How To Judge A Book By Its Lover

by Jessica Jiji

  “To us,” he said, clinking his glass against mine. “This is only the beginning.”

  After taking a sip of the dry wine, I encouraged him to say more. “The beginning of what?” I asked, hoping he would say “a long life together.”

  “Well, you know, someday you’ll probably be Mrs. Lucien Brosseau.”

  It was as near as he’d ever come to a proposal, and I kissed him rapturously. “Laurel Brosseau,” I said, trying the sound of it and picturing our wedding invitations. I had long imagined my name in print, but on a book jacket, not on an embossed card. “Except on Napoleon’s Hairdresser it’s going to be Laurel Linden, so I guess I’ll keep that as my pen name.”

  “Laurel Linden? Why would you want to keep that?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s so pedestrian.”

  With its jaunty alliteration and dual syllable groups, I’d always loved my name. “Lots of people like it,” I said defensively.

  “Yeah, people from Long Island,” he answered with derision. “But trust me, you’ll get much farther in life as a Brosseau.”

  I felt myself stiffen and move away from him. “What makes you think that?” I asked.

  “Oh, come on. Admit it, Laurel,” he said. “Before you hooked up with me you were a dog-walker who thought you were an intellectual because you read the New York Review of Books.” Seeing the anger in my eyes, he added gently, “You’ve come so far since then, but you’re not finished yet.”

  Fuck you, I thought, finally fed up with his condescension. What did he even like about me except the fact that I made him feel superior? I couldn’t remember a single time he’d asked me about my life, my family, my novel, or anything that didn’t directly relate to him. “Not finished with what?” I seethed through clenched teeth.

  “Let’s face it, Laurel—you have a long way to go.”

  I thought about that long way and pictured a lifetime of boring lectures, melody-free concerts, plays with no dialogue, and all other manner of cultural hell. Until the day Lucien let me take him to a Drake show, he’d know more about the music than me. And since that day would never come, the future was clear: I’d always be the subordinate.

  This relationship is never going to be equal, I finally admitted to myself. And if I ever did attain Lucien’s level of sophistication—as if anyone ever could—he would drop me for the next Eliza Doolittle who would hang onto his every word.

  I looked around the apartment, everything blurring through a layer of tears. Boxes full of my clothes and other possessions were piled high in the living room. Even after throwing away half of my stuff at Lucien’s insistence, I realized there was no room for what I’d brought. Although there was plenty of physical space, my aesthetically correct boyfriend would never abide a hippo toothbrush holder, my pair of fuzzy beagle slippers, or even old pictures of me as a kid.

  Sure, I’d left Long Island and all of its track meets, Dairy Queens, and drinking contests behind, but the images of me growing up in that world had always made my city apartments feel like home. Lucien’s walls, with their Norse masks and Quebecois tapestries, looked like they would sooner crumble than have to bear a framed snapshot of me and Trish at graduation.

  Glancing down at the meat and potatoes coagulating in their aluminum tray, I knew there was no choice: I had to get out.

  “Sorry, Lucien,” I said, the words choking in my throat. “I’m leaving.”

  “You’re taking a walk in the middle of dinner?”

  “You don’t understand,” I said, feeling strangely calm. “I’m leaving you. It’s over.”

  The steadiness in my voice seemed to set him off. “What is this, your idea of a joke?” he sneered, starting to rub the supposed arthritis in his fingers.

  “I’m totally serious. This is not working for me.”

  “Fine, go have your fit. I’ll be unpacking these boxes, and when the tantrum’s over, you can help me clean up.”

  I seized Lucien’s patronizing tone for myself. “I know you like to think that you are so much wiser and more mature than me, but if you were such a sage, you’d realize I’m not being childish, I’m being practical. This relationship sucks. And I don’t need you to be a glamorous and sophisticated person. I’m pretty happy on my own. You can keep your fancy French last name. And those hideous gargoyle bookends—they’re all yours.”

  “Isn’t that just like you, Laurel, to make a big mess and then walk out.”

  “It’s better than staying in something that’s not worth cleaning up.”

