How It Ended: New and Collected Stories - By Jay McInerney Page 0,150
the last of his wine.
“I guess you should,” I say. “I can give you a ride out to the gate.”
“Thanks,” he says.
When I let him off up by the main road he says, “Don't worry, I'm not going to write about this.”
“I really appreciate it,” I say.
“Call me sometime.” He closes the door, climbs over the gate and walks off down the road.
Driving back to the house, I feel kind of bad for Frank. I mean, he doesn't get the story and he doesn't get laid. He turned out to be a pretty decent guy. And I can't help wondering how far Tom would go to keep us out of the papers. Would he still say he wants me more than he wants to be president? Would he screw somebody to protect our secret? Like, for instance, his wife?
When he calls an hour later the wine's wearing off and the sun is setting and I am sinking into a swamp of doubt.
“What happened?” he says. “Did you get rid of him?”
“Sort of,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
“He's gone for the moment.”
“What did he ask you? Did my name come up? Please tell me you didn't say anything.”
“I told him you fucked like a stallion.”
“Jesus, Alison.”
“Of course I didn't tell him anything.”
“Thank God.”
His tone is really pissing me off.
“Listen,” he says, “I'll call back in five minutes.”
But instead it's Rob who calls back and asks me what happened with Frank. “I handled it,” I say, and when he insists on details I tell him I'll give those to Tom, then hang up.
When Tom finally calls I've had almost an hour to brood.
“Sorry,” he says. “We got a call from Fox and I had to run down to the affiliate for a live feed. So what happened with the blogger? Please tell me we don't have a problem here.”
If he'd just asked about me, or sounded concerned and sympathetic, the conversation might have gone in a whole different direction. “I don't know,” I say. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“He wants to come back for dinner.”
“What the hell? I hope you told him to go fuck himself.”
“I could have, but that would've pretty much guaranteed a highly incriminating post on his blog tomorrow.”
“What the hell does he want?”
“I could be wrong, but I think he wants your girlfriend.”
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying I think he wants me more than he wants the story.” When he doesn't respond, I go, “Tom?”
“Did he say that?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“Well, I can't recount the whole goddamn conversation verbatim. But he made it pretty clear he was interested. And he basically kind of indicated that if I wasn't interested in him then he'd take that to mean I was involved with somebody else.”
“What do you mean, he indicated?”
“I'm summarizing like ten minutes of back and forth. I'm interpreting.”
“You told him you were involved with somebody else, right? We agreed that Rob's our cover story.”
“He knows Rob's not straight. I mean, come on, Tom.”
“What did you say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to get rid of him.”
“I can do that.”
“Does he have anything solid?”
“He claims he has a source for us getting caught in the shower in Manchester.”
“Then why doesn't he just go with it?”
“He may.”
“You really think he likes you enough to kill the story?”
“It's possible. He wants to come over here and cook dinner for me tonight. What do you want me to do?”
“I don't know, I have to think about this. Let me talk to Rob.”
“You're going to talk to Rob about this,” I say, incredulous. “I don't want to know what Rob thinks, Tom. I don't care what Rob thinks. I want to know what you think. I want to know what you want me to do.”
“Shit, Rob's at the door and I'm late for the VFW.”
“What do you want me to do about Mr. Below the Beltway?”
“I don't know. You're going to have to handle this one, honey.”
“I don't know what that means.”
“It just means you should do whatever you think is best.”
“You mean whatever I have to do.”
“I have tremendous faith in you, darlin'. I love you. I know I can count on you.”
Up until that moment, I'm still hoping. But the way he says he knows he can count on me—that tone of voice, that public speaking inflection he uses in his speeches—it broke my heart. Even the way he said “darlin'” was stage southern. It wasn't an endearment so much as an imitation of an endearment.