“Todd?” said Mike. “Todd!”
“Guess he’s thinking about it,” someone said, and everybody laughed.
Todd blinked. The room was as it had been before. There was no Billy, just Mike, and the sound of genial, complicit laughter.
“I’m sorry, Mike,” said Todd. “Could you repeat the question?”
“I think Todd has been at the complimentary wine,” said Timothy.
“I may have had one glass too many,” said Todd, who hadn’t touched the wine.
“I said,” Mike shouted when the merriment had died down, “where do you get your ideas from?”
The room murmured to itself. This was an excellent question, the room clearly believed, and one that struck right to the heart of the matter.
“I guess I better get used to that one,” said Todd. “I think that every writer gets asked it.”
“And I’m asking it now!” shouted Mike, who seemed to be on the verge of hysteria. Maybe he was just beginning to realize that, if all went well, he would be trading his long-time role as that drunk guy for a more lucrative position as that drunk guy who knows the famous guy.
“Okay,” said Todd. “As I was saying, a lot of people have been asked that question. Do you take your ideas from real life, do you make it up, do you use a pair of dice?”
Laughter, but the kind where people are waiting for you to quit making gags and answer the question.
“I don’t have a pair of dice,” said Todd. “But what I do have is—”
An eidetic memory, his brain said, which enabled me to remember wholesale an entire novel, which by great and weird chance no other fucker in the world has ever heard of. You know the Great Dictator? I’m the Great Dictated-To.
“—a creative mind,” said Todd. “And don’t ask me if that’s something I was born with, or something I learned how to cultivate. Maybe it’s a little bit of both, I don’t know. But someone once said, genius is ninety percent perspiration and ten percent inspiration. Only I guess in my case…”
On Todd went, and on. Only Timothy guessed that Todd was talking the purest, most refined bullshit imaginable, because you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. But not even Timothy could work out how it was bullshit, or why. He only knew that tonight, here, in his bookstore, a new strain of bullshit was being unleashed on the world for the first time.
And not, thought Timothy to himself, for the last.
* * *
The evening finally wound up, a full two hours after it was supposed to. Todd signed all the advance copies that the publisher had sent, shook a lot of hands, and listened to a lot of people say they were looking forward to reading All My Colors, if those two bits he read out were anything to go by. Todd assured everyone that they were something to go by, allowed himself a glass of Timothy’s Chateau Execrable, and finally said goodbye at eleven thirty.
Sara drove them back. She kept throwing glances at him from behind the wheel.
“Do I have something on my face?” Todd asked. “Because you keep staring at me.”
“I’m storing up memories,” she said. “Of the old Todd.”
“Oh, come on,” said Todd, although he was pleased.
“Todd, I saw you tonight,” said Sara, “and you were great. You were funny, you were kind, you were serious… Not that you can’t be all those things normally… but tonight you were all of them at the same time.”
“I was just enjoying myself,” said Todd. “Everyone was great, weren’t they? The reading went well, the questions”—apart from Billy, chewing his own face off—”it was all great.”
“I think it’s the book,” said Sara. “I don’t know how else to explain it. But ever since you got that book out of you, you’ve been… don’t take this wrong, Todd, but you’ve been better.”
“I suppose writing a book is like excavating something from one’s soul,” said Todd, and Sara laughed so hard she almost changed lanes.
“Please,” she said, spluttering. “Please don’t ever say that in a talk.”
Then she got serious again.
“You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe getting that book out of you got something else out too.”
“Like gold in the rock?” asked Todd. “Or like poison from a wound?”
Sara didn’t answer.
“You okay?” said Todd.
“Look,” said Sara.
Todd looked. At first he couldn’t see anything. Then he registered it. A police car, by the sidewalk. A cop talking to a broad woman in a housecoat.
“Isn’t that Billy’s place?” said Sara.
Drive on, Todd’s mind said.
“You’re right,” Todd said. “Pull over.”
Todd walked up to the cop.
“Can I help you, sir?” said the cop. He had a blond mustache and a really small nose.
“Is this something to do with Billy Cairns?” said Todd. “Only I’m a friend of his.”
“We both are,” said Sara, slipping her arm in Todd’s.
The cop narrowed his eyes.
“Yeah?” he said. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Not for a while,” said Todd. Sara nodded.
“You ain’t kidding,” said the cop. “He’s been up there for weeks like that.”
“Like what?” said Sara.
“Dead,” said the woman in the housecoat, like she was trying to be helpful. “I found him. I’m his landlady.”
“Oh no,” said Sara. “Poor Billy.”
“I guess you’ve been too busy to look in on him,” said the cop. “Despite being friends and all.”
“Hey,” said Billy’s landlady. “We all have things to do. I like to leave my tenants alone. Until, you know, they get too behind with the rent.”
“Or they start to stink,” said the cop. “And I do mean stink.”
“Oh Lord,” said Todd. He enfolded Sara with his arms. “Wait for me in the car,” he murmured.
Todd watched Sara go. Then he turned to the landlady and said, “Pardon me for asking but—was there anything unusual about Billy’s death?”
She looked at him quizzically. Todd felt an explanation was required.
