Cyclorama, p.36
Cyclorama, page 36
In her professional life, she may have been a champion of the environment, but when it came to personal relationships, she was a one-woman aerosol spray can, a human defoliant stripping bare the lives of friends and lovers. She often imagined describing herself in the same cheeky, portentous tone she used while reading voice-over scripts: The Fiona Grenfall attracts her mates with salty, irreverent love calls and gaudy sartorial displays, but do not be fooled by this cunning creature’s alluring exterior: the Grenfall is as deadly as any viper.
Fiona couldn’t help but believe there was a sign in the fact that, just a few short months before that yam-hued, pussy-grabbing Neanderthal was elected to the presidency of the once-free world, her annual trip to visit her parents was delayed because a tropical storm, one that had actually been named Fiona, was churning across the Atlantic. Tropical Storm Fiona had lost just about all its strength before it made landfall. Would that Fiona Grenfall could have said the same for herself. There should have been a separate classification for her just as there were ancient terms of venery for other creatures—a murder of crows, a parliament of owls, a massacre of Grenfalls.
Was she exaggerating? Hardly. She was a woman of science, and the evidence was overwhelming. People seemed to suffer in direct proportion to their proximity to her. She had nearly led Lloyd to suicide; she had almost gotten a poor girl raped; she had broken Judith’s heart; she had all but put Ray in the back of a squad car herself. The pattern had continued into her twenties—leading addicts further into their addictions, turning optimists into cynics, robbing dreamers of all their ambitions.
In her thirties, when she was lecturing at Oxford, she had seen a therapist. Most relationships ended poorly, he told her, most lives were fraught with misery; for her to see herself as the cause of any of that was delusional, narcissistic. She had been willing to accept this assessment until six months into their sessions when the therapist told her that he wanted to discontinue her treatment because he had fallen in love with her. She never saw him again.
For a while she thought she could sate her desire for companionship and her talent for destruction by getting involved only with out-and-out bastards. But she was an unreliable judge of character and the bastards she shagged—incels at academic conferences; wiry sociopaths she met in mosh pits; oil company executives; whaleship captains—turned out to be relatively decent human beings who, after she was done with them, became even bigger bastards than she had imagined them to be.
She couldn’t stand the idea of hurting Ray again even if she knew it was presumptuous to think he still might fancy her. How had he tracked her down? “Damn, woman, I’m a cop,” he’d told her. She had kept up with no one from Evanston, or any other place she had left. The only stage she had trod upon after the Annex was at Wembley Arena, where Prince picked her out of his audience to dance with him; then, after she laughed and told him she couldn’t believe how short he was, the Artist Formerly Known as Her Hero angrily shouted, “Git off the stage!” and booted her back into the anonymity of the crowd.
Fiona checked her upstairs and downstairs one more time, searched for any stray bits of dirt, lint, fuzz, but of course there were none. She couldn’t help herself: style and cleanliness were her nervous tics. Her mind craved order. She couldn’t set a table with a napkin or spoon askew; every meal she served had to be color-coordinated like a bloody Mondrian.
No matter. Come tomorrow, Ray would arrive with his guests between noon and one. They would find the doors unlocked. Lights would be on in the hallway, the dining room, and the main staircase. They would find a refrigerator and freezer full of food, fresh sheets on the beds, towels in the bathrooms. She was leaving them the names of immigration attorneys, neighbors to call in an emergency, lists of restaurants, directions to the Atlantic Superstore, printouts about the nearby high schools, and an ATM card with twenty thousand American dollars on it; she was sure the girl could use it. Once Ray had left, she could work with the girl to help find her a more permanent living situation. Or the girl could just live there however long she wanted: Why not?
Fiona’s note was on the dining room table: “I’m so sorry I’ll not be able to meet you; I’d been looking so forward to it. But, sad to say, work beckons. For the time being, I’ll be at my flat in Halifax—closer to the studio, closer to work. Don’t worry about the money; it’s the very least I can do.”
