Aaron picked up a twig and gently coaxed the creature off the patio.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
He waved off her gratitude. His actions hardly deserved that level of effusiveness.
“So are you enjoying the colony?”
“I suppose.”
“Me too. Although it feels a little too quiet, you know what I mean?”
“Actually, as a writer, I don’t think there’s such a thing as a place being ‘too quiet.’”
“Really? Because sometimes I’ll sit at my desk and think I’m the only person in the world. Sometimes I think the rapture happened or that some deadly plague wiped out humanity.”
She certainly had a vivid imagination.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m afraid I need to return to my duplex. I’m trying to get some writing done.”
“Of course. Sorry to be a bother.”
He felt her eyes on him as he went back inside. He had an odd urge to peer over his shoulder and take one last look at her—she really was quite pretty, in an old-fashioned fifties way—but he resisted the impulse.
“Damsel-in-distress didn’t work?” Delilah said. “That’s usually a sure thing.”
“I know,” Laurie said. “But I got a really good look at my neighbor, and he’s even cuter close up. Also he was so sweet with the spider. Most men would have squashed it. Suggestions?”
“Did you pack a sheer dress?”
“I did.”
“Why don’t you forget to put on a slip and then stand in the sunlight?”
“Scandalous!”
“But damn effective, especially with your figure.”
Aaron was spying on his neighbor through an opening in the duplex’s curtains, and it wasn’t the first time. Today she was sitting outside with her face tilted toward the sun, her flawless features arranged in a beatific expression.
In addition to her lovely face, she had a curvaceous and well-proportioned physique. Yesterday she was standing outside in a bright pink dress made of a sheer material, and the sun was shining behind her, distinctly outlining all of her many attributes. Quickly he backed away from the window, feeling like a peeping Tom, but now, here he was again, watching her without her knowledge.
She pulled a book from her satchel, and Aaron was surprised to see that it was Alphabetical Africa by Walter Abish. Alphabetical Africa was rough sledding for most readers because of its unusual structure. The first chapter only had words that began with the letter A, the second chapter had words that began with only A and B, and so on. Emma, who was exceedingly well-read, became so frustrated with the novel, she threw it across the room, nearly grazing Aaron’s temple.
Aaron watched his neighbor read. Her big blue eyes greedily devoured the material. Her tongue occasionally peeked out of her mouth to lick her bee-stung lips. The expression on her face was rapturous; clearly she was savoring every syllable. Aaron wanted to ask her which chapter she was reading, but then she would know he was spying, and besides, he rarely initiated conversations, especially with beautiful women.
Aaron had limited experience with females, attractive or otherwise. Emma has been his only girlfriend, and she was the one who pursued him. They attended the same MFA program, and their first conversation was about the conclusion of Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. (He thought it was trenchant; she deemed it stylishly impressive but facile.) Except for a few breaks, they’d been a couple ever since.
He backed away from the curtains. Up until now the neighbor had merely been a pleasant sensory diversion, but because of the book she was reading, he was curious about her identity. He rifled through his briefcase, looking for the flier that the writers’ colony director sent him a week prior to his departure. There was a listing and a short bio for everyone in attendance but Aaron hadn’t glanced at it. He wasn’t at the colony to socialize.
The flier not only listed the attendees but also said where they were staying on the colony grounds. His duplex was called the Fitzgerald. He occupied the Great Gatsby side, and his neighbor resided in The Beautiful and the Damned. Her bio said her name was Laura T. Leer, an author whose name seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps he’d encountered her work on an online journal? Aaron continued to read and was astonished to discover she was the recipient of a MacArthur Genius Grant. Talk about appearances being deceiving. But what really seized his attention was the publisher of her novel.
“Featherstone!” he said. He startled Dusty, who let out a yelp.
Ever since Aaron started writing he had dreamed of being a Featherstone author. They were the most prestigious publisher of literary fiction in the country, and because Featherstone had published her novel, his neighbor completely outclassed him. Literary writers tended to be very status conscious and most likely Laura T. Leer wouldn’t want anything to do with an unpublished author like himself.
“He’s been spying on me,” Laurie said to Delilah. “And he isn’t very sneaky about it either. The curtains twitch, his breath makes clouds on the window, and sometimes I can even see his nose. A perfectly decent aquiline nose, just in case you were wondering.”
“Ouch!”
“What’s wrong with an aquiline nose?”
“Not a thing. I stepped on a Lego,” Delilah said. “But never mind that. Tell me everything.”
“Well, I was outside reading a fairly racy novel called Enter Me—hoping for inspiration—and getting a little worked up. That’s when I sensed his eyes on me. Not that he knew what I was reading. I always cover up my hot novels with a dust jacket from books the library’s discarding.”
“But he still didn’t come out?”
“Sadly, no.”
“Time for the big guns then. Operation carnivore. If that doesn’t work, I don’t know what will.”
