Shriver

by Chris Belden

  Chapter Eighteen

  The applause seemed to last forever.

  Shriver, his tongue as dry as cardboard, the glass of water long empty, stood with his hands gripping the sides of the podium as if he might otherwise fall backward. Before him roiled a sea of clapping hands and upturned faces. Edsel Nixon applauded. Delta Malarkey-Jones applauded. Even Detective Krampus applauded. Jack Blunt was clapping, also, and Mr. Cheadem, the agent, smiled broadly as he brought his meaty palms together. Still, Shriver avoided glancing over at Simone. What if she was not clapping? What if she was clapping only halfheartedly, her eyes cast down toward the floor?

  As the applause finally started to thin, T. Wätzczesnam appeared at his side, a tight grin on his face.

  “Well done, old boy,” the cowboy said into his ear. Leading with his elbow, he edged his way to the microphone. “Thank you, Mr. Shriver,” he announced. “That was truly wonderful. Now, if there are any questions . . .”

  Dozens of hands shot up into the air. T. happily took charge. “Yes?” he said, pointing to a young woman in the third row.

  “That was great,” the woman said. “So different in tone from your novel. It’s as if it were written by a different person!”

  “Thanks,” Shriver said. “It was.”

  “What have you been doing these past twenty years?”

  “Not much.” There was some laughter. More hands shot up.

  “Is this the beginning of a new novel?” a man asked.

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” Shriver said. “Maybe it is.”

  “Do you write your first draft on a computer or by hand?” someone asked.

  “I don’t own a computer,” Shriver said to the amazed crowd.

  He answered their questions for almost an hour, and at the fifty-nine-minute mark he began to relax. He was getting away with this. These people still thought he was the real Shriver. He could say almost anything and they would buy it.

  Finally, T. stepped in and said, “We have time for just one more question.”

  An arm, sheathed in black leather, rose up from the throng. “I have a question.”

  He stood up—Vlad, the waiter/student. He was dressed all in black, and Shriver now made the connection: it was Vlad who’d been following him everywhere. His heart pinballed around inside his rib cage.

  “Your story,” Vlad said, “is about a man deserted by his wife, who also takes their young son, and the man’s distress at the loss.”

  He paused. After a moment, Professor Wätzczesnam stepped up to the microphone. “We all heard the story, young man. Do you have a question?”

  “I’m wondering,” Vlad said, after some thought, “how autobiographical is this story?”

  The room became absolutely quiet but for the soft hum of the microphone.

  “How true is it?” Vlad went on, as if to fill the void.

  Shriver looked at all the faces in the room, all the eyes focused solely on him. He looked at Simone in the front row, who seemed to be holding her breath. Then he glanced down at the story he’d written, and the words were as clear as the minute hairs on the back of his cat-scratched hand: The water mark appeared on my ceiling on the rainy day my wife walked out on me.

  The audience started to stir, waiting for Shriver’s answer. Finally, he leaned into the microphone and said, “Any good writing is true. Even when it’s made up.”

  A few audience members murmured, then there came the sound of general approval. Simone grinned and T. clapped Shriver on the back. Vlad nodded and sat down, and Shriver thought, Yes, perhaps I really am a writer.

  T. approached the microphone and announced, “Mr. Shriver will now be signing books, so you can get a little one-on-one time with him out in the lobby.” There was more applause, and Shriver smiled and waved until the audience members finally stood and started filing out of the ballroom.

  “Well, Shriver,” the cowboy said, “you are certainly Big Man on Campus.”

  “You really think so?” He looked around for Simone, who had left her seat.

  “There’s a boatload of people out there waiting for you,” Edsel Nixon said from the bottom of the platform stairs.

  “Have you seen Simone?”

  “I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.”

  Out in the lobby, a long line snaked around the corner, each person clutching a copy of Goat Time to his or her chest. Many others mingled around the book table. But Simone was not among them.

  “This way,” Edsel said, escorting Shriver over to a small table and chair.

  “Mr. Shriver!”

  Donald Cheadem rushed over, accompanied by Jack Blunt.

  “Well done,” the agent said, grabbing Shriver’s hand and pumping it. “If only my father had been here to see that!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Listen—since I took over the business, and since I’ve been the one depositing your checks for the past ten years, I feel I can technically lay claim to being your agent. And I would love to get together and discuss this story of yours. Is there more?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, I’m certain we could get a significant book deal, if there is. And then there’s the ancillary rights—”

  “Ancillary?”

  “If we play our cards right we might even get you on Oprah.”

  “Really?” Shriver said, getting excited. “I love Oprah!”

  “Let’s figure it out, shall we? Can we meet for dinner?”

  “Tonight?”

  “No good? How about breakfast first thing tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Or we could meet back East. At my office. Or at your apartment. Wherever you’d like.”

  “Yes. That would be fine.”

  “Excellent! Here’s my card.” He handed Shriver a business card: Cheadem Agency, Donald Cheadem Jr. “You promise to call me?”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh!” Cheadem laughed. “You don’t have a telephone, do you? Well, we’ll work something out.” He pumped Shriver’s hand again before starting off.

