A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “Maybe another time.” His crooked, sad smile ended the probing.

  He grabbed another book, Three Days Found, and lightened the mood. Enjoy the story, he wrote. It’s my favorite. And if you’re in NY, eat at Patsy’s and bring this. They’ll love it. The description starts on p. 206. Joyfully, Alex Powell.

  “Patsy’s?”

  “It’s the most amazing Italian restaurant in New York. It was Frank Sinatra’s favorite place and still has that authentic Rat Pack vibe. The food’s amazing and the portions will feed a starving writer or fuel a marathon runner.”

  “Which are you?”

  “I’m occasionally hungry as both, but I’ve never run a marathon. A few friends like to go there each year before New York.”

  “I’d love to run New York someday.”

  “You should. They say it’s the best. The crowds are amazing, and you run through all five boroughs.”

  I looked down at the book in my hands and was reminded of my mental image of him. “Why do you never put your photo on the back cover? You aren’t ugly.”

  “That’s good to know.” He laid his hand on top of the book. Not really talking to me, he continued, “I don’t, because however people imagine me is always better than I am. And I don’t want to be defined by these.”

  “I thought fame was the icing on the cake.”

  “It should be avoided. It limits you and hurts you. Besides, if I was shackled by too much of it, you and I couldn’t spend even this time together. Too many people already know what I do and where I go. People forget your face after a book tour or an infrequent interview on Letterman, but put your face on your books and you’re handing them your life. They presume to know what you think or who you are. Not like a movie star or anything, but you definitely give yourself away.”

  Alex leaned against the shelves. “No more spontaneity. No more first impressions. All of that gets tainted by the fame and the money, and even by Cole Barker himself.”

  “I never thought of it like that. I used to believe all those externals meant happiness. I’m beginning to see they don’t.” Ashley and her mother came to mind.

  “Often they lead to pain.” It was a cryptic answer, but one I couldn’t question.

  We wandered a bit more. I confessed my obsession with Jane Austen. We agreed that Barnes and Noble could devote an entire section to Austen’s sequels, prequels, mimics, knock-offs, and add-ons . . .

  Last year I got the flu and went through about forty titles: The Darcys Give a Ball, The Watsons and Emma Watson, The Darcys and the Bingleys, George Knightley’s Diary, Captain Wentworth’s Diary, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s Diary, Austenland . . . I emerged with no aches and pains, but with a stilted language pattern that took a month to purge. My new favorite title is How Jane Austen Ruined My Life. I don’t have the courage to read it, though. I’m afraid to discover she’s ruined mine too.

  We were talking next to a display table when a booming voice startled us.

  “About time you came home, young man!”

  I looked up to see a blur of white bounding toward us. Professor Muir is tall, thin, and intense like a lightning bolt, with the bushiest white eyebrows imaginable. Without Ashley and those tweezers, mine may look like that someday.

  The professor grabbed Alex into a quick hug and, after much backslapping, started rapid-firing questions. Alex jumped right in, and I faded into the background. It was like watching puppies play in a pet shop window, all unbridled affection and enthusiasm.

  “You carrying your books around with you now?” Professor Muir joked to Alex.

  “I signed these.” Alex threw me a glance. “Couldn’t help myself. I’ll take them down to the customer service desk on my way out.”

  “Not yet, we’ve got a few minutes.” He took Alex’s arm to lead him toward the café.

  I inched away.

  “Don’t leave.” Professor Muir looked straight at me. “Come sit for a few minutes.”

  “No, thank you. I just met Al—Mr. Powell today. You two catch up.” I turned to Alex. “Good-bye.”

  He studied me for a moment. “Sam, I’ve only got about fifteen minutes before I’m needed downtown for some PR work. Come sit. You should know this old guy.” He poked the professor in the ribs. “He’s good to have in your back pocket.”

  To be honest, it was time to leave. I was intruding and I knew it, but I didn’t know how to politely decline. And it was fine for a few moments. Then I opened my mouth and humiliated myself. I should have left when I had the chance.

