How To Judge A Book By Its Lover

by Jessica Jiji

  Having stood up, Jenna was caught with one child hugging each leg. “Am I allowed to pee around here?” When neither of them moved, she turned to me. “How about helping me out?” she asked with exasperation.

  I wasn’t used to seeing Jenna struggle; usually the au pair was around smoothing out the edges. But with my sister in less-than-perfect mode, I felt sympathetic.

  “Hey, you two!” I called to the kids with all the enthusiasm of a carnival barker. “Who wants to come with me to the playground? Last one there is a rotten egg.” As I ran out the door with her two children following me, I thought I might have glimpsed a grateful smile on Jenna’s lips.

  Nona peered at me through her owl glasses as I finished reading the edited version of my first three chapters.

  “Better, don’t you think?” she asked from behind her messy desk.

  I was aghast. Who had written this? All of my imaginative—if anachronistic—touches had been replaced with historically accurate facts. What had been a colorful fantasy of the past was now a deadweight documentary, part-battle narrative, part-Wikipedia entry, full disaster.

  “I’m not sure this is so improved,” I said tentatively.

  Nona took a deep breath. “It’s natural for a first-time author to think that everything they’ve written is perfect just the way it is, but even the best of them need editing,” she said, with a studied patience.

  “Yeah, but you’re turning Napoleon’s Hairdresser into a completely different book,” I protested.

  “Now, now, Ms. Linden,” she began in a singsong voice reminiscent of a nursery schoolteacher, “your original manuscript was very, very—how shall I say?—original.”

  I was glaring at her by that point. She was obviously suppressing her real feelings.

  “Rarely in my career have I seen such an original work,” she continued. The tone of her voice sounded familiar. “In fact, after twenty-eight years in publishing, I can honestly say you are unique.”

  Then I recognized it; it was the voice she used when talking to Anderson. The I’m-the-expert-you’re-the-boss’s-son patronizing lullaby. She thought I was as stupid as Anderson! And why not? I had conned everybody but her.

  With a word, I could have Nona fired, I realized. I’m the talent around here, not her, and Anderson, at least, believed in me. But he was an airhead! And she was clearly a seasoned professional with a true eye for literature. Suddenly bashful, I glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot before asking the question that had been brewing in my heart the last few weeks. “Is my book going to bomb?”

  “Oh, dear darling, let’s not think of these things, let’s just take it page by page,” she said in her Sesame Street tone.

  “Nona,” I whispered urgently, “please don’t bullshit me. What do you honestly think of Napoleon’s Hairdresser?” I had grabbed her hand in my desperation.

  Pulling it away, she replied simply, “What I think doesn’t matter. Anderson Gallant loves your work, and I’m here to support him.”

  “Anderson Gallant knows more about SpongeBob than literature,” I said, prompting a rare Nona smile. “Give it to me straight,” I demanded, locking my gaze with hers.

  Suddenly, Nona looked like it was her birthday, Christmas, and the Fourth of July combined. “Well, honestly?” I stared at her by way of affirmation. “Okay, then. Where to begin? Your book lacks any central thesis. Not a single character has an arc—do you know what that is? It means a personal journey, development, a gripping transformation unfolding before the reader. Your characters start at point A and live there. For seven hundred pages. In terms of plot, there is none, only a loosely connected series of anecdotes utterly lacking in plateaus or crescendos. How anyone can write about the great battles of Europe without conflict is beyond me. Massive armies were facing off in wars that would rewrite the map, and the only fear you convey relates to the shortage of styling mousse. But I must say, you are at your worst when you attempt philosophical reflection.”

  Nona’s tone was dispassionate, not vengeful. I felt like a little girl who had her Halloween mask pulled off, but I was tired of playing princess anyway. Her honesty was like a welcome breath of fresh air.

  “Should I go on?” she asked cheerfully.

  “How much worse could it get?” I said, feeling a strange sense of freedom.

  Nona didn’t answer. She just pulled out a passage from my book.

