The Editor

by Steven Rowley

  David Letterman recently aired a Top Ten List of Least Popular New York City Street Vendors and the number-one entry served “Stunned Mouse in a Dixie Cup.” I don’t know why that comes to mind now, except that it became a punchline between Daniel and me (What would you like for dinner tonight? How about stunned mouse in a Dixie cup!) and—talk about stunned—even I wish I could see the look on my face right now. “Daiquiris.” I scramble out of my chair; when a woman like Jacqueline Onassis stands, a gentleman does too.

  She reaches back in her drawer and pulls out what miraculously appears to be simple syrup. I’m beginning to think this particular drawer is a magician’s hat. “Don’t tell me you’re a teetotaler,” she says.

  I struggle to remember if teetotaler means someone who is on, or off, the wagon. “No. Far from it. I just don’t usually drink daiquiris.”

  “That’s because you don’t usually drink with me.” She notices me standing. “Sit, sit. I’m going to collect some ice.”

  Jackie places her hand on my shoulder as she squeezes past me and out the door. Alone in her office, I lean forward and grab the rum. It’s hard not to think she’s putting me on. I hold it up to my nose, and not only does it contain alcohol, it may be one hundred and fifty proof. Do I know her to drink? Are there photos of her drinking? Magazine profiles that mention the habit? If I were her, there’s no way I could not drink. Should I put a stop to this? Is this a bad idea? I have just enough time to place the bottle back on her desk before she returns carrying a little silver platter with several limes, a knife, club soda, and two glasses with ice.

  “What else do you have in that desk? A coconut tree?”

  “Don’t ever underestimate me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, and that’s the God’s-honest truth.

  “I think you will like this. It’s distilled from molasses instead of sugarcane.” She adds a healthy pour of rum to each glass and a more conservative amount of simple syrup. Whatever it is that she’s doing, she’s quite adept at doing it. Then she slices several limes and squeezes as much juice as she can into each glass; I can see the tendons in her sinewy arms. “I had to borrow these earlier from the cafeteria ladies.”

  Good God, she’s been planning this all day. “I hope they didn’t mind.” Should I point out they won’t be getting them back?

  “Oh, they like me.” She repeats the process with another lime, then tops each glass with a splash of soda. “On my first day here—this goes back a while now . . .”

  “Fourteen years?” I try to recall her résumé from our first meeting. Jackie pulls a silver letter opener from a pencil cup and gives each cocktail a good stir.

  “That’s right,” she says. “Back then, no one—and I mean no one—knew how they were supposed to behave in my presence. If I got into the elevator, people would get out. If I walked down the hallway, people would turn around and scramble in the opposite direction. If I went to the breakroom to pour a cup of coffee, people would panic and hand me theirs.”

  “That sounds . . .” I grasp for the right word. “Lonely.”

  Satisfied that each cocktail is well mixed, Jackie gently taps the letter opener on the rim of one glass and it makes the most perfect chime. She picks up the tray and holds it out for me as if she’s the most overqualified spokesmodel ever to be hired on a game show.

  “Thank you,” I say, accepting a drink. I hold it firmly in both hands by my lap, even though the ice makes it uncomfortably cold to the touch.

  “It was. Devastatingly lonely. It was like I had the plague. After several weeks of this nonsense, I decided to head down to the cafeteria for lunch. Of course, everyone put their trays down and got out of line in front of me and disappeared from sight. It was horribly embarrassing, because the last thing I wanted was anyone thinking that I felt entitled to go to the front of the line. But it’s not like I could tell them to hop back in line—they had evaporated! Anyhow, this one lunch lady, a rather robust woman, urged me to the counter with an exaggerated wave and bellowed, ‘WHAT’LL IT BE, JACKIE?’”

  My easy laughter catches me off guard. “So, what was it?”