Fiona would have very much liked to see Ray, the girl too, and the others. Generally, she adored people, which was why she hated having to keep her distance from them. She felt the same sort of regret about being a human being on planet Earth in the twenty-first century: she loved the world even though she knew she was part of the species ruining it. She was glad to be without husband, children, encumbrances of any sort. In theory, she wouldn’t have minded having a daughter if she could keep her from the bastards of the world, wouldn’t have minded a son if she could have kept him from being a bastard, wouldn’t have minded bringing any child into a world that didn’t seem intent on destroying itself.
The luggage was already in the trunk of her car. She slipped into her sandals, grabbed the keys from the hook. She opened the door and stepped outside. The air was so fresh, you could almost make believe you weren’t standing upon the surface of a doomed planet.
She got in the driver’s seat. She put on her sunglasses, opened the windows, lowered the top. She turned the ignition key and was pleased to hear the engine roar to life. It bloody well should have, it was expensive enough; it bloody well didn’t half the time, it was a fucking Jaguar, wasn’t it?
She shifted into drive, spun the car into a smooth one-eighty, pressed on the gas, then slammed down hard on the brakes. “What the bloody hell?” At the end of the driveway, a black Ford Intrepid was blocking her path.
A man was leaning against the hood of his car. His head was shaved clean and he had a salt-and-pepper goatee. He looked lean and muscular but wore the outfit of a middle-aged American dad—black polo shirt, khaki cargo pants, loafers, an expensive-looking watch, sunglasses up on his head. Stepping out of the car was a girl in a plain white blouse, black tights, and a black skirt, all of which looked like they had been picked out by a man who knew nothing about clothes and was just trying his best not to make a mistake.
At that moment Fiona could have done many things. She could have made a bloody run for it. She could have gunned the engine until these intruders got out of her way. She could have pulled the car onto the lawn, bumpity-bumped down the hill, and driven over the embankment, hoping she wouldn’t shoot the suspension all to hell.
Instead, she turned off the engine and got out of her car. “You’re a little on the bloody early side, aren’t you, Officer Tounslee?” she said.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” said Ray. “I just had a notion that if we showed up when you told us to, you’d be gone, and I kinda wanted to see you before that.”
“Guilty as charged, officer,” she said. “What made you think that?”
“Whenever someone’s too specific about when they want you to be somewhere, chances are they’re making plans to be someplace else,” he said.
“Well, that’s my life story, isn’t it: the more I plan something, the more likely I am to fuck it up. At any rate, it is good to see you.” She kissed his cheek.
“Good to see you too.”
Christ—how she longed to fling away all her fears and regrets, to throw her arms around him, to say she was sorry one more time for what had happened in the past. Instead, she took Eleonora in her arms and pressed her close. “You’re so very welcome,” she said. “We’ll do our best to make sure you’ll be safe so you can start your new life here.”
“Thank you, Ms. Grenfall,” Eleonora said.
“And there’ll be none of that ‘Ms. Grenfall’ shit,” said Fiona. “There’s absolutely no need to thank anyone—really, this is the only decent thing to do.” And as she said those words—“the only decent thing to do”—she gasped, remembering Otto Frank welcoming the Van Daans to the Annex: It’s the only decent thing to do.
“Is something wrong?” Eleonora asked.
“No,” Fiona said. “I’m just remembering what someone said to me once when I was—how old are you, Eleonora?”
“Seventeen.”
“Right. Seventeen.” Fiona looked to Ray. “Do you remember seventeen, Officer Tounslee?”
“I remember the parts I like remembering,” said Ray.
