

"… farb."

"Farb?" I said.

"Goldfarb."

"Of course," I said.

He'd been a messy gangle back on Staley Street. Now he was lean, handsome, with the mien of a racing animal.

"Goldfarb," said the man.

"I know," I said. "Charles Goldfarb."

"That's right, Milo. I'm surprised. I figured if you ever saw me again you'd want to deck me."

"What are you talking about?"

"You don't know?"

"No," I said.

"Come on, Charlie," said Purdy. "Stop teasing. Charlie, Milo, this is Lisa and Ginny. They're friends from the building."

We did our dips, our pivots, our mock-bashful waves. Purdy raised his glass.

"I'm glad we're all here. Dinner is going to be great."

"It better be," said Lisa. "That man in your kitchen is a dick."

"Nice to see you, Milo," said Billy Raskov. His trademark slur was gone. It made me wonder if it ever existed. Maybe I'd imagined it all these years. Maybe that's why I'd always gotten odd looks whenever I brought up his feigned Parkinson's.

"You too, Billy," I said, glanced back at Goldfarb. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm confused."

"Don't worry about it," said Goldfarb.

"Okay, I'll try not to. So, Charles, I think I saw somewhere you wrote a book?"

"Thanks, I appreciate the kind words."

"What kind words?"

"Sorry," said Goldfarb. "Embarrassing reflex."

"Poor Chuck," said Purdy. "He suffers from Post-Praise Stress Disorder. It's left him a wreck. I saw your thing in the paper last Sunday, by the way. Fantastic. Blistering. And thoughtful. Speaking of blisters, did you guys notice what's hanging over the fireplace?"

"Come on, Purd," said Billy.

"Check it out," said Purdy, pointed across the room to a large canvas, a luminous twilit landscape. "The latest Raskov."

A river coursed through a verdant gorge. The sky bled rich reds and blues. In the mossy foreground, a nude woman tongued the anus of an elk. Nearby, a figure in a shepherd's tunic lay disemboweled. A fawn fed on his viscera.

"It's called Renewable, Sustainable," said Purdy. "Can't take my eyes off it. Billy's gallerist killed me, but I had to have it."

"I'm impressed," I said. "I didn't know you could paint like that."

"Thanks, buddy. I'll admit I still can't touch your technique, at least as I remember it, but I've been getting better."

"Billy's having another big show next month," said Purdy.

"That's great," I said.

"You should come to the opening."

"I'd like that."

"I was thinking," said Billy. "Are you in contact with Lena? I haven't talked to her in a long time, I'd really like to-"

"Yeah, I really haven't been in contact."

"Not since it was full contact, right, bro?"

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Just joking."

"I think it's hot," said Purdy. "Milo, could I have a word with you?"

"Sure."

"Over here."

Purdy led me away from the group. We passed the barman, who nodded. Maybe this private audience with Purdy confirmed my top-shelf status.

Purdy wheeled near the corner of the room, clasped my shoulders.

"Well?"

"A pavilion," I said.

"Not bad, huh?"

"I can't thank you enough," I said. "Really. It's so amazing. I'm still processing it."

"What's the matter with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"It doesn't seem like a very happy process, judging by your face."

"I am happy. I really am. I'm just spent. You know I collapsed? I collapsed from happiness. I had to be hospitalized."

"No shit."

"So…"

"Don't tell me," said Purdy.

"Don't tell you what?"

"You're pissed."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're pissed I went over your head."

"No, I'm really not."

"It had to be that way. For your benefit. Shit, in a way this whole thing has become about you. I care about you. Don't you get that?"

"I do."

"You've got to stop resenting me. It's foolish."

"I know. And really, thank you."

"You're welcome, asshole."

"I deserve that," I said.

Purdy took a breath, gazed past my shoulder.

"Lee Moss died yesterday."

"Oh, man. I'm sorry. I just saw him."

"I know. He took a bad turn that evening."

"I'm really sorry, Purdy."

"He was an old man with cancer."

"I know he was close to you. Like family."

"Let's not get too sentimental. He helped my father defraud the government. Because of that my father had more money to leave to me, the boy he liked to beat senseless. Moss was the old breed. Took care of business. Ethics were for the Sabbath. Just a hardworking shark, a true Jew lawyer. No offense."

