Authors: Francine Prose
H
OW DESPERATELY
M
EYER DEPENDS
on his staff! How
impossible life would be if these energetic, capable women were any less good at their jobs. Roberta has contacted the media and set up a press conference so that all Meyer has to do is show up in the foundation’s Jean Moulin Conference Room at eleven-fifteen. And Bonnie has not only fed and housed their white-power poster boy, not only groomed him, sartorially and spiritually, not only worked with him, one-on-one, but has achieved near-miraculous progress. Meyer can see it when he passes Vincent in the hall. That squirrelly furtiveness is turning into something presentable and convincing.
Bonnie scares Meyer sometimes. There’s something alarming about a person who will do anything you ask. The scary part is seeing how much you
will
ask. It’s lucky that Bonnie found Brotherhood Watch, where she is among friends who would never abuse her generosity. Knowing that she is working to make the world a less hate-filled place has to be good for a wife and mother whose husband abandoned her for a woman who already killed two husbands. Meyer tries not to hear office gossip, but his staff tells Irene.
As he enters the conference room, Meyer’s spirits sink. Huddling at one end of the long table are Roberta, Bonnie, Vincent Nolan, and a young woman in a smart black suit and a volcano of shiny black curls.
In other words, one reporter. Meyer hates it that he cares. But isn’t everyone vain? Even Vincent Nolan, rocked back, one arm slung over his chair, as if the conference table were a flashy car he’s driving. Did Bonnie buy him that shirt and tie? Meyer hopes she billed the foundation. But how could anyone, even Bonnie, have made his hair grow in so fast? He’s already sprouted a reddish fuzz that softens the angry message delivered, just days ago, by his skull. Testosterone, thinks Meyer. God’s hair tonic.
Roberta rises to greet him. “This is Colette Martinez, from the
New York Times.
Colette, Meyer Maslow. The
Times
asked if they could have a day’s jump. Lead time on everyone else.”
“Certainly,” says Meyer. His mood improves slightly when the reporter, Colette, says in an awed voice, “It’s a great honor to meet you.” In fact, she’s quite pretty. Exotic.
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Martinez.” Meyer gazes into her eyes.
Her laugh is like a gulp. “I don’t want to misrepresent myself. Please don’t get your hopes up. They’ve got me on page two in the Metro section.” Since when do reporters require so much emotional support? Is this one waiting for a group hug?
“Ink is ink,” says Roberta.
“We’re delighted you’re here,” Bonnie says.
Bonnie looks well. Her skin has the pinkish sheen Irene gets from the dermatologist Meyer calls Doctor Three Hundred Dollars. Bonnie reminds him of a girlfriend he had when he first came to this country. Attractive enough, a certain waifish appeal. But the girl burst into tears after sex. Some men like that sort of thing. Some men like one-legged women. Irene used to make him laugh in bed. That seems so long ago now.
In theory, this conference is Roberta’s show. But it’s Bonnie who, with a prompting smile, signals that they should begin. The job
is
doing Bonnie good. It must be satisfying to accomplish what she’s achieved with Vincent. Meyer wishes he had the time. How far he’s come from those early years when each person he met seemed like a fallen angel crying out to be rescued! One heart at a time.
So let’s start with this reporter’s heart. Getting her on the foundation’s side will translate into donors and enough hard currency to bribe whoever can spring the Iranian. In the long run, Meyer knows, the press can help him accomplish his Robin Hood mission, separating the rich from their money without the Merry Band, the muggings in Sherwood Forest.
Colette produces a tape recorder and notebook and coolly appraises Vincent and Meyer, then scribbles a few notes and says, “Maybe we should begin. The material I got from my editors said that Mr. Nolan has recently left a neo-Nazi hate group and has decided to work with Brotherhood Watch.”
“Exactly,” says Meyer, encouragingly.
“You’re so prepared!” says Roberta.
“Well, obviously—” says Colette.
“You’d be surprised by some reporters I’ve met,” persists Roberta.
Colette swivels to face Vincent, cocking her head like a boxer. Poor thing, she wasn’t brought up to ask strangers personal questions.
“Let’s go back a bit,” she says. “I think our readers will want to know how you got involved with the Aryan Resistance Movement.”