Eleonora was only an inch or two shorter than Fiona, but she looked smaller than Fiona had imagined she would be, smaller and more delicate. When she thought of herself at that age—telling her parents she’d be studying at the library, then sneaking out to the cinema with Lloyd; plunking a jug of wine into the trunk of her car, driving to Howard Street, then lying in just her knickers under a blanket on the beach with Ray as they watched the sun rise over the lake; strutting across the Annex stage as Mrs. Van Daan—she pictured someone nearly the same age as she was now. But the truth was that she had been hardly more than a child, hadn’t she? In Anne Frank, she had worn the sort of dowdy clothes she still felt too young to wear; on her face, she had drawn the lines that had started to appear only a few years ago; she had sprayed the gray in her hair that she somehow had managed to avoid. They all thought they had been so bloody clever, but they had merely been playing at being adults, hadn’t they—living in a world where men like Lloyd Crowder and Tyrus Densmore made them think they were grown up to take advantage of the fact that they were really still just children. How many years had she spent feeling awful for what she had done when she had taken barely a moment to register what had been done to her—to all of them?
She had thought she had known so much of the world, or at least Lloyd had fooled her into thinking she did. How much more of that world had Eleonora seen by now? She remembered pleading with Lloyd back in England—no, no, everything would be all right, wouldn’t it, don’t throw yourself off a building, don’t take those pills, life was worth living, wasn’t it? She remembered tapping the back window of a squad car, the blank expression on Ray’s face as he got out of her car for the last time. She remembered the Annex—that place where they acted out roles in a play, having no idea they were rehearsing what their lives would be like, all those little dramas returning for unwanted encores, this time performed with the backdrop gone and the stage ripped out from underneath them. She thought of the families they had played—hidden away in their Annex, fighting each other because there was no way to fight the bloody Nazis. She thought of the story she had read about Eleonora escaping to America. She imagined the girl hiding in a temple, then riding away from the country she thought would protect her. They were all survivors, weren’t they? Anne Frank had said that what had been done couldn’t be undone, but the point was to make sure it never happened again. The poor girl had been wrong, though, hadn’t she? It just kept happening, over and over again.
Fiona didn’t cry easily. She was almost morally opposed to sentimental or maudlin displays. And yet, as she studied the face of this dark-eyed, dark-haired girl, as she looked at Ray, imagining the boy he had been, as she thought about how young she was when she lost him, the sobs rushed forth.
She held Eleonora, and Ray put his arms around the both of them. She laughed, but the laughter felt like crying too. She tossed her head back and looked up at the sky. It was clear and blue, but her eyes were so full of tears that the sky was filled with tiny rainbows.
Elsewhere—not all that far away, really—the first sections of a wall were being erected on the United States’ southern border. Elsewhere, a good deal farther away, there was a crack in an ice shelf in Antarctica and a chunk the size of New York City would soon break loose. Elsewhere, neo-Nazis were converging on the campus of the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. Elsewhere, Declan was in a courtroom hallway, starting letters to Patricia that he kept ripping up; Carrie was on a train back to Chicago with her phone switched off while Franklin, who had just gotten back home, was pacing his floor, leaving messages for Carrie until her mailbox was full; Rob was holding an impromptu press conference, brandishing pages from a diary and saying that the woman who had accused him of planning her assault had always been troubled and he hoped she’d get the care she needed; Asya was in a car with Laurence, driving out of town while journalists staked out her home; Jeremy Horvath was in his study, rewriting his sermon; Judith and her wife, Lourdes, were flying a kite with their daughters at Lunt Avenue Beach; Eileen was in her childhood bedroom with the door closed, ignoring her mother’s shouts while she scrolled through ads for apartments in Washington, D.C.; Calvin was pouring liquor down his toilet as he tried to stop thinking about the last time he saw Todd; Mr. and Mrs. Charles Newson were holding hands and standing silently over their son Trey’s grave.
Elsewhere, three bird species had already gone extinct this very year; wildfires were blazing in California; floods were pouring down in Asia; a hurricane was ravaging the Carolinas; and in a school somewhere in America, a girl was getting ready to play Anne Frank and feeling sad that it would be over so soon. But in front of a nineteenth-century farmhouse in New Glasgow at the edge of North America, on a windless, late-summer day, a woman, a man she had known long ago, and a girl she had just met were standing beneath the brilliant blue sky, knowing they might have no hope to change anyone’s future but their own, and for now that would have to be enough.