A tall woman in white walked up, tilted her Bellini in greeting.

"Oh, hi, Jane."

"Hello, Purdy."

"Jane, you remember Milo Burke."

The gray eyes of the governor's daughter seemed to sparkle as they surveyed the damage.

"Yes, of course, how are you?"

"Great," I said.

"Wonderful. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Working."

"Very nice," she said.

"Be right back," said Purdy, pecked Jane's cheek.

"How about you?" I said.

"I've been working, too. On a few projects."

This woman's power had always resided in her courage. She'd defied her father, defied him still. She made her films to destroy his beliefs. Whether he also helped fund them was not the point. She'd been given an out at birth, a frictionless existence, refused it. I did admire her for this. But she'd taken my knife. Worse, she probably had no recollection of this fact.

"What kind of projects?" I said.

"I just finished a film about a family in a refugee camp in Chad. And I'm doing something about health care, the uninsured."

"They're being murdered," I said.

"It's true," said Jane.

"There was one woman upstate, our age. She was in a coma in a hospital, but her… carrier cut her off. She died in transit to the state ward."

"That's terrible. Did you know her?"

"Not really. Some of her relatives."

"Really? Would they speak to me? We're doing a lot of interviews before we start."

"No," I said. "I don't think so. They're pretty private."

"Well, let me know if you think they would. These stories need to be told."

"I will."

"It was nice to see you again," said Jane.

"Wait," I said.

"Yeah?"

Here was my moment to ask about that night, the party. I didn't want the knife back. I just wanted to know if she remembered, to understand how one event could mean so little and so much.

"No, I just was going to ask…"

"Yes?"

"I have an idea for a TV show."

"That's nice."

"Well, it's really my friend Nick's idea, but we're collaborating."

"Nick?"

"Nick Papadopoulos."

"I don't know his work."

"You might. You might have sat on his work. Though probably not."

"I'm not sure where you're going with this."

"He's a builder. A contractor. Builds decks."

"Is it some kind of home repair thing? I don't really do that sort of-"

"No, no," I said. "It's a cooking show."

"Cooking? I think we're full up on those. See that guy in there?"

"Right. So, take that guy in there, Mr. Kitchen Badass. Now put him on death row."

"Pardon?"

"I mean not him. I mean he's there, but he's not on death row. But he's going to cook a last meal for somebody about to die. Dead Man Dining. You know why those last meals are so crappy?"

"Because they all eat crappy food in those parts of the country."

"Yes, bingo. Now bring on the Kobe beef."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean… wow, Nick is much better at this. It sounded different when… oh, forget it."

"No," said Jane. "I'm intrigued. Let me see if I've got you right. America's best chefs come to America's worst prisons to cook lavish last meals for condemned convicts."

"Yes. That's what I was trying to say. Perfectly put."

"I can see it," said Jane, snatched another drink from a passing tray. "First we film the chef on the way to the airport, nervous but excited, and also moved by the gravity of the event. He reflects on crime and fate and society, how lucky his own life has been. Then he arrives at the prison and meets with the warden, who explains in somewhat disturbing detail what the condemned man did. Whether you agree with capital punishment or not, there's no getting around the fact that a court of law found this hick guilty of hacking the girl up in the forest, or mowing down the returns line at the shoe outlet. A sober few minutes. Then the fun. Our chef sits down with the maniac. They talk about food. While the unschooled but unquestionably bright killer talks about the staples he was raised on-chicken fingers, hamburgers, onion rings, cola, processed bread, and peanut butter laced with rat shit, we start to feel for him, his crime recedes, and what we are watching is a boy who never had a chance to taste the better things, to know possibility, to see a way out. It's sad, but a quick cut to the warden will remind us that we should be careful about where our sympathies lie. And what are the families of the victims eating tonight? Commercial."

"Holy shit," I said. "That's it. You're good."

