Shriver

by Chris Belden

So the real Shriver was divorced too, Shriver thought. Not so surprising, really, especially given Wätzczesnam’s description of a writer’s marriage.

  “Then again,” T. continued, “from that ring on your finger, I see you may have found someone else. Perhaps that’s why you haven’t written in so long. Tell us: have you been going to the ballet and Little League games?”

  “Not at all,” Shriver said, covering his wedding band. “I just haven’t—”

  “You were the real McCoy, Shriver. Few men have written with such fury and precision. I imagine your pen on fire. What doused the flame, if not a woman?”

  Shriver did not know what had doused the real Shriver’s flame any more than he knew what had doused his own. He hadn’t thought of those days in a long time, and when he did he saw only the water mark above his bed—all other images and memories dissolved.

  Again, he noticed a blur of black over near the trees. Perhaps some kind of animal, a beaver or a river rat, had clambered up from the water. He got to his feet and stretched. This sudden alteration in perspective gave him a different angle on the trees, and he was able now to see a figure dressed in black running in the opposite direction.

  “Did you see that, Edsel?”

  “See what, sir?”

  Another mosquito, this one more diminutive, landed on Shriver’s hand. He slapped it away.

  Chapter Eight

  “Shriver!”

  Jack Blunt ran up to him in the lobby outside the Union ballroom, his eyes bulging with excitement.

  “I just spoke to your Mr. Cheadem!” He was so animated that his peltlike toupee had slipped a bit, exposing the pink skin above his left ear.

  “Who?”

  “Your agent!”

  Shriver’s stomach went icy cold.

  “He says you two haven’t communicated in years. He had no idea you were even here until he saw my article.”

  “He saw the photograph?”

  “All he does anymore is deposit your royalty payments, which I imagine are substantial.”

  If anyone’s breath at the conference reeked more of alcohol than Shriver’s own, it was Jack Blunt’s. Shriver could have done with a drink himself right about now.

  “Anyway,” the reporter continued, “all is not lost. He’ll be here tomorrow in time for your reading.”

  “What?!”

  “This is going to be one hell of a story!” Blunt said as he strutted off.

  Shriver made his way to the restroom and into a stall, where he sat on the toilet and gulped down a mouthful of whiskey. There was no hope now of getting through this thing intact. The genuine Shriver’s agent would expose him as a fraud, and he would have to leave town with his head hanging low. There was nothing to do now but go straight to Simone and confess.

  He took another deep gulp, went to the mirror, and stared at himself. “Imposter,” he said. Then he went out to the ballroom.

  Simone stood alone at the front of the room. He had to tell her. Perhaps his honesty would provide him with a sliver of honor in her eyes. But just as Shriver neared her, a young woman—apparently a graduate student—mounted the steps to the dais. Simone saw Shriver coming and placed a finger to her lips, warning him to be silent. Meanwhile, T. Wätzczesnam and Edsel Nixon waved to him from the third row.

  “ ‘Stately, kindly, lordly friend / Condescend / Here to sit by me.’ ”

  “Swinburne,” came Edsel Nixon’s whispered response.

  Shriver tiptoed up the aisle and squeezed in between T. and Nixon just as the young woman onstage ostentatiously coughed into the microphone. Simone moved to her usual seat in the front, off to the side. Rarely raising her head from the sheet of paper from which she read, the graduate student began her introduction with a history of her own love of literature—“of words,” as she put it—and then moved on to her studies here at the college. Prior to coming here, she said, she had never written anything remotely creative, but under the tutelage of various professors—all of whom she named, including Simone—she had blossomed into a person who could hardly stop herself from writing. She wrote from the moment she woke up to the moment she went to sleep. She wrote on notepads, on napkins, in the margins of newspapers and books; she wrote during classes when she was supposed to be listening; she wrote during movies. One time, short of any paper at all, she wrote on the walls of her apartment. She was even writing right now, as she spoke, she said, though it was all in her head. (My goodness, Shriver thought—if that’s the dedication required of an author, no wonder they’re all so eccentric!) Finally, after ten minutes of talking about herself, the student found her way to the person she was introducing and briefly mentioned that the author was “probably” the same kind of writer as she—“someone who has never stopped, someone born to write, a bottomless well of creativity. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Zebra Amphetamine.”

