But the book’s here. My book.
I’ve published thirty-five short stories in about a dozen different magazines, but strangely enough, a stack of magazines has never provided me with the sensation I feel today when I look at this collection. The sensation of having accomplished something.
I don’t know how to say it any other way. Maybe it’s because of the emptiness I’ve been surrounded by. My house is currently empty. I’m here. Marianne’s gone to live with her sister. Leo stays with his grandmother. Sarah stops by the house from time to time to pick up her mail. My daughter’s living with a moron I suspect of sniffing glue. I don’t know what it can be that makes the guy so glassy-eyed. TV, probably. Whenever I imagine my empty house, I see the TV screen—Sarah leaves the television on to discourage thieves. Just the picture, no sound. It’s a game show, one of those with a big turning wheel, and when the arrow stops on the jackpot, you can’t hear the bell ring or the audience applaud. I imagine I’m watching that game show.
Ten years of my life are in this book. Seeing it published makes me feel I’ve won the jackpot. Thanks for the money, by the way—I’m going to be able to get my car fixed. And I should still have enough left to pay the rent on this room. The arrow stopped on the winning number, but I don’t hear anything in my empty house.
Tears come to my eyes as I write. If you saw me, you’d say, “Be proud, Ray. Be content.” I am, I assure you I am.
Insofar as alcohol is concerned, things are much better. God, that’s bad writing: “Insofar as alcohol …” I should take more care with letters, now that my prose, thanks to you, is liable to become immortal … But I don’t have the heart to make up pretty phrases. Except for this story collection of mine, everything I write seems so lame. Every hour I swallow half a glass of whiskey. That’s the first step in the drying-out process. Tomorrow it will be every two hours, and so on from day to day. I’ve learned a cure in this center: bourbon in small doses and at fixed times. If anyone had told me I’d be boozing by the clock in here, I would never have checked in—the thought of doing things under constraint has always horrified me.
I would have liked to write to you in detail about the cuts. To discuss this one or that one. But the state I’m in doesn’t allow me to concentrate for very long. Besides, there would be too much to write. My big hope right now is to recover in time to start the job you scared up for me, my first teaching job. Classes begin in a week.
I don’t know if writing can be learned. I’ve always thought the best way was simply to get down to it, as with fishing or wood-chopping. The only valuable advice I’ve retained from all the workshops I’ve been in is “No tricks, no ruses, write with sincerity.” Maybe I’ll tell my students that.
Back to your cuts. Thank you, Douglas, thank you for all the sweat you put into revising my texts. I have a few reservations, of course, but as I wrote you from the hospital, you were fully authorized to muck around with the stories I submitted. (I believe that’s in the contract I signed, but I don’t have it in front of me.) I would have preferred to see “Petunias” instead of “Muck”—pardon me, “Compost”—I’m modifying titles too! And I would have liked to keep what passes between Robert and his wife at the beginning of the story. I find your cuts in “Compartment” a bit extreme. I don’t have anything to say about “Cookie” or “Collision,” even though “Collision” seemed longer when you published it in the magazine. To tell the truth, I didn’t think you’d go through the stories you cut before and cut them again. I would have wanted to spare you that labor, but I understand you have to deal with the most pressing matters first. (That’s something I’ve noticed about editors; everything goes very very slowly in the beginning and, in an equally inexplicable way, very very fast thereafter.) On a related subject, I’m enclosing a check in this envelope to cover the expenses you incurred while making your cuts. I know it cost you an arm and a leg to have all the versions of my stories typed, and I insist on being fair.
It’s time for me to get re-plastered.
And if I manage to write a story between one glass and the next, be ready to unsheathe your weapon, Douglas—because we’ll be starting again soon. Me from the bottom of my hole, you from the top of your skyscraper.
We make a hell of a couple, if you ask me.
Ray
P. S. If you answer this letter in the next few days, don’t send your reply to the university. I was there yesterday, and they don’t know who I am. The girl who handles the mail thought I was a prowler. Write me at the address on the envelope.
DOUGLAS
I see it on your faces. It’s dripping out of your mouths. It’s moistening your little lips, which can’t wait to give me a smile.
There’s only one thing on your minds: You want to please me.
It’s nauseating. Your stories nauseate me—they’re so much like you. “Is that good, Mr. Douglas? Is that what you want to read? Because that’s what I tried to write: a story you’d want to read …”
HOW SHOULD I KNOW WHAT I WANT TO READ?
If I knew, I wouldn’t be an editor. I’d be the guy who decides what’s going to be shown on TV—I think a computer does that. It programs for tomorrow the successes of the day before yesterday. If something worked yesterday, it puts it out again the day after tomorrow. The same way with Ithaca—Ithaca’s my son. He’s ten years old, he collects stickers. If you present him with one that’s not in his collection, he starts to cry. Do I look like I collect stickers?
Hurry up and displease me, and maybe we’ll see one another again.