"When we return from the break," said Jane, "we're with our celebrity chef in the prison kitchen. The prison cooks watch with bemusement as the chef's shock at the meagerness of utensils mounts. Don't they even have a paring knife? A goddamn strainer? Yuckety-yuck. So now the chef speaks to the camera about his philosophy of food. Food doesn't need to be fancy. It just needs to taste good. Especially in bad times. It's all about simplicity. Fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, good bread, cruelty-free meats. It's sad how out of reach these things are for so many Americans. As to the prisoner's last meal, well, the chef has been doing a lot of soul-searching. The worst thing would be to take too big a gamble, to prepare something wonderful but too foreign to his taste. Those of us not about to be executed can afford an adventurous though vaguely disappointing dining experience, the ostrich steaks and persimmon spaetzle not nearly as scrumptious as advertised. But this one has to be right on the money. So, we will work with all the tastes and textures that Clarence-Clarence, right?-already craves. The only purpose of this meal is to take him back to maybe the one brief moment in his sorry life he felt loved. We may have a little fun with presentation, but the grub will be solid, familiar, though much fresher, juicier, more savory, than this food-court castoff could ever have imagined. Now come the snafus. The hurdles, the drama. What do you mean we have to go all the way to Lubbock for thyme? I said Syrah, not Shiraz! No, they're not the same! The usual diva hilarity, but with this incredibly compelling undertone of impending death. We intercut the chef in the kitchen with the prisoner penning his final thoughts in his diary, or kneeling with his prayer group. The executioners test the straps on the gurney. The warden stares out his office window at the new moon, ponders the price of justice. And then the moment we've been waiting for. The prisoner sits at a cute little table set up in, no, not his cell, but in a little conference room near the warden's office. White tablecloth. A rose in a vase. Our chef brings out the meal, explains what he's prepared and why. The prisoner takes a bite, begins to cry. He had a mommy once. The chef begins to cry. He still has a mommy, but he's so busy chasing those Michelin stars he doesn't get to visit her enough. The warden stares. His mommy used to lock him in a manure bin. We cut away. We'll let the man eat his last meal in peace. Commercial. Come back to final thoughts from the chef, back in his restaurant now. The whole experience has changed him. But he hasn't forgotten the victim or the families. He thinks about them, too. He thinks about the whole sad tragedy of it all. Maybe if everybody could eat well there wouldn't be so much hate in the world. But he will keep doing what he's doing, cooking meals with love, doing his little part to bring peace to the planet, dish by dish. Fade out to words on the screen: Clarence Howard O'Grady was executed on blah blah for the murder of blah blah and blah blah. His last words were these: 'I am sorry for what I did and the pain I caused. I wish I'd had Jesus in my life sooner, and more omega-3s. In my next life I'll wash dishes in Chef Gary's fancy restaurant in New York, so I can have artisanal baloney every day. Sleep tight, you world, you motherfucker."

Jane smiled, drained the rest of her Bellini.

"Is that basically it?" she said.

"That's it exactly."

"Thought so."

"That was amazing."

"Thank you."

"So… do you think… I mean, could you be interested in something like that?"

"If my name were attached to something like that I would commit suicide."

"Oh."

"But here's my card."

"Oh, okay."

"Please pass it along to your friend. The deck builder. A documentary about how reality television has warped the fantasy life of everyday Americans, that could be interesting."

"Very," I said.

"Case studies."

"Yes, right."

"So, did Purdy put you up to this?"

"Purdy?"

"Pretty funny. He's a sick puppy."

"Well, if you need any help with your documentary. You know, legwork."

"Legwork."

"Right."

"Take care, Milo. Nice to see you."

Jane turned, moved off into the crowd.

"Where's my fucking knife?" I said, but she was already gone.

I went back to the bar for another round.

"The same?" said the barman.

"Yes," I said. "A double."

The kid filled my tumbler to the rim.

"Oh, damn," he said. "I forgot the ice. Now there's no room. I'm really sorry."

"How are you going learn if you don't make mistakes?"

"But I'm in the field. This is live liquor."

"Don't worry. I'll take this bullet for you."

I winked, walked. I was not a winker. This worried me.

"Milo," Purdy called from the fireplace. "Come back over here. I want you to meet somebody."

He stood with a generically stunning woman in a black silk dress. There were thousands, or at least several hundred, just like her in this part of the city, on Hudson and Chambers and Franklin and Worth, perfect storms of perfect bones, monuments to tone and hair technology. Around here she was almost ordinary, but you could still picture small towns where men might bludgeon their friends, their fathers, just to run their sun-cracked lips along her calves.

"Melinda, this is Milo. I told you about Milo."