  “What just happened?” Shriver asked.

  “Who said life doesn’t have a second act?” Edsel Nixon said.

  “Well,” Jack Blunt said, lingering behind, “I suppose I’m on the long list of boneheads who owe you an apology.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’d like to make it up to you, if I could. How about that interview?”

  “You’ve got your story, Mr. Blunt. Let’s not get too greedy.”

  “I’ll pin you down one of these days, Shriver.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  The reporter started off.

  “Oh, Mr. Blunt,” Shriver said. He pointed to the man’s cockeyed toupee. Blunt reached up and adjusted it, then followed Mr. Cheadem out the door.

  Shriver went on to sign books for more than an hour, only half listening as each person complimented him and asked that he make the inscription out to Frank or David or Jane. He mechanically opened the books and signed his name with an increasingly indecipherable flourish, all while thinking only of Simone.

  The second-to-last person in line handed him a copy of Goat Time.

  “Please make it out to Caleb,” the tall man with a cap and bushy mustache said.

  “Caleb?”

  The man winked and pulled the mustache partially from his face. The other Shriver!

  “What are you doing here?” Shriver glanced across the lobby to where Detective Krampus stood chatting, notebook in hand, with Gonquin Smithee.

  “I might ask you the same thing,” the man replied.

  “I have no idea what you mean,” Shriver said, realizing he did not sound very convincing.

  The man leaned down and said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to make any trouble. I just wanted you to know there’s no hard feelings.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Let’s just say the better man won,” the imposter said. “You’re pretty good at this.” He
opened the book to the title page. “Your signature, sir.”

  Shriver wrote, To Caleb, and signed his name.

  As he went to shut the book, he came upon the book’s epigraph, two italicized lines alone on the page:

  Now that I’m enlightened, I’m just as miserable as ever.

  —Japanese monk

  “Thanks,” the man said when Shriver handed back the book, and he quickly headed off.

  Shriver stood and tried to get the attention of Krampus—The imposter, he wanted to shout, he’s getting away!—but the detective was still busy talking with Gonquin. The fake Shriver had disappeared into the crowd anyway, and what did it really matter?

  He turned back to see one last person in line: Vlad. The boy smiled bashfully, and seemed so sincere, his face so open, that Shriver wondered how he could have assigned such dark motives to his actions.

  “So, Vlad,” Shriver said, “that was you following me around?”

  Vlad nodded reluctantly, as if admitting to a misdemeanor. “Did you get the story I left for you?”

  “I did,” Shriver said. “Twice.”

  “Sorry. I just wanted to—I don’t know—connect.”

  “Connect?” Shriver said. “I thought you were out to kill me.”

  “Kill you?”

  “I know. Crazy, isn’t it?”

  “I just wanted to meet my father,” Vlad said. “And show him my work.”

  “Yes, and about your story . . .” Shriver shook his head, as if to get rid of a ringing sound in his ears. “Wait. Did you say—?”

  “It’s true, Mr. Shriver,” Detective Krampus said, appearing from behind the student. “I never was able to track down your ex-wife, but I did manage to locate some relatives of hers, and though they were reluctant to reveal it, they told me your son was enrolled at the college here.”

  He gestured toward Vlad, who grinned and swayed on his long legs.

  “Vlad is your son?” Edsel Nixon, suddenly beside Shriver, asked. “What a crazy coincidence.”

  “Not really,” Krampus said. “Young Vladimir here was on the conference committee. He was the first to float Mr. Shriver’s name as a guest writer. And that’s where they got the photograph—from Vlad.”

  Shriver stared at the boy. He could detect a vague resemblance to his younger self. Tall and thin, with jet-black hair and a prominent nose. Is that why he’d looked so familiar?

  Then it came to Shriver: This was not his son. This was the son of the real Shriver!

  He tried to speak, but the words collided in his throat.

  “This must be a very emotional moment for you,” Krampus said.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “We understand,” Krampus said. Then, to Edsel Nixon: “Perhaps we should leave these two alone for a moment.”

  He and Edsel wandered toward the far end of the lobby.

  Shriver and Vlad stood several feet apart, each of them looking anywhere but at the other.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Shriver managed to whisper.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it,” Vlad said. “At the restaurant, the readings, after the writing class—it just never seemed to be the right time.”

  Shriver’s eyes wandered the lobby as if searching there for another way to tell this young man the truth. But there was only one way.

  “Son,” he said, and immediately regretted using the word. “I mean, Vlad—the thing is, I’m not your father.”

  “I know what you’re saying.”

  “You do?”

  “But just because you weren’t there for me when I was growing up doesn’t mean you’re not my dad.”

  “No. I mean, that’s not what I mean—”

  “It’s okay. I don’t blame you.”

  “But . . .”

  While Shriver cast about for what to say next, Vlad stepped up and wrapped his long arms around him.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  Shriver’s arms hung limp at his sides while the boy squeezed him tightly.

  “It’s funny,” Vlad said. “At first I wasn’t convinced you were my father. You just didn’t act the way I thought he’d act.”

  “How did you think your father would act?”

