Medium Rare, page 19
Phil and Sally continued projecting confidence, working to downplay the scandal as the unfortunate collision of a “personal matter” and an “overserved event”—for which the fundraiser responsible had been summarily fired. Nothing to see here, the tone implied, aside from the fact that with this sort of public posture, there nearly always was. In combination with the raw video evidence, the Sunny affair was broadly ingested less as speculation than fact—and in other circumstances, this might have swept the public on to the next one, certainty being gossip’s mortal foe. Phil continued giving interviews suggesting as much, smiling blithely at Chris Cuomo. Ready to bet the house on the urbane banality of contemporary infidelity, even as he slipped in the polls.
—So you’re not even thinking about going back to your day job? Chris confirmed, pursing his lips, pantomiming “hard-hitting” journalism in the act of going easy on him. March Madness is right around the corner….
—No, no. Basketball was never my day job. My focus is on the people of California. I’m not even planning on filling out a bracket!
—What? No way! Didn’t Virginia just beat Duke? You have to fill one out, Chris insisted. At the very least if you lose on Tuesday.
—I’m not going to lose, said Phil.
—But hypothetically, if you did lose the primary, you’d fill out a bracket, right?
—If I lose the primary, I’ll fill out another perfect one.
He’d meant it as a little joke, a self-fulfilling display of political assurance playing to a well-established bit; a splashy soundbite to drown out the last press cycle. But I knew, even as he said it, Phil had disastrously miscalculated. Statistics is never having to say you’re certain. When you say it, you know your luck is running out.
The salient fact that Phil forgot? That to me glared hotly on the screen, in Phil’s blue eyes, Chris’s white teeth, in Phil’s sheepishly unsheepish visit to the polls the next morning, without Raleigh, so conspicuously alone? The jackass! He was running as a Democrat. Only Republicans are forgiven extramarital affairs.
* * *
—
They say the Sun sees all things first, but it had set before Anderson Cooper made the announcement: CNN was calling California’s jungle primary for runaway frontrunner Democratic Congresswoman Maria Muñoz and, by a smaller but nonetheless decisive margin, Republican Congresswoman Cynthia Duvall. For the fifth or sixth time in the past few days, I collapsed into Miles’s arms, wailing, my nails digging into his flesh frantically, like some feminist inversion of Bernini’s Rape of Proserpina.
—Were the polls too high on Phil? Gloria Borger mused rhetorically. Sure. But I think the late-breaking affair really hurt him.
—Oh, there’s no doubt, Dana Bash agreed. He totally lost the reins. His wife was incredibly likable.
Miles stroked my hair.
—She still is, I whispered to him, my voice cracking through the tears.
—Hm? Miles soothed.
—I can’t stand them, talking about her in the past tense like that, like she’s dead or something. Turn it off!
—I gotta say, Gloria said in a lighter tone, foreshadowing the segment’s inevitable, rosy wrap, it’ll be interesting to see what Phil does now—I mean, that was some pledge he made to Chris Cuomo yesterday. Another perfect bracket? We can check in with the data team, Anderson, but—
Miles shut off the power.
* * *
—
Phil didn’t, though. Shut off the power. Long after Anderson gave way to Don Lemon and Gloria hung up her Van Cleef & Arpels; after half-hearted concession calls and showing his team the leonine door, a bottle of Glenfiddich; after midnight, two, four, and day’s reprise, Phil continued staring into the gargantuan television, recalling other televisions, televisions of past, present, and future. The wall of black glass in New York and the cherry cupboards at Chiswick Farm. The painterly Nantucket frames he’d never seen in person. That old fifty-inch flatscreen under a certain synthetically weathered sign—and the opulent Art Nouveau screening room that had replaced it. Raleigh wouldn’t be watching. Sunny wouldn’t either. But in the lofty columnar palace in New Orleans, where Helios now inched toward mid-sky, his father might be. With pity, even, insofar as pity tends to parentally accompany I told you so. Phil had to get out of California. It was the only place to go.
* * *
—You fucking idiot, Louis Fayeton said. A disgraced Democrat, my god. Well, is she gonna divorce you?
—I don’t know. She won’t pick up.
—Smart woman! Well, bring your stuff inside—no, Odette, no more treats for you—okay, okay, last one—
—Phil! Said Frances from the doorway. We weren’t expecting you.
Evident from his expression, Phil too was caught by surprise. Frances’s very existence, let alone her presence in New Orleans, mistress of the house he’d bought and his own future mother-in-law, had gradually escaped his consciousness over the past few months to the point of total amnesia. Her mental resurrection could not have been less welcome.
—You’re still here?
—Phil! Louis roared, with enough force to send Odette running—and trigger in Phil himself a jolt of posttraumatic childhood fear.
This sensation had the secondary effect of reviving Phil’s attentional resources to an observational state unmatched since the night of the primary debate, and he could now see that something about Frances had changed. He would have never conceded to attractiveness, per se, but she radiated a new health of sorts; a fullness and a rosy pallor, albeit one more Breughel than Caravaggio. Phil scowled in the assumption he’d been unwittingly footing cosmetic dermatology bills for his former nanny, but passed her without further comment, grabbed a bottle of liquor, and installed himself in front of the television.