"Yes. Welcome."

"Great to meet you at last," I said. "I've heard so many wonderful things."

"By all means, begin transmission."

"You look beautiful. Purdy said you'd been having a hard few weeks."

"Oh, it's fine," said Melinda. "I'm not the first woman to get knocked up and puke."

"Well, I think it's very exciting. The home birth, all of it."

"I always dreamed it would be like this. Purdy has been so fantastic about meeting my desires. I'm afraid I've been really demanding. But we worked so hard to get here. I'm not ashamed to say how many times we tried, how many ways. But finally I'm pregnant, and I've never been happier in my life. Really. You are the best, baby. And we are going to have the best baby! Ha!"

"But not at the Best Place," said Purdy.

"I'm just so excited," said Melinda. "And I'm learning so much. I won't bore you with it all. But the doctors and midwives have been tremendous."

"So have you, Mel," said Purdy. "You've been tremendous, the tremendousist, the tremendousiast, of them all. And I speak as a husband and a grammarian."

"Is it weird to say how much I love this man? You have a wife and son, Milo, don't you? You know this feeling."

"Sure," I said. "The feeling. Absolutely."

"Why don't you two enumerate my amazing qualities," said Purdy. "I'll be right back."

We watched Purdy walk away, join Charles Goldfarb at the bar. He glanced back at us, waved.

"Would you like to feel?" said Melinda, tilted the tight swell of her belly.

"You're barely showing."

"It's okay. Touch it."

"Really? Most women I've met hate that convention."

"I never knew this."

"They don't understand why any man would feel entitled to-"

"Just put your fucking hand on it." Melinda smiled.

I laid my palm on her stomach.

"So tight," I said. "You could bounce a dime off that."

"Sounds fun. So, tell me, Milo, how is it all going?"

"Well, it's going great. I'm sure Purdy told you about the new arts pavilion and I just have to say-"

"Not that," said Melinda. "The kid. Purdy's other darling child."

"Excuse me?"

"What do you think, I'm just some clueless bitch? Ever been to Elizabeth, New Jersey?"

"Driven past it."

"Exactly. But it's where I'm from. Now I'm here. You want to know something? I really do love Purdy. I was always going to marry for money, but I had choices. I chose Purdy. I wanted Purdy's child. I wanted his first child, but I guess I'll have to settle. He could have told me from the beginning, I would have been fine with it. I would have made a place for that kid in our family. Theoretically. Now that I've met him I'm not so sure."

"You met him?"

"We had a chat. I was sick of his stalkery phone calls. I only told Purdy about one of them, the first, before I started to figure out what was going on. But after a while, I called the boy's bluff. I met him for coffee. He's in bad shape. Still a real spaz on those prosthetics. I gave him the name of a physical therapist."

"That was nice of you."

"I thought it was patriotic. After all, this boy gave his legs so my husband could enjoy the freedom to fuck his trashy mother behind my back."

"So you guys really talked."

"We had a cell phone slide show, too."

"Look," I said. "I don't know what to say."

"You're not to say anything. And you can take your hand off my stomach now. I just don't understand it. Hookers are one thing. We know how these guys have to work off some steam. But what the hell? She's not even that pretty. Wasn't even pretty. I feel bad for her. I have this sense I knew who she was, kind of. I don't blame her, I really don't. It's just, like, she's this black hole in my understanding of the universe. Why her? It must have been something."

"What do you mean?"

"What did they have together? What was it?"

"I don't know."

"The way they talked. Maybe that was it. Purdy and I talk, but I know there's a part I can't get to. I want to know what it was with them. Purdy will never tell me. I'll never ask. Who else is there who knows? Florida? That thug. Lee Moss? Well, not Lee Moss. He died yesterday. Did you know that?"

"I heard," I said.

"I'm just trying to understand, and it hurts all the time. And it makes me worry. About what will happen to us."

"Like I said, I really don't know."

"I didn't think you did," said Melinda, looked down at her belly. "Or maybe I thought you might."

"I'm sorry."

"That's what they all say."

"I don't know if this helps," I said, "but I'm going through something similar."

"You're a man," said Melinda. "You're not going through anything remotely similar. Just tell me this. Everything's going to be fine, right? That boy is going to leave us alone? Because I can't handle this right now. I'm having a goddamn baby."