  The writer’s long, metallic earrings swayed with each step up the stairs to the stage. She wore a straight knee-length dress that clung to her thin frame as she walked, as if it were pressed there by a strong wind. After the applause had died down she stood silently at the podium for a moment, her face composed into a serious expression.

  Shriver glanced over at Simone, who watched Ms. Amphetamine intently, then something caught his eye: a flash of color over by the entrance. It was Krampus in his electric-red suit coat. The detective appeared to be waving at him, his short arm flapping up and down. Shriver pointed at his own chest and mouthed, Me? The detective nodded vigorously and motioned for him to come out to the lobby.

  Meanwhile, Ms. Amphetamine shuffled some papers on the podium, preparing to launch into her reading. But when Shriver stood and started toward the door, the writer paused to watch him make his way across the ballroom. Everyone else seemed to be watching as well. The room went completely silent except for the sound of his footsteps and someone’s nervous cough. Shriver stooped his shoulders, as if he could make himself less visible, but every eye was on him. He turned back to see Zebra Amphetamine charting his progress. He shrugged and pointed to the doorway, trying to communicate to her that he had been summoned away. Unfortunately, Detective Krampus could not verify this fact, having retreated into the lobby. Shriver continued walking for what seemed like hours, the doorway always several steps away, the echoes of his footsteps growing louder and louder. He glanced over toward Simone, who observed him with an expression of disenchantment. But what could he do? He’d been beckoned by a police official! He felt sweat roll down his spine and pool at the top of his underwear. Then he remembered that his back pocket was bulging with the pint of whiskey, the bottle’s neck exposed to all. He could almost feel Simone’s eyes on his right buttock, her suspicion that he was a hedonistic drunkard, like all the others, confirmed by what she saw there. Near the ballroom door, along with several other people who had been unable to find a vacant seat, stood the pigtailed Cassandra, who also looked disappointed, her arms folded across her chest like a judge about to pronounce a sentence. It was as if masks had been handed out, there were so many long faces in the room. He was failing everyone today. But then, from her place in an aisle seat near the door, Delta Malarkey-Jones smiled and gave a little wave with the corn dog in her hand. Thank God she remained on his side. Not that it mattered. The real Shriver’s agent would be here tomorrow to unmask him. Perhaps he should just keep walking, not even confess to Simone. He could step outside, hail a cab, ride straight to the airport, and take the next flight out of here. As he neared the doorway, he saw that damn photograph flashing across the large screen on the back wall. There sat the real Shriver, in front of those curtains, smiling contentedly. In a flash, he recalled a long-ago birthday. He had been drinking champagne with his wife and some friends. She had drawn the curtains against the glare of the afternoon sun. He remembered how utterly satisfied he had felt that day. Recently married, he had friends, he felt weightless from the champagne, he smelled the aroma of curried vegetables coming from the kitchen, jazz played on the stereo. It
was one of those extraordinary rare times when he felt happy without dilution, as if there were nothing wrong anywhere in the world and never would be. But that was so long ago, it might as well have been a dream.

  Finally, he entered the quiet of the carpeted lobby. The detective stood near a window.

  “I’ve been reading your book, Mr. Shriver,” he said, waving a copy of Goat Time. “You certainly have a singular outlook on life.”

  “I hope this will be quick, Detective.”

  “Of course. So, tell me—do you remember any more about last night’s debauchery?”

  “I don’t know which debauchery you’re referring to.”

  “How many debaucheries were there?” Krampus asked with a girlish chuckle. Shriver noticed for the first time that the detective wore a wispy goatee, so thin that it blended in with his pale skin. “Come now, Mr. Shriver. I’ve been interviewing the hotel staff, including Miss, uh . . .” He consulted his notebook. “Miss Sue St. Marie Debussy.”