  Alex clearly got that “quote from a book” game from the professor, because that’s what got me into trouble. I corrected an English professor and America’s best writer—who does that? They were talking about another writer they both knew and disliked.

  “I saw him last week and couldn’t help but think ‘How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heartburned an hour after.’” Professor Muir laughed as he delivered the line in a high falsetto.

  “Katherine to Bianca, Taming of the Shrew. Bravo, Pops. Very appropriate. I feel the same way.”

  “No, no! It’s from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. You’ve forgotten the Bard.” The professor sounded pleased.

  “I have not. You’re confused. Katherine says it about Bianca’s suitor in act 1,” Alex replied.

  “I beg—”

  “You’re both wrong,” I announced. Their heads swiveled so fast I thought they’d twist off. Alex hiked his eyebrow at me, questioning.

  “Beatrice said it to Antonio in Much Ado About Nothing.”

  Both men stared at me. My face burned.

  “Are you sure?” Alex said.

  “Yes. It happens in the scene right after—” I clamped my hand over my mouth. No more talking! They didn’t seem angry, but I’m not sure . . . Alex left moments later.

  I sat with the professor for a few minutes while he drank his coffee. I didn’t know how to leave without being even more insulting.

  “You should meet my wife.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You should come to dinner. Here, write down your number and she’ll call you.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “Nonsense. I like you. And a friend of Alex’s is always worth knowing.”

  There was no point protesting again that I’d just met Alex, so I wrote my number down, thanked him, and left.

  It was a great day, Mr. Knightley, and I’ll never forget it. And though I tarnished it at the end, I am determined to revel in what began as a most spectacular day. I’ll never see him again, so what does it matter? Besides, can you believe that, for a brief shining moment, I was on a first-name basis with the Alex Powell?

  I called Ashley to recount the morning; she chewed and savored every detail. I’m meeting Debbie after class tomorrow, so I’ll get to enjoy the whole story again. Now it’s late and I need to sleep.

  Lovely dreams,

  Sam

  NOVEMBER 21

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  I know I just wrote yesterday—but I need to sort this out, and writing you is always good for that. I shot an e-mail off to Kyle yesterday just to see how he’s doing and got a horrid reply. I’ve been on the phone with Kyle and Father John all afternoon trying to understand.

  Kyle’s e-mails have been nonexistent the past couple weeks, and I just thought he was busy. I hoped cross-country, studies, and his new family filled his time. Perhaps I saw only what I wanted to see. Or had time to see. Life’s been busy and school’s a struggle. Maybe I shut him out too—I don’t know.

  Anyway, Coach Ridley saw marks on Kyle’s neck and refused to send him home a few days ago. Ridley called the police, who took Kyle to a holding house and brought Mr. Hoffman in for questioning. Father John says DCFS believes there’s no wrongdoing and that Kyle is self-sabotaging. It’s a term used to describe when kids push new families away to test their loyalty. Kyle didn’t talk and he’s going back to the Hoffmans’ this afternoon.

  I aske
d him myself and he didn’t deny it—so maybe DCFS is right. Maybe he was just testing them. He sure tested me long enough. No, that’s not fair—we tested each other.

  “Did you do it, Kyle?”

  “Do what?”

  “Hurt yourself? To see if they cared? You know you can talk to me.”

  No reply.

  “Heck, we’ve been through a lot. If we can’t be honest with each other, who can we trust?”

  “Dunno. You okay?” Nice deflection, Kyle. “Your e-mail said you were flunking out.”

  “I’m doing better. I’m getting the hang of it.” Counterattack. “Let’s talk about you.”

  Kyle paused. At the time, I thought he was thinking. Now I wonder, was his deflection a test of my honesty? A test of my loyalty? And I failed?

  It was—I know it. Darn it! I really like that kid and for some reason feel he’s an indelible part of me. I’ve tried to call him a couple times, but he won’t answer. It’s so clear to me now that I let him down.