"It looks that way."

Melinda waved past my shoulder, blew a kiss.

"Idiot," she said. "Thinks it's about trust."

Purdy announced we would be eating family-style at a cluster of tables in the main room. Servants, or, in the argot of this crowd, caterers, set our places, decanted the wine. Were they indentured caterers? I found a seat at a table with Charles Goldfarb and the women from the building, Lisa and Ginny. I couldn't decide if they were sisters, or lovers, or just friends. The way they picked food from each other's plate signaled all three possibilities. Every few minutes another platter would arrive, each with its menagerie of dehydrated food. The figures dissolved in your mouth like sugar lumps, but none tasted like sugar. There were olives in the shape of lobsters, lobster in the shape of gazelles, mahi-mahi in the shape of bonobos. Purdy's silliness surprised me. This was Vegas sideburn food, what the Apollo astronauts should have gotten in their shiny pouches along with freeze-dried banana splits. Maybe we'd still be on the moon if they had. We'd have time-shares on the moon, as so many otherwise visionary thinkers always assumed we would. I shared this timely thought about the time-shares with the table.

"But we went there already," said Ginny.

"One small step," said Lisa.

"I guess I'm just nostalgic for the future," I said.

"Funny you should say that," said Charles. "There's a bit about that in my new book."

"What's your book about?" said Ginny.

"Oh, a bunch of things really. I try to advance a new approach to transcendentalism in the face of technology and interconnectivity."

"Sounds amazing," said Lisa.

"Sure," I said. "But it's still the rulers and the ruled."

"Not sure how you mean that."

"I think you're very sure."

"Okay," said Charles. "Should we talk about the controlled demolition of the towers now?"

"That's not what I meant," I said.

Ginny and Lisa popped cockatoos into each other's mouth.

"Hummus!"

"Maybe. Saltier."

"Ladies," said Charles.

"Women," said Ginny.

"Dames," said Charles, and the women giggled. I knocked back my double.

"Think I need a refill," I said, steadied myself on the table.

The barman bowed at my approach, scooped some ice into a glass, reached for the bottle on the stool.

"No," I said.

"No ice?"

"Yes, ice. Just pour that into it."

I pointed to the swill, saw a new sad knowing in the barman's eyes.

I took my drink back to the table. Charles, abandoned, leaned over his plate with a butter knife, sliced the wings off a tiny magenta duck.

"They went to the bathroom," he said. "I'll refrain from some cliched comment about how they always go in pairs."

"Thanks for refraining," I said.

"How you doing there, buddy?" said Charles. "Looks like you're partaking of a wee dram or two."

"You have any coke?" I said.

"Coca-cola?"

"No, the other kind."

"You must be kidding."

"Coke can be pretty transcendental. And interconnective. First couple bumps, anyway."

"I don't have any coke. I never had any coke. You know that."

"I don't know. I remember you were always trying to get laid and nobody would ever go to bed with you. And this was a time and place when being able to explain Horkheimer would get you action easy."

"I never really saw it that way."

"But you figured it out, because Emerson, Thoreau, that's where the real tail is, right? The dependable stuff. I'm just guessing."

"When did you get like this, Milo?"

"Seriously? About twenty years ago. And then about two months ago. And then about ten minutes ago. Why should I want to deck you? I'm wracking my brain. I can't think of why I should deck you. I always pretty much liked you. I know you thought I was a lightweight, but I didn't mind. I thought you were a bore, and that my paintings would outlive your tedious summaries of other people's books. But it looks like I was wrong."

"Man, you take self-pity to new and astonishing heights, don't you?"

"Probably," I said.

"Constance thought so."

"Constance said that? When?"

"A long time ago."

"Oh."

"Look, this is weird. I didn't mean to get into it with you."

"You still haven't told me why I should deck you. Is this about my knife?"

"Your knife?"

"My Spanish dueling knife."

"No. It's not anything, I guess."

"Do you see Constance?" I said.

"Sometimes. She's my ex-wife."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I thought you knew. I thought… we thought you were angry, still angry ten years later when we sent out the invitations. We invited you to the wedding. You never responded."

"I don't think I got it."

"Bullshit."

"I don't know what to say, Charles. I'm sorry. I've been an asshole for years."