  “One of the twins?”

  “Oh, are they twins?” Krampus asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Was he serious? Shriver wondered.

  “Anyway,” the detective continued, “Miss Debussy says that Ms. Smithee left a note for you earlier in the evening.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. She wanted me to join her in the hotel bar.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was tired.”

  “Not too tired to throw a party in your room.”

  “That wasn’t my idea,” Shriver protested.

  “Really?” Krampus scribbled something in his notebook. “Now, refresh my memory. Who was the last person to leave this party, that you recall?”

  Shriver had seen enough police programs on television to know that detectives will ask questions over and over again, hoping to trip people up. The problem, as he saw it, was that even the most innocent of characters will get confused if you ask them the same question enough times.

  “The last person I saw leave,” Shriver answered carefully, “was perhaps Mr. Nixon. Or it may have been the lady next door—Ms. Malarkey-Jones.”

  “And Ms. Smithee was not with you in your room at that time?”

  Shriver pictured the poet passed out on the bed. Maybe it hadn’t been a dream. “If she was in the room,” he said, “she must have been under the bed, because I did not see her.”

  “Interesting,” the detective said, scribbling something into his notebook.

  “And how is Ms. Labio holding up?” Shriver asked.

  “She is in her hotel room, amply supplied with sedatives.”

  “I see. Well, Detective, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course. But first . . .” He held out the copy of Goat Time and his pen. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

  Is this what it’s like to be a writer? Constantly signing books for people? Shriver took the pen and opened the book to the title page.

  “It’s an interesting story,” Krampus said as Shriver tried to decide what to inscribe. To Det. Krampus, he scribbled. “The possible murder of the wife is particularly fascinating.”

  Best wishes . . .

  “Which reminds me,” the detective said, “I’ve been trying to locate Mrs. Shriver.”

  The pen slipped, creating a long line of ink across the page.

  “Mrs. Shriver?”

  “Yes. But I can’t seem to track her down.”

  Shriver composed himself and returned the pen to the page. “That could be because you are under the impression that she remains ‘Mrs. Shriver.’ ”

  “Oh? Has she taken another name?”

  “I wouldn’t know. What does she have to do with this, anyway?”

  “Just following a hunch.”

  Shriver signed the author’s name and handed the book over. “There you are.”

  “Thank you. Oh—and please remain available, just in case I need to speak with you again.”

  Shriver turned to go, but, remembering the pint of whiskey in his back pocket, and not wishing the detective to see what everyone in the ballroom had just seen, he backed away until Krampus began to make some notes in his little notebook. At that point Shriver turned and ran smack into the closed ballroom doors, his nose making first contact, and then, a split second later, the toe of his shoe. There was a loud bang and the door rattled for a few seconds as Shriver stepped back and put his hand up to his face. The pain radiated out from his nose to his eyes and ears. Exacerbating the sting was the knowledge that, inside the ballroom, seven hundred people were staring at the closed door that, obviously, some fool had just run into.

  Krampus burst out laughing. “I just adore slapstick!”

  Shriver headed for the restroom. Inside, he looked in the mirror. His nose throbbed red but was not bleeding. He splashed some water on his face and took a swig of whiskey. It bothered him that Krampus was trying to track down his ex-wife. He felt somehow violated. Then he remembered that it wasn’t his own ex-wife Krampus was looking for, but the ex-wife of the real Shriver! He laughed at his own stupidity.

  On the other hand, the real Shriver’s agent was at this very moment making plans to come here, at which point he would be exposed as a fraud. But he didn’t care anymore. His face ached, his rear end was a bruised mess, he was half-drunk and unable to read his own story. It would be a relief to confess and simply go home to Mr. Bojangles.