“Because,” he said, “it was weird for Billy not to be in touch. He was a buddy, you know? A pal. And it would have taken something big for him to stay away.”
“There was something odd,” said the landlady. “Apart from not leaving his apartment, that is.”
“Save it for the station,” said the cop. He turned to Todd. “This is a police matter.”
Todd realized he had one chance. “What was odd?” he asked Billy’s landlady.
“When I went in,” she said, “there was all rice on the floor.”
“Save it for—” said the cop.
“Be quiet, you,” said Billy’s landlady.
“Rice?” said Todd.
“I thought it was rice, anyway,” said Billy’s landlady. “It looked like rice, and it felt like rice under my feet. But when I bent down, I saw it couldn’t be. It was too big, and too hard.”
She shivered, cold under her housecoat.
“It wasn’t rice at all,” she said. “It was teeth. It was Billy’s teeth.”
* * *
The next day, Todd felt pretty subdued. The success of the reading seemed a long way in the past, and also kind of empty after what had happened with Billy. Sara had offered to stay over, but Todd felt he needed to be on his own, and Sara was okay with that (by the time Todd realized he should have asked Sara if she was also okay being on her own, she was gone).
One or two people called up to talk about the reading and how great it was, which didn’t help. Todd couldn’t stop thinking about Billy lying there for weeks, undiscovered and, frankly, un-given-a-shit-about.
What was it that Billy, or the thing that had once been Billy, had said to him? Todd tried to remember. Something about a hawk. Todd thought it might be a quote. In fact, he was damn sure it was a quote. He went into his study—now a tidier, cleaner place—and pulled down a few r
eference books. The Oxford Dictionary Of Quotations. Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. The Everyman Literary Encyclopedia. The World Encyclopedia. And, finally, a book he’d guiltily used more than any of the others, a cheerful-looking hardback emblazoned with pictures of both writers and celebrities called Who Said It?
The dictionaries and encyclopedias confirmed that the question Billy had tried, and failed, to ask Todd was indeed part of a quotation. But it wasn’t one that made a lot of sense to Todd:
Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2.
HAMLET: I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Which was interesting but made no sense, in context or, apparently, out of it. Todd decided there was nothing for it but to screw the highbrows and consult the oracle. He opened Who Said It?, found “hawk” in the index, and turned to the relevant page. And there it was.
“A hawk from a handsaw.” This is a line from Hamlet, where the eponymous Prince of Denmark has gone crazy. The saying may be something to do with different kinds of bird, but is deliberately obscure, which is why a lot of people misquote it as “a hawk and a HACKsaw.”
Todd closed the book. Great, he thought, just my luck to be persecuted from beyond the grave by something that can’t quote properly.
* * *
Carrie called.
“How did it go last night?” she asked.
Todd erased all images of Billy, alive or dead, from his mind.
“Really well!” he said.
“Well, that’s a good omen,” said Carrie.
“Hometown crowd,” Todd pointed out.
“Todd, once people realize how good All My Colors is,” said Carrie, “the whole country’s going to be a hometown crowd.”
Todd imagined an entire nation sitting at his feet as he read to them.
“I have your finalized itinerary,” said Carrie. “We’re going to send it over to you today.”
“I’d better pack,” said Todd. “You haven’t packed yet?” giggled Carrie. “Todd, you are the least prepared author we have.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Todd asked. He had a feeling it was. Being unprepared didn’t sound like a good place to be.
“Todd, stay just the way you are,” said Carrie. “You’ll find being yourself is the best protection there is.”
“Protection against what?”
“Oh, you know,” said Carrie. “The cruel tides of fate, and whatnot. Now go and pack! And pack a lot!”
* * *
Todd packed. Then he sat next to his suitcase on the bed and waited. For what, he didn’t know. It was only when it began to get dark outside that he stood up stiffly, carried his case downstairs, and went into the front room to watch TV.
* * *
When Sara came around that night, she found him, sitting in the dark with the television on.
“You’ll go blind,” she said, turning the light on. Todd blinked but didn’t move.
“Todd? Are you okay?”
Todd managed a smile.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Never better.”
“If this is you when you’re never better, I’d hate to see you when you’re worse,” said Sara. “You look awful.”
“Gee, thanks,” said Todd. He forced a smile. It must have been a poor attempt because Sara all but flinched.
“I thought as it was our last night together that we could celebrate,” she said. “I have some terrible Illinois champagne and a couple of steaks.”
“Illinois champagne? Now you’re talking,” Todd laughed.
“Yeah, did you know that this state used to be famous for its vineyards? Before Prohibition. We used to make some great wines, or so the guy in the liquor store told me. And then they passed the Volstead Act and boom, we never got the magic back.”
“You’re really selling it to me.”
“Well, the liquor store guy did a number on me, so now it’s your turn.”
Todd stood up. He put his hands on Sara’s shoulders, gently.
“Somehow when I’m with you,” he said, “those old gray clouds just vanish.”
“So now I’m what?” said Sara. “The wind. Thanks.”
Todd held her.
“You’re the listening wind,” he said. “There’s a difference.”