Soon there would be time to talk about everything that had happened—both to them and the world they were living in—and to discuss how they would proceed from here. But, for now, there were practicalities to attend to, weren’t there? The man and the girl had been on the road for some time; no doubt they were hungry, no doubt they could use something to drink, no doubt they needed to shower and change and find a place to put their car.
Fiona cleared her throat. She wiped her cheeks, then her eyes. She took both Eleonora and Ray by the hand and led them up the path toward home.
“Come on, then,” she said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The seed for this novel was planted a number of years back at a bar in L.A. during a conversation with two old friends I’d acted alongside when we were kids. Although I don’t remember all the details of our exchange, the thing that has stuck with me is the enduring power of friendship and its ability to mitigate even the darkest memories. In that spirit, I’d like to acknowledge all those I’ve met along the way whose generosity and kindness have contributed to the creation of this novel.
A huge thank you to Anjali Singh, whose keen intelligence and menschiness led me to my hilarious and indefatigable agent, Stéphanie Abou, who in turn led me to this novel’s brilliant, eagle-eyed editor, Elizabeth Ellis.
I remain forever indebted to Lali Morris, my first director, who taught me to love art and collaboration, and who continues to inspire me to this very day; to Cindy Spiegel, for her genius, her counsel, and her friendship; and to Marly Rusoff, one of the greatest champions a writer could have.
Thanks to the friends who managed to keep me sane during the writing and editing process—Paul Creamer, for the stories, the phone calls, and the texts; Kate Mattson, for her enduring discernment of Whiches; Jerome Kramer, for being the most astute reader I’ve ever known; and Robin Chaplik for maintaining the same decency and humor that she had when I first met her back in the ’80s.
Thanks to the members of my pod—my wife, Beate, and my daughters, Nora and Solveig, and our dog, Oscar—for facing everything 2020 and 2021 threw at them with love, patience, and grace. And to Julie B. and Sylvie Langer for always being there during those difficult months.
Thanks for reasons too numerous to catalog here to Joan Afton, Dan Beers, John Cody, Pam Cytrynbaum, Pat Dunne, Sean Dwyer, Gina Fattore, John Fink, Dan Friedman, Jennifer Gilmore, Anna Goldenberg, Julianne Hausler, Sanja Karabegovic, Kristin Kloberdanz, Jim Lash, Mike Lenehan, Ellen Mason, Doug Matejka, Charlie Meyerson, Jordan Moss, June Newberry, Tina Pohlman, Adrianne and Steven Roderick, Wendy Salinger, Liza Schoenfein, Jeff and Sila Shaman, Alison True, Anya Ulinich, and Talya Zax.
And thanks to Barbara Darko, Daniel Loedel, and everyone at Bloomsbury for welcoming me to a new home, and to Jodi Rudoren, Irene Katz Connelly, Rachel Fishman Feddersen, Mira Fox, PJ Grisar, and the Forward for their support.
This novel was written and edited on the B, C, 1, 2, and 3 train lines, and at Cafe Amrita, Demitasse Coffee & Tea, Dulceria, M.A.C.C., Montroussier, Tre Kronor, and various park benches and picnic tables in and around Central Park. Thanks to everyone there for creating a cyclorama of sorts that helped me to imagine this novel.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
ADAM LANGER is a journalist, an editor, a podcast producer, and the author of a memoir and five novels, including The Washington Story, Ellington Boulevard, The Thieves of Manhattan, The Salinger Contract, and the internationally bestselling novel Crossing California, which was described in the Chicago Tribune by James Atlas as “the most vivid novel about Chicago since Saul Bellow’s Herzog and the most ambitious debut set in Chicago since Philip Roth’s Letting Go.” Formerly an executive editor at Book magazine and a frequent contributor to the New York Times, he currently serves as executive editor at the Forward.
