Selling Out (2 page)

When Perry and Jane touched their glasses in a toast, they didn't even speak, but just exchanged a nod, a sign of their mutual appreciation and understanding. They were on a wavelength that Perry had never imagined possible, a shared communication that was not only apparent to others, but even seemed unsettling to those whose own marriages were neither so harmonious nor close.

“You seem to have a symbiotic relationship,” the elegant Professor Evelyn Parkhurst, chairman of anthropology, told them once, making it sound like a textbook neurosis rather than the actual meaning of mutual dependence they were both proud to acknowledge.

“We clicked right away,” was how Jane explained it.

In spite of the circumstance
, Perry always added in his mind, experiencing a nervous tremor and an automatic outbreak of perspiration that recurred whenever he was reminded of their first, near-disastrous meeting. Jane had come up to Vermont to take his photograph for the Boston
Globe
five years before, to accompany a Living page article on Perry prompted by publication of his latest book of stories. He had forgotten the appointment, and gone to the door a little after ten in the morning unshaven, shaking still from a monumental hangover, wearing only undershorts and a soiled button-down shirt he had grabbed from a pile of dirty clothes in his closet when he couldn't find his bathrobe.

“Oh God,” he said when he saw Jane, “I had no idea—”

“Didn't we agree on ten o'clock?” she asked.

He remembered the appointment to have his picture taken then, but what he could not have known beforehand was that the very sight of the photographer would cut through the fog of his hangover, of the fuzzy condition not only of his head at the moment but of the whole frayed feeling of his life at that time. There was a glow about this woman who had suddenly materialized at his doorway, an aura of brightness and energy. She was tall and big-boned (not at all his type), and her high cheeks were flushed a ruddy pink, without makeup, her shock of thick blond shoulder-length hair pulled casually to a pony tail and tied with a piece of bright green yarn. He felt a deep and immediate impulse to throw his arms around her, but managed to restrain himself.

“Come in—I'm sorry,” he said, motioning toward the living room of his bachelor apartment, which he realized with a wince of embarrassment looked like the scene of a rock group's reunion. His record albums from the sixties—the last ones he had bought—were spilled all around the stereo cabinet out of their jackets, lying on the dusty floor, which was bare except for splayed piles of magazines and newspapers, an empty bottle of Scotch and a couple of decomposing Chicken McNuggets from last night's “dinner.” Perry reached down and grabbed an old sock from the detritus, then added to it by brushing off the remains of cheese and crackers from a corner of the couch so Jane could sit down while he went to shower and shave.

“Make yourself at home,” he said plaintively, trying to be unobtrusive as he kicked a large black frilly bra beneath the couch, then realized the subterfuge was senseless since the garment's owner was still in his bed. He plucked the incriminating item from the floor and bunched it behind him as he backed out of the room, wondering if there was any way he could slip his overnight guest out the bedroom window; but he knew in his heart that was hopeless, especially since Lana Molloy, the hair stylist who had driven up from Brattleboro to party with him, had brought along her faithful dog, who would have to be dispensed with at the same time.

When Lana came wobbling out of the bedroom a little later in her violet spandex pants and high heels, carrying her brace of mambo drums and followed by her dog, Jane stood up and said uneasily, “Maybe I've come at a bad time.”

“Oh no!” Perry exclaimed in true panic, adding like a plea from someone drowning, “
Stay!
”

“As for us, we're on the road,” said Lana with a wink, and Perry, pulling himself together as best he could, smiled gamely and said, “Jane, I'd like you to meet Lana Molloy—and Langley Wallingford.”

Perry held his breath as he watched Jane's eyes widen at the introduction and her mouth start to open in disbelief (or was it disgust?), but then to his surprise and delight she bent down and took the dog's paw as she broke out laughing.

“Why, Langley,” she said, “I know
you
—you're Phoebe's husband on ‘All My Children'!”

“Oh, you're a fan!” Lana exclaimed happily. “Do you remember back when Phoebe was married to Dr. Charles Tyler?”

“I never thought he'd leave her for Mona Kane, did you?”

