“I get ten percent,” Rosanne said.
“Really?” This was from Harriet, who was smiling at Amanda.
Amanda reached down from the counter toward her. “May I have your forms? I’m seeing Mr. Thatcher in the morning.”
“Sure.” Harriet closed the folders and passed them to Cassy, who in turn handed them to Amanda. “Amanda,” Harriet added, “Cassy and I thought it might be helpful if we came to Rosanne’s hearing too. Mr. Thatcher said it was a good idea, being mothers ourselves.”
Rosanne looked at Harriet. “You’d do that?”
“Honey,” Harriet said, leaning across the table to give Rosanne’s hand a squeeze, “we want you to get Jason, but we also don’t want to lose you.” Cassy murmured her agreement.
Rosanne looked down to the floor.
Cassy took a breath. “And we need to talk about where you’re going to live,” she said.
“Yes,” Amanda said.
Rosanne looked up, eyes glistening slightly.
“Mommy!” came the cry from the other room.
“Coming,” Rosanne called, up on her feet in an instant.
After she left the room, Cassy said, “I’ve thought about having them stay with me temporarily. I’ve got the guest room—”
“I’ve thought about it too,” Amanda said. “But I don’t know what’s going to happen with Mrs. Goldblum. She’s going to require someone to be with her for a few weeks after she is released from the hospital, and I was rather hoping she would stay here with me.”
“I’d like to say she could—” Harriet began. “Well—wait a minute.”
Both women looked at her.
“Where is Mrs. Goldblum’s apartment?”
“On the comer of 91st Street,” Amanda said.
“Well,” Harriet said slowly, “if she’s not going to be there for a while, would she consider letting Rosanne...?”
Cassy’s head whipped around to Amanda. “Would she, Amanda? It would give us some time to find Rosanne an apartment.”
“Yes, I think she would,” Amanda said. “And you know,” she added, pushing her hair back over her shoulder, “you’ve given me an idea.”
A slow smile was emerging on Cassy’s face. “Are you thinking the same thing I’m thinking?”
Amanda looked at her, one eyebrow rising.
“What?” Harriet said.
Cassy turned to her. “Amanda and I are thinking that maybe Mrs. Goldblum might want someone to live with her now.”
“She has three bedrooms,” Amanda said.
Harriet thought a minute. “But would Rosanne—”
“Leave Rosanne to me,” Amanda said.
Herself came in at that moment. “The cat’s hiding under the couch,” Rosanne announced. “A major trauma.”
The women laughed.
“I don’t know how I’m gonna get him to leave that cat,” Rosanne continued, sitting down.
The other three women smiled, exchanging looks with one another.
33
HOWARD MAKES
A PRESENTATION AT
THE EDITORIAL MEETING
On this fine Tuesday morning in August, Howard walked into the conference room for the editorial meeting, touched Patricia MacMannis on the shoulder (a prearranged signal to let her know that Tom wasn’t coming this morning—they had finally broken up) and took a seat next to Harriet Wyatt at the far end of the table. Sperry arrived a little after nine-thirty and sat down at the head of the table. Harrison Dreiden, sitting on Sperry’s left, was the only one who said good morning to him.
One by one, editors presented the book projects they currently had in on submission. Layton Sinclair talked for ten minutes about a new angle on “The Big Bang Theory” before Sperry threw a pencil at him to shut him up. On to Patricia, who reported that she had won the auction she had been in the day before, and also that she had signed up Amanda Miller for I, Catherine, world rights included. (“Now that’s the kind of banging we want,” Sperry said to Layton, prompting Howard and Harriet to look at each other.)
Carol unwisely got into a fight with Sperry over the new Daniel Rembrois cookbook being over four hundred pages long. He said the length was ridiculous; she said they published cookbooks at G & G, not menus; he said he would cancel the book before publishing it at that length; she said they were combining print runs with Book-of-the-Month and Michael Joseph in England, so if he wanted to get sued, go ahead; and Sperry said he would look into it and, in the meantime, he wished Carol would get him a cup of coffee from the wagon in the corner of the room. “Black, no sugar.”