Aaron no longer spied on his neighbor. It was undignified to gape at a person of her literary caliber. Still, he thought about her frequently, marveling that a single layer of sheet rock separated him from her brilliance. Sometimes he also dreamed about her, and frankly, they were not the type of dreams he should be having about a MacArthur Genius Grant recipient.
She was grilling out a lot lately; his nostrils had picked up the scent of meat. Dusty kept scratching at the door, hoping to beg for a scrap or two. The temptation to peek at her was strong, but he restrained himself. Aaron wasn’t her equal, not nearly, and it was best if he forgot all about her. Obviously she wanted to keep to herself. Like him, she never went to dinner in the main house.
“I thought for sure last night’s rib eyes would lure my neighbor out of his lair, but nada,” Laurie said to Delilah.
“Could he be a vegetarian?”
“Maybe. He’s a bit on the pasty-faced side, which could be from a lack of iron. What should I cook for a vegetarian?”
“I have no idea. My Bart insists on having some poor charred mammal on the plate every night. He doesn’t even like chicken. You know, there’s always the direct approach.”
“That takes all the fun out of it. And I don’t think it’s effective. Men like the conquest. There must be a better way.”
“Time’s running out.”
“True, but I already have so much energy invested.”
“Good luck and keep me posted.”
“I will. Oops. Another call. Talk soon.”
Laurie switched over. Marvel, Jake’s mother, was on the line. Laurie never knew how to refer to her. Was she her former mother-in-law or did the mother-in-law status remain in perpetuity? Being a widow was complicated.
“How are things in the big city, dear?”
Laurie had not told Marvel about the writing conference; it would generate too many questions. Plus it’d get back to Jake’s sister, who would probably think it was laughable that Laurie, with her humble high-school education, was trying
to write a book.
“It’s noisy and absolutely filthy.”
Marvel was very suspicious of big cities, and Laurie knew she didn’t want to hear anything positive. Laurie lived in Decatur, which was just outside of the city limits of Atlanta, and it resembled a small town with a tidy square and courthouse. It was very clean and generally peaceful. But unlike most small towns, Decatur was home to all manner of hip and diverse people. Laurie thrilled to walk the streets, never knowing if she might bump into a lesbian couple, a person covered in head-to-toe tattoos or exotic people speaking foreign tongues.
“I know you’re counting the days when you come back home to Swainsboro,” Marvel said. “It’s a shame you had to leave.”
Jake wanted several children, and Laurie had planned to be a stay-at-home mom. They’d only been married a month when he was repairing a shingle and fell off the roof, cracking his skull. Suddenly she was a widow with no future plans. For six months she did nothing but grieve, but she also knew she couldn’t languish forever. She had to figure out a way to support herself. Eventually she settled on being a nail technician. Something to make money until her writing panned out.
Her grandmother had left her some money, and Laurie used it to sublet a house in Decatur and pay for the tuition at nail school, which would start in the fall. The program lasted a year, and when she finished, she’d been promised a position at a salon in Swainsboro called Just Teasing.
“I do miss Swainsboro,” Laurie said. She’d been in Decatur for only a month and she already adored it. But everyone she knew and loved was back in Swainsboro, Delilah especially.
“You be careful. I’m sure there’s plenty of predatory men in the city.”
Actually, right now, Laurie was the predator. Marvel would be appalled if she knew that Laurie was plotting a fling. She’d taken on a motherly role in Laurie’s life since her grandmother died, and, of course, she probably couldn’t imagine her daughter-in-law with anyone but Jake. His death had crushed her.
“I will.”
“Wear loose clothing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And study hard. I know Jake is looking down at you from heaven.”
Laurie certainly hoped not. If all went to plan, he wouldn’t like what he saw.
Aaron had a vividly carnal dream about his neighbor during his afternoon nap. When he woke up, he laid in bed, panting; his body was covered in sweat. A few seconds later, someone knocked at his door and Dusty barked. Aaron shushed him. Who could it be? His neighbor? Did she hear him through the walls? They weren’t particularly solid. The sound of running water and her off-key singing often drifted over to his side of the duplex.
Aaron left Dusty in the bedroom and padded to answer the door, still caught up in a fog from his nap. The young man who brought the lunch baskets was standing outside, but lunch was two hours ago.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have a phone call from someone named Andrea. She wants you to call her right away.”
“Where’s the phone?” Aaron said. His elderly flip phone failed a day before he was due to leave, and thus he’d alerted Bernie, his literary agent’s assistant, about his stay at the colony on the off chance his book got an offer.
“In the study. I’ll show you.”
Aaron wasn’t generally a fast mover, but today he hustled as fast as his limp would allow in the direction of the main house. The lunch man trotted beside him. He was pudgy-faced with a hairstyle similar to a Kewpie doll’s.
“Say, have you run into your neighbor? Everyone at the conference is talking about Laura T. Leer. They all want to meet her, but they’re intimidated by her accomplishments.”
“Could we please walk faster?”
“Sure. We’ve never had someone of her caliber here. Did you know she’s won a—”
“Talking is slowing us down.”
