The truth was, I wasn’t angry at Arthur Weeman, and I didn’t think Thalia would be either. I almost loved him all the more for it in a terrible way. Thalia and I were like his cheerleaders. Like Val and Gil watching Peter Sellers from behind a rock in The World of Henry Orient, we were still his greatest fans.
I took out my CARMOL40 (40% UREA) LOTION pad and began a letter to Arthur Weeman.
March 30
Dear Awful Writer,
I was right. My father is having an affair. My mother found out and my father moved to the Upper West Side after doing only three nights of couch time. My friend Jenny said most fathers do a lot more couch time than that before they finally move out. He also didn’t have one ounce of therapy. I am taking it quite well. I just hope he doesn’t marry his girlfriend because I hate her. My friend Jenny took me to the movies to take my mind off things. See I watch OTHER PEOPLE’S movies too. Jealous?
I feal very angry that this might intefere with my going to French Woods Theater Camp this summer because I’m supposed to spend summers with him now and he’s to cheap to send me to camp. I can not imagine spending the whole summer on the Upper West Side. I won’t do it.
And now there is a rumor that we are supposed to go to Disneyworld for a family reunion during Easter break which is in only eighteen days. Can you imagine New York City intellectuals going to Disneyworld. All because my cousin whose five wants to go and my aunt had to have all kinds of fertility treatments to get him so they do whatever he wants. I hate Disneyworld. It almost makes you hope for terrorism or something. I refuse to go to Disneyworld. Micky Mouse can kiss my ass.
Here’s a little skit I just made up:
“Hey Thalia, your father is having an affair, what are you gonna do next?”
“Go to Disneyworld!”
I’m very good at writing gags. By the way I feal angry at you to because you haven’t written me and I’m thinking of giving you an ultamatum. Ultamatum: if you don’t give me a sign that your reading these scintalating letters then I’ll stop writing them and you’ll never hear from your secret un-admirer again and you’ll never know what happens to her. For instance will I give in and go to Disneyworld, will Isaac ask me out, will I never see another Arthur Weeman movie again.
Yours quite ambivalently,
Thalia
P.S. I love you
P.P.S. I realize this stationary isn’t very sexy but it’s all I could find in my father’s office.
Then, when I finished the letter, a strange thing happened. I burst into tears. I just sat there sobbing into my touristy noodles, crying for Thalia and everything that was about to happen to her. I wanted to write her a letter telling her none of this mattered and not to worry about any of it, everything would turn out all right. She’d write a book and get engaged. I was crying the way I used to cry the whole time I was writing my novel, without any idea why.
I knew what would happen to her in Disney World and I didn’t want it to. I knew she would promise to be at “It’s a Small World” in two hours and go off by herself. I knew she would meet the man who ran the “Pirates of the Caribbean” while he was on his break and go off with him to an employees’ only building where there were cots. I knew she would boldly take off her Mexican peasant blouse and unzip his zipper. I knew he would say to her, “You’re the best ride in this place,” and flying home, she would have no idea of everything bad that was about to happen to her.
Then it occurred to me that maybe she didn’t have to meet the man at Disney World, and maybe she didn’t have to go to Disney World at all. I suddenly remembered something I had bought at Golden’s stationery store when I was thirteen. It was a new thing called the erasable pen and I’d thought it was the best invention ever. I could erase that arrow on her time line. Instead of one if by land, I could make it two if by sea. I could press a different button and select a different movie.
Instead of what happened to me, she could refuse to go to Disney World. During spring break, she could just stay in New York and get ready for her bat mitzvah. Or she could go to East Hampton with her best friend, Candi Miranda, and Candi’s father could treat them to lots of dinners at Nick and Toni’s and Della Femina’s and they could be best friends for the rest of their lives.
At the counter where they sold green tea from giant barrels, they also sold strange Japanese stationery with young geishas on it drinking some sort of soft drink from a can. I purchased several sheets and sat down to write the letter I realized I had wanted to write for a long time. I dated it a month in the future, and nineteen years in the past.
April 30
Dear Awful Writer,
I’m sorry I haven’t written in so long. I was away at Disneyworld and I didn’t think a great independent filmmaker like yourself would appreciate getting a postcard with Mickey Mouse on it. I thought about you the whole time however. Well not the whole time . . . Not while I was practically having SEX with a MAN . . .
NOW THAT I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION . . .
Here’s what happened. My moronic family finally agreed to let me go off by myself for a while. I guess they figured if I can wander around New York City alone and take the subway then I’d be fine at Disneyworld. It’s not like I was going to get mugged by Huey, Dewie, and Louie. So I met a MAN who runs the Pirates of the Carribean ride and we made out in the employee rest area and I was wearing a beautiful white Mexican top I bought on Bleecker Street and I took it off and I let him take off my bra and he pulled down his pants and sort of pushed my head down towards his huge hardon and I sucked on it which I have to say came quite naturally for some reason. He really wanted to do it and I asked him if he had a condom and he said he couldn’t feel anything through a condom and I said that was funny because he seemed to have felt plenty through his big pirate pants and I thought maybe it would be a good idea just to get it over with so I wouldn’t have to obsess about it anymore but then my cell phone rang and I looked at my caller ID and it was my father and I thought I’m not going to do this. I haven’t even been on that many real dates yet. I still really like that boy Isaac. And did I really want to lose my virginity in a place like this, a place for children, with a 23-year old man who runs the Pirates of the Carribean ride for a living. I wish there was a place called Weemanworld. It’s not like I expect to lose my virginity with you, Awful, but I wanted something better then the pirate. So I jumped up and put on my bra and my top and he seemed really P.O.’d so I gave him a hand job and then met my parents.
