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“I think the Internet has changed the culture,” Lincoln suggests, rallying slightly from his stupor.
“Exactly. The feeding frenzy has become the norm, the ritual. Devour, lest ye be devoured. I keep thinking of Shirley Jackson’s ‘The Lottery.’ ” Buford pauses. “You surviving?” he asks.
“Sort of.”
“That’s not good enough. You’ve got to stay positive.”
“Right.”
“Take this moment as a learning opportunity, a chance to train yourself to keep focused. Think of it like going to the gym for a good workout.”
The exhortations echo others Lincoln has heard—from Mary, from his father—and they only raise the tempo of his constantly pounding headache. To deflect Buford, Lincoln congratulates him on the success of his book.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” the poet responds.
“Looks like you got some help from Marian Robinson, too.”
Buford snorts a quick laugh. “I see the public stoning hasn’t cured you of your cynicism,” he says. “Well, if you must know, Mrs. Robinson is an acquaintance of my mother’s. Whether that made a difference—who knows the way publicity works? But it all started with you. And I reminded Marissa of that. The point that everyone misses is that you’re a great editor.”
“Or was.”
“Don’t go there!” Buford admonishes. “Stay positive!”
Lincoln says he’ll try.
Flam worries enough about his friend that he comes one night bearing two steaks and a bottle of 1999 Chateauneuf du Pape. “The whole thing is ridiculous,” Flam says as they eat at the little round wood table in Lincoln’s kitchen. “That Tribune blog—it was stupid on about six levels. Talk about making up news.”
Lincoln shrugs. Pep talks can’t reach him these days.
Flam has formulated his own media analysis to explain the suddenly toxic situation. “Sex,” he says. “You add sex to the equation, and the bloggers go nuts—they can spin it any way they want.”
“Sex,” mumbles Lincoln.
“And another thing,” Flam continues. “I find it interesting that the opprobrium has fallen entirely on you. I mean, where’s the author in all this? It’s as if the template for this offense carries the underlying presumption—like in sexual harassment cases—that the older male seduced the naïve girl into the vile deception.”
Lincoln sips from the good wine. Oddly, he’s been drinking less lately—some nights, his mind is racing so hard he just forgets to pour a drink. He tells Flam, “Maybe they can’t find her. I could hardly find her. She’s hard to get hold of.”
Flam chews a piece of steak thoughtfully. “Maybe she’s talked to them for background, and the price of her cooperation is that they keep her out of it,” he suggests.
“I don’t think she’d do that,” Lincoln says after a moment. “She’d tell them how it was. She’s loyal, even though she doesn’t need to be.”
“You really like this girl, don’t you?”
“I feel I let her down.”
Later, they sit in the living room. They’ve finished the wine and moved to the bottle of vodka Lincoln keeps in the freezer. The alcohol has loosened Lincoln, and they reminisce about their days together at the Tribune, their nights on the town before Lincoln met Mary, their rivalries, arguments, the pleasure they’ve shared in belittling the city that became their home. It occurs to Lincoln that, though they still qualify as young, they are like a couple of old men on a park bench, recalling friends and adventures long departed.
Lincoln declares finally, “Flam, I’m getting out of here. I know I’ve said it before, but now it’s for real.” There’s no joy in the announcement, which Lincoln has been planning all evening. Just resignation. He’s leaving in defeat. “The iAgatha folks are giving me a bonus because The Ultimate Position sold so well. As soon as the money comes through, I’m going to New York. Just going. No prospects, no plan. I may have to camp out in Central Park. But I’m going. My Chicago days are over.”
How many times has Flam sat across from Lincoln—in a bar, at Barleycorn, at some other cheap and dim restaurant where they’ve eaten badly and drunk too much—and heard the same thing? This time, Flam says, “I know.”
31
THREE DAYS LATER, a Monday, Lincoln is at his computer when his cell phone rings at around eleven in the morning.
“John?”
“Yes.”