But Jake Tapper wasn’t talking about him. There were more cases of the novel virus; the Fed was slashing rates. Jimmy Kimmel was hosting the Oscars again. Was it only a week ago Phil had been angling for an invite? After the commercial came politics, but even this segment, discussing Biden’s nine-state streak, bore no mention of him—
—Turn that garbage off, said Louis. Since you’re here, we want to talk to you about something.
Frances was at his side, blushing.
—Yes, you can get married now, Phil sighed, his eyes still on the screen. What does it matter. I don’t care.
—Oh, we plan to, said Louis, smiling. Because…well, you’re going to be a big brother.
—Surprise! Said Frances.
—Ha ha, said Phil.
—Don’t be rude. Frances is ten weeks.
—Ten weeks’ what?
—Ten weeks’ pregnant! She beamed.
—What?…How?
Louis chuckled.
—Surely you know how conception works, son—
—Yeah, but—
Phil turned to address Frances:
—At your age?
—I’m thirty-six, said Frances, further reddening. I’m the same age as you.
—Really? Said Phil.
—You’re such an asshole, said Louis.
—And you’re like sixty.
—I’m fifty-nine and I’ve never been fitter. Frances is an excellent cook.
—Yeah, I know, said Phil.
There was a pause, Phil’s mouth hanging open but emitting no further sound.
—You can stay here, son, said Louis, a bit cautiously, placating yet firm. But you’ll be respectful to Frances—
—No, no, I should go, he said, reaching for his phone to call the jet management company. It was a bad idea to come here—Yeah, hi, this is Phil Fayeton. Change of plans; need to get to DC today…. Yes today, as in this day, right now. What? When did that happen? Shit. Ok—
—You can stay, Phil, Louis reiterated in an emphatic whisper—especially if there’s some problem.
Phil covered the receiver:
—Mechanical issue with the wings, but they’re working on—Yes, hi, I’m here…. Seriously? It was fine this morning. Ugh!
He hung up and collapsed back in the chair.
—Just leave me alone, said Phil. I’ll be out of here as soon as it’s fixed. They’re going to call me.
Frances obliged him. But Louis didn’t move. He saw, on some level, Phil’s apathy for the deep hurt it was. There was the impulse to draw him out—a flicker of parental intuition urging forthrightness and sincerity. Maybe, with the new baby, Louis would have yielded to it. But the rousing speech that filled his heart could not find form on his tongue. The relational patterns with his large adult son were too firmly trodden to stray from the known path, even when it veered precariously, and Louis exhumed his favorite bootstraps, digging in:
—Poor ignorant boy, he said sardonically.
—Excuse me?
—You win a billion dollars and still find a way to wallow in self-pity!
This was a lower blow than Louis knew. In spite of my efforts at reimbursement, Phil had spent far more on the campaign than he’d originally intended, justifying the expense as an appreciable investment in reputation not unlike his stakes in real estate, sure to yield strong long-term returns in the form of book deals and whatnot. Losing the primary was akin to the Nantucket house sliding into the sea without insurance before he’d ever even set foot in it. The Senate’s attraction had been less as a destination than a stepping stone for Phil, its power as much in exit opportunities as within the political sphere; a metaphysical manor providing the infrastructure and foundation for a multi-hyphenate career in celebrity itself.
—You don’t understand, said Phil. If it had come out like three days later it wouldn’t have mattered at all. The timing, it was such bad luck—
—Bad luck? Hah! That’s what you’ll tell Raleigh?
—I never expected you to take my side, but I also didn’t expect you to…never mind. Just go.
—Humph! said Louis, ignoring another sentimental tug.
He left Phil in the dark screening room, bottle in his lap. Phil took a swig and checked Fox next out of habit before, in a petty act of invisible rebellion, switching over to MSNBC. No word from his private jet people. Nor an hour later, nor the hour after that. No mention of Phil on TV either, not on any of the networks. Even when they recapped the primary results, they only listed the winners this time. The real focus was Biden, Biden, Biden, the pundits’ partisan glee or terror shining through their painted faces. Phil yawned, flipping back over to CNN.
—il Fayeton was on this program just last week, you’ll recall, Chris Cuomo was saying.
Phil shot up, as if the plush gold seat had caught fire, watching in horror as Cuomo replayed their conversation, the scare caps of PREVIOUSLY RECORDED fully earning their descriptive title, taunting him redly from the bottom right corner of the screen—
—I’m not going to lose, Phil helplessly watched himself say.
—But hypothetically, if you did lose the primary, you’d fill out a bracket, right?
—If I lose the primary, I’ll fill out another perfect one.
—Another perfect bracket! What are the odds of that?
—A hundred percent, past Phil said glibly.
Present Phil felt an adrenal rush, the putrid kind born not of excitement but mortification, as today’s Chris Cuomo straightened his papers superciliously.