  “Tuna fish salad, if I recall.” We both laugh. “I don’t suppose everyone was fond of my being here. But after that, things were different. Better.” Jackie leans in to the memory, taking a full beat before coming back. “In case that story didn’t do it for you, consider this your lunch lady.”

  I hold up my drink and we clink glasses with good cheer, this long story a toast of sorts to our new relationship and the work we hope to accomplish together. “To Ithaca.”

  “To Ithaca,” she echoes.

  I take a sip, and the drink is . . . tart, citrusy. Only a little pulpy. A few of these would be downright dangerous.

  “How does it taste?”

  “It’s . . . sly.”

  “You’re lucky you’re here this week. Last week I was keen on acquiring a book of cold blended soups. Lila and I tried a few of the recipes. As it turns out, after gazpacho there aren’t many cold soups worth a damn. Have you ever had cream-of-cashew soup? Cold?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Believe me, there’s no pleasure to be had. Unless you like wallpaper glue.”

  I grimace, then gesture toward the Cavafy book, and she gives me permission to take it. I open to the marked page. “Ithaka referred to in the feminine, like she is mother herself. You must have always known what Ithakas mean.”

  Jackie makes a rich sound like an exquisite piece of chocolate is melting on her tongue. “And those are just the last few lines. Beautiful, isn’t it? Take that book home with you and read the rest.”

  “It’s remarkably . . . apropos.” But have I always known? Is my book some sort of misadventure to understand something that, deep down, I already know?

  “Inspired by Homer, if I’m not mistaken.” Of course she’s not mistaken.

  “The return of Odysseus home,” I say, grateful this time for something more intelligent to say. “Homer, I’ve read.”

  “The maturity of the soul as we all travel home is, I think, all the traveler can hope for. I want you to think of that, especially in the context of your manuscript’s ending. I think that’s where the bulk of your work lies.”

  “The ending.”

  “The last third of the book. I have a clear picture of who your characters are at the start of the quarantine, but I don’t know exactly who they are at the end. To each other, to themselves.”

  “I keep thinking of our first conversation. How you said books are journeys.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But . . .”

  Jackie rests her chin on the back of her hand. “What is it?”

  I hesitate, not sure how I can say this. “I’m sorry. I haven’t worked with an editor before. I don’t want to overstep.”

  “I tell my writers our conversations are privileged. Like doctor and patient.”

  “Lawyer and client?”

  “Priest and parishioner. Confession only if you want.” Jackie raises her glass.

  “I was just thinking if my book is in part about motherhood, that’s a journey you have taken.”

  “One that has given me some of my most sublime moments. But your book. Yes, it’s about motherhood, but through the eyes of a son. And I haven’t been one of those.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” I concede.

  Jackie takes a long, slow sip from her glass. “I want to see real growth on the page, how the events have changed them, particularly the son. You have a remarkably fresh voice, so I know you have it in you.”

  My drink is going down too easily, and I can feel the rum rushing to my face, coloring my cheeks, creating a blessed hollowness between my ears, allowing me not to pass out. “I can taste the molasses.”

  Jackie narrows her eyes, scrutinizing me. “It’s
hard for you to hear a compliment.”

  “I don’t suppose I’ve received enough compliments to know.”

  “That was wonderful deflection. The molasses.”

  “Another compliment?”

  “Another deflection?” She takes one more sip, then sets her glass down on a coaster. “You can taste it, though, I’ll give you that. Especially when you know that it’s there.”

  I place the Cavafy book on the corner of her desk and inspect what’s left of my drink.

  Jackie refocuses. “Before we get to the ending, tell me more about your mother.”

  I burst out laughing and am immediately embarrassed, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Oh, heavens. I sounded like your analyst.”

  I’m fascinated to know if she’s familiar with the language of therapy. It wouldn’t surprise me, and yet it’s hard to imagine her vulnerable enough to seek help. But as much as our conversations may be privileged, I’m sure the privilege of probing conversation flows only one way. “What would you like to know?”