So here I am back in New York and nothing has changed. I’m still in tact virginity and all. Tonight my friend Candi’s father is taking us to The Palm which I love and then we’re going to sleep at her mother’s house. Her mother lets us sleep on the giant pull out couch in the living room so we can watch the Plasma. Tomorrow I’m seeing Giselle at the Metropolitan Opera House with Candi, Carly, and Margaret and then having dinner at O’Neil’s Balloon which isn’t as good as it used to be. My father says it used to be good back in the olden days when the waitresses wore rollerskates. Life goes on and I have to write a speech for my bat mitzvah. Maybe I’ll tell the story of my experience at Disneyworld and shock the hell out of everybody.
Anyway just because I didn’t do it in Disneyworld doesn’t mean I’m not ready to do it any time now but until then I remain
Your pure and virginal,
Thalia
So that was that. Easy peasy lemon squeasy. A do-over. I brushed imaginary dirt off my hands. Like a great film editor, I had sliced and spliced and half a year of my life ended up on the cutting room floor where it belonged.
I sealed the letter in its envelope, addressed it, and drew a small picture of my brain wearing a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. I put it in my bag to keep there for a month until it was time to send it.
My cell phone rang. It was Isaac.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Writing,” I said.
“Writing what?”
“What?” I paused for a second.
“A new novel,” I said. And then I realized in a strange way it might be true.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. The letters, I thought, suddenly flooded with excitement. The letters that Arthur Weeman had probably tossed away were the foundation for a great little book. The letters were so vivid in my mind, it would take me no time at all to reconstruct them.
I looked down at my writing, that same sure cursive I’d had since I was ten. “Hey that’s great,” Isaac said.
I wrote until I had filled almost the whole pad. Then I walked to my apartment to pick up some clean clothes and my laptop before heading uptown to make up with Mrs. Williams. I knew she might not want me to stay there but I thought I’d bring clothes just in case. I was tired of rinsing out my underwear and hanging it to dry next to hers in the shower which I always did after we had our tea and took our medication. My phone rang just as I hoisted my bag on my shoulder and was walking out the door. My machine picked up.
"Is that Rebekah Kettle?” a man said, in a familiar English accent. I froze. “It’s Hugh calling, Hugh Nickelby. I’m in London but . . .”
I ran to the phone as fast as I could.
“Hi, Hugh,” I said. I couldn’t believe it.
“I know this is incredibly last minute, but they’re doing a screening of Thank You for Not Writing in New York day after tomorrow and I’d really love it if you would come.”
“Of course, I would love to come,” I said, completely forgetting I was engaged. He gave me the information while my mind whirled like a Jane Austen character at a ball. “Then I was hoping we could have a chat about it.” A screening and a chat. With Hugh Nickelby. “Terrific, then your name will be on the list,” he said.
I looked at my apartment through Hugh’s eyes. My bed was unmade and there were take-out containers on the kitchen counter. I would have to clean it up in case our chat was going to be at my place. Then I remembered the small complication of my engagement. I wasn’t sure if I could be engaged to Isaac and date Hugh Nickelby at the same time, but it seemed that since Hugh and I were both writers it would probably be okay. And I wasn’t really officially engaged until I was given the ring. Hugh and I probably wouldn’t kiss or anything or even hold hands, considering we’d be at a crowded screening with all eyes on him. If he asked me to dinner afterward, which he probably would so we could have our chat, I’d have to play it by ear. I decided not to let something like an alleged engagement get in the way of the most glamorous, exciting date I had ever been asked out on, and I really saw no reason to mention it to Isaac.
The day of my date with Hugh, I went to my friend Cynthia Ree’s clothing design studio on Prince Street and let her dress me up in an incredible Asian-looking velvet thing. I was going to show Hugh that we could talk about something other than books. And that I could still be a strong American female voice but with an ever so slight, sexy English accent.
I got out of the cab at the Director’s Guild practically expecting a red carpet, but there wasn’t one, just scraggily-looking publishing types and some kids who looked like film students.
Hugh hadn’t told me exactly where to meet him, so I just went in and gave my name to the boy at the table and entered the auditorium.
I stood in the back and scanned the crowd but I didn’t see Hugh so I leaned against a wall and waited, resisting the urge to get a tub of free popcorn. I noticed an empty row of reserved seats, but I wasn’t sure if I should sit in one and save one for Hugh or just wait to see what he wanted to do.