—A hundred percent, he and Phil echoed together, if in very different tones.
—You’re gonna keep to that, right Phil? Cuomo continued alone, looking straight into the camera, his finger-gun cartoonishly menacing.
Phil doubled over, emitting a gurgling, primitive sound. He could feel his own faith in himself reflectively collapsing. No one believed he could do it. No one—except—could Raleigh? Maybe. It was his only chance for redemption.
He left the screening room in an aftershocked daze. Louis and Frances had gone to bed, a perfunctory note on the kitchen table pointing Phil to leftovers. It was as he chewed his chiles rellenos, bovinely, the way even men like Phil only eat when they’re distracted or alone, that his eyes alit on the kitchen hook tray, on the silver horse’s gleam. The Mustang—it was as much his as his father’s, really; Phil was the one who’d given it to him. And he’d only be borrowing it. Phil checked his phone again: nothing. It was 12:15. He opened Google Maps. Sixteen hours and forty minutes to DC; if he sped—and he planned to speed—he could be there before sunset. Phil popped the last bite of pepper in his mouth and left the dirty plate on the island, grabbing the key.
* * *
The wee hours were smooth enough, through Mississippi, Alabama. Phil stopped near Birmingham to put up the top, the predawn March chill hitting his now total sobriety like a kick to the face. People at the rest stop acted normal. Warmer and pumped with premium coffee, Phil clipped Georgia’s corner. This offered a disproportionate sense of progress, but then the angle at which he hit Tennessee made it seem to last forever, and as the sun climbed his fatigue began to mount. Two, four, eight missed calls, voicemails from his father. Phil ignored them all, finally hid the alerts. He stopped outside Johnson City to put the top back down, get another cup of coffee. The woman in front of him in line for it veered away strangely, abruptly; as if Phil was diseased or something. The price of fame, he thought, donning his sunglasses with self-piteous regard. It was going on noon.
As Phil crossed the border into Virginia, still at least five hours from the District but with the contiguous impression of nearness building, he started to think about calling Raleigh. In the initial throes of Adventure, Phil had harbored the nighttime intention of making his arrival a surprise—first out of genuine romance, then, the more he thought about it, in the shadow of more practical fears. She’d have time to change the locks—worse, simply leave before he got there. This analysis had sat unchallenged in the seat next to him through Tennessee, with the top up, drowsy, but now began to rustle with the highway breeze, in the shifting patterns of free sun on the leather seat. Surely his father would have called her already. It might be better to preempt him—or, at this point, try to unravel the damage. He took a deep breath, looping almost liturgically back through the arguments for his original plan. An hour passed like this, then two, until his decisional framework cracked under the prime horror motivating it. If I lose the primary, I’ll fill out another perfect one. It was so astronomically unlikely. But it wasn’t impossible! Raleigh would know what to do.
He stopped for gas near the turnoff to Charlottesville, and here everyone was acting weird, paranoid even. Or was it him? Phil briefly considered just taking the exit toward Chiswick Farm, abandoning mission, giving himself a little more time to collect his thoughts—but no, no, he had to see Raleigh as soon as possible, had to know what he was up against. He just had to stick to the plan.
It wasn’t until traffic started to slow outside the city that Phil’s mind again began to drift off course. All those people acting weird. Had one of them sent a photo of him to the tabloids? Phil thought of all its predecessors, the lurid cover shots of him and Sunny. Could she have taken revenge on him? A hundred percent. The prickle on the back of his neck bloomed into a twinge, beads of sweat forming between his shoulder blades, dripping down the small of his back.
Phil automatically—almost involuntarily—opened his voicemail, his father’s drawling baritone in the Mustang’s booming speakers as if Louis and the car were one:
—Hey, Phil—did you run out to grab breakfast or something? You think you could pick up some—
—Answer your phone, son. Are you getting Frances’s ice cream or not? She’s craving—
—Where the fuck did you go, Phil. Where’s my ca—
—Where—
—Answer—
—Phil! Goddamn it. I’m calling Raleigh!
So was Phil, before he realized he was doing it.
A ring—and a pointed little click.
—Fuck! He screamed at the empty seat, slamming his hands on the wheel, veering it dangerously, overcorrecting to stay on VA-120.
—Hi! You’ve reached Raleigh Fay—
Another scream, this one more desperate, avian and guttural. He tried again, but this time it didn’t even ring.
—Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!
And flying into new heights of rage, he dialed another number:
—Phil?
—Cassandra? Where is she?
—I don’t know, I said. Where are you?
—Don’t lie to me!
—I never lie, Phil.
—Or “withhold the truth” or whatever. I don’t have time for your nuanced shit, Cassandra! I’ll fucking fire—I mean, never mind! Just tell me where the fuck she is.
—I wish I did know, believe me. She isn’t answering my calls either.
I could hear him breathing hard on the other end of the line, processing, considering it with underslept, suboptimal focus, trying to reconcile his intuition with what I was telling him—and then a beep, a sidewise fuck you, asshole.