Carol—after throwing her pad and pen down on the table—got it for him.
It was now Howard’s turn.
“Actually, the project I want to share with you is not a book project but, rather, a report I have done to show how I am going to make a great deal of money for G & G this year and every year.”
“That is not appropriate for this meeting,” Sperry said. “Do you have any book projects?”
“No—well, yes, Mr. Sperry, I do. I have one book project for this fall, one for next year, one for 1988, one for 1989—”
“Howard,” Harrison Dreiden interrupted, “what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how I’m going to make a lot of money for Mr. Sperry. He explained to me how many of my books have lost money, or are going to, and so I have come up with a solution.”
Sperry frowned.
“I’m cutting my list back to one book a year.”
“Stewart!” Sperry barked.
“I’ve copied some figures the business department worked up for me,” Howard said, pulling papers out of his briefcase, “and also a copy of my editorial plan.” He stood up to toss the copies into the middle of the table.
“Anyone who touches those is fired,” Sperry said.
Silence. And then Harriet laughed. Then Harrison chuckled. Patricia succumbed next and soon the whole table was laughing. “Silence!” When Sperry got it, he glared at Howard. “You’re fired, Stewart.”
“Anyway,” Howard continued, leaning forward on the table to address his colleagues, “I’m going to publish one Gertrude Bristol book a year. You see, according to Mr. Sperry’s financial plan, the best bet is to stop publishing all books except guaranteed bestsellers. Even so, if we underestimate their sales expectations, not only will we—”
“Get the hell out of here, Stewart!” Sperry yelled, slamming his hand down on the table.
Howard lowered his head to look at Sperry over the top of his glasses. “Excuse me, Mr. Sperry, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to make me.” The room was dead silent, and all eyes were on Sperry—whose face was rapidly turning from red to mauve.
“And so,” Howard said, adjusting his glasses, “if we underestimate the sales figures from, say, eighty to fifty-five, and then sell eighty to one hundred thousand copies—”
Sperry vaulted out of his chair. “If you don’t get the fuck out of here, I’ll have you arrested!”
Howard focused his attention on Layton. “According to the business department, I will not only make a huge profit, but I will come in way over budget. In fact, with subsidiary rights income included, according to these numbers, if I publish one title a year, Mr. Sperry could raise my salary to one hundred thousand dollars, and Bob’s to forty, and our office will still generate over two hundred thousand dollars a year in profits. But then, who’d need us? Mr. Sperry could edit Gertrude. In fact, Mr. Sperry could fire everybody and edit six books a year. Who knows? Maybe he could fire the sales force and distribute through Jackson Hardware.”
“Lunatic,” Sperry ranted, storming out. When the door closed behind Sperry, Harrison Dreiden said, “I think you’re a damn fool, Howard, but I can’t say this hasn’t been fun.”
Howard laughed, sitting back down in his chair. “Yeah, well, the show’s over for me, I’m afraid.”
“We’ll make some calls for you,” Harriet said. “Won’t we, Harry?”
/> “Can I have Gertrude Bristol?” Layton wanted to know.
“Thanks, Harriet,” Howard said, “but I’m thinking about starting a literary agency.”
Harrison leaned forward on the table. “I think that’s what I would do in were to start again.”
Layton was scribbling away in a notebook and Harrison bent sideways to see what it was he was writing. “Oh, Layton,” he said, pulling his notebook away from him. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to play G. Gordon Liddy at the table?”
“I think you’d make a wonderful agent,” Patricia said. There were murmurs of agreement from the other editors.
“You’ll keep in touch, won’t you, Howard?” Carol asked.
“Of course I will.” Howard sighed, looking around the table. “I’m going to miss you guys a lot. Even you, Layton—I think.”
“I want one of these,” Layton said, ignoring the laughter and reaching for a copy of Howard’s report.
“God, will you stop—” Patricia said, yanking it out of his hand and throwing it behind her. “At least act like you’re human.”
