My hands are sweaty but I hold my head high, even though my heart is clattering in my chest, sneakers in a dryer.
“Yes,” I say, looking Matthew Palmer in the eye. “This is my first book. I have not published before.” I remember Gabriel’s words about starting conversations with confidence, something I know to be true, but which in practice isn’t always as easy as in theory. But I feel proud of myself, and I can tell that it shows in my skin and my hands, in my eyes and voice, too.
“We usually work with experienced authors,” he says, but the door in his voice isn’t closed. His tone is more surprised than anything, maybe even cajoling. I don’t understand what he means, yet, but I can tell by his expression that he wants something from me. “You’ll be one of our freshest voices, totally new. This is exciting.”
He rubs his cheek. Behind him, the glass walls show the gray city below, yellow cabs dotting the streets like dandelions in a concrete puzzle. His hair is gray, too, although it’s peppered with white and darker black and makes me think of a horse I once saw in a petting zoo.
“I’ve been a therapist for eight years and I’ve used my personal learnings to write this book,” I tell him. “It’s been peer-reviewed by Dr. Allison Emercy, and she’s written me an editorial review you can use. I also have feedback from several other respected doctors, like Dr. Avery Chandler.”
“Oh, I know,” he says immediately. “I saw that. Very impressive.”
I went way out of my comfort zone and approached my mentors for feedback. Allison ripped my manuscript apart with her red pen like a roast beef into shredded carne asada, but she also said it was brilliant. In the end, all of her comments were valuable and spurred me to make revisions, additions, improvements. This new version is stronger and more powerful because of the help of my peers.
“I read it myself and was impressed,” Matthew continues. “So I sent it to my editorial team, to Mary Knox, my most senior editor, and she’s interesting in working with you as we proceed.”
“As we proceed, meaning, I mean, you want to publish it?” I can barely breathe. I assumed he didn’t invite me to his office to tell me no, but I wasn’t sure our talk would result in a contract.
Matthew just nods, as if it were obvious, as normal as the sun coming up every day. “My admin is preparing a contract and advance proposal for you. We usually start new authors out with a ten k advance, but with your references and the feedback from my team, I’m willing to double that. It’s, ahem, more than what you’d get at Scriven or Matrix. I assume you’re shopping the book around? We’d love to have you work with us, and we’re willing to do what it takes.”
I blink at him, and he tilts his head. “If you want more, we can work with that, of course. And we’d like to sign you for the next two books as well, you mentioned that you have two more in the pipeline? We’d like to get that into contract as well.”
This is surreal. And yet it’s also like it was meant to happen, part of my life unfolding, like it was supposed to be this way all along. I see a future glowing, like lines on an airplane, those lines they say light up in case of emergency, steering you to the exit. And I can see those lines leading me to somewhere good and new and safe.
“I’m fine with what you said,” I tell Matthew Palmer. “If you give me the contract, I’d like to read it right now.”
When I come out of my office, I hear their laughter, high feminine peals and the ragged guffaws of my son, and I follow the sound to the kitchen. Of all the helpers who come to the house, Shai is the one who Natalie has taken to. She doesn’t care for Arielle.
Natalie stirs something that sizzles and pops, and Shai’s face is bright with her smile. She’s wearing a mini-skirt over leggings, and a soft sweater that hugs her body in a cashmere embrace. I force myself not to stare at her breasts. Perfectly outlined by the fabric, they swell like perky hills and it takes all my concentration not to imagine palming them, one in each hand, and gently squeezing. I know how she’d feel—firm, warm. God, that kiss!
“Hi, Dad.” Michael’s voice isn’t enthusiastic, but neither is it pissy, and the fact that I’m not “Gabriel” right now is a great thing. My title varies by his moods, his dark angry outbursts and his surges of joy. Shai told me to stay constant through it all, and I try.
I accept it graciously. “Son.” I rub his head, rest my hand on his shoulder, and pull away just before the usual flinch. “How was therapy?”
