Now and Yesterday (40 page)

Island Creek oysters, Wagyu beef, Stone Barn asparagus, fleur du sel, Lampong pepper. It was the kind of evening where the specific name of every food eventually got mentioned—not necessarily by the host, who was too preoccupied to do so, but by the guests and, when asked, the well-informed servers.

As the table was being set for dessert, one of the servers, when asked, said she was a native of Colombia. After she'd gone, Peyton said something about the number of “Hispanics” working in food service in New York. Then she admitted, with the comic inflection of a sitcom punch line, that “Latina” might be the right term. Some at the table found this amusing.

“Political correctness! Where did it ever come from?” said McCaw. “Why has it become such a vernacular?”

“Good question,” said Nancy.

“Well, think about it,” said Will, with another sip of the Pomerol that had been served with the beef, his second glass, though the dessert wine, a nice Riesling, had also been poured. “Think about how people felt in the sixties, when they passed civil rights. They must have felt like they woke up from a dream. You know—‘We have television and satellites, but how is it until now that we've lived with the social norms of ancient Rome?' They must have felt like, ‘Wow, if we've been this stupid, what else are we doing wrong?' ”

“Interesting,” said Reynold.

“Huh,” said Peyton, pondering.

“We have indeed come to respect each other much more, over the years,” said McCaw. “Well said, Will.”

Mary patted McCaw's hand.

“I wish more people would open their minds when they listen to you,” she said. “I wish they understood that you
get
that certain things are simple and certain things are not. Of course, it sounds so boring, if you say it like that. . . .”

“Not boring,” said McCaw. “Just hard to remember.” He said he didn't like being misunderstood, himself—it hurt, personally—but that the larger point was the decline of American intelligence. People were no longer being taught how to think. Mary nodded vigorously, and added that this might be an opportunity.

“What about acknowledging this decline frankly, perhaps framing it as a public health issue?” she said. “Peter?”

Peter was now on the spot, or on duty.

“Well, there's always new intelligence, new kinds of thinking,” he began. “I mean, in a certain way, Lady Gaga means that music is over, right? But, in another way, our whole idea of entertainment and even the arts is shifting.”

There was a titter at the mention of Lady Gaga, but Peter saw that Mary and the others were trying to parse what he'd said—which made him wish instantly that he'd said something smarter and not so dinner-partyish. Each of the other tables, too, he noticed, was in the midst of animated conversation; the room was swimming in chatter and laughter. Was anyone else talking about Lady Gaga? And why was there no music? Had Jenna or McCaw specifically opted for no music?

Suddenly, Will, who had been listening quietly to the conversation, perked up.

“Why not just give people the context with the message?” he said. “What about saying something like, ‘Simplify when possible, complicate when necessary'?” That kinda says it, right? ”

The line, as it hung in the air, seemed to command attention. It happened to be a line that Will had written for the Assetou article, months before, to describe the singer's approach to composition in her music and artwork.

“Simplify when possible, complicate when necessary,” said Mary.

McCaw, after considering the line for a second, repeated it, too.

“I love it,” squawked Mary.

“It's pretty good,” said McCaw.

“Very deep,” said Peyton.

They toasted Will and the conversation moved on. The phrase had merit, Peter thought. It was like something Tyler and he had been working on, during the previous week, but much more elegant.

“Nice job,” he whispered to Will later, after dessert, when McCaw got up to visit the other tables and people started table-hopping.

“Oh, thanks,” said Will, slightly tipsy. But he was being pulled away by Peyton, who was terribly interested in magazines and wanted to know more about Will's magazine.

As the guests moved back to the salon for coffee and petits fours, Peter stood talking with Mary and an insurance executive she brought over. The man was kind but dim, and Peter delighted himself secretly by glancing across the room as often as he dared at Will, who was looking so sharp, in his Prada and sneakers, and seemed to be doing so well. He was installed in one of the seating areas with Peyton and some of the other ladies. Laughter periodically pealed from the group.

