Palace Council by Stephen L. Carter Page A

“we” struck Eddie as inapt. Aurelia was married to a Garland. She was pregnant with Kevin’s child. Eddie felt Wesley Senior at his shoulder, thundering that Aurelia should be singing her husband’s praises, not allowing an ex-beau to infer that she was having second thoughts. He asked, forcing a smile, how the great marriage was going.
    Aurelia briefly dropped her gaze. “Oh, well, you know Kevin,” she said.
    â€œI’m sure the two of you are very happy,” he said, every word costing him.
    â€œI’m sure,” she echoed, meekly.
    Eddie’s raising would not allow him to press further. They were where they were. When Aurelia, working hard, began gushing about something hilarious that Thurgood Marshall had said last week at Amaretta Veazie’s salon, Eddie let her gush, and even laughed on key.
    â€œI’m glad you’re happy,” said Eddie before they parted. “And, listen, if you ever need—”
    â€œAn autograph?” she teased, before he could say anything foolish. “Tell you what. When you’re famous enough, I’ll come beg you for one.”
    A couple of nights later, Eddie attended a dinner party at a Central Park South duplex owned by a wealthy white couple, patrons of the arts and friends of Langston Hughes, who had arranged Eddie’s invitation. Actually, the night began as comedy. Eddie walked into the lobby still puzzling over Aurelia’s meaning, and therefore failed to impress the doorman, who refused to believe that he was a guest, refused to call upstairs to check, and threatened, if Eddie would not vacate the premises, to buzz the deputy commissioner of police, who lived on the fourth floor. Hating humiliation above all things, Eddie folded his arms and stood his ground. Just then a Columbia professor arrived, a philologist of some note. He tried slipping past the contretemps, but his wife tugged at his arm and announced in a voice to wake the dead that this must be the Negro Helen had told her about.
    Upstairs Eddie found only one other Negro—Mona Veazie, who arrived on the arm of Gary Fatek. Half a Hilliman or not, Gary loved to shock. Chairs had been set out in the long drawing room. A well-known pianist played a sonata. The Columbia philologist, who was just back from East Africa, discussed certain discoveries he had made about the use of participles in Kiswahili. Then it was Eddie’s turn, speaking in place of Hughes, who was abroad. He was nervous: his skill was with the written word. He mumbled a few sentences about the role of the literary imagination in the movement for Negro rights, on both sides, tossing in a modest criticism of Faulkner for his portrayal of the darker nation. He graciously thanked his hosts. He was applauded.
    Afterward, Eddie chatted with Gary and Mona, but it was evident that they planned an early getaway and had come only to hear his remarks. Before Eddie could manage his own departure, he was snagged by an elderly man with sour breath who wanted to compliment him on his recent success on Broadway. A swift young couple wanted to know whether he was available to do other parties. A pleasantly plump woman in her twenties flirted, asking if Eddie believed all that or if maybe it was just show.
    â€œAll of what?”
    â€œAbout writing. Do you write for justice? Do you write for money? Or do you write because your muse forces you?”
    Eddie took a good look at her. Her thick brown hair was tangly and unstylish, as if she didn’t care. Green eyes teased him from beneath heavy brows. Her first name was Margot. Her surname had a “Van” in it. She lived and worked in the city, and was attending tonight’s party with her parents, who looked prosperous and indulgent. Margot followed his gaze. She assured him that her parents lived in Washington, and were headed home tonight on the late train. Her slim mother displayed an exotic swarthiness that he tentatively