"Constance thought you were heartbroken."

"She did?"

"We always thought of maybe reaching out to you, but she was afraid you were too angry."

"I would have been glad that she was happy."

"It's good to hear that. Constance would probably love to hear that."

"What happened to you guys, anyway?"

"What happens to people, Milo?"

Now Ginny and Lisa rejoined us, just as Purdy clambered up on his chair at a nearby table, clinked his glass with a spoon.

"Hi, everybody," he said. "Just wanted to thank you all for coming. I see so many people from different parts of my life. It makes me so happy. There really wasn't an occasion for this party. I was trying hard to come up with one. I looked into historical birthdays. There were some contenders, a medieval tsar, as I remember, and a noted National League southpaw from the seventies, but nobody seemed worth the big bash. Maybe, I thought, I'll just call it Melinda's Ovaries Day, a celebration of the little old egg that could. God knows how many couldn't."

"The ancient mariners in your ball sack were the problem!" called the guy with the pink polo shirt.

"Thanks, Kyle," said Purdy. "That's Kyle Northridge, a now former principal in Groupuscule Media."

"You can't afford to fire me!"

"Fire him from what? The whole thing's in the shitter!" called a man next to Kyle.

"True," said Purdy.

"Say it ain't so!"

"But really, folks, it's not about business. It's not. It's about people. And it is a bona fide delight to see you people types enjoying yourselves in my home. Our home, I mean. Soon to be the home of little Arnold Horshack Stuart."

"Don't do it!" somebody called.

"No? What do you guys think of Space Lab Stuart?"

"Sea Monkeys," somebody said.

"Too self-conscious!" somebody called.

"How about Red Dye Number Two Stuart?" called another.

"You're not getting it!"

"Carter Malaise Stuart!"

"Marzipan!"

"I hate marzipan!" said Purdy.

"Hey," called a new voice, high, strained. "How about Fallujah?"

There was a clatter near the kitchen door.

One of the caterers stood with a tray of cups and saucers. Other than his short white jacket he didn't look much like the others. He wore his hair up in a beige bandana. He'd rolled his sweatpants up past his knee. The sunlight spearing through the steep windows made his metal shins twinkle.

"Come again?" said Kyle Northridge.

Don's tray hit the floor with a clap. Cup shards skidded. Don strode toward us, his gait a near glide, smoother than I'd ever seen it. Purdy slid down into a crouch on the chair.

"I said, 'How about Fallujah?' " said Don. "Or Baghdad. Or fucking Anbar. Anbar Awakening Stuart. Or maybe just Surge. What do you think? Surge Stuart?"

"Hey," said Purdy. "Those are all good."

"Really."

"Hey, yeah," said Purdy, gentle, beseeching. "Yes. How are you?"

"How am I?"

"Yes."

"How am I?"

"It's good to see you."

"Oh," said Don. "Is it? Is it good to see me?"

"Of course," said Purdy. "You are like family. I mean, like, family."

"Thanks, Dad."

Purdy looked down on Don from his perch. They both appeared to quiver. It occurred to me that Purdy had never seen his son before. Don had only caught sight of his father in photographs, through motel windows.

"You've earned it, son."

Don's eyes softened, beamed, something boyish and quasi-sainted glowing in them.

Now came the slap of hard shoes, dark fabrics flashing, a glint of jewels. Giant men swooped in from the edge of the room. You could tell they were the bodyguards because they dressed better than the guests. The rangier one guided Purdy down from the chair. The other, his head the size and hue of a glazed ham, cupped Don's elbow with bling-sheathed fingers.

"What the hell?" said Don.

"You really have earned it, son," said Purdy, nodded at Don's legs. "For what happened to you. For what's happened to so many of you. We are all in your debt. And we should all take responsibility."

"Is that a fucking joke?" said Don.

He shook off the bodyguard, but the huge man snatched Don's hand, bent it behind his back.

"I was over there, too," said the bodyguard. "Don't be a fool."

"Blue falcon," said Don.

"I ain't no buddy fucker," said the bodyguard. "This is my job."

"You could have waited to move her until I got back," said Don, looked hard at Purdy.

"What difference would that have made?"

"You rotten shit. I should just-"

"Don."