Then, as Peter was excusing himself to go find a powder room, McCaw's brother-in-law appeared and introduced himself.

“Oh, hey,” said Peter. “I had the pleasure of talking with your wife over dinner.”

“Nice,” said Miller. “Hendy said I should find you and say hello.”

“Are you in advertising?”

“God, no,” said Miller, with a laugh. “Right now, I'm helping some people get a media venture off the ground.” Miller described the project, which sounded vague, but Peter saw no harm in responding positively. There was something of the charmer about Miller, even the dilettante. He was very handsome, in an overripe sort of way. Peter realized that he
had
seen the guy around before.
One of those idle pleasure-seekers . . .

Then it dawned on Peter: This was the guy whom McCaw wanted him to meet! Fiona probably even knew! Did McCaw really think that Peter would be interested in such a creature? Did he think that an acquaintance with Peter would serve as some sort of corrective for Miller? The possibilities were absurd.

“Are you a partner, then?” said Peter. “Or an investor . . . ?”

“I'm all that—sure,” chuckled Miller, with a wink.

Completely unserious, Peter judged. This was a type that Peter knew well. In the old days, someone like Miller might have been called a playboy; and the ambisexual vibe was part of that, Peter knew, not because it represented self-discovery or a philosophy about sexual identity, but because it was easy.

“Cool,” said Peter. “Well, how awesome for you to have this place as your home. Fiona mentioned that you live here.”

“Yeah, and I grew up here,” said Miller. “For a long time, it was just my mom and me. And then she moved to Singapore and I moved upstairs, into the guest apartment. We were going to rent the place out, and then Jenna and Hendy decided to move in. The more the merrier!”

Peter spotted Fiona on the other side of the room, chatting intently with a much older man with scraggly hair. Poor girl, he thought.

“You and your friend might wanna drop by for drinks some time,” continued Miller.

“Drinks?”

“Fiona and I try to do a proper cocktail hour, when she's in town. Sometimes we get the Carlyle to send over a bartender and some nibbles and a piano player. It's kinda nice.”

“Really?” said Peter. “Wow.”
Not in a million years,
he thought.

The powder room was downstairs—a classic chapel in marble and chrome. The details were impeccable: the black-and-white checkerboard floor, the onyx-trimmed faucet handles. Peter guessed the room represented an expensive “modernization” that had been done in the '20s and kept intact ever since. The mirror reflecting a pleasantly buzzed dinner guest in black tie, framed by a voluptuously wrought molding of white marble, had probably already been in place for decades, Peter thought, when his own family's house was built, in the mid-'50s. It seemed so solid, McCaw's powder room, the whole mansion. The walls felt three-feet thick. The tin magnate had undoubtedly called for the finest materials, the best construction. Peter's place was a wood-framed split level, built on the cheap by a gang of locals his father had always referred to as the “Baxter boys.” His first sight of the house, as a child of three, had been horrifying, because, as yet only a shell of two-by-fours, it was transparent, incorporeal. His father was proud because the place was so big; all Peter could think of was that it could never shelter anyone from one of the electrical storms he hated so much. His mother explained what it meant to build a house, which helped. So did her asking him to help pick out decorative tile from among the samples the Baxter boys had brought, for the bathroom that would be his.

The party was beginning to break up when Peter rejoined Will, who was talking with Miller and Fiona, Peyton and Reynold, and some of the others. Will seemed to fit right in. Even his sneakers were drawing compliments, though whether this was in genuine admiration or patronizing tolerance wasn't clear. Peter remembered once caring about the difference between the two. Now, he knew it really didn't matter.

Good-byes were the usual nice-nice, as were the promises of getting together again soon. Jenna and McCaw, who were saying good night to people at the front door, were noticeably nice to Will.

“Come back and see us again,” said McCaw. Security was now outside, on the sidewalk.

“Thanks, guys,” said Will.