  Down on the street, I stood paralyzed for a moment amid the cacophony of Tribeca’s evening rush hour. I was ready to head home when I realized I had no home. Knowing that they’d named the New York Minute after the amount of time it takes to lose a rent-controlled apartment, I desperately pounded my landlord’s number into my cell phone. Sure enough, when I finally reached him, my request to renew the lease was met with hearty laughter.

  “You’ve got a good sense of humor, don’tcha. We’ve already started gutting the place,” he said. “After major capital improvements, I’ll finally be able to raise the rent and make some money off of it.”

  That stupid crumbling apartment, with its erratic electricity and weak water pressure, never seemed so dear. But it was gone.

  What am I going to do? I wondered desperately. Half of my stuff had been junked, and the other half was in the apartment of someone I never wanted to see again. There was Vanessa, but having never even been invited to her place, how could I ask to stay there? Danny Z. was a sweetheart, but he already had four roommates. The Danilovas were away, maybe I could just go to their place for a little while—no, I’d given back the key when I quit.

  Feeling helpless, I slumped against a lamppost and tried to cry, but the end of my big romance with Lucien suddenly seemed so inevitable and so right that the scariest part was that I didn’t feel any sadness at all. Just lost and alone.

  Well, it’s gotten to this point, I thought miserably. I’ve ruined my life. My head was up in the clouds, and, once again, I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. As usual, I mixed up fantasy and reality. My mother always told me that the longer you spend dreaming, the less you’ll have to show for it. I’d thrown away my youth, and now I was ending up just like my cousin Mindy: single and living with my parents.

  I grabbed my cell phone once more and hit the first number I’d ever memorized. “Hello, Daddy?”

  After the moving van came back and took all of my belongings out to my parents’ garage in Massapequa, I wandered in a daze to meet Vanessa at her apartment building. Just hearing her voice when I’d called was like finding a raft to cling to on a stormy sea, and I knew a good cry on her firm shoulder would give me the confidence to go on. Maybe she’ll even invite me to stay with her until I can find a new place, I thought. We could be roomies like two Vassar girls, sharing conditioner and making coffee for each other. We could stream stupid movies and talk late into the night—something I’d never been able to do with Lucien. As I sat watching the water flow around the marble fountain in her lobby, I realized that the feelings of admiration I had for Vanessa were much more intense than any I’d ever had for the man I’d just escaped a life with.

  That afternoon, we never even made it to one of her coffee shops. Vanessa put her arm around me right there in the lobby and sat for as long as it took for me to regain my equilibrium. She explained how sometimes we have to take a step backwards before moving forward, how our inner child acts out from time to time and that’s a good thing, and how we can definitely use each of our setbacks as steppingstones. It was advice that I would cling to for dear life in the weeks to come.

  The photos I’d rescued from Lucien’s apartment had been a security blanket when I lived in the city, but the sight of them in my old room on Long Island was depressing. I couldn’t believe I had landed on my ass back in the land of chain stores, strip malls, and parking nightmares. Sitting on my canopy bed, surrounded by
dolls that I’d never had the heart to throw out, I was staring dumbly at a framed copy of my Seventeen Magazine story when my mother walked in.

  “What do you want for dinner: pot roast or Cornish hens?” she asked.

  “I don’t care,” I replied languidly. Seeing I was upset, she sat down next to me.

  “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry I had to barge in on you guys like this,” I said. “I guess you were right; my head was in the clouds, and now I’m paying for it.”

  My mother, who lived on the I-told-you-so, was sweetly comforting. “You’re not barging in on us! We’re so glad to have our little second daughter back home.”

  “But you must be more worried about me than ever,” I said glumly.

  “Laurel, darling, it’s just the opposite. You’ve really proven to us that you are a great writer with a great future. I must admit we had our doubts along the way, but if Gallant Publishing is betting on you, who are we to second-guess? Just don’t forget us when you’re a world-famous author.”

  That would have been my chance to say, “I told you so,” but somehow, I wasn’t in the mood.