  I need to give him space to work out his life without me pestering him. And I’ve got to remember this is about him, not me. But I have that sinking feeling I had when I beat him on the track—that he needed something and I deliberately withheld it to protect myself. I was wrong and I will apologize . . . again. But for now I think I need to let Kyle enjoy Thanksgiving with the Hoffmans.

  I’ve got other stuff on my plate anyway—which leads me to you. Loyalty and honesty, right?

  Yesterday, after my once-in-a-lifetime hour with Alex Powell, I ran into Dr. Johnson. He, of course, remembered that I submitted an article to the Tribune. Why did I ever tell him? And I couldn’t lie when he asked . . . They refused it with a very succinct Not suitable for publication at this time.

  “It was my first try, Dr. Johnson. I’ll refine the next one and submit again.”

  “You can try as often as you like, Moore. It won’t help. You need to decide if you’re right for this program. You’re way behind where you should be by now.”

  My heart stopped. “What are you saying?”

  “Simply this. Medill is expensive. If you have the funds and can afford a low-paying newspaper job, let’s keep at this. If you’re on loans, you might want to consider more lucrative work. Graduate school takes serious commitment and, given that, can yield serious results. Careers are made within these walls, but students are broken as well.”

  “I’ve given everything to be here.”

  “You have? Tell me what you’ve sacrificed, because I’ve never seen a student give so little.”

  “What?”

  “I see no passion in your writing. Only technique. It’s good, but it’s empty.”

  “‘I certainly have not the talent which some people possess . . . ,’ but I am working hard.” I grimaced. Spewing forth a hackneyed Darcy line confirmed, not refuted, Johnson’s point.

  “There you go, Moore—a perfect example. Can’t you feel yourself step away from the subject? Right here in this conversation.” He studied me a moment. “If you don’t commit, consider yourself warned. You’ll be one the faculty cuts. We don’t keep students who hold the others back.”

  How did he know? He studied me again and, I think, pitied my fallen expression. I blinked hard to clear my eyes as he continued. “You must press deeper, stretch farther, dig. Give up on the Trib for now. Try the Evanston Review and some township papers. Get some publishing credits, grab a bit of encouragement, and drive harder. You’ve got two months, Moore. Don’t waste them.”

  So here I sit, trying to stretch and dig. A writer is revealed through her work, journalism or fiction. I know that now. I learned it from Alex. Last night, I pulled a few of his books from the shelves and reread my favorites. And I found him, the real Alex, on every page. Not him directly, but I found his passion. That’s what Johnson is talking about. In journalism, you can take an objective subject and infuse it with life by your commitment to it, your passion for it.

  I learned something else while perusing Alex’s books: Fiction is great to read, but it’s not for me to write. There are stories in me—hard-hitting stories, factual stories, life stories, news stories. I see them in front of me, and now I see them slipping away.

  This has been plaguing me, especially since lying to Kyle about school this afternoon. I know that avoiding the bad doesn’t make it go away, and escaping into a good book or character doesn’t help either. I must deal with reality and all the mess I’ve pushed away for so long. Please know I’m working. This program, this work, has come to mean the world to me. I won’t/can’t fail.

  Thanks for listening,

  Sam

  NOVEMBER 22

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  I’m flooding your mailbox. Sorry about that. There is so much happening right now and you’re the best place to send this—the good and the bad. Mrs. Muir called today, and I took the Metra up to Winnetka for dinner. I’m still shocked both that she called and that I accepted. To make it more dramatic, Alex Powell showed up during dessert—and none too pleased to see me.

  When I rang their doorbell, Professor Muir immediately opened it and bounded onto the front walk.

  “You’re here. I was sure you wouldn’t come . . . Don’t just stand there. Come in.” He led me into the front hall. The walls were light brown and there was a patterned rug on the wood floor. The front stairs arched around the entrance hall. Not grand, like in the movies, but large enough and strong enough to contain Professor Muir. It looked like “home.”

  “I have something you should read. I think you’ll love it.”

  “Let her settle a moment, Robert.” A quiet voice came from beside me. I jumped, for I hadn’t noticed anyone standing there. “Would you rather help me in the kitchen, Sam? It’s Sam, right?”