“Therapeutic.” He slides some wrinkled papers into a red plastic folder. “Got to store away my calculus.”
“He’s doing triple integrals for fun.” Shai’s voice is reverent.
Michael preens, then falls into an expression of exaggerated boredom. “But Shai made me work on the next essay before I got to do the math. Essays suck.”
Shai gives him a sideways hug and he doesn’t pull away. “Not your essays, kiddo. Your essays are competition-worthy when you put in the effort. With your vocabulary, we’ll have you writing for the New Yorker any day now.”
I’ve watched them in action, and I see how she combines therapy with everyday actions, helping him learn how to deal with his frustrations and setbacks. The way she talked him through his last book report? I would have given her a Nobel Prize for her patience and humor. I stood outside the door for over half an hour, mesmerized, while I listened to things like this:
Michael: Shai, this fucking sucks. I’m never going to be good at writing.
Shai: I can think of at least two words from your last spelling list that are better than “fucking” and “sucks” to describe your feelings. Can you guess which ones?
Michael: (silence)
Shai: (silence)
Michael: Fine. Astronomical disappointment. Is that what you were thinking?
Shai: Right on. Do you know why people don’t like to hear kids swearing?
Michael: Because they’re jerks and they want to control kids?
Shai: (laughs) Some adults are like that. But it’s a societal norm. You know what that means, right?
Michael: Yeah. Things we do because everyone does them. Like tipping at the restaurant.
Shai: Exactly. People rely a lot on patterns to understand the world around them. And one of our patterns says that kids shouldn’t swear, because it’s disrespectful to adults. Society generally feels that kids who swear are either troubled or going to cause trouble. When we hear a young kid swearing, people immediately focus on the swear words and less on the wonderful brain he might have inside him. The swearing is a warning sign of sorts. It tells them, Danger ahead! Watch out! And then they put their guard up and might respect him less because of it.
Michael: Then people are stupid and small-minded. They should just listen to my ideas, and not care if I swear.
Shai: Swearing is interesting, because when you swear you’re saying something important in addition to the other words in your sentence. Maybe you’re saying, “I’m cool.” Or, “I’m angry.” Maybe you’re saying, “You can’t hurt me because I’m tough.” But what people hear is different, when it’s a kid. They hear, “I’m trouble.” Or, “I’m not smart.” Or, “I’m going to cause issues for you and be rude.” So you need to be aware of the subtle things you’re saying in addition to what you think you’re saying. And also, to be aware of what society thinks you’re saying. Now I’m not telling you that you need to change everything about yourself to fit the perfect idea society has. But you do need to be aware, and make informed choices about what you say and how you say it.
Michael: I guess.
Shai: Do you think there’s something you’re trying to say when you swear?
Michael: (silence)
Shai: You don’t need to tell me right now.
Michael: I don’t want anyone to think I’m weak and dumb just because I got cancer.
Shai: Does swearing make you feel stronger?
Michael: I don’t know. Maybe. I sort of feel like, older, I guess.
Shai: More powerful?
Michael
: Yeah. Like, maybe, when I swear, it makes me stronger than cancer. Like I’ll get to be a grownup someday. But that’s dumb. I know words don’t do that. It’s just, I don’t know.
Shai: Yeah.
Michael: Sometimes it’s fun to make them mad. Do things that get them all riled up. Because I’m angry that I got sick. Sometimes I just, I don’t know why, I want to make other people mad, too.
Shai: How does that make you feel later on?
Michael: I don’t know. Maybe bad a little bit, but I don’t know.
Shai: How about this? When you’re feeling upset about something, use non-swear words to tell me about it. Then I can help you more easily because I’ll know exactly what’s up. I know you’re tough and cool, so you don’t need to convince me. Fair deal?
Michael: Okay.
Now if I had told him not to swear? He’d have told me to shut up and run to his room. And with Shai, they can have this incredible discussion about it where I swear (no pun intended) he sounds like he’s already a little adult.
In any case, I’m grateful as hell to Shai, and I’m still attracted to her. When I look at her and see how firm her tits look under her sweater, I blurt this out: “Shai. Stay for dinner with us tonight.”