  With Moscow finally conquered, the Great General entered on his white horse, expecting to receive the keys to the city. Alas, the streets were empty—all the Russians had fled. Watching Napoleon’s brow furrow—and making a mental note to tweeze his eyebrows—Marguerite reflected on it all.

  “Do you remember your heroine’s insight here?” I didn’t answer, so she went on.

  Joining the ranks of the world’s great conquerors is as difficult as tackling a bad case of split ends, Marguerite mused bitterly. And no matter how much you try to cut or condition it, victory remains limp and lifeless without the final rinse.

  “Need I read on?” Nona asked.

  I shook my head. “So basically, I’m the worst writer you’ve ever had to work with?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, half closing her eyes and squinting at me. “I’m Anderson Gallant’s assistant, remember. Besides, your writing does have redeeming qualities, albeit insufficient to meet your ambitions. The character depictions actually have insight and flare, and your sentences are short and pithy. When you are not trying to probe beneath the surface, you can be quite engaging.”

  I perked up. Coming from someone like Nona, I knew that was a major compliment, but what she said next floored me.

  “Unfortunately, you are unable to sustain that quality writing for more than a page or two, and given your other flaws, I’d have to conclude that you have no future as a serious novelist.”

  “Can you at least rescue Napoleon’s Hairdresser?” I asked, gripping my chair for support.

  “Frankly, no. Let me put it this way: Mr. Gallant won’t read the reviews. I suggest you don’t either.”

  After leaving Nona’s office, I felt like I was lost on the ocean. The beautiful ship I’d spent my adult life building was filled with leaks, and I was sinking fast. I had to reach for my lifeline.

  “Vanessa?” I texted quickly. “Please call me. Are you home? I really need some advice. Actually, I need a hug. Badly.”

  I took the elevator down and stumbled out into the crowds on Broadway. The streets were packed with office workers trying to get home and theatergoers trying to find a good restaurant. The giant flashing billboards cast crazy lights on the pavement below, and I wandered aimlessly through the mayhem.

  My worst fears had been confirmed: My writing was disastrous, and my book was going to bomb. First, I’d be laughed out of town by the critics, then I’d be skewered on the talk shows. My face would be right up there on the jumbotron, with all of Times Square stopping to laugh at me. Sales would be limited to my family and compassionate friends. Thousands of unsold copies would be remaindered, and I’d have to return the advance. My stunning debut would also be my finale.

  I cried all the way to Penn Station, just another ignored lunatic on the street.

  But when I got back to Massapequa, I found that the person who mattered most was paying attention. “You just missed your friend Vanessa,” my mother said.

  “She called?” I asked, feeling happy.

  “No, she was here.”

  My sister had emerged from the kitchen and was listening with what I recognized to be malicious curiosity. “Quite a woman,” Jenna said.

  Although her tone was sarcastic, she had spoken the truth. Vanessa had stopped whatever she was in the middle of to rush to my side. I was yet again overwhelmed with gratitude and admiration for her generous spirit.

  “When did she leave?” I asked, regretting that I had spent an hour at the Penn Station café with my favorite sedative, Celebrity Style.

  “She took a cab about ten minu
tes ago, but she left a surprise for you upstairs,” Mom said.

  When I opened the door, I hardly recognized my old bedroom. Vanessa had replaced the teenaged-style trimmings—the heart-shaped mirror, the gunked-up makeup kit, the tacky cheerleading trophies—with cool urban accessories. A jasmine-scented candle was burning calmly next to a new blush palette and lipstick selection from MAC. The old bubblegum pink bedspread had been replaced with an elegant Ralph Lauren comforter. In a final touch, she’d put a framed picture of the two of us at the Four Seasons on the night table.

  In my vulnerable state, I felt that the room looked like someone else’s, and it did—it belonged to the incredible person Vanessa believed I could become. Part of me hoped she hadn’t thrown away the trophies, but the rest knew that it was all for the best.

  “Your stuff is in a box in the basement,” Jenna said. She’d snuck up behind me.

  “Oh, I don’t care about that,” I replied. My mother had joined my sister at the entrance to my room.