As Jane and Lana, like long-lost sisters, began rehashing events on the soap, Perry snuck back to the bathroom and popped another four aspirin.

He tried to look self-assured and authorially wise when a half hour later he leaned dizzily against a pine tree as Jane focused her Nikon on him.

“Lana's not one of my students,” he explained, for he wanted to make clear that he didn't stoop to such unfair exploitation. As soon as he said it he realized what a pathetic claim it was to any pretense of nobility.

“That's none of my concern,” Jane said, and Perry felt even worse. She told him “Smile,” and the effort to do so in order to please her, combined with the nausea he still felt from the night before, as well as the sickening sense that his very existence was a sham, led to the quick, unexpected moment he later claimed was the worst one of his adult life to that point: he vomited on his shoes.

Jane stayed and nursed him, prevailing against his weak avowals of unworthiness that she was simply an intrepid photographer who would go to any lengths to get her assignment. By midafternoon she was teaching him how to make a healthy stew and they were exchanging not only their views about literature and photography but also their personal histories. By the time they sat down to eat and lit the candles she had bought at the superette, Perry reached across the table to take her hand—the first time he had touched her—and said he wanted her to move up there and marry him.

“We'll see,” she said, and he knew from her eyes this dream would come true and that along with his writing it was the most important one of his life.

The whole thing seemed so natural and easy that Perry's friends at first were skeptical (especially in light of his track record) and then, as they saw the relationship working, they settled into a mixed attitude of acceptance—relieved and at the same time a little bit envious. That was how good it was.

Perry reached past the glass of champagne on his tray table and took Jane's hand in his own, wanting and getting the reassuring squeeze.

“I sure am glad you're going with me,” he said.

Jane took a long sip of champagne.

“Are you sure you're sure?”

“What does that mean?”

Jane took her hand from his and playfully poked a finger in his gut.

“Isn't it every man's fantasy to be on the loose in Hollywood? Have your pick of the sexy young starlets?”

Perry slipped his earphones off.

“Did I really hear you say that? Are you actually laying that old chestnut on me?
Me?
Your devoted husband and demon lover?”

Jane leaned over and blew in his ear.

“Well,” she whispered, “as a matter of fact, there are those who think Perry Moss may revert to his old bachelor ways when he hits Hollywood. The old kid-set-loose-in-the-candy-store theory.”

Perry could feel his ears get hot. He thought about launching into a tirade against the petty gossip of the campus, then drank down the last of his champagne instead. When he finished off the glass he turned and nuzzled Jane's neck.

“How sharper than a serpent's tooth,” he said, “are the tongues of jealous faculty wives.”

Jane nestled up against Perry's shoulder.

“Those bitches,” she said.

“Hey—you didn't really let them get to you, did you?”

“Well, it
is
a little bit scary,” Jane admitted. “Hollywood.”

Perry put his arm around her and pulled her closely against him.

“You know, this whole thing's for you, too. For
us
. Otherwise I wouldn't—
we
wouldn't be doing it.”

“I know,” she said, fitting right and full in his arm.

They had talked long into the night about it, sitting much like this, staring into the living room fireplace, sharing their dreams of what this unexpected financial bonanza could mean. Solarizing the house. Traveling. Taking time off from teaching, maybe someday being free of it altogether, Perry being able to devote full time and attention to his writing, as Jane would to her photography. They did not want “things” but freedom, the freedom to develop their talent and make an even greater contribution to the culture and beauty of the world. They did not want money for ostentation or for luxury, but for
good
.

As for fame, well, any of that would only empower Perry to use his name more effectively in causes he and Jane both believed in—the nuclear freeze, the human rights of fellow artists living in nations with oppressive political regimes. Perry would of course not object to his name carrying the added power of one who counted in the world.

Sinking back comfortably in his seat and closing his eyes, he imagined himself on some kind of crucial mission with other responsible people in the television industry, people like Norman Lear and Edward Asner, the sort of people who would welcome the participation of a delegate like himself from the world of serious literature. He saw himself with Lear, Asner, Phil Donahue, and possibly Norman Mailer (after all, he had written the script for the powerful television dramatization of his own book
The Executioner's Song
and so must be considered part of the medium now), debarking from a special Air Force diplomatic plane at the Cairo airport, awaited anxiously by leading representatives of the Middle Eastern nations—but just then another voice broke his fantasy.