She goes silent and blinks, then her cheeks turn pink. “Um…” she starts.
Michael bursts in. “Yeah! Dinner will be fun if Shai stays! Please, please?” He grabs her hand.
Shai’s eyes meet mine and the current arcs between us. I’m playing with fire, and I don’t care. “Okay,” she says softly. “I’ll stay.”
Natalie leaves us food, cooked and hot. Shai works with me, fitting easily into our space, handing over plates and finding forks. She looks at home here. When we sit down to eat, I’m not sure what to say, but Michael doesn’t stop talking.
“Dad, did you know that last time Shai and I went to Montrose, we saw an abandoned kite and nobody was there so we got to play with it?” He looks at me expectantly, his mouth completely rimmed with orange sauce. It’s like those awful “Got Milk?” ads in magazines, where they show models with a white milk mustache, except here it’s a lasagna beard.
“Wipe your face,” I say automatically. “You’ve got food all over.”
He frowns, then deliberately swipes his sleeve across his mouth, smearing the food onto the fabric without removing most of it from his skin. “Happy now, Gabriel?”
I open my mouth but Shai speaks first. “Michael, remember what we talked about?” She gives him a look, and he glares at her, then lowers his eyes.
He takes a breath, picks up his napkin and scrubs at his arm, and then, like an afterthought, his chin. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“It’s all right,” I say, although the mood seems to be deflated. Shit. I didn’t mean to do that, but can’t a man tell his child to not be a total slob? I bang my fork harder than necessary on the plate.
Shai clears her throat. “So, Michael, I bet your dad can’t possibly guess the pattern on the kite.” She gives me a look that seems sort of a plea and a warning at once.
“Probably not,” says Michael. He’s still pissed, although I can tell from his fidgeting that he really wants to talk about the kite.
I try to mend the tear. “When I was a kid, I always wanted a box kite, the kind we’d see in old-fashioned ads. It seemed impossible that they could even fly. We never got one though. Was this a box kite?”
Michael can’t resist the lure, and his smile is back. “No! Guess again.”
“A, ah, diamond-shaped one?”
“Nope!”
“Barbies crashing into a nail salon?” I give him a mock salute, and he cracks up. “Dad! No! Okay, I’ll just tell you because I can see you’ll never guess. Statistically it’s sort of improbable, anyway. So, okay, it was, get this.” He pauses for emphasis. “A dragon!”
“Wow, a dragon.”
“Well, it was sort of a fish but a dragon at the same time. All golden and red and white with this gigantic tail. Like someone combined a goldfish and a dragon in a lab and got this thing. It was a little ripped and it only had a short string, but we picked it up and flew it anyway.”
“Did it actually fly?” I try to imagine this thing. A fluttering creature filling the gray sky with color, snapping in the wind, roaring out to the city, and my son below, guiding it on invisible currents.
“”Well, it didn’t actually fly, fly,” Michael amends. “We sort of held it by the string and ran and it followed up like a pet, but it got enough air so it wasn’t dragging on the sand. It was pretty cool.”
“I see. Did you keep it?”
“No. It wasn’t ours.” Michael takes a bite of food and talks through it, and this time I say nothing about the spillage onto his lip and chin. “So we put it by the boat house and put a rock on top of it so it wouldn’t blow away. Shai said someone might come back for it and it might be expensive.”
“That’s nice, that you thought of the other owner.”
“Because it might be a kid like me, and he’s sad that he lost his kite. It wasn’t too beat up, so Shai said there was no way we were going to throw it out.” He raises his arm, puts it down, and wipes with the napkin again. “I’m done. Can I go play with my tablet?”
I nod and he stands up, then turns back and grabs his plate, puts it in the sink. I raise my eyebrows as he disappears into the hallway.
Shai looks flustered. “I’m sorry if I overstepped before. We’ve been working on manners in general.”
“Is that typical for therapy?” I cross my arms.