  Over the next few days, I began feeling like my butt had worn its own special groove in my seat at the library, which I could now only reach by commuter train. For every page of Nona’s corrections I managed to complete, I allowed myself one article on a junky style website. My mind would switch from the dreary world of coalitions, naval strategy, and exiles to the much more attractive Hollywood party scene. Out with petticoats and ugly empire-waist dresses, in with rhinestone thongs and couture evening gowns. I was probably the only scholar in that hallowed hall sneaking peeks at the People app, but who cared?

  By Friday, I had a break. Anderson had invited Nona and I to lunch. The ESPN Zone in Times Square was packed with tourists and filled with monitors broadcasting different sports events, so we could hardly hear each other speak, but we managed to shout our way through a conversation.

  “You’ve gotta try the Zone cheesesteak,” Anderson said, reading from the menu. “‘Beef sautéed with onions, peppers, and mozzarella on a toasted hoagie roll.’ That’s what I call class.”

  I ordered the grilled chicken Caesar, and Nona went for the ESPN burger. She conveyed an air of business with her trademark red pen and pad, but Anderson couldn’t stop talking about sports. “Oooh, a line drive into left field, and he’s SAFE!” he said, calling the plays. “Amazing.”

  Nona pushed her owl glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Gallant,” she said gently, “don’t forget your 3:30.”

  “Oh, right, golf lesson,” he said with a smile, swinging an imaginary club. To focus his attention, Nona pointed her red pen toward me.

  “Career strategy?” she prompted.

  “Of course, of course,” he said, turning to me. “I didn’t just bring you to this fantastic restaurant so you could enjoy the great food and incredible sports action. I want to do some long-term planning.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, grateful that somebody was looking out for my future.

  “Have you given any thought to your next book?” he asked. “Because I have. Nona, where’s that list I gave you?”

  “It was covered with chocolate syrup, sir, so I typed it over. However, I do have some concerns—”

  “Oh, Nona, you’re always so negative,” he said, turning to me. “My nickname for her is No-No Nona. But she did agree that once we carve out a marketing niche for you, there’s no end to the bestsellers you can produce. Look at Nigel Fensington—he cornered the market on fictitious alternative gay histories. Twenty-six bestselling novels, from Mein Queer Kampf to Bin Laden’s Boy Toy. You know the series?”

  I remembered the big hubbub when Queen Kong came out, but considering it was a fictionalized version of a sci-fi movie, I couldn’t see the appeal. Who would want to read about a giant gorilla hanging from the Empire State Building while waxing his bikini line?

  “Do those books really sell?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? Nona, show her the figures.” She handed me a chart depicting how millions of people were fascinated by the new hybrid genre. “Everybody’s reading ‘em: conspiracy theorists, Washington insiders, rom-com fanatics.”

  “Remarkable,” I said, wondering what all that had to do with me. “So what you’re saying is…?”

  “You—and I, of course—can have a lifetime of guaranteed success with this series.”

  “Series?” I asked, starting to feel as scattered as the nacho chips falling on Anderson’s lap.

  “Laurel Linden: Chronicler of History’s Greatest Hired Help,” he declared. Nona handed me the list:

  Nero’s Fiddle Teacher

  Gandhi’s Seamstress

  Nixon’s Nanny

  Saddam’s Personal Shopper

  Suddenly, before me flashed a future spent digging through the Watergate tapes and analyzing the Butcher of Baghdad’s wardrobe. Ugh! Those titles were a far cry from the second book I’d been planning during my daydreaming sessions at the library. Now that I realized how boring it was being a New York intellectual, thanks in no small part to Lucien, my horizons were broadening.

  “I was thinking of something more along the lines of a caper about an A-list movie actress who has multiple homes, multiple personalities, and multiple orgasms,” I suggested. “Surely that will sell.”

  “Sir,” Nona said to Anderson, and I thought I detected a glimmer of humanity behind those glasses, “while your ideas are certainly . . . intriguing, I believe Laurel is better suited to illustrating the more superficial aspects of popular culture.”

  Nona had been looking down at me from her high plane of literary excellence for weeks, but for once her snobbery was welcome. I almost wanted to kiss her, but Anderson was adamant.

  “Still trying to replace me, aren’t you Nona?” he mumbled under his breath. “Come on,” he declared loudly to both of us. “The personal assistant tell-all series is a sure success! Everyone knows how hard it is to get good hired help.”