MARIANNE
A bad communication between postal workers, no doubt. Our regular mailman’s on leave. He alone knows that if our mailbox is as flat as a pancake, it’s not because we don’t want any more mail, it’s because you came home loaded and rolled over it. He had experience with us, he knew what was up, and so he used to put our letters under the doormat. But his colleagues just pass us up and the mail gets here three weeks late (when Sarah goes and picks it up at the post office). That’s why I didn’t answer you right away. Do you believe me, Ray? That’s really the only reason it’s taken me so long to answer you.
I can gauge how much progress you’ve made. Even if you didn’t tell me, I could figure it out. You’re in a detox center for the eighth time in three years, not to mention various stays in the hospital. I can only repeat what I’ve been saying to you since you started drinking—really drinking. I think it was your twentieth birthday. Keep that in mind for the day when you stop, and we’ll etch a few words onto an empty bottle: “Raymond’s Alcoholism. Start date–end date.” Why not stop this year, when you make thirty-seven? I’m going to say it again: If what you want is to be a second-rate writer, then keep on drinking. Forget you were supposed to be counted among the best one day. Because the pact we made was that and nothing less than that. If it was less, then all our sacrifices were pointless.
Claire and I have talked and talked—it’s all we do here. Talking to my sister does me a lot of good. On the telephone, it’s not the same. Here at least when she cries, I can stroke her face. Claire just has to keep plugging away and not give up. It can’t be easy to be an actress in a part of the country where so many actresses are out of work and a select few are always on display. I was wondering, couldn’t actresses be interchangeable, like the box-office cashiers in the movie theater where I used to sell programs? They were never the same from one week to the next—I think the boss harassed every one of them. But actresses aren’t interchangeable, not the way cashiers are. Can you imagine a place where all the cashiers in the country would come looking for work? No, of course not. That’s why I told Claire, “While you’re waiting for your chance, you should be a cashier.” But she wasn’t interested. Sometimes she worries me, I’m afraid she’s cracking up.
She and I have that in common: not the cracking up part, but the obstinacy, like my stubborn confidence that she’s going to be successful someday, even if not as an actress. And I think about us. I can’t
imagine that we could fail, that you could not become a great writer.
Chekhov wasn’t an alcoholic, was he? How sad that he died so young. The other day it occurred to me that you ought to write a story about Chekhov. Since you love his stories so much, you should write one about him. Well, look at me, suggesting subjects to you again, when I promised myself I’d stop.
I’ve made myself a lot of promises.
I wake up at night and I can’t remember what happened. I don’t know why our house is empty, why the mail’s so slow, and why these words of mine seem to have so little power to reach you.
Why are we so far from each other when we’ve got so much love left?
RAYMOND
“The Sorrows of Gin.” A young girl watches her parents becoming alcoholics. She gets worried, feels powerless, decides to run away. She gets as far as the train station, but her escape is thwarted at the last minute. Her father comes to pick her up.
Have you all read this story? Uh … no, I don’t have the date in my head.
(Personally, the only date I remember is the day I turned twenty, the day when I started … what I started.)
What interests me—sorry, I’ll speak louder. What interests me in “The Sorrows of Gin” is the change in the point of view. The end of the story is narrated through the father’s consciousness, whereas we see the rest, from the beginning, through the little girl’s eyes. What shall I say? This story has always left me with a feeling of … Cheever’s a master, there’s no doubt about that. But this change of lens, so to speak … Was he right to end his story this way? In your opinion? Yes, Miss …
(My God, how can a girl be so pretty?)
What would I have done in his place? Well … I’m not John Cheever. Everyone has their own way of telling a story. That’s a very individual, personal matter, don’t you think? For example, I wrote a short story—it’s called “Petunias”—where something along the same lines happens. The reader sees the end of “Petunias” through the eyes of the wife, even though the story’s about her husband. I don’t know why I changed the point of view at the end, but the wife seemed the obvious choice at the moment I wrote it.
You can tell a story from as many points of view as there are characters. Don’t ask yourself which is the best, let it impose itself on you. In spite of you.
Sorry?
(If she doesn’t stop devouring me with those big eyes, I won’t be responsible for whatever I may do.)
You’d like to read “Petunias”? Well, it’s been published, but under a different title: “Compost.” The thing is, though, you won’t find the ending of “Petunias” in “Compost.”
Why did I cut the ending? It wasn’t me. How shall I put it? You’re not always the writer you’d like to be. Some things …
(There. If I stay close to the window, just in front of her, I don’t see her anymore. I can keep my cool.) Some things escape our control.
DOUGLAS
Raymond, my friend, I sympathize.
Your letter made me howl with laughter. I can imagine the scene very clearly. You in your black sunglasses, half crocked, in front of twenty or so students, all of them raising their hands and saying, “Sir, what’s the magic formula?” Ah, if they knew that the only knowledge you can transmit to them—the only thing that writers can teach—is how to ruin your life in a few easy steps. Because ruining your life is the only way to wind up alone with yourself and start to write. That’s the price you have to pay, no matter what anyone says.
As for the starstruck girl in the front row, I found your description of her positively mouthwatering. You should hang your scruples in the closet and get her into your bed. Especially if what you wrote me is true and she spends the breaks between classes flirting with you.