"Don't even say my fucking name."

"Don, please…" said Purdy.

"I said don't say it."

Now Michael Florida crossed the oak floor in a pair of alligator boots, leaned forward to whisper in Purdy's ear.

"Right," said Purdy.

"What?" said Don.

Purdy nodded to Melinda, turned stiffly to the tables.

"What's going on?" said Don.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to cut this evening a little short," Purdy said. "I've just this moment received some awful news about a dear friend. Lee Moss has died. I suspect he did so with his loving family at his bedside, as he wanted and deserved. I feel I've lost another father. I think it's better if we grieve quietly tonight."

Purdy pinched his lips, made a short, grave bow, walked off toward the study.

"Where the fuck are you going now!" shouted Don. "Come back, Daddy!"

Michael Florida flicked his chin and the bodyguard let Don go. Don jogged a few steps toward his father, his boat shoes stabbing at the antique oak. His heel caught a scoop in the wood and he slid, twisted, pitched over in an violent braid of metal and meat. Somehow he got to his knees.

"She loved you more than anything!" called Don.

Purdy stopped for moment, seemed about to turn around.

"She did," Don sobbed.

Purdy ducked into the study and shut the door.

"She did," said Don again, softer, as though suddenly aware of the room, his audience, who had already begun to look away and whisper.

I walked over and knelt near Don, rubbed his arm.

"Hey," I said. "It's okay."

"Get the fuck off me," he said.

"Really, Don, it's okay. Let's just get out of here."

"I'll kill you," Don snarled.

I rose, backed away, watched Don sit with his head on his knees, rock. Michael Florida walked over and squatted beside him. He must have said something amusing because Don looked up with an odd half-smile. Michael Florida began to talk, very rapidly, it seemed, and Don cocked his head.

Now Michael Florida stood and hoisted Don up, looped the boy's arm across his neck like they were soldiers in some statue about blood and brotherhood. Together they stumbled out of the room.

I was about to follow them when Melinda stood to speak, worried the thin platinum chain at her throat.

"Please," she said. "Let me apologize for all of this."

"Don't even, Melinda," Ginny said. "It's okay."

"Really," said Charles Goldfarb.

"It's nobody's fault," said Kyle Northridge.

"No, I think I should explain. I doubt any of you knew, because he doesn't like to brag, but that boy, well, Purdy's been doing some work with an organization that helps young vets. A lot of them have severe problems. Don has been one of Purdy's projects. I'm afraid it's not going that well right now. But don't let that dissuade you from getting involved in this very important cause. With everything that's happened in this country, we are forgetting about these poor kids. Not even to mention what we've done to the men, women, and children of those other countries. It may not be fashionable anymore, but that's precisely why now is the time to revisit these issues and really give your support. I hope you'll excuse us this hasty end to the evening. We all love you very much and can't wait to see you in a more joyful context real soon."

Melinda palmed her belly, the context. Other women closed around for soothing squeezes.

"These fucking wars," said Charles Goldfarb, tilted back in his chair. "Only the historians will have a true sense of what they did to us."

"Fantastic," I said. "Blistering."

"Who's Lee Moss again?" said Lisa.

"He's the conveniently dead guy," I said.

I drained my Scotch, scooped a handful of chocolate stag beetles into my pocket. People began to gather their coats and bags.

"Milo, hold up, I'll walk out with you."

"No thanks, Charles. Think I want to be alone."

"Suit yourself."

"Say hello to Constance for me," I said.

"I will. I mean, I hardly see her but… yes, I will."

"Tell her I'm happy for her," I said. "And sad for her. And also happy-sad. Tell her to get a better haircut. She looks like the middle-aged head of a girl's prep school."

"That's what she is."

"It's the end of us, Charles."

"I'm doing fine, Milo."

"Didn't Adorno say that to write think pieces for mainstream magazines after Auschwitz is barbaric?"

"No, he didn't."

"What about Schopenhauer?"

"What about him?"

"Give me the capsule."

"The what?"

"The takeaway."

"Pardon?"

"You're not the enemy, Charles, but fuck you."

"You're incredibly drunk."

"To tell you the truth, I'm not even clear on whether I'm standing up or sitting down right now."

"Then maybe you should sit down."

"No," I said. "I think that would be a bad idea."