A/N: When I first read The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon, I was immediately taken with Tracy Bacon. Below is an exploration of a moment only mentioned by Chabon in the book, in which Tracy finds out he was supposed to have proposed to Helen Portola, and runs into the arms of Sam Clay instead. Any recognizable characters are not my property whatsoever.
Enjoy!
Tracy Bacon was the type of man who, on principle, never missed an opportunity to wear a cravat. He only wore one, of course, for the most special of occasions, but he always felt a certain sort of pleasure from simply knowing they were folded away in an unadorned oak box he carried with him, always. He felt in his heart of hearts that the blooming piece of fabric gave him a sort of intellectual edge, a nonchalant elegance that he always admired in other men but felt he rarely exhibited himself. Everyone knew that not just anyone could wear a cravat. Well, he supposed as he tucked the chosen piece into his dress shirt, they certainly could—it was a free country after all. But to look devilishly handsome in such a distinguished accessory was an entirely different matter; for that it took nothing less than a man with bravado.
That evening Tracy wore his silkiest, most shimmering white cravat in anticipation of a night with the Lovely Helen Portola. "It's my birthday," she had said. "Dress nice, yes?" Tracy recognized her subtly nagging tone. He would have dressed to the nines without her provocation, but it was too much effort to convince her of such. He was under no illusion that she knew him and his dressing habits well.
Tracy was only too happy to pull out his favorite cravat for the occasion. His jacket, which hung in a careless way over his shoulder, had been neatly cleaned and pressed. His hair—which even he had to admit was the most perfect hair that had ever been coiffed—was slicked back in an elegant, yet careless, fashion. At that moment he felt like the most powerful fellow in the whole city. He wished someone were there to take his portrait. For the first and only time, he felt that he was the Escapist. Tom Mayflower was completely forgotten. Everything felt suddenly very serious.
Earlier the bellboy had brought him a bottle of champagne, which now sat alone and deliciously bubbly on the bed. He half-winced, half-smiled at the sound of the fizzing pop as he opened the champagne, and paused for just a moment, staring at the bottle in his hand before plunging it between his lips, clinking against a few teeth along the way, and taking several indulgent swigs. Giddy from the rousing effervescence, he laughed boisterously, but the sound stopped him as it echoed across the silent room. He frowned, as if concentrating on a particularly vexing problem. Then he lifted the bottle to his lips once more and took the greatest swig of them all.
Tracy gave the bellboy an obscene (and, truthfully, undeserved) tip as he left the hotel. The boy, at first stunned into greedy silence, insisted on calling Tracy a cab.
Tracy smiled widely at the boy and waved him off. "Not to worry, my dear friend. Walking is good for the heart."
The boy stared after him, disappointed and only slightly insulted, until he remembered the crumpled, sweaty bills in his hands. He shot off to the elevator, just in case Tracy changed his mind and came back for his money.
The smile on Tracy's face as he stepped out into the dewy evening streets could only be described as vulgar in its enthusiasm. The seriousness from earlier had worn off and he was as content as a man could be. He had been chosen to play the Escapist—a real masterpiece, if you asked him—and even had a heart-to-heart with Sam Clay. Well, he had tried, at the very least.
Tracy had been enormously pleased when Sammy invited him to dinner with his family despite the fact that he overheard Joe decline his particular invitation. Serving as Joe's understudy made no mark on Tracy's enthusiasm. To be invited into the home where Sammy grew up was an act of unexpected intimacy of which he honestly had never considered someone like Sammy to be capable. He was thrilled to be able to deconstruct the genius that was Sam Clay, amidst his family and belongings, no less.
Tracy ambled along the streets at a leisurely pace and arrived at Helen's with time to spare. "Good evening, darling," she said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.
"The Lovely Helen Portola," he said, leaning back from her to bow exaggeratedly and kiss her hand. "You may be tacking on the years, old girl, but trust me when I say you only grow lovelier with age."