  “Can you believe how beautiful it looks?” I asked them.

  “I will say, this woman has taste, and she’s very nice to have bought this for you,” said Mom, “but we liked having your old room; it was a reminder of when you lived with us.”

  “She’s more than nice—she’s incredible! Who else would come all the way out here just to show she cares?” I marveled.

  “So this is that woman from Vassar you told me about?” Mom asked.

  “Right,” I replied. “My big sister.”

  Jenna snorted. “Oh, really? What’s in it for her?”

  I seethed at the implication that Vanessa was anything but altruistic. “For your information, Jenna, there are people in this world who are genuinely empathetic.”

  My sister picked up the framed photo of Vanessa and me. “And genuinely into themselves,” she goaded.

  “Vanessa never asks for anything in return,” I said, grabbing the photo and putting it back on the nightstand. “This is a picture of my congratulatory lunch with her,” I huffed. “It was a joyful, fun occasion, just like all of my times with her.”

  “Are you telling me you never once had a fight?” Jenna snickered.

  “Of course not.”

  “Ha! Then how could she possibly be your big sister?”

  - 16 -

  Back in the New York Public Library, I felt as if I was hard at work building my own execution gallows. Every page I revised was another plank in the edifice I’d hang from. Nona and I were the only ones who knew the terrible truth: My book was going to drop like lead and take me down with it.

  Blissfully unaware of the looming disaster, my mother had begun preparations for an elaborate party. “Cookie, remember how you cried when you never had a Sweet Sixteen at Leonard’s like all the other girls? Well, now we’re making it up to you.” Recalling her satisfied grin, I cringed. Leonard’s? I pictured half of Massapequa all dolled up in their party outfits, pouring into the banquet hall and taking their seats—for the funeral of my career.

  But that wouldn’t even be the ugliest part, I realized. Nona had made it clear that I had no future as a writer. No future as a writer—the only profession I’d ever dreamed of. Since I could hold a pencil I’d been keeping journals, scribbling poems, and planning stories in my mind. Now what? Who would I be if I wasn’t a writer? No more leisurely musing on my next plot twist. No more dreams of gaining fame and fortune through my craft. No more long dances with a turn of phrase. No more seeing my name in print. No more camaraderie among fellow writers.

  Not that they’d always been that friendly, I thought, remembering Portia and the other competitors so eager to cut me down. And I wouldn’t miss the harsh red pen of a professional editor, that’s for sure. No more tedious research in this stuffy library. Plus, after Napoleon’s Hairdresser died, it would the end of Laurel Linden: Chronicler of History’s Greatest Hired Help.

  What a relief.

  As miserable as it was going to be to fail, at least I could get out of the rat race and find out what I was really good at.

  Back home in the kitchen, my mother emptied a bag of frozen carrots into a pot of boiling water. “I’d loved to, but I can’t on Monday afternoon, Jenna,” she said into the phone. “I have aromatherapy.”

  Obviously my sister was trying to worm Mom into taking over some task the au pair had bagged out of.

  “I know it’s hard to get the kids a dentist appointment,” she continued, adding frozen peas to the mix. “Yes, I know Dr. Turnov is the only one who makes them laugh instead of cry.” She plopped in a dollop of butter.

  Irwin.

  I had buried all thoughts of him since that night in Little Italy, but I’d put that pink dinosaur on my dresser, and whenever I looked at it I smiled. “I can take them, Mom,” I heard myself saying.

  “Oh, honey, you’re too busy with your book,” she objected.

  “I’ll make the time.”

  While driving Jenna’s Dodge Caravan to Irwin’s office, I developed a splitting headache from being the unwitting judge in the who-can-shout-louder contest between Bobby Jr. and Emily. His voice was deeper and stronger, but wow could that little girl wail, and at an earsplitting pitch.

  “Bobby Jr., you are so good at so many things, but your sister is a more annoying screamer,” I said, thinking this was a compliment.

  “No, I won! I won!” he shouted, straining against the straps in his car seat and bursting into tears. Emily knew enough to join in.

