The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [25]
They sat across from each other at her dining-room table, which she never used. She ran her hand across the fine wood grain. It was a good table. She should eat here more often.
“So, we violated some pretty basic rules regarding interviewer-interviewee conduct,” he said. Annie had only half-listened to what he had said. What kind of wood was this? she wondered.
“But that could make for an interesting article,” he said, “a postmodern, new-journalism method of celebrity profile.”
Annie looked over at Eric. He wasn’t using a coaster for his mug of coffee. She slid one across the table and gestured toward his cup. He did not seem to understand and kept right on talking.
“How do you include such a significant detail regarding your relationship with the subject without overshadowing the rest of the article? Would you include the personal conversations along with the on-the-record comments? And once you’ve slept with someone, where does the line end?”
Annie wanted to smash the table in half.
“You’re going to include this in the article?” she asked.
“I don’t see how I could leave it out; we had sex.”
“Well, I see how you could leave it out,” Annie said, her hand throbbing from bending her injured fingers into a fist that she was now tapping forcefully against the table, “you just leave it out.”
“I don’t think so.”
“This is not good,” Annie said, pacing back and forth.
“I’ll send you the article before I turn in the final draft,” Eric said, “to verify any quotes or differences in our recollection of the events.”
“No, I’ll wait for the issue like everyone else.”
“Should I call you later or—”
“Just leave,” Annie said, cutting him off, not wanting at any cost to know what the or might entail.
“I really think you’re incredible,” he said, but Annie was already heading to the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
Maybe she was going crazy. She didn’t feel crazy, but she was sure that this was not the way that sane people behaved. She heard the front door open and then close. She pressed a washcloth against her face and imagined that she was a giant, remorseless, half-bear, half-man creature. She pounded all of her enemies into the earth, leaving bloodstains in all directions, buzzards circling overhead. She killed everything that needed to be killed, and when she was done, when all had been made, if not right, at least less wrong, she crawled into a cave, dark and deep, and hibernated for months, waiting for a new season to arrive and find her sated. She looked at her own hands; her right hand was purple, swollen, perhaps broken. She could not smash anything without breaking herself.
She walked back into the kitchen and placed the dishes in the sink. She picked up the phone and dialed Sally’s office number, relieved to be shuttled to her voice mail.
“Sally,” she said, walking, as always, straight into the sun, “I think I fucked you over again.”
the portrait of a lady, 1988
artists: caleb and camille fang
None of the Fangs could deny it: Buster was beautiful. As he walked to the front of the stage, his evening gown ridiculously sequined, his long, blond curls bouncing with the rhythm of his confident stride, the rest of his family began to realize that he might actually win. As Mr. Fang continued to film the proceedings with his video camera, Mrs. Fang clutched her daughter’s hand and whispered, “He’s going to do it, Annie. Your brother is going to be Little Miss Crimson Clover.” Annie watched Buster, his face paralyzed with happiness, and immediately understood that, for her brother, this was no longer about