  “Was she always sad?”

  “No” is my first answer. But then I have to think—Is she sad? “I don’t think so. Perhaps. Are we talking about Ruth? I’m afraid I’m a little confused.”

  “There’s confusion in the character.” She leans forward to retrieve the glass from my hand, and I barely loosen my grip enough for her to take it. If it weren’t for the condensation from the ice, it might not have wiggled out of my hand at all. “There are several moments where you get close to expressing something real, and I think you pad your observations with what I guess are fictional details and it keeps you from hitting some of the harder truths.”

  She pours more rum into my glass. “Not too much,” I say. But as she refills my drink I think, To hell with it. You know? If we’re going to do this, let’s do this. Let this be the grand marshal in a parade of lunch ladies to come.

  “Tell me something true,” she says.

  “About my mother?”

  “Even if it has nothing to do with the book.”

  I think about this and how not to further betray her. She’d already be horrified if she were a fly on the wall right now. Do I tell Jackie my mother resents me for her being alone? That she took my side once, and it cost her her marriage? That even though it was the right thing to do, in the moment she probably didn’t envision how long life would be in the wake of it? That we’re barely on speaking terms right now? “I don’t think my mother got much of what she wanted out of life.”

  “She has her children.”

  “That’s true, but hardly anything else.”

  “Does anyone? Get what they truly want.”

  The question strikes me as odd, borderline offensive, even, from someone who has lived such a fascinating life. I need more alcohol for this. “Well, no. I would imagine that’s rare. But I also don’t think she was given the tools to ask.”

  “That’s true for a lot of women our age.” Jackie steps in front of her desk to hand me my drink. She stands and leans elegantly with her legs crossed and one hand on the desk, looking like the perfect line sketch a fashion designer might make while dreaming up patterns for clothes. “I feel for her.”

  “That’s good. As a reader, I hope that you would.”

  “I’ll try over the course of our working together not to sound like your analyst. Writing it, I’m sure, was therapy enough.”

  “If I hadn’t written it, I think I might have gone insane. Or become a Republican. Something horrible.”

  Jackie laughs in such a way, not heartily but genuinely, that I want it to be my validation forever. “You remind me of my son.”

  I can feel my face turn beet red, so I look down at my feet. They look cloddish in large, heavy shoes, the opposite of her narrow, elegant heels. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Acknowledge that I have difficulty accepting compliments, then lay the biggest one of all on me and expect me to be okay.”

  Jackie waves her hand over her drink, wafting in some of the aroma. “Perhaps this round is too sweet.”

  “Deflection!” This is the rum talking. “Are you not comfortable with compliments either? Could this be something we have in common?” I take a victory sip.

  She shakes her head. “You didn’t compliment me.”

  “The heck I didn’t.”

  “A compliment for my son is a compliment for me?”

  I nod enthusiastically, and I can tell this pleases her. She moves behind the desk to retake her seat. “He failed the bar exam multiple times, which I’m sure you know if you read the Daily News.” I can feel her utter sense of pride in him, as if this were self-depreciation.

  I sink back into my chair and chuckle. I do remember the headlines: “The Hunk Flunks.” That must have stung. But, still. I can’t believe how much fun I’m having. I can’t believe how much my outlook has changed in a matter of weeks. I can’t believe that this is my life now. It feels resurgent, sparkling with possibility, like I’ve made some sort of comeback from an exile I hadn’t deserved.

  “I think my lunch lady is working,” I confide.

  Jackie sips from her cocktail and her eyes sparkle with thousands of secrets. “I think mine is too.” When she finishes, she sets her glass down and holds out the silver tray to collect mine. Another magical moment ended too soon, and we’re on to something new. “Now,” she says. “Let’s get down to work.”