The door crashed open. It was Sperry—with a uniformed custodian.
“Layton touched one of the reports while you were gone,” Patricia felt obligated to report.
“Remove that man!” Sperry commanded, pointing to Howard. The custodian took a few tentative steps and stopped.
“Hi, Ralph,” Howard said.
“Sorry,” Ralph said, throwing a thumb back in Sperry’s direction, “but this guy wants you to leave. He says he’s the president.”
Everyone was enjoying this scene. Carol got up to replenish her coffee and called up to Harrison, asking him if he wanted a doughnut.
“The receptionist is calling the police,” Sperry said, glowering at the end of the table.
Howard stood up. “I’m leaving, Mr. Sperry,” he said, gathering his papers together, “but only because you ask me to so nicely.”
“That’s company property!” Sperry yelled. “Take those papers out of that briefcase!”
Howard glanced up at him, pushing up his glasses. “Yes, sir.” He held open his briefcase and turned it upside down, dumping everything from manuscript pages to gum wrappers down onto the table. He rummaged through the mess, picked out a pen and a ten-dollar bill, and stuffed them into his coat pocket. He smiled at Sperry and continued to do so until he had walked all the way around the table and was standing only a foot away, looking down at him.
“Get out of here,” Sperry snarled.
Howard continued to stand there, smiling.
Sperry pushed him. Howard fell back a step and laughed. He let go of his briefcase and Sperry, suddenly wary, backed into the table. Howard stepped forward and, in one fluid movement, grabbed Sperry by the arm and under one leg and hurled him onto the table, sending Harrison and Layton diving for cover. Sperry lay on his side a moment and then scrambled to get off, kicking papers all over the place with his feet and leaving black scuff marks on the table.
“Oh, dear,” Harriet Wyatt said, suppressing a laugh, “are you all right, Mr. Sperry?”
Howard waited in Mr. Blank’s office for his severance check to be drawn up. Mr. Blank had been the head of personnel for thirty years. He was very upset by all of this. Howard fist fighting with the president! The police at Gardiner & Grayson! Mr. Sperry pressing charges! Howard pressing charges! Nothing like this had ever happened before!
Howard just sat there, working on his laundry list of what Gardiner & Grayson owed him. “But you, Howard, of all our employees,” Mr. Blank said yet again, shaking his head in disbelief. “These figures still aren’t right, Mr. Blank,” Howard said. “You owe me one month’s severance pay for every year I’ve been here—”
“But you’ve beaten up the president,” Mr. Blank pointed out.
“He started it,” Howard said, rising and coming around to Mr. Blank’s side of the desk, making Mr. Blank even more nervous. “Look, eleven years—plus twelve days of vacation pay—” He looked at Mr. Blank. “Are you listening?”
Mr. Blank was having a nervous breakdown.
“I’ve written it all down for you.”
“But our company policy has been changed,” Mr. Blank pleaded.
“Now, Mr. Blank,” Howard said gently, “you know that’s not true.”
“He’ll fire me,” Mr. Blank moaned, holding his head.
“No, he won’t, Mr. Blank. He’ll be grateful to you for getting me out of here. Because, you see,” Howard said, going back around the desk and plopping himself down in a chair, “I won’t leave until I have what’s owed to me. And that will make Mr. Sperry very upset.”
“Oh, God!” Mr. Blank said.
It took another hour and forty-five minutes of haggling over how many taxes had to be deducted, how much Social Security had to be deducted and how much interest was due on Howard’s retirement fund; and for Howard to make out his final expense account report on his company-issued credit card. But finally, all was a done deed. Howard walked out of the offices for the last time, with a check made out to him for a little over twenty-one thousand dollars.
On Third Avenue, about a block away, Howard looked back at the Gardiner & Grayson building. He counted six floors down from the roof to locate the window of Harrison Dreiden’s office. His throat tightened. “Thanks,” he said.