“Good question,” says Vincent, with a bashful smile, above which he’s making confident, steady eye contact with his interlocutor. The two of them could be alone in the room. It’s second nature for Meyer to seduce the press. But he should be taking lessons.
Yesterday at the staff meeting Bonnie declined to say exactly what Vincent would tell the reporters today. She said that the more she and Vincent talked, layers were peeled away, and everything was turning out to have multiple reasons and explanations. Why he joined ARM, why he left. Basically, who the guy
is.
“Vincent’s intuitive,” Bonnie had said. “He gets things. Even stuff about my kids. I think we ought to trust his instinct for what a particular reporter needs to hear and for what each situation requires.”
“Basically,” says Vincent, “it’s all about the IRS.”
“The IRS?” says Colette.
“Can I back up a little?”
“Please,” says Colette. “Feel free.”
“Well, when I was a kid, all I knew was that my dad had left my mom and then died, which put Mom and me in a tough situation. I got into trouble, kid stuff. I guess I wanted attention. Eventually, I pulled my act together. Sort of. Finished high school, got a job, another job. Girlfriends, whatever. Nothing seemed to work out. Pretty boring, huh?”
“Not at all.” Colette’s taking notes.
“I kind of lost touch with my family. And then things fell apart. I got fired. Split up with my girlfriend. I was broke and practically homeless. Then one day, I’m eating breakfast in this diner on Route 17, and my cousin Raymond walks in.
“It was strange. I hadn’t seen the guy for, like, five years. I tell him my sad story, and he says it all makes sense, and I say, What do you mean, it makes sense, nothing makes sense. He says, What he never understood was how everyone in the family except me knew that my dad got reamed by the IRS for some bookkeeping screwup when he tried to start that pathetic electrical business. Some crazy IRS fucker came after him, some licensed U.S. government killer, loaded for bear. My dad lost everything and left us and shot himself in the mouth. He did it in my uncle Vern’s—Raymond’s dad’s—garage. A real mess to clean up. Raymond’s dad made Raymond’s mom do it, even though it was
his
brother.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” Colette says.
“It’s not your fault,” says Vincent. “Not your fault and not your problem. I was three.”
Colette can’t help sneaking a glance at Meyer, and then at Bonnie, whose jaw has dropped. Has Bonnie never heard this? Somehow Meyer thinks not. Colette writes something, pauses, writes more. This is more realness than she bargained for when she left the newsroom this morning.
“Should I go on?” asks Vincent.
“Please. But I’ve got to tell you, I’ve only got three hundred words—”
“Unless it’s a fabulous story,” says Roberta.
“Even if,” says Colette. “And it
is
a fabulous story. Even so…”
“Go on,” Bonnie tells Vincent. “That’s so awful about your dad.”
“I still haven’t got around to asking Mom why she never told me about how he died. But that’s a whole other can of worms. Anyhow, I’m sitting there in the diner with Raymond, and by now I could pretty much care less about my eggs over easy, and Raymond is telling me, in this very weird, robotic voice, how it all fits together, what killed my dad and what’s screwing me is basically the same, the United States government and the rich Jews who own everything and are using the Negroes as a weapon to destroy the white race. Right from the start, I had doubts. I mean, there were holes in his argument. Like, if black people are taking over the country, how come they’re so poor, and why would the Jews go to all that trouble pretending the Holocaust happened?”
Vincent looks at Meyer, who nods—a little exchange that’s not lost on anyone in the room. Colette scribbles frantically. Meyer wishes he could see what she is writing.
“Meanwhile, I’m sitting in the diner trying to process all this heavy shit. He’s talking Waco and Ruby Ridge, and I’m still back on what he’s told me about my dad. And I’m thinking, Well, Raymond may not have the
complete
explanation, but it
is
an explanation. Whereas I just always assumed it was all random pointless birdshit raining down on my head and—”
“And no one else’s head.” Colette finishes his sentence.
“Excuse me?” Vincent smiles.
“On your head and no one else’s.” Colette’s a little flustered.
“My head and no one else’s,” Vincent says. “You get my point exactly.”
Bonnie exhales, loudly. The woman hasn’t taken a breath the whole time Vincent’s been speaking. Now she clasps her hands, as if she’s just watched one of her sons perform in a school play. She’s heard the kid rehearse, and now she’s thrilled by how well he’s done when it counts, in front of an audience. An audience of one—one woman touched, despite herself, by this overgrown working-class kid, this hard-luck, basically likable young man who never had a chance. But how many bad breaks does it take to turn you into a guy with SS tattoos? The idea is so
American.