  Go Your Own Way

  July 1992

  ◆ NINE ◆

  When I land at Boston’s Logan Airport, I have only a few minutes to collect my bag and race to catch the shuttle bus to Cape Air’s small terminal for the flight to Martha’s Vineyard. The Cape Air plane is disconcertingly puny, what my father would have called a puddle-jumper. There are seats for ten passengers, five on each side of the aisle, plus a jump seat for the crew. The flight attendant places us according to weight to balance the plane; this is done discreetly as not to offend, but the end result is obvious. I’m seated across the aisle from a woman who indubitably comes from money, and I wonder if she knows Jackie, if they are neighbors on the island or on the board together of some local environmental organization to save the eroding dunes. We smile politely and say hello, but she doesn’t ask my business, which disappoints me because I’m dying to volunteer the information: I’m going to visit my editor.

  Three weeks ago, Jackie sent the latest draft of my manuscript via courier marked with her edits. As mild and polite as she can be in person, taking careful consideration of my feelings as both an artist and someone younger and less experienced in the publishing world, she was just the opposite on paper. Paragraphs, sometimes pages, were crossed right out with margin notes that screamed CUT! VERGING ON MELODRAMA! TRITE! And then other parts were circled; UNDERWRITTEN! SHALLOW! GIVE THE READER MORE! My heart sank as I flipped through the pages; I had thought the latest draft addressed many of her original concerns from our earlier talks, but there were still a number of sticking points—particularly with the ending. I gave myself a week to calm down. When I reached her via phone to discuss her notes, she informed me she was working from her home on Martha’s Vineyard and invited me up to work through them.

  So here I am, onboard what’s basically an enclosed hang glider, waiting for runway clearance to take flight.

  The midsummer morning is warm; the sun beats off the tarmac and through the plane windows, heating the entire cabin. It feels like we are ants under a child’s magnifying glass—at any moment we might burst into flames (this is not an image you want while sitting in a fuselage). I roll up the sleeves of my linen shirt as the two outboard propellers start to spin. I look back to see if there’s an indication we might receive drink service, but signs do not point to yes. We pick up speed down the runway and take off over Boston Harbor before banking to head south toward Martha’s Vine
yard and Nantucket. This is the smallest plane I’ve ever been on, and I’m amazed at how you feel every rippling current, how your stomach rises and falls with each dip and change in air pressure. I have a magazine in my messenger bag, but I don’t have any interest in even pretending to read it—the view out my window of the Massachusetts coastline is far more interesting. The ocean is an emerald green, in contrast with the sparkling aqua-blue swimming pools that dot the shore—they seem almost Caribbean by comparison. I’m finally offered a small bottle of water, which I take but don’t drink; there’s no bathroom on board and my bladder is already full.

  My mother and I have spoken only once since I told her about Jackie. I called her when I cut myself shaving and the bleeding wouldn’t stop. I felt lightheaded (more from queasiness than blood loss), and without really thinking I picked up the phone; that’s how ingrained it is to always want your mother.

  “I’m bleeding,” I said when she answered.

  “From what?” My mother’s trademark detachment rang through.

  “The ear. Not the ear. Just under the ear. The part where the earlobe connects to the jaw. I don’t know what that’s called.”

  “Domino, down.” My mother’s dog yipped and then stopped, probably silenced with a treat. “I meant, what did you do.”

  “Oh. I cut myself shaving.”

  I could tell from her silence she wondered what it was I thought she could do from two hundred miles away.

  “Anyways. I thought you could keep me company while I bleed out.”

  My mother groaned. “I have a hair appointment at eleven.”

  And that was the end of our conversation. No mention of the book. No questions about my life or any of the wondrous things happening. Nothing about Jackie. No real concern about my medical emergency, although my mother knew me well enough to know there was no serious call for alarm. (A therapist friend called these “bids,” my calling home with extravagant takes to get a reaction. But my mother had my number; she was maddeningly patient, never raising her paddle, passing my lot on to other, more excitable auction-goers.) This is where we are, this stalemate our new home.