Then I saw my editor dressed in plunging red, walking up the aisle toward me. Seeing her was almost as exciting as seeing Hugh. My heart pumped in gratitude to Cynthia for making me dress up like that, and instead of avoiding my editor as I had since my book had been overdue, I suddenly felt ready to face her.
“Hi, Evan,” I said, when our eyes met.
“Rebekah Kettle! How are we going to get another novel out of you?” she asked.
“Well, I am actually not too far off from finishing a new novel.” The words coming out of my mouth totally shocked me.
“What’s it about?” she asked.
I froze for a second and then, to my complete surprise, the answer came pouring out of me as if the whole thing had already been written. “It’s about a one-time famous writer who finds herself unable to write. So she starts writing letters to Arthur Weeman, pretending to be a thirteen-year-old-girl and through these letters she deals with something bad that happened to her when she was almost thirteen and . . .”
She was quiet for a minute and I wondered if I had made a mistake to blurt all that out. We had a great relationship. Only once during the publication of my book had we had a problem. It was over the word “come.” I had spelled it “come” and she had wanted it to be spelled “cum,” and we battled for weeks until my agent convinced me to do it her way.
“Why does she pretend to be a thirteen-year-old girl?” she asked, finally breaking the silence.
“Well, you know, because of the director’s movies, he hates his fans but she feels it would make her stand out, that he would like to get letters from a young . . .”
“Yes, and that’s disgusting. Rebekah, pedophilia doesn’t sell,” my editor said. “I don’t think you should go anywhere near pedophilia. ”
“No, it’s not really about pedophilia.”
“No one wants to read about some old sick man and an underage girl.” She sounded hysterical. She had two daughters and she was going through a divorce and custody fight with her husband, so this was probably some kind of sore spot with her.
An obscure little book called Lolita by an unknown named Nabokov came to mind, but I decided not to mention it. “I’m just saying it’s not really touched on in the novel.” Touched on was probably the wrong word.
“Oh,” Evan said. “Well, what about the fact that everybody hates Arthur Weeman? I mean, he really hasn’t made a good movie since The Analyst. I think it might turn off a lot of readers. ”
“I could change his name,” I said.
“Well, how does it end?” she asked.
“She gets married.”
“To Arthur Weeman? Don’t make me throw up.”
“No, to the love interest. In the end she realizes she doesn’t need Arthur Weeman anymore.”
“Marriage is a very bad idea, Rebekah,” she said bitterly. “People pick up a Rebekah Kettle novel to read about sex and the single girl. They want a lighthearted romp through New York. They don’t pick up a Rebekah Kettle to read about child molestation and settling down.”
While she was telling me why people pick up a Rebekah Kettle, I couldn’t help thinking about Little House on the Prairie. Something had been bothering me lately, and I suddenly realized what it was. We were back in Season One, having just come to the end of the final season, the one called Little House: A New Beginning, and something had happened to Laura. She had lost her spark. Once her braids came out and her hair retreated into a bun like Ma’s, she just wasn’t that interesting anymore. Pa was still interesting and Almanzo and Adam and even the thin-lipped Albert, but Laura was stuck teaching in the schoolhouse, making disapproving looks all the time and standing silently next to her husband. She pumped well water and wore eye shadow and had her baby daughter, Rose, constantly glued to her hip, but the girl who had panned for fool’s gold, and worked in the circus as a clown, and kissed Mr. Edwards’ on the cheek, was gone. When you really thought about it, as soon as she added Wilder to the end of her name, her time line was as good as over. Laura Ingalls was through.
“Maybe she doesn’t have to get married,” I said.
“I think that would be great!” my editor said.
“I promise you a lighthearted romp through New York,” I said, my voice slightly unsure.
“Oh. Well, then, this is wonderful news,” Evan said, cumming around. “I’ll call Ben and tell him we’re all set, and I’ll release a check as soon as you turn in pages.”
We set up a lunch at The Four Seasons like old times. Like old times. I felt like myself again.
I looked around for Hugh.
“Who are you looking for?” Evan asked.
"Well, I was actually invited here by Hugh,” I said. "I was supposed to meet him here but I don’t see him.”
“Hugh Nickelby?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, nonchalantly, smiling. “He personally invited me.”
“Hugh’s in London,” she said. “He personally invited everyone here. Anyway, get me those pages. I think this book is going to be big.” She kissed my cheek, but I was too stunned to say anything before she rushed off.
While we had been talking, almost all the seats had filled. I noticed Ivy Vohl in the third row next to an empty seat. It seemed impossible to leave so I slid into a seat in the last row and covered my eyes with my hands. I couldn’t focus on one minute of the movie. I just sat there, wondering how I could have been so stupid to think that I had a date with Hugh Nickelby. Men come and go like pens, I thought wistfully. But then I remembered that I was engaged, and that made me feel much better. I wished more than anything I had brought Isaac.
21.
At 33, she betrays a sacred trust
The letters poured out of me effortlessly. Thalia completely took over. For all of April and half of May, I sat in my spot at Mrs. Williams’ kitchen window, writing on my laptop and crying. I made Sascha a successful publisher. I made Isaac tall, and Ivy ugly.
Little Stalker Page 26