I could almost hear the happy chorale that seemed to accompany Eli Absalom Stone wherever he referenced his story, though these days he did so less and less, mainly because he needed to less and less. The advent of Eli Absalom Stone, orphaned Black boy from the Appalachian mountain shack, bound for Harvard, Oxford, and the kind of cultural influence usually attached to people of entirely different antecedents, had saturated the populace.
We let him off at his apartment building and he leaned back in to say something to Harrison about dinner that night, with Roger, at Per Se, and it was arranged that they would meet for a cab at seven. Then I was given another double kiss, in which I felt the sharp edge of Eli’s bow tie against first one cheek and then the other, and he exited the limo. I felt better when he was no longer there. I always felt better when he was no longer there.
“You haven’t seen Eli since when?” said Harrison, holding the door for me a moment later.
“I don’t know. Couple of years?”
“Before he spoke at the Republican Convention.”
Yes, I thought. Very much so. “He’s looking well.”
“He should. He’s had dinner at the White House twice this month.”
This struck me as a dubious claim to health.
“And you, Harrison?”
“Once. In early August, before he left for vacation.”
“Steak and apple pie, with an extra scoop of vanilla ice cream for the commander in chief?”
“You needn’t be snide, Phoebe. Not everyone can win a presidential election.”
I said nothing. It would be such a waste to lose my cool now.
Harrison’s apartment actually comprised two apartments, purchased simultaneously and knocked together. It had also been “gut” renovated, then decorated with remorseless modern furniture. While this was not the tragedy it might have been to our sister Sally, it struck me as regrettable. The place did have a truly impressive view of the East River. Then again, I had never felt the East River to be all that attractive.
“What can I get you?” said Harrison. “I’m having a juice my doctor sends over. It’s repulsive, but supposedly good for me. I’d offer you one, but I need them all, apparently. It’s very strict.”
I asked for tea. He didn’t have real tea, just chamomile.
“Can you see our house from here?” I asked him. I was standing at one of the windows when he brought me the mug.
“I never looked. Maybe. You could fall out trying, though. It doesn’t seem worth it.”
“I study in your room, you know. I sleep in Sally’s, but I study in yours. I love looking out on the harbor.”
“Mm-hm,” he nodded. He had brought himself a glass bottle of bright green juice, and had set his phone on the coffee table. It was abuzz with social media mentions, from his Fox panel. Harrison was trying not to look at it. “Well, why not? You have the whole house to yourself. Almost the whole house.”
“If you’re referring to Lewyn, he never comes upstairs. He’s pretty much only in his apartment.”
“By which you mean: in the basement.”
“Yes, in the basement.”
“Classic,” Harrison said, drinking his juice. He had taken off his jacket in the kitchen and loosened his crimson tie （worn, I supposed, in support of his alma mater, currently under assault by all those rejected “complainants”）。
“You know, Harrison, it’s a completely separate apartment. He could live anywhere. He chose to live there.”
“If he could live anywhere, why would he choose to live there? He’s afraid to leave home, obviously. It is truly pathetic.”