  I handed her a headless Barbie that was on the dashboard and him a ball, which kept them quiet until their respective toys fell to the floor, at which point I had to twist around to retrieve them, all the while keeping my eyes on three lanes of traffic. I had always thought the au pair did all the work, but even if she left two percent for Jenna, that little bit could make a person crazy, I realized.

  Wedged between a Walgreens and Paco’s Tacos, Irwin’s office was a sterile-looking storefront with hospital-white venetian blinds, but as I opened the door, I entered a completely unexpected world. A colorful jungle gym took up most of the waiting room, which was decorated with huge blow-up figures of anime characters. One whole wall was covered with a sheet of paper that the kids could draw on using any of the many markers and crayons in jars. Obviously, the paper was changed daily, but that afternoon’s scrawlings included a picture of a friendly, if three-armed, doctor surrounded by hearts.

  Almost instantly, Jenna’s kids went from being sulky brats to playful cherubs. Emily found a blue plastic ball twice the size of her little body that she began to push across the floor. Bobby was having an imaginary conversation with Superman while hanging upside-down from the jungle gym.

  After a blissfully calm few minutes, we were ushered into the examination room. Irwin looked far less cool than he had in his baggy jeans and backwards baseball cap. His muscles were hidden under a white dentist’s smock, and the antiseptic smell of mint mouthwash hung in the air, but his warm greeting almost made up for the cold equipment and harsh fluorescent light.

  “Laurel Linden. Who knew you were connected to Superman’s special assistant”—he winked at Bobby Jr.—“and the prettiest princess in town?” He gave Emily a smile.

  “Jenna Berliner’s my sister,” I said. “And these two are . . . quite a handful.”

  “Oh, we’ll manage,” he said, but the moment he put Bobby Jr. in the chair and started rolling on his plastic gloves, the screaming exploded all over again. Emily was reaching for some pretty dangerous-looking tools on the counter, and I was imagining having to explain to my sister that her daughter had poked her own eye out when Bobby Jr. stood up on the chair and said, “It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s—” but before he could finish and take a flying leap onto the floor, the room went dark, and we were all stunned into silence.

  “Oooooooooohhhhhhh,” Irwin said theatrically, “the tooth fairy’s coming… She’s going to light the room with her special powers…”

  Scared and excited, Bobby sat down
obediently, and Emma allowed me to strap her into the stroller. I didn’t know exactly what Irwin was up to, but whatever it was, it worked. He flipped a switch, and a black light came on. Sure enough, all of the white surfaces glowed magically.

  Next, he held a clattering set of glowing teeth and pretended it was talking to the kids. “Hello, children, I’m the tooth fairy’s mouth,” he said in a high-pitched cartoon voice. We all burst out laughing. “I have something special for the little boy that sits nicely today while Dr. Turnov checks his teeth. And it’s not a boring toothbrush,” he added.

  “It’s dental floss!” Bobby Jr. challenged.

  “It’s not dental floss either,” the teeth chattered. “But to find out what it is, everyone has to sit quietly.” The two children were perfectly obedient.

  Before turning on the light, Irwin started attacking me with the teeth. “I may be at work, but I’d sure like to eat up your auntie,” he said in that ridiculous voice, moving the contraption to my neck and making it kiss me all over. It was insane and hilarious and bizarrely cute.

  The rest of the appointment went like that—Irwin making jokes, half to the kids and half to me. “Hey, did you swallow a television?” he asked Bobby Jr., prompting uncontrollable laughter. “I’m watching TV in your mouth!”

  I was laughing too. “Oh, no! It’s another ad for adult diapers! Turn it off!” he screamed in mock horror.

  “Diapers,” Emily echoed, looking pleased.

  When Irwin lifted Bobby Jr. out of the chair and swung him around, I couldn’t help but think that this guy would make one incredible father, and it struck me as deeply sexy. At the same time, I flashed on a memory of Lucien and I on our way to see Shakespeare in the Park. When he got struck by a wayward softball, instead of tossing it back to the expectant kid, Lucien ignored it while muttering to me, “There should be a law against people under ten.”