She looked at him, curiously. Todd threw back his head and began to quote:
“Where the remote Bermudas ride in the ocean’s bosom unespyed,” he said. “From a small boat, that row’d along, the listening winds received this song. Andrew Marvell.”
“That’s beautiful,” said Sara. “Also,” she noted, “I see that you’re quoting again. It’s been a while.”
Todd realized that Sara was right. He’d wondered if his eidetic memory had gone forever.
“I must have remembered it just for you,” he said. “Now we’d better get that Illinois fizz in the fridge.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sara. She even saluted him.
It was the end of the quiet time.
* * *
That night, Todd and Sara made love. It was probably the first time, thought Todd, that he had made love in the real sense of the word. Over the years, Todd had fucked, screwed, entered, had sex with, poked, porked, and performed acts of a non-euphemistic nature with many women, only one of whom he had been married to, but tonight was the first time he had been involved in what he was forced to admit was an act of romantic love.
It was also the first time, as he lay there in the dark, Sara sleeping on her side, that Todd found himself thinking of the women he’d been with before. He hadn’t been what you’d call an inconsiderate lover, just an inconsiderate person. The sex was very attentive but the rest of it—the thoughtlessness, the botched relationships, the sheer inability to give a flying one about anybody else—was anything but.
Todd found himself thinking about Janis. He wondered what she’d ever got from their marriage. After a minute or two, he realized he’d come up with nothing and gave up wondering.
When I get back from this tour, he thought, I’m going to call up Janis’s lawyer and tell him I’ll sign the damn document.
Then he fell asleep, as at peace with himself as he ever had been or ever would be.
PART
TWO
FIVE
Todd wasn’t sure about the etiquette of heading out on a book tour. He had envisaged himself slipping out of bed in the gray dawn, leaving a note for Sara and driving off in the cold morning fog. But in the end he woke up late and went downstairs to find that Sara was making French toast in the kitchen.
“I’m doing this as a displacement activity,” she explained. “Making breakfast instead of crying.”
“I’ll be back before you know it,” promised Todd. “And I’ll call every night.”
“I’d kind of rather you didn’t,” said Sara. “I think I’d find it hard to take. Send me postcards instead, why don’t you? Like on that Bruce Springsteen album.”
She tapped him on the chest with a spatula.
“Find me,” she said, “the tackiest postcards you can. Greetings from Stoolbend. With all fancy lettering and a photo of the World’s Largest Pumpkin.”
“I will,” said Todd, and he meant it.
“Now eat,” said Sara.
* * *
Sara waved goodbye from the porch as Todd swung the Volvo into the road. He was going to honk cheerfully as he drove off, but for some reason this idea made him depressed, so he just took a final look back in the rear-view mirror, saw Sara close the door behind her, and lit out for the highway.
At the lights, Todd consulted his map. His first reading was a full day’s drive from here; he would be driving for most of the day if he was going to get there in time and check in to his accommodation after the event. He was a good map-reader and not too concerned about getting lost. It was all just a question of keeping going.
Four hours later, Todd’s bladder was painfully full while his stomach was almost as painfully empty. Todd looked at t
he Volvo’s clock. He was making good time and there was a truck stop just up ahead.
Todd pulled off the highway and into the parking lot.
The stop was largely full of Mexican truckers, which explained the counter menu. After a happy visit to the bathroom, Todd drank a Coke and ate a burrito. He was about to head back to the car when he saw a rack of postcards. They were generic Illinois: Home of some damn thing or other cards, but they fulfilled Sara’s tackiness requirements and besides, he didn’t know when he would be able to pick up some more postcards.
He paid for them and walked out into the sunshine. Across the way, two people were laughing about something. It was the kind of snapshot of time you want to preserve, what the TV ads called a Polaroid moment.
It ended a second later when Todd realized that one of the people laughing was Janis.
She looked different. Janis was wearing clothes that she would never have looked at six months ago: jeans and matching denim jacket. Her hair was cut short, almost like an old rock’n’roller. And she was wearing biker boots. Todd’s Janis had hated boots, said they deformed her feet or something, but this Janis looked like, Todd thought uncharitably, the fucking Fonz. He had to admit, reluctantly, that it suited her.
Todd felt a bump at his shoulder. He turned, to see her. The other woman. She walked past him, not saying a word, and before Todd could see her face, slid a bike helmet over her head. She was wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and motorcycle boots. She slid her legs onto the pillion of a big black Harley, and when Janis walked over to the bike, reached down, and pulled a still laughing Janis on with her.
Todd stared as Janis wedged on her own helmet, and the Harley roared into full-throated life and peeled out onto the highway. He didn’t notice his grip slacken on the brown paper bag of postcards before it fell to the floor. He walked back to the Volvo and sat behind the wheel, staring into space for half an hour.
* * *
What he’d seen just hadn’t seemed real. Oh, sure, he was well aware of his prejudices and fears concerning Janis and her newfound desires. He was, ironically, man enough to admit that he felt threatened by the idea of Janis preferring a woman to him. The thought made him feel inadequate but he was not so dumb as to equate lesbians with dickless men. Todd had read, and even listened, enough to pick up on a few modern notions about gender and sexuality.
All My Colors Page 12