He looked up to see the flight attendant smiling down, gently tilting the frosty bottle of champagne toward him.

“More?” she asked.

Perry smiled.

“You took the word right out of my mouth,” he said.

“Here's to ‘more,'” said Jane, lifting her glass.

Bubbles grew like the buoyant feeling between the happy couple as they soared toward this exciting new phase of their lives. Perry touched his glass to the one his wife held toward him.

“
More
,” he said.

“More?”

Perry's best friend, Al Cohen, was genuinely perplexed.

“I thought you had everything you wanted,” he said. “Didn't you tell me that, not so long ago?”

“I did. I do. I know this sounds crazy, but lately I've had this feeling, like an itch or something. I don't even know what it is I want more of—I just want more.”

It was early autumn, before any thoughts of TV or Hollywood had entered Perry's mind. He had gone to join Al, as he often did, for the end, or walking part, of his buddy's daily five-mile run. Though everyone still marveled at how much Perry had shaped up his life since his second marriage, and his physical as well as emotional condition was now acceptably healthy, he had not gone so far as those colleagues like Al, whose rigorous regimens of diet and exercise made them seem like prizefighters training for the final rounds of life.

Perry puffed vigorously on his well-chewed pipe as he ambled along on this stroll he considered his own day's virtuous exercise. Al, still breathing heavily from his run, stopped and put his hands on his hips, bending at the waist a few times to limber himself, then stared out at the blue-green hills as if seeking there an answer to Perry's dilemma.

“Is it women?” he asked, still gazing at the hills. “You want girlfriends again?”

“Oh for God sake, man.”

Perry was disappointed, not only that his wise old friend had failed to come up with some blazing insight into his conundrum, but that this most trusted confidant could be so far off the mark. The very notion of “girlfriends again” suggested regression to the sloppy days of boozy, random beddings that preceded and followed his brief, blighted first marriage, that in fact made up most of his allegedly adult life before he met Jane and achieved some semblance of maturity and order.

“Sorry,” Al said as soon as he saw Perry's face. “Maybe it was the word ‘itch' that made me think that. As in
The Seven Year Itch
.”

“You realize I've been almost five years with Jane now?” Perry asked.

He smiled, proud of his record.

“Hell, for me, that's a miracle,” he said. “And I have every hope of making it twenty-five more. As many more as I've got.”

“Right,” said Al, nodding affirmation and starting to walk ahead again on the dusty path, as Perry, locking his hands behind his back, followed along, concentrating, trying to solve his riddle.

“No, it isn't women,” he mused, as if eliminating categories in a quiz game.

“You're pleased with the book, aren't you?” Al asked.

“Like a proud papa,” Perry said. “Maybe more than I should be.”

He had spent the past few weeks reading galley proofs of the new collection of short stories his publisher was bringing out the following spring, and enjoyed the warming sense of satisfaction that comes with seeing one's words in print, and the larger fulfillment of completion of a work. This would be his third book of stories, and he felt justified and pleased in the expectation that it would bring, not fame and fortune, but a continued growth in what Al had called—with his usual candor and accuracy—the “small celebrity” Perry had earned.

“Maybe you need a change of scene,” Al suggested, pulling up a stalk of foxtail grass from the side of the road.

Perry stopped in his tracks.

“From here? From
Havi
land?”

The idea of living in some other place, or teaching at some other college, seemed not only disorienting to Perry, but worse, disloyal. This was the place that had taken him in when he needed a home, had given him shelter and sustenance, professionally and financially, at a time when other colleges and universities had looked down their academic nose at his credentials, or lack of them. Dropping out of the Ph.D. race at Harvard to support his short-story writing by bartending, baby-sitting, selling encyclopedias and vitamins door to door, and teaching freshman composition at a pharmaceutical college in Boston had not made him an attractive candidate in the eyes of most of the English department chairmen around New England. There was one, however, who saw something more in him, and valued it.