  How about Anderson Gallant’s Dog-Walker, I thought sardonically. The epic tale of a downtrodden young girl who cons a lame-brained publishing scion into buying her book. Only problem was, I didn’t know the ending.

  - 15 -

  I’d managed to avoid Jenna for the first two weeks I lived at home, but one Sunday afternoon she showed up with Rob and the kids. The minute she entered the Spanish-tiled foyer with its smoked-glass mirrors, I braced myself. No doubt she’d taken my sudden state of homelessness as proof of her longstanding theories about how Laurel is unable to manage her own life.

  We hadn’t talked since I’d walked out on her at the Rainbow Room, and sure enough Jenna was scowling when she entered the living room, but I soon realized her anger wasn’t directed toward me.

  “Ooh, Robert Hailey Junior, if you so much as tap your sister one more time, then you can say goodbye to Spiderman for a week,” she screamed, disengaging Bobby Jr.’s little fingers from the toddler’s hair.

  “Whoa,” Jenna’s husband complained, “punish him; don’t punish me.”

  “You? You are just going to have to use your imagination and find something else to play with,” she huffed. With that, Robert Sr. conveniently disappeared into the den to watch the Yankees game with my father.

  I was ready to make an exit too, but as I turned to leave, my mother grabbed my arm. “I made sandwiches, and I cut the crusts off just how you liked when you were kids. Come on out to the patio.” It could hardly be worse than spending another afternoon on the canopy bed facing my framed Seventeen Magazine story, so I relented.

  “Grandma, did you make peanut butter and jelly?” Bobby Jr. asked.

  “Actually, today we’re having something new,” Mom said.

  “Yuck,” he pronounced.

  “Why don’t you let Grandma tell you what she made before you decide you don’t like it?” Jenna demanded, heaving Emily out of her stroller with an exhausted grunt. Bobby Jr. looked at my mother expectantly.

  “
Egg salad sandwiches!” she announced.

  “I HATE SALAD!” he screamed.

  “This kid refuses to eat anything green,” Jenna lamented as Emily started crying for no apparent reason. “Bobby, egg salad is just called salad,” she said, stuffing a pacifier into her daughter’s mouth. “There’s no lettuce in it.”

  “Nooooo, I won’t eat it,” he declared, stomping his feet.

  Mom looked crestfallen. “I have some ice cream in the freezer,” she suggested.

  “Mom!” Jenna exploded. “He can’t have ice cream instead of sandwiches. Don’t you even have a clue about nutrition?” My mother looked down sheepishly.

  Later out back, Jenna’s efforts to relax on a lounge chair proved fruitless. First, Emily kept wanting to go “Up-u.” A sandwich triangle kept her busy for a while, but once she’d eaten half and spread the rest all over her hands, she jumped back on Jenna.

  “Emily, can’t I have one shirt that you don’t ruin?” my sister asked, furiously wiping the yellow stains from her midriff-bearing top. Emily started screaming as though she’d been disowned, so Jenna picked her up. “Pumpkin, I’m sorry,” she cooed, “but sometimes mommies don’t want to wear their little babies’ lunches!”

  Sensing that his mother’s attention had shifted to his little sister, Bobby Jr. jumped on her lap as well. “Oof,” she cried. “That’s my liver!”

  Something was haunting me as I watched the scene, and I realized what it was when Jenna uttered a preemptory “Both of you off, because I can see where this is heading: Somebody’s going to get hurt.” That was basically her warning to me at lunch, I realized. At the time, I’d dismissed her as bossy and jealous, but in hindsight, I wondered if she hadn’t been at least a little right.

  Ever since Anderson Gallant had handed me that list of next projects, I’d felt burdened. The struggle to succeed had been replaced by the pressure to maintain success.

  Looking at my sister, with her blonde extensions, I remembered when the lightness in her hair was natural and she’d just won that silver medal. I had been astonished that after all the attention she’d received for her gymnastics accomplishments, we had to pay even more attention to console her. What a phony, I had thought at the time, she’s lovin’ it. But now, I realized her angst had been genuine.