34
HENRY SAYS THERE IS
SOMETHING DIFFERENT
ABOUT HIS MOTHER
When she heard the front door open, Cassy dropped the lid of the pot and ran out to the front hall. Henry put his bags down and grinned. “Hi, Mom.” Was this her Henry? Deeply tanned, his hair streaked with blond, and with the stubble of a week’s beard, the image of Cassy’s own father flashed through her mind. But no, it was Henry. Taller, his shoulders perceptively bigger, this lean and rugged young man were her son.
She threw herself at him and was surprised by the strength, the sheer size of his embrace as he stooped to receive her. “Sweetheart,” she said, smelling Ivory Soap in his hair. She stepped back, holding his hands.”Look at you,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Just look at you!”
He grinned again, teeth flashing against the brown of his skin.
“Oh, Henry, come on!” Cassy said, pulling him by the hand to the den. She closed the door and pushed him back against it. “I knew it” she cried, lunging for a pencil on Michael’s desk. “You’re taller than your father now. Here, stand up straight, sweetheart.” She marked off his height and pulled him away from the door to look at it.
“Huh,” Henry said, grinning.
Cassy got a ruler out of Michael’s desk. “Let’s see,” she said, holding it up to the door, “if Michael’s six one and three quarters, then you’re... Six foot three? Henry—”how dare you grow so tall!” she said, hugging him around the waist, pressing the side of her face against his chest. “How can my baby be six foot three?” She leaned back to look up at him. “I’m going to have a hell of a time trying to spank you now.”
After Henry took his stuff to his room, he rejoined his mother in the kitchen.”Mom, where did the bench press come from?”
She turned away from the stove. “Is it the right kind?”
“Yeah, but where did it come from?”
She smiled. “Well, I was in Herman’s the other day...”
Henry sat on a stool and talked to Cassy while she cooked dinner. When, she wondered, had Henry learned to talk so freely? Surely he hadn’t talked this much before; her son was suddenly a veritable chatterbox. And such news!
—Henry had saved a thirteen-year-old camper’s life. The kid had fallen out of the raft in the rapids and nearly drowned. Henry dove in and dragged him to safety—”but not without injury. (“Got it on a rock,” he said proudly, showing his mother a horrendous, though fading, slash mark across his chest.) (His hairy chest.)
—Henry had saved over one thousand dollars from his salary.
—Henry wanted to try to get into Yale. That was where hi
s boss, Evan Scott, had gone.
—Henry had a girl friend named Jennifer. (If Cassy was wide-eyed at this announcement, she was even more so when he told her she was a year older than he was.
“She’s going to be a freshman at Sarah Lawrence.”
“How convenient,” Cassy said, wondering if Henry remembered their talk last year about birth control. (Condoms. Good Lord.)
“Her parents live in Greenwich. I said I’d call her tonight at eleven.”
(Saving money, making decisions, needing condoms, calling girls on the telephone at eleven o’clock at night? Whatever happened to trading baseball cards with Skipper?)
He talked straight through dinner, elaborating. Cassy listened to everything but was continually distracted, fascinated by this young man who claimed to be her son. He was so... so grown up. And he was so much a Littlefield! She saw her father’s forehead, eyebrows and nose; she saw her mother’s hair and ears; she saw her own eyes looking back at her, and she saw her own mouth and skin. The only trace of Michael she could see was in Henry’s jaw and hands. In the middle of dessert, savoring his ice cream sundae, Henry gave his mother a very strange look.
“What?”Cassy asked him, eyebrows high.
He swallowed. “You look different.”
“I do?”
He nodded, eyes still on her, shoveling another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. He pointed the spoon at her (a Michael gesture), swallowed, and said, “Did you do something with your hair or something?”
“No.” He frowned and Cassy laughed. “Well, do I look better or worse?”
“I don’t know—just different. Younger maybe.”
Cassy threw her head back and laughed.
Henry grinned. “Yeah, that’s it. You look younger.”
Cassy laughed again. “Well, I’m hardly going to argue with that opinion. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Who is this man? Cassy wondered. Well, whoever he was, he was welcome here. In his room, while he unpacked and Cassy watched from on top of his bed, they got around to the subject of his father.
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