  “Like an asshole. A big shot. Actually, like that other guy who pretended to be you. He fit the bill pretty good.”

  “Maybe he is your father.”

  “I considered that. But then I decided that, even if he was, I’d rather you were my dad.”

  “And if I’m not?”

  “Oh, you are. I’m convinced of it.”

  “I’m very . . . touched, Vlad.”

  “That was a beautiful story you read, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you’re right. It was the truth.”

  At the far end of the lobby, Simone emerged from a side door, accompanied by Mr. Wimple.

  “So,” Vlad said, “have you read my story?”

  “Your story?” Shriver watched Simone say good-bye to the college president, who then exited the building.

  “ ‘The Imposter,’ ” Vlad said.

  Simone’s face betrayed no emotion. If she’d just been fired, she wasn’t letting on.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Vlad. I’ve been kind of . . . distracted. But I promise I will read it.”

  “I really want to know what you think.”

  “Of course.”

  Simone saw him and waved, her face still impassive.

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you at the party,” Vlad said.

  “Party?”

  “The end-of-conference bash.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Vlad hugged him again and whispered in his ear: “Accept who you are.” Then he loped off, his long legs striding confidently across the lobby. Shriver watched him go and wondered how on earth—and when—he would tell the boy the truth.

  “Are you okay?” Simone asked.

  “Life just keeps getting stranger and stranger,” Shriver said.

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Why? What did Wimple say?”

  “He said there’s a new position about to open up in the English department.”

  “Simone,” Shriver said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “This is all my fault.”

  “You don’t understand. He didn’t fire me.”

  “He didn’t? Then . . . ?”

  “He wants to hire you.”

  “Me?”

  “We need a writing professor.”

  “Yeah, but me?”

  “Why not you?”

  “What do I know about writing?”

  “Just everything.”

  “But . . .”

  “You don’t want the job?” She looked crestfallen.

  Just when he thought things couldn’t get crazier. After three days of wanting desperately to escape this labyrinth, he was now being drawn farther into it.

  “I’m just so surprised,” he said.

  “Just don’t say no yet,” Simone told him. “That’s all I ask.”

  “Okay.”

  She smiled and grabbed his hand. “Come on. We have one more party to go to.”

  Shriver didn’t move.

  “What’s wrong?” Simone asked.

  “I don’t know if I can take another party.”

  She laughed. “I understand. No party, then.”

  Shriver saw a promising turn in the labyrinth. “Thank you.”

  “So what shall we do instead?”

  DAY / FOUR

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Shriver woke up, he knew exactly where he was. There was the bright stripe of sunlight between the thick curtains. There, on the wall, hung the painting of a cow in a field. From off in the distance came the now-familiar howl of a freight train rolling across the prairie. He lay in the hotel bed and smiled, remembering his dream. Simone had been here beside him, her skin smooth and warm and lightly filmed with sweat. Her head lay on his
shoulder, her yellow hair bunched up on the pillow.

  “I remember now,” he had said to her in the dream.

  “Remember what?”

  “Who I am.”

  “Who are you?”

  That was when he woke up. He couldn’t remember what he was about to say to her, but he knew now that it didn’t matter. The dream spoke of other, more important things. He sighed and shut his eyes. His flight was scheduled for later this morning. Simone would pick him up and take him to the airport. She was still waiting for his answer about the teaching job.

  Last night they had gone out to dinner, just the two of them. No parties, no whiskey, no Shriver fans, no drama. It was the first time he’d really relaxed in days. He’d let go of the need to tell her the truth about himself, that he was not the real Shriver. He had tried to tell Professor Wätzczesnam, Delta Malarkey-Jones, Edsel Nixon, and no one had believed him. On the contrary, Horace Wimple had extended a formal invitation to join the college faculty, Mr. Cheadem wanted to meet to discuss future projects, and Vlad seemed content to have the father he’d always wanted. He might even go on Oprah! As far as Shriver could tell, whether or not he was the real Shriver seemed irrelevant now. If he’d gained anything from this ridiculous charade, in fact, it was the sense that he really was a writer. Maybe he could even do it again, write more stories, or even a novel. He could base it on this very experience: a sad, lonely man is mistakenly invited to a prestigious conference, where he falls in love with the event’s organizer. He could name his protagonist after himself, just like the real Shriver did. But this novel would end happily, with the beautiful professor and the imposter united.

  At dinner, Simone had done her best to make this a reality. She spoke of the charms of campus life, the thrill of teaching, the lure of various local attractions.

  “What about the mosquitoes?” he asked.

  “That’s only for a week or so out of the year.”

  “And the twenty-below winters?”

  “You get used to it.”

  He could see that she knew he was only pretending to resist.

  “Where would I live?”

  “I already have a place for you.”

  “I have a cat.”

  “Oh. I’m allergic to cats,” she said. Then, “But I suppose they have pills for that.”

  She told him how much he would be paid. It wasn’t so much, she explained, considering that he was such a celebrity, and that his teaching there would increase the college’s profile dramatically, but it was all the college could afford. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing that he would be making money on the back of some other man—the real Shriver, wherever he was—but the feeling did not last long.