Not to be outdone along those lines, I’m going to tell you what I did last night. I was in the big amphitheater. These days there are close to a hundred groupies in every one of my workshops. I trot out my spiel on writing and addiction, being careful to conclude with a few words on how the libido can detract from stylistic perfection. I have to keep myself from laughing out loud, because at least thirty of them are taking down what I say word for word. And this is in one of the top three universities in the country. At the end of class, the choice morsel I mentioned to you the other day—Jessica Lange with even more curves—comes up to me and whispers, “I didn’t completely understand your theory of the libido. Can we discuss it over a drink?” Please note that it was already midnight. She took me to her place, amigo, and at 3 a.m. I was still there, making her climb the walls. I had to get up at 7 a.m. to go to work, but at noon we started in again. This time we both climbed the walls.
But in the office I have to restrain myself. I’m having problems with Sibyll’s replacement. She went and told the boss I’ve been groping her. That could cost me my job, and if my wife gets wind of it, I’ll be going through my fourth divorce. I find the weaker sex more and more aggressive these days. It must be the zeitgeist.
Let’s get back to the main point. If I should leave here—there’s an opening for a fiction editor in the publishing house across the street—I’d like it to be with your second collection of stories under my arm. To raise the bidding. As you see, our fates are intertwined. So stop fearing the worst. The critics aren’t going to devour you—I work on them every day of my life. Write those goddamn stories and get it over with! No excuses this time. You tell me Marianne and the kids aren’t around anymore, you’ve got that teaching job I found for you, and if you’re too scrupulous to treat yourself to the starstruck beauty in the front row who writes like Flannery O’Connor, make a story out of that.
You can’t give up on me, Ray. For seven years, I’ve been moving heaven and earth to get you some recognition, and I need that second story collection more than ever. And don’t worry, I’ll firm up your work wherever necessary.
Douglas
RAYMOND
My father was a good man.
A good man and an alcoholic. I believe his legacy to me included more alcoholism than goodness, but I keep hoping to reverse the trend.
He used to take me fishing. But now, if someone should show me a map of the region where I grew up, I wouldn’t be able to say where the fish are. I wouldn’t even have the slightest idea. I couldn’t point out the good fishing spots to anybody.
That’s my current motto. I repeat it to my students: Nobody can do your searching for you; it’s up to you to find the way. When they hear that, they seem disappointed.
Can it be that I’m not made for teaching?
The ticking of the clock fills the room. For the last five minutes, I’ve been one year older. I would have liked to give up alcohol. Too bad. Maybe next time.
Marianne, if you only knew …
I’m sorry, I woke you up. No, I was talking to myself. You can use my glass, I’ll drink straight from the bottle. Has anyone ever told you you write like Flannery O’Connor? Tender to begin with, and cruel in the end. “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” made a big impression on you, too?
A good man is hard to find, but alcohol’s easy.
Alcohol and pretty girls.
MARIANNE
If Raymond could see us now! We’re totally loaded. He’d call us a pair of drunks. Stop, Claire, stop, you’re killing me.
You’re such a good mimic, you’ve really got him down. It’s like you’re the one who lived with him for twenty years and put up with his … No, finish it. Finish it yourself. Okay, we’ll split the dregs. Stop. You’re killing me.
I almost did it, you know. I almost went to see him. I was going to take the car, drive all the way there, and surprise him on his birthday.
But what would have been the point? To put the pieces back together? We’ve tried that a thousand times.
I had a dream the other night. I was holding a piggy bank in my hands. I put it up to my ear and shook it. No jingling, not the slightest sound. I looked at the piggy bank. It had a crack in it, such a big crack I wondered how the thing
could stay in one piece. At that moment, I realized it looked just like our house. The one that was repossessed.
And here’s how the dream ended. I pressed the piggy bank against my ear and listened again. It was like listening to a conch shell, that whistling sound. The buried murmur of the ocean, coming from our completely cracked house. Then it broke into pieces.
Suppose I took your car? I could get there by dawn. Do you think he thinks about me? Do you think he’s thinking about me right now?
RAYMOND
Me, too. I borrowed other voices, too. Hemingway’s, Chekhov’s … I took myself for a ventriloquist. And now I’ve turned into a puppet. My editor’s puppet. He speaks through me. He swallows my words and spits them out in another form. The result is I’ve become very cautious. I have to start writing again, but I don’t want to end up in his hands. I feel blocked. I don’t dare put a single word on paper for fear he’ll grab hold of it.
Why are you getting dressed? Why don’t you stay?
You’ve got “a story to write”? That’s funny. I feel as though I’ve lived through this scene before. With the roles reversed.
I’d rather not wind up in somebody else’s fiction—I’d prefer to remain my own character.
Good thing she beat it. A little while longer and she would’ve drunk up all my bourbon.
MARIANNE
This is just the beginning, you know, Claire. I feel it’s going to catch on, it’s going to grow and spread. No, not like mold. I’m serious. Listen.
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