A flash of bitterness passed between her eyes, but she overcame her nearly imperceptible flare with consummate skill. She waved him inside with a flourish, and he noticed that she not only wore a flawless, floor-length silk gown, but her most expensive jewelry to boot. He cocked his head to the right, in the charming manner he always did, and was hypnotized by the light that spilled and tumbled inside the precious stones. Helen noticed his distraction and smiled. She put her newly-painted fingers on her necklace and said, "Do you like it, darling? I put it on just for you."
Tracy then cocked his head to the left, raised his eyebrows, and shifted his gaze to her face, confused, almost as if he had just noticed her standing there. He smiled and said, "They are most definitely stunning. You know you're the only woman in this town that can wear something like that and still be gracious."
Helen happily swallowed Tracy's coddling. She flushed and rested her cheek against her shoulder. Tracy very much disliked the way she was looking at him, as if she wanted to lock him in a cage and feast off his compliments forever. He nodded nervously.
"Come," she said. "Let's chat a bit before dinner. I believe Francois is almost finished."
For all of Helen's attempts, Tracy was never deceived; he knew Francois was Frankie the Italian, who, despite the fraudulent name, could whip up a mean Baked Alaska.
Helen led Tracy to the living room and stretched out like a Greek goddess across the sofa, but without the breathy elegance. Tracy, who had never been inside Helen's house before, was enraptured by the trinkets he found. He picked up a small glass owl and held it up to the window, though it was evening and there was no light outside but for a few streetlamps.
"Fascinating," he said, frowning and turning the owl over and over in his hands.
"Trace," Helen called, throwing her arm over the armrest. "Come join me."
For the second time that evening, Tracy was surprised by Helen's presence and turned around, confused and then annoyed that she had called him by his unapproved and unwelcome nickname. But Helen insisted, waving him over repeatedly, so he put the owl back on the mantel and went to her. She had spread her body over nearly the entire length of the sofa, so he stood awkwardly before her until she moved her feet just enough so he could plaster himself against the armrest.
Helen shot him a predatory smile. "How have you been?"
He shrugged. "Fine. As well as I've always been."
"I'm glad." She rested her cheek on the palm of her hand. "Anything you'd like to tell me?"
Tracy furrowed his brow, searching hard for something to say in the unbearable silence. "I saw Ed Sullivan a couple nights ago."
Helen's smile wavered and then grew wider. "Oh?" she said, raising her head.
"Yep. Saw good old Sully at Lindy's. We hammed it up for a while but he had to go—his wife was having some sort of fit. I swear, I cannot comprehend what that woman—"
"Did you talk about anything in particular?"
Tracy hated when she interrupted him, which was often enough for him to seriously consider never speaking to her again. He turned to look at her. "Oh…well, I don't really remember. We'd knocked a few too many back, if you know what I mean."
Helen's smile faded noticeably.
"We probably busted each other's chops, is all. I, uh…well. You see."
Her heretofore ambivalent smile abruptly turned outright acerbic and Tracy felt goose bumps rise along his arms. He gave Helen a terse smile and said, to lighten the moment, "You know, gorgeous, I bought something for you."
As if in the thrall of a bipolar fit, Helen's frown disappeared, replaced with a maniacal grin. She sat up too quickly and fumbled. "Really?"
"Why, of course," he said, feigning hurt. He reached into his jacket pocket. "I could never forget my best girl, especially on her birthday." He grew serious. "You are my best girl, aren't you?"
Helen smiled sweetly. "Forever."
Tracy observed her, and then nodded. "All right. Here."
He extended his hand and in his palm was a small black box. Helen looked at the box, then looked at Tracy, then looked at the box again. She opened her mouth, but stopped, as if what she wanted to say was not, in all actuality, what she had wanted to say. So she simply took the box, while Tracy barely maintained a half-hearted smile, and sat with it in her hands for a moment.
"The present isn't the box, you know. It's inside." Tracy thought he was being clever and was disappointed when Helen didn't acknowledge his quip. She finally turned to look at him, surprised, as if she hadn't seen him there before. "Oh, of course."
Tracy watched as she opened the box with painfully slow fingers. He held his breath—not in particular anticipation of her reaction, but because he was afraid he would yell at her to open the damn thing already or he'd take it back to where he got it.