Aaron barely remembered the trek across the colony grounds; he was too preoccupied with the phone message. The young man delivered him to the study. The dated early American furnishings barely registered; the one thing in the room that Aaron cared about was the phone which sat atop a small spindly desk. He punched in his literary agent’s number, but his fingers felt as cumbersome as sausage links. He had to input the numbers three times before he got it right. Bernie, Andrea’s assistant, answered.
“Hey there, cowboy. Good to hear from you. How’s the writing conference coming? Soaking up a lot of knowledge, I hope.”
“It’s a colony. Not a conference.”
“Not the same thing?”
“Not at all.”
“My bad. What’s the diff anyway?”
Normally Aaron would be only too happy to explain the difference—he disliked imprecision in words—but he was too anxious.
“Is Andrea available? I was told she called, and it sounded urgent.”
“Calm down. Pour yourself a scotch or a gimlet or whatever poison people drink at writers’ colonies. Andrea’s here but she’s on the horn. I think she’s wrapping it up. Hold onto your boxers…Wait a second…Here’s our girl.”
“Aaron! Glad you could tear yourself away from your work to give me a call. How’s the new novel coming?”
His agent was using her happy voice. Aaron couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her happy voice. Maybe when he first signed with her. Since then he’d only heard her curt, can’t-be-bothered voice.
“You called? They came and fetched me.”
All the suspense and preambles were wearing him down. He simply wanted to hear the news.
“You ready for this? Max Porter at Wilner loves your novel. They’re offering a five-thousand-dollar advance, and yes, I know that’s a little bit on the malnourished side, but it’s a decent advance for a literary novel these days.”
“Five thousand dollars?”
“That’s right.”
“Wilner?”
“You got it. I also contacted Featherstone to let them know we had an offer. They never got back to me, so I assume they aren’t interested.”
Silence
“Aaron?”
“I am…”
“Yes?”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
Overwhelmed was an ineffectual word for what he felt, but it was the only word he was capable of unearthing from the thousands stored in his mind.
“Of course you are. It’ll take a while to get the contracts, but Bernie will shoot them your way once they arrive. In the meantime, have a drink. Celebrate. Cozy up to a fellow writer if you haven’t already.” She laughed. “I’ve heard what goes on at those conferences.”
“You mean colonies.”
“Right.”
Aaron sensed she was about to wrap up the conversation, but he wanted to keep her on the phone longer. He wished this moment could go on and on, but he couldn’t think of anything to say to prolong the exchange. Literary agents were like soap bubbles; they popped in for a few magical seconds and then they were gone.
“I’m overwhelmed.”
“So you said.” Terseness crept into Andrea’s voice. “My other line is ringing. We’ll talk again soon.”
Aaron hung up the phone. He stared at it for a long time, thinking he should call someone, but who? Not his father, obviously, nor Emma. No colleagues. As an adjunct, he was isolated from his fellow professors. Adjuncts weren’t expected to go to meetings or serve on committees. And he didn’t have much time for a social life. His free time was spent working on his novels.
He wandered out of the main house, dazed. He wished he’d run into the colony director or even the man who delivered the lunches, just so he could say the words, “Wilner’s publishing my novel.”
For the first time, he was acutely aware of his outdoorsy surroundings. It rained recently, and the sun was picking up t
he water droplets on the rhododendron leaves and transforming them into blinding diamonds. The air smelled freshly scrubbed, and water gurgled in a nearby brook. Mist circled the surrounding mountains, visible from the porch of the house.
Aaron headed back to his duplex. He paused before entering. Inside there was only Dusty, and while he was an attentive companion, Aaron’s news would zoom over his dear canine head. His neighbor’s door loomed large. She was just behind it, most likely laboring over a future Pulitzer Prize-winning novel.
He was not her equal—far from it—but now that he was about to sign a publishing contract with Wilner, he was a tiny bit closer. Wilner wasn’t Featherstone, but it was still a somewhat respectable imprint. And an unpublished novel was all about potential. Before its release, the author could be anything: a National Book Award Winner, a Nobel Prize Winner, the next Nick Windust.
His feet moved in the direction of her door, his fist poised over the wood. He was about to break the most important rule in a writers’ colony: Do not disturb the writer.
That’s why writers came to colonies. So their work wouldn’t be interrupted by the mundane: a Jehovah’s Witness brandishing tracts, a clothes dryer buzzing at the end of its cycle, an over-eager neighbor barging in with good news.
He knocked several times, and the deed was done. His offense might get him kicked out of the colony, but he didn’t care. His book deal news was like a sneeze; it must be released.
Scurrying sounds were heard behind the door and after a moment or two, she appeared. She wore a bright pink romper that revealed a pair of shapely alabaster legs.
It was late afternoon, and the outdoor light lent a golden tint to her complexion. Most women relied on face paint, costumes and hair potions to achieve the illusion of beauty. His neighbor needed only the light of the sun.
“Well, if it isn’t my spider rescuer.” Her expression was one of mild surprise, and Aaron temporarily forgot why he’d disturbed her.
Love Literary Style Page 5