“No ‘what,’ you innocent boy. You’ve had enough time to get your innocence back four times. What happened to you?”
“I played to win—that’s what happened.” Mason set his glass down carefully and looked up. “Everything I did. It was just me. When I got to Minnesota for school, I don’t know whether it was because I was insecure or scared or arrogant, which I have certainly been since, but everything I did, I did to win.” He looked around at his friends. “You know me. I studied people and I watched. I learned how to dress and I learned what to say, and as I met people, one by one, I won them. I made myself important to them in some way. The guys in the dorms, my professors, all my professors, the staff of the union building, the newspaper, the frat guys, and every single girl I ever met.”
“You were an asshole?” Frank said. “I don’t get it.”
“Mostly,” Mason said. “I got close to these people, mirrored something they needed. I was a good listener, and I was about half bright. They took it, as I did sometimes, as friendship. Something. The women took it as love. Don’t mistake this. I didn’t set out to hurt anybody. I was good to everyone. I had the three P’s: I was prompt, polite, and I came with small but tasteful presents.” Mason drank his wine. “So yeah, an asshole. You think I can get over it?”
“Prompt?” Frank said. “I didn’t know that counted.”
“Were you in love, ever?” Marci asked Mason. Everyone had sunk further into the couches. Jimmy Brand pulled his knees up with his hands and rearranged his legs.
“You okay, Jimmy?”
“Soaring,” he said. “What’s your answer?”
“The answer is I don’t know,” Mason said. “I should know in another month, living in my campsite on Berry Street. Here’s the big news for me: I’ve never really been alone before. I see that somewhere in law school, first or second year, right in the thick of assembling my career, collecting options, tending them, keeping them open, I lost myself to what I thought I should be. I couldn’t tell, even writing briefs, when I was acting. It all felt vaguely real. From time to time, I’d close an argument with the same notions, wording, and then I began to hear myself in restaurants saying the same thing to somebody, good things I mean, true for me, but nevertheless, the same. So I constructed a persona, and I think he was in love. He was certainly a fucking success. With Elizabeth, I kept hoping I could shove him aside, get close, get . . . what? Get in it, instead of next to it. I loved her as well as I could, which was probably as poorly as anything I’ve done.”
Marci went to Mason’s chair and put her hand on his shoulder.
“You’re a little tough on yourself, Mason.” Jimmy said. He was speaking quietly. “I think this is the astringent version you’ve given us.” Marci now reached and turned down two of the lamps
“Thank you,” Jimmy told her. “My eyes are something else.” He turned to Mason. “You’ve done a lot of good.”
“We’re talking,” Mason said. “I’m glad to be here.”
Frank spoke. “I’m sorry you’re sick, Jimmy.”
“I feel good tonight, Frank,” he answered, “But yeah, I’m sick.”
Kathleen stood to take a dish into the kitchen, and Marci said, “Let’s don’t. Let’s leave it and sit here with these people.” She whispered, “The dishes will keep them here. It’s been so long.”
“The butter,” Kathleen said.
“Let’s leave the butter out too,” Marci said.