‘Well, that’s nice of you, Faye.’
‘You’ve turned out to be one helluva barrister. Even Dad says so. Anyone who could make that dirty little book look as pure as driven snow deserves the Osborn Admiration Award as well as the Nobel Prize. In fact, Dad was so impressed, I believe he’s almost ready to reverse his decision about you.’
‘That would be generous of him.’
‘Mike, I’ll tell you why I’m calling. I think we’re both big enough to forget what we said to each other in anger. I thought I’d give a little party for you, but then I thought, Why wait for anything so formal? Why not tonight? You must be in a celebrating mood. Anyway, I rather hoped you’d be free for dinner tonight.’
Barrett heard the key in the lock and saw the front door open, to show him Maggie’s shining face.
He looked down at the telephone mouthpiece and then brought it closer. ‘I’m sorry, Faye. I have another engagement. I’m afraid I’m going to be pretty well occupied from now on.’
‘I see. It’s like that. Well, I just thought I’d take a chance and find out. Au revoir, Mike, and maybe we’ll run into each other oneday.’ ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Faye.’ He looked up. ‘Hello, Maggie,’ he said.
There had been the champagne, and they had both been too tired and happy for more than a simple early dinner out, and now they were driving back through Oakwood toward West Los Angeles.
Mike Barrett slowed his car on Center Boulevard, then turned it into Third Street and guided it into the first empty parking space. Opening the passenger door ard helping Maggie out, he said, ‘Let’s take a little walk before turning in.’
He led her toward a furniture display in the nearest store, and then they strolled hand in hand past the other stores, window-shopping.
At Ben Fremont’s Book Emporium, they stopped. The main display window was piled high again with copies of The Seven Minutes, each pile appearing like nothing less than a massive bouquet of flowers. Inside, the store was brightly lit, and Ben Fremont was at his old stand behind the cash register, and there were customers and readers.
From the entrance two young men in leather jackets emerged, and one was pulling a book out of a bag, and Barrett could see that it was The Seven Minutes. As they passed behind him, Barrett could hear the one with the book saying to his companion, ‘Yeah, and besides that I heard there’s even a scene where he goes down on her. No kidding.’
No kidding.
Another couple had come up beside them, halting to study the window display, a middle-aged, respectably dressed couple. “There it is,’ she said. ‘That’s the one that’s been in all the papers. They say it’s really something. And don’t go making that face. Your daughter could already tell this writer a thing or two. Kids nowadays, it’s changing, and you know it. Come on, be a sport, let’s get a copy just for kicks.’
For kicks.
Barrett watched them enter the store. He felt the tiniest ping of concern. It would be read, as other books would be read, for the wrong reasons. There were decent books, and there were indecent readers. But then his concern evaporated. No one, in an open society, following the rules of that society, had the right to come between an idea and its audience.
He remembered a brief of the Authors’ League of America: The contents of a book - obscene or unobscene - only becomes known to those who choose to read it, or to continue reading it when they come upon objectionable portions. That choice is not legitimately the concern of other citizens, who are not compelled to read objectionable work, nor should it be the concern of the state. He remembered a brief by Charles Rembar, another attorney who had fought censorship to preserve the word: Books provide a vehicle for the transmission of thought that is not matched by other forms of expression… Other forms of expression may be as good or better for entertainment, excitement, or provoking emotional response, but the printed word remains the most important medium for the communication between mind and mind on which our civilization rests. Any exercise of governmental power that hampers the free circulation of books therefore threatens our society.
A book was not a wad of paper. A book was a mind, a person, many persons, our society, civilization itself.
He told himself, In the end, it is not art that must be changed and improved, but people.
It was always people. To have educated people was to have air, free air.
He glanced at the books in the window one last time.
Not guilty.
He felt Maggie’s hand on his arm.
‘Would you like to go inside?’ she asked.
‘Not tonight,’ he said. T think I can leave Cathleen and her bed at last. I think I’d prefer to spend my time from here on in with Maggie.’ He felt her arm slip gently inside his, and they began to walk back to the car.
He said, ‘You know, Maggie, we’ve had our seven minutes. I was wondering about what came after.’
“The eighth minute?’
‘And the ninth and tenth and all the millions of minutes of a person’s life that follow. They count, too. As much. Maybe more.’
‘Yes, they do.’
‘Wouldn’t you care to know what they’d be like-for you and someone who loved you?’
‘I would. But it would have to be someone who loved me as much as I loved him, as much as Cassie and Jadway loved each other. Except, in, my case, no more minutes, only infinity, forever.’
‘Well, your case is a tough one, Maggie, but you know what? I’d like to try it.’
‘Would you really?’
He smiled down at her. ‘Maggie,’ he said, ‘for better or for worse, you’ve got yourself a lawyer.’
(1969) The Seven Minutes Page 75