She opened the box, and stared. Tracy found that suddenly her face was not that of the Lovely Helen Portola—at least, not the Lovely Helen Portola he knew. Or thought he knew.
"What is this?" she said with an old woman's shaky voice.
Tracy frowned. "It's an official Escapist Commemorative Coin. Took me loads of time to get it, but see, it's got your name engraved on the back here—"
Helen stood up and he nearly laughed at her furiously red and overly made-up face. "Where is the ring?" she demanded.
Tracy's head jerked back. "What ring?"
"My engagement ring!"
Out of respect for a purely and deliciously dramatic moment, he let his mouth drop and stay open a while. "Your engagement ring?"
"You were going to propose to me—tonight. You were supposed to. So where is it?" She towered over him. "Is this supposed to be one of your stupid jokes, Tracy Bacon?"
He was hurt—he had thought she liked his jokes. "Who told you I was going to propose?"
"Everyone!" She sighed and threw herself onto the sofa, landing unceremoniously askew. She kicked at Tracy, who was still sitting at the other end, and still pressed up against the armrest.
"Well, I certainly don't know—"
"You're a bastard, Tracy Bacon. I hope you know."
He was more injured by her remark about his jokes. "Helen, what is—"
"You should have never been born. Your mother is a beastly she-devil."
"Don't talk about my old lady!" He stood up, his curled—and perfectly manicured—fists at his side. Certainly never to be outdone, Helen yanked herself up from the sofa and stood on her tiptoes until she was square in Tracy's face. She opened her mouth—far too many times already, if you'd have asked him—and instead of speaking, drew back her right arm and punched Tracy so squarely in the stomach that all his suppressed insults came out in a jumbled, huffing breath as he buckled over.
Helen straightened herself and said in a low, slightly masculine voice, "Serves you right, you rotten cheat."
Tracy, previously gasping on his knees, rose and stood to watch as Helen marched up the stairs to her room.
"Helen," he called weakly, but she ignored him and kept climbing. He took his time to catch his breath, and even then stayed in the living room a few minutes longer. When he finally was in a good, dramatic mood, he stomped up the stairs as loud as he could.
"Helen, you can't blame me. I didn't promise anything, and I'm darn near sure I didn't—"
He reached the top of the stairs and was surprised to find Helen clinging to the edge of her door with one hand, the other across her face—not locked up in her room as he had supposed. The scene they made was so affecting Tracy wished he could write it all down. When she felt him behind her, she turned around. "I do blame you, Tracy Bacon." And she slammed the door in his face.
Tracy considered the moment. He was at a crossroads in his relationship with Helen Portola, that much was clear to him. He thought back on everything he had done in his twenty-four years as a living, breathing human being, and realized there was more in his memory than he cared to recall. The traveling, the acting, and the living had all gotten him to where he was at that moment: standing outside Helen's door, shocked but not entirely unsurprised. None of it was right. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. Tracy Bacon realized, at that moment, that he had been trapped in a cage of lies, buried under a mountain of self-deception.
After a moment of grinding his teeth and conversing with his inner self, he walked, as calm as you please, down the stairs again. Whether Helen was standing with her ear pressed against the door, waiting for him to crawl on his knees and beg for her, was nothing to him now.
He entered the kitchen and found his and Helen's dinner lying out on the counter. Francois the Italian had left, and not a moment too soon. He went immediately for the champagne and, for the second time that night, uncorked it, poured a large, deliberate glass for himself and downed it in one gulp. Then he stood, bottle in one hand, glass in the other, and stared into the souls of the kitchen cabinets.
No sound came from upstairs and for a moment he imagined he was alone in the house. He really was alone, for all intents and purposes. He always had been. But Tracy had managed, at the very least, to free himself from a terrible casket of good intentions and romantic momentum. He blinked and looked at the back door that led out into the street. He smiled.
A perfectly appetizing meal lay lonely on the counter, and there was only one other man Tracy Bacon knew who was as alone in the world as he was. And, he decided as he skipped around the kitchen packing up all the gourmet cuisine, tonight they might not have to be so alone. With a bag full of food in each hand, he stuck the champagne bottle in his mouth and waltzed out the door.