She raises one shoulder. “Nothing is typical. I’ve noticed that Michael uses rough language and bad manners when he’s feeling angry or stressed, so I’ve coached him on trying to recognize his triggers and adjust his behavior when he notices it. It’s slow, but he’s making great progress. He wants to make changes, Gabriel.”
Her whole face lights up when she talks about Michael, and it makes me feel good and strange at the same time. For so long, I’ve been the only one who’s cared about Michael. Having someone else feel such enthusiastic affection for him is great, but it’s hard to share his caretaking, especially when she’s better at it than I am. Although I’m glad she is. It’s complicated.
I force myself to keep my hands relaxed. “Good. I’m glad. But. Let’s talk about something different. We need to talk about something apart from therapy.”
“Okay.” Her eyes are so clear. They’re brown with hints of green, and they’re shiny, big, the colors stunning. “Something important, or frivolous?” she asks.
I smile. “How do you decide what’s important?”
She shrugs and her lips curve up. Soft. “You just know.”
“Sometimes I don’t know, though.” The mood is instantly light, teasing. There’s a pull between us, a force. Our eyes meet and linger. “Help me?”
“I’d be glad to help.” Her voice is lower, huskier. She leans forward, and a whisper of cleavage shows as the V-neck of her sweater dips downward. A hint of skin.
I lean back and cross one leg on the other. “On a scale of one to ten, then, ten being important. How does this rate?” I clear my throat. “Crocodiles swallow stones to help them dive deeper.”
“Aha!” She laughs. “Hmmm. If we were currently in the Nile delta, and I was concerned about snorkeling, that would be a ten. Here in your nice, reptile-free kitchen, I’m sorry, but that’s going to be a three.”
I pretend to be wounded and grab my chest. “Ouch! Let me try again.” I pull another random fact from some corner of my brain. “If you removed all of the empty space from between all the atoms in the world, everything would fit into a single apple.”
Shai raises her eyebrows. “Okay. That’s interesting, but is it important?” She tilts her head. “Maybe you could use that little fact in a short story that refers to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Make a point about how that apple is the whole world, the one that starts the fall from grace. The whole world fits into that apple. Awesome symbolism. Ever
yone would praise you for your intellectual capabilities.”
I laugh. “Are you blaming the apple for the downfall of humankind?” My body and brain are alive like they haven’t been since Irene. I’m enjoying this: the repartee, the flirting, the whole atmosphere. I want to bathe in this feeling, because I haven’t had it in so fucking long. I feel alive.
Shai rolls her eyes. “I’m apple shaming. Yes. The apple was too red and plump and delicious! How could anyone resist? She shouldn’t have worn such a short stem. It’s her own fault that Adam bit her.”
I want to bite Shai. Thinking of red apples makes me think of her nipples, and of sex in general. I swallow. “Well, you’re the teacher. Maybe you deserve an apple.” My voice is low and as our eyes meet, something sparks in hers. “For being so good.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she says, almost a whisper, and I can feel my eyes widen. Then she blushes. Her cheeks are two red spots. “Did you know that actually, in the original bible, it wasn’t an apple tree at all?”
“I didn’t know that.” I eye her.
“Yes! The man who translated from the Hebrew? He was doing a translation into Greek, for Greeks to read. He translated the Tree of Knowledge as an apple tree, maybe because apples were symbols of desire and destruction in Greek mythology. He took some liberties with the text.”
“Now that’s interesting.” I smirk at her. “But important? I’m not so sure. I’m going to have to give you a two.”
“Hey!” she protests, making her eyes wide. “That’s super important. Because you never know when you’re going to be at a dinner party full of important clients you need to impress, and it so happens that all of them are also Hebrew/Greek biblical translation scholars, and when you pull out that little gem? BAM. Big financial deal, sealed right there.” She grins at me, smug, and crosses her arms. “See?”
I raise my eyebrows. “I’m not convinced. You’re going to have to try harder than that, Shai.” There’s a teasing undertone to my words.
A Handful of Fire Page 10