  He returned to the lobby, his nose pulsing, and collapsed into a chair beside the ballroom doors. From inside he heard the sound of hearty applause. A moment later, the doors flew open, and a noisy crowd made its way into the lobby. Immediately, a long line formed at the book table, where people plunked down their money for copies of Zebra Amphetamine’s story collections. A few moments later the author emerged from the ballroom, accompanied by Simone and a nimbus of fans praising her reading in loud voices.

  Zebra sat down at a small table to sign books. Simone stood nearby, gauging the success of the enterprise with a beaming face. She even smiled at Shriver.

  “Shriver!”

  T. Wätzczesnam came striding out of the ballroom.

  “I’ve seen the future of literary fiction,” he declared, “and it belongs to young Nefertiti over there.” He plopped down with a sigh in the next chair. “Honest to God, our day is over. If you’re not young and black and female, you have no hope of getting a book published in this country. And on the basis of that reading, it’s just as well. These kids from the ghetto have a fresh voice that’s been missing. It’s loud, it’s angry, it’s real. People are tired of our dyspeptic white men wandering the suburbs. Oh, ‘superfluous lags the veteran on the stage,’ Shriver. We old white men are done for.”

  Shriver rubbed the tip of his tender nose.

  “Hey, where’d you run off to, anyway?” T. asked. “Don’t tell me it’s that irritable bowel syndrome. Goddamn if everyone I know doesn’t suffer from that bizarre affliction.”

  “It wasn’t that.”

  “Well, you sure hustled off in a hurry.”

  “It was that detective.”

  “Krampus? What did that little homunculus want?”

  “More questions.”

  “Do you need a lawyer, Shriver?”

  “Lord, no.”

  “Because I know a good one. A real barracuda.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Sometimes you need to shoot back just to let them know you mean business.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Of course, my man deals mostly with DUIs and that sort of thing. I’m not sure how he would perform in a more serious criminal case.”

  “There is no criminal case. He was simply asking questions.”

  “Of course. Still . . .”

  The two men sat there watching Zebra Amphetamine autograph copy after copy of her books.

  “Are you going to the reception?” the cowboy asked.

  “I suppose
so. Where is it?”

  “Over at the museum. At least there will be booze. Speaking of which.” He removed his pint bottle and took a long swig. “Let’s track down our Mr. Nixon,” he said. “He can ferry us over there in his Jeepster.”

  Chapter Nine

  The current exhibition at the local museum of art was entitled Slaughter: A Meditation on Carnivorous Consumption and featured wall-sized color videos of various farm animals in the process of being butchered—a steer getting bashed on the head while gripped in a vise operated by men in cowboy hats; a hog hoisted by its hind hooves into the air and sliced from chin to genitals with a long, sharp blade—all projected above tables laden with trays of pigs in a blanket.

  “I don’t know how you can eat that,” Zebra Amphetamine said. “You’re swallowing the murdered flesh of a sentient creature.”

  “There’s nothing else to eat,” Edsel Nixon explained, waving toward the empty cheese plate and the tossed-out stems of strawberries.

  “I’d rather starve to death,” Zebra huffed. “I’m a firm believer in evolution. I think it’s our job to move the human race forward and out of the carnivorous age.”

  “Hear hear!” T. Wätzczesnam cried, a dough-encased wiener held high in his callused hand. “I have loads of faith in your generation.”

  “If it were up to guys like you, we’d still be swinging from trees by our tails.”

  “Wouldn’t that be fun!” T. said.

  Shriver watched Simone standing among a herd of well-wishers and students over near the video loop of a headless, blood-spouting chicken hopping around a farmyard. She seemed so pleased by the reading that she may even have forgiven him for so rudely walking out.

  Though he had considered confessing to Simone his real identity, Shriver was now wavering. He and T. had polished off a bottle or so of wine, and the booze, it seemed—as well as the sight of Simone looking so happy—had fortified his resolve to remain incognito. At least until Mr. Cheadem arrived tomorrow.

  He watched her excuse herself from the group and enter one of several gallery alcoves.