In the car, Peter and Will were quiet, in a contented way. There was a lot to say about the evening, but it seemed better to sink into the calm of the backseat and only map out, for the moment, some of the territory that they would undoubtedly be discussing in detail for months.

“Intense,” said Peter.

“Ooof,” said Will.

“But basically fun.”

“It was fine.”

“The ladies loved you.”

“Ladies usually do.”

The car would take them to Queens, where it would drop Will, then take Peter on to Brooklyn Heights. It was around midnight. Traffic on the FDR was light.

“Fiona's a trip,” said Peter.

“Right? It turns out we have some music people in common.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm, from London.”

“Cool.”

If Will were nursing any antipathies toward McCaw, or if some of these had been blunted by his enjoyment of a preposterous party, he didn't let on. Masses of city glittered and glared through the dark, as they slid by.

“She's pretty smart,” said Peter. “We talked a lot about her work—global compliance for a movie studio.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Though what she's doing with a guy like Miller . . .”

“Ya never know,” said Will, settling deeper into the seat's leather plush.

Peter remembered Will laughing at one of Miller's jokes, when they were all standing there in a group, at the end of the party.

“You guys seemed to know each other,” said Peter.

“I guess we've met before.”

“You guess?”

“We must have run into each other at a party.”

“Gay?”

“Who knows.”

“Did you know he was there—I mean, before dinner?”

“I saw him.”

“You didn't say hello?”

“It's not like we're friends, Peter. Besides,
we
were talking to all those nice people.”

“I'm . . . surprised.”

Will patted Peter on the knee, shaking his head.

“He manages my funds,” said Will.

“Very funny,” said Peter. But Will seemed tired—his eyes were closed—and Peter decided not to press.

They were silent for a while; then, when they were crossing the bridge, Peter spoke.

“He's not such a bad guy, McCaw.”

Will came back immediately.

“He's evil and so are all those people.”

“You think so?” said Peter. “You didn't let on.”

“I have manners. And I am capable of thinking two thoughts at the same time.”

Peter laughed.

“That's the key, isn't it?” he said. “Two thoughts at the same time.”

“I mean, I'm happy to drink the guy's wine and be civil to his friends,” said Will, “but did you hear what some of those people were saying, what they think?”

“I know.”

“You're working for that.”

“I know.”

“At some point, my not-boyfriend, it's gonna get real sticky for you.”

Peter brightened.

“Did you just call me your not-boyfriend?” he squealed. “That's so sweet!”

Drowsily, amusedly shaking his head, Will gave Peter's knee another pat.

Peter sat back and tried to enjoy the view. Was he really going to help direct the national conversation, as Mary said? It was nice to think he had the power to do so. Advertising had afforded him the power to direct certain kinds of conversations, but this new alliance with political ambition had fostered both the power and the ambition to do something larger with his talent. Peter liked being at the table with players—though of course McCaw and his chums were not the players he would have chosen. And this created a dilemma. Peter had blundered up to this new level of power. He hadn't chosen it, precisely; he had been chosen for it, and accepted. But the real point of playing on this level, he'd begun to see, was to choose the players and to set the agenda. The point was autonomy, and real grace was possible when one's strongest interests served the largest common good. Otherwise, what was talent for? Yet given the position he was in, and the contract he had signed, what was he to do now? Begin charting his own direction more aggressively, which would mean breaking with McCaw and seeking out those with whom politically and culturally he had more in common? This was a much more aggressive mode of living than he had ever practiced before, and he wasn't even sure he wanted that. A sensible course of action, it seemed, would be to play a bit longer at the table where he was, and observe all he could about the way things work there, and about how that kind of power and his own temperament might map onto each other. He was discovering something new about himself every day, through this gig—about masculinity, even adulthood—and it was exhilarating. Couldn't he just keep going and have a good time, and stay aware of all the compromises that were possible, and build some kind of protective structure for himself, to shield him from the dark side?