If you’ve had a tough childhood, everything is forgiven. According to that logic, Meyer should be Genghis Khan.
“Anyhow, I tell Raymond, Great, so the federal government is selling us out. What can you do about it? Who gives a shit what
we
think? And then he gets this crazy light in his eyes and starts talking about how much one person can make a difference. Hitler, Jesus, he goes through the list. He’s drinking gallons of coffee. And you know, the funny thing is that later, when I got ready to leave ARM, when I started reading Dr. Maslow’s books, the weird thing was that Dr. Maslow said the exact same thing: One person can make a difference. The world can change, one heart at a time.”
Is Vincent saying that the essence of Meyer’s new book is the same crap some Nazi told him in an upstate greasy spoon? Don’t fascists believe in changing the world a thousand minds at a time, and breaking the skulls around those minds that are slow or reluctant to change? Is Vincent making up this part? The only thing that’s inarguable is that he’s plugging Meyer’s book.
“That’s very impressive.” Colette beams at Vincent, then bestows a sympathetic smile on Meyer, meant to be admiring, but somehow patronizing, he feels.
“It must be so wonderful for you, Dr. Maslow, to know that something you wrote converted someone, turned somebody around. I can’t help wishing your books had been published sixty years ago. You know…before…the war. But I guess that’s impossible.”
It takes Meyer a few seconds to decide if she could possibly mean what he thinks she means. Is she saying that his book could have converted a
real
Nazi, could somehow have helped dismantle the German war machine? The woman is an idiot. She’s probably the kind who thinks if she went to bed with Hitler and taught him about true love,
that
would have been the Final Solution.
Three forbidden words cross Meyer’s mind: affirmative action candidate. Meyer repents on the spot. He monitors himself very closely to make sure he doesn’t become like so many men he knows, men his age, successful, comfortable white males, Jews and non-Jews alike, members in good standing of the human rights community. Liberal on the surface, subtly racist underneath. Sometimes not so subtly. When Sol and his friends band together, defensively warding off the cholesterol-rich femininity of Minna’s Sunday brunches, they think it’s acceptable to tell jokes about women and blacks because they’re also telling jokes about old Jewish men.
“You’re kidding,” Meyer tells Colette. “I would have had to write the books as a child. And what would I have written about?” Is Meyer overreacting? He’ll hear about this later from Roberta and Bonnie.
“I didn’t mean—” she says.
“Moreover, as you may know, Jews were forbidden to publish. So my books might have had trouble finding readers to convert.”
“I’m sorry,” says Colette. “Really. I—” An uncomfortable silence falls, from which Colette rescues them by turning back to Vincent. Their white-power hero. “Do you think you could say a little more about what made you change?”
“Can I say one thing first?” Vincent asks Colette.
“Please,” says Colette. “Say whatever you want. It’s a ninety-minute tape.” What about the three-hundred-word limit?
“I was never into violence,” Vincent says. “I won’t say I didn’t
know
guys who were. But whenever that stuff went down, I managed to be somewhere else. Disappeared. It’s a trick you learn when you grow up in a tough situation.”
What is Vincent fishing for? Some hint that Colette, too, grew up in a tough situation. Vincent’s been in ARM too long. Colette’s fifteen minutes out of Brown. Her father could be an orthopedic surgeon with an investment account that hardly registered the dent made by her college tuition. It’s better that Vincent doesn’t know. It might make him regress back into blaming minorities for his disenfranchisement. Better that Vincent not dwell on the fact that, though he’s the one being interviewed, Colette earns way more than he does.
“The hate stuff was always a side issue for me. I came in through the other door. The government, the IRS. Waco. I won’t pretend I was the most tolerant guy. I was pretty pissed at the world. And everybody’s a racist deep inside. Don’t you sometimes think that?”
Colette’s not going to touch this with a ten-foot pole. Thank God. The same discussion goes on at practically every conference. The teenagers who come to the Pride and Prejudice camp spend half their time arguing about whether everyone is a racist. And the other half smoking marijuana. Probably everyone
is
a racist, Meyer thinks. But who cares what you are deep inside? What matters is what you
do.