  Mrs. Muir was tall like her husband, but exuded serenity, not fireworks. Can someone personify peace? It’s the best way to describe her.

  I looked back at the professor, who nodded at me. “Go ahead. We can talk after dinner.”

  I followed Mrs. Muir into the kitchen.

  “I’m Frances Muir. I’m so glad you came tonight.”

  “Thank you for inviting me. And yes, it’s Sam—short for Samantha.”

  “Robert always loved inviting students to dinner, and Alex was and is his most favorite. It’s wonderful to have one of his friends join us for dinner.”

  “I just met him briefly a couple days ago. He gave a talk on campus and I snuck in; then I stepped on him and walked downtown with him. I don’t really know him.” I pressed my lips together. Stop babbling.

  “Well, Robert liked you, my dear, and he’s a good judge of character.” Mrs. Muir smiled. “And as for Alex, he may drop by later, so perhaps you can get to know him better.”

  “Alex?” Gulp.

  “He has some signings and a couple events downtown this evening, but he hopes to drop by. He’s got a flight back to New York tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh.” I never expected to run into Alex again, and now I felt that I was intruding into his private world.

  “Why don’t you wash that for me, and I’ll finish the sauce.” Mrs. Muir pointed to a head of lettuce.

  I grabbed it, happy to contribute. There was something about the Muirs—the professor’s intensity and Mrs. Muir’s serenity—that intrigued me and made me feel safe. I wanted to be there. That in itself was highly unusual. Most of the time I want to be anywhere other than where I am.

  As I washed the lettuce, I looked around. It was clearly a working kitchen. Some, you can tell, are just for show. You might get a snack out of them, but they’re not fortified to put out great meals every day. This one was the real deal. Cookbooks lined the shelves, spices stood at attention in a rack, knives rested in a huge block next to a massive Viking stove. And the aura of tomatoes, anchovies, and garlic dominated the landscape. I worked in silence for a moment and then decided to ask about Alex and the professor.

  “They seemed very close at the café. Have they always been like
that?”

  “From the moment Alex stepped into Robert’s class. We never had children, and in many ways we regard Alex as a son.”

  “Does he come here often?”

  “He used to schedule a lot of media work in Chicago so he could stay with us for a few weeks, but with the last book he never left New York. We’ve been out there a few times, but he’s had a hard time the past few years.” She paused for a moment, then added wistfully, “He’s worked nonstop for years now.”

  I learned that Alex’s parents are alive and well and living in Washington state—but they don’t mind the time Alex spends with the Muirs. Can you imagine? Another set of parents looking out for you, loving you? Then Mrs. Muir asked if I missed my family. I was tempted to tell her the truth. The kitchen felt warm and safe, and I think Mrs. Muir is trustworthy. I came so close.

  “I don’t miss them too much. I’m so busy. Would you like me to chop this as well?” The dodge worked and the moment passed.

  We soon sat down to Bistecca alla Pizzaiola, the Steak of the Pizza Maker’s Wife. Basically it’s a steak, pan-seared then slow cooked in a thick tomato, garlic, and anchovy sauce. The food was rich, comforting, and delicious, and the conversation felt the same. We talked about literature, writing, movies—all sorts of stuff. I even confessed some of my problems with Johnson.

  “Russell’s as tough as they come.” Professor Muir leaned back in his chair.

  “Too tough for me. He’s going to fail me.”

  “Have you talked to him about how to improve?”

  “A little.” The idea of willingly pursuing Johnson for a “talk” was unimaginable.

  “Keep at it. I say he’s tough, but he’s also one of the best men I know—a man of incredible skill and incomparable integrity. You keep at it. You’re in good hands.”

  I sat there stunned. I knew Johnson was powerful, but this was a peer, not a student or even a journalist, singing his praises. I saw Johnson in a different light, and it didn’t make him any less intimidating.

  I let these thoughts dance in my mind while we cleared the table and began washing the dishes. Then Alex arrived . . .