Aaron vehemently disagreed. His MFA days were some of the most edifying of his life but he didn’t feel like arguing with Ross. “Do you have a copy of your novel here?”
“You mean novels, and I thought you’d never ask.” Ross strode to a large cabinet and opened it. Dozens of volumes were displayed within, all bearing the name R.K. Harris on the spine.
“The name R.K. Harris is familiar to me,” Aaron said.
“Not to brag, but I’ve become pretty well-known over the years.”
Aaron disapproved of the prefacing phrase “not to brag.” It was like saying, “Not to stab,” and then going ahead and stabbing someone while assuming the action would be negated.
Numerous titles lined the shelf. It had only been five years since grad school.
“There’s so many…How did you…?”
“I’ve written fifteen since grad school. The reason it looks like so many books is because some of these are foreign editions.”
Suddenly he remembered it was Laurie who’d mentioned Ross’s books, and he may have even seen one lying about the house. “Do you write romance?”
“Not romance. Love stories, and not to brag…”
Aaron winced.
“But they’ve all been New York Times bestsellers. Four have hit the number one spot.”
“My girlfriend’s a fan.”
“Really?” Ross seemed pleased. “But I’m not surprised. I’m big with the ladies.”
“And these books…They paid for this apartment?”
“And a whole lot more. Not too shabby, huh? I bet you wouldn’t have expected that from me. You didn’t always care for my work, especially during our second year. What was that phrase you always used? Something about cuneiform? It wasn’t worth the cuneiform it was chiseled on?”
“I think you mean papyrus.”
“That’s it. It wasn’t worth the papyrus it was penned on.”
“Correct.” Aaron had to admit he also liked the cuneiform phrase. Maybe he’d try it out for a little variation.
“No hard feelings, by the way. Difficult for me to be mad, considering all the success I’ve enjoyed. My newest novel came out last week, and the publisher staged a flash mob.”
“A flash mob?”
“Everyone in the publishing company—from secretaries to literary assistants to executive editors—showed up on the steps of the New York Public Library and read my book.”
The techniques for publicizing commercial fiction were certainly curious. Perhaps hoopla was necessary to distract readers from the pedestrian quality of the writing.
A solicitous Sam delivered their drinks, and Aaron was slightly disappointed that his Pink Lady came without an umbrella. It was, however, tasty.
“You caught me on a good day, Aaron. I’m feeling generous. Publishing’s a tough business, and since we went to grad school together I’d like to give you a leg—”
“Up?” Aaron said. “That’s very kind of you. What did you have in mind?”
“I hardly ever do this anymore, but I’m going to blurb your book.”
“Blurb?” The word sounded undignified, an unholy union between a burp and slurp.
“Endorse it.”
“But you haven’t read it.”
“I will. Or more likely I’ll get one of my people to do it. If Quip took it on, it’s gotta be good. And you were one of the better writers in our program. Especially during the first year. Whatever happened to that novel of yours, Klieg?”
“Discarded. It was amateurish.”
“That’s funny. I remember it being very accomplished but then again, it’s been a while. Anyway, about that endorsement—”
“Thank you. Your offer’s generous.”
“Yeah, well, I know it’s hard to get attention for quiet literary novels. I thought—”
“I’m extremely grateful.”
Ross put his hands behind his head and spread out even more on the couch. “Makes me feel good to help out someone who’s just jumped on this crazy publishing carousel. I was one of the lucky ones who never had to pay my dues, but—”
“I fear I must decline your kind offer.”
“What?”
“We don’t have the same readership. You write romance.”
“Love stories.” He carefully enunciated each syllable. “And incidentally they’ve been called love stories for thinking people.”
“But still genre fiction.”
“Upmarket fiction, which marries literary fiction with genre fiction.”
What a dreadful union, Aaron thought.
“And speaking of genre fiction, too many people judge it by its worst examples. There’s predictable and cliché-riddled genre fiction, and then there’s genre fiction where every sentence shines. When’s the last time you’ve picked up a genre novel? I think you’d be surprised—”
Aaron held up a finger. He withdrew a book from Ross’s cabinet and began to read.
Ross leaped from the couch to stand behind him. “That actually isn’t one of my best.”
Aaron ignored him and continued to peruse the book. After a few minutes he looked up from the page. He hoped his expression conveyed his dismay, but if not, he was prepared to offer a detailed verbal critique.
Ross snatched the book away. “I was on deadline. The book you should read is my debut. I wrote it during the MFA program. That one—”
“I’ve read enough, thank you, to know that we are very different. And may I ask you a personal question?”
“What?”
“You earned your MFA. You studied the Craft. With practice and time you could likely produce fiction that approaches a level of artistry. Why did you make the decision to write genre fiction?”
Ross looked uncomfortable, guilty even, as he should. It was one thing for Laurie to choose to write genre. Unlike Ross, she lacked the advantages of a university education.
“It’s not nearly as easy as it looks, doing what I do. I bet you couldn’t do it.”
“No. I could not.”
“So you’re admitting there’s a skill level involved?”
“That’s not what I said. The reason I can’t write genre fiction is because it’s contrary to everything I believe. I couldn’t sell myself out that way.”
“You should be thanking genre writers.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because the sales of commercial novels make the publication of literary novels possible. What was your advance? Fifteen grand or some other embarrassingly paltry figure? Whatever it was, I promise you it’s my sales that are subsidizing your novel.”
An uncomfortable truth, since Wilner was an imprint of W&W. Another reason Aaron wished he was with Featherstone. They only published quality literary fiction.
“And while my writing might not be inspiring on the sentence level, it takes artistry to create an engaging plot that sweeps a reader away for hours.”
Aaron sighed. He’d had this argument a number of times with students who insisted on inserting pixies and dragons into their narratives.
“Ross, you can talk to me about the future of genre fiction until the dawning of the post-post-post-modernist age, but you yourself just described its purpose: to temporarily sweep readers away from their lives. Once they come back from the trip, they are unchanged. Literary fiction, on the other hand, challenges readers to confront their lives; as the essayist Arthur Krystal says, it melts the ‘frozen sea inside of us.’”
Ross stroked his chin, as if considering his point. (As he should. Aaron felt he’d gotten to the marrow of the issue.)
“I assume you read a lot of literary fiction.”
“Of course. It’s all I read.”
“Well then, if literary fiction is so transforming, why
the hell are you the same uptight snob you were in grad school?”
Aaron bristled. He was not a snob; he simply appreciated and defended great literature. Normally he was not particularly combative but he felt a retort was in order.
“Better to be a snob than a sellout,” he said softly.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“I should probably go.”
“You weren’t always such a snob. I remember your first semester in grad school. Your enthusiasm for writing was infectious, but the next semester you came back completely different, all guarded and critical. I always wondered what happened to you.”
“My tastes simply grew more sophisticated. It’s a perfectly natural evolution in a grad student.”
“A shame,” Ross said. “Because that first semester you inspired me, and I know I wasn’t the only one.”
“That was simply youthful exuberance that resulted in some hideously bad writing.”
“It wasn’t bad writing. Not at all.”
Aaron was doubtful that Ross could tell the difference.
“I’m not the only who changed,” Aaron said. “Our program was competitive. Obviously the faculty saw merit in your work but now—”
“Enough. I refuse to listen to any more insults about my writing in my own home.”
Aaron nodded his assent and headed for the door. It was clear he and Ross would never agree, which was a shame. He’d have enjoyed a lively conversation about literature with an old classmate. Laurie was excellent company in most ways, but she wouldn’t know Thomas Pynchon if he pinched her on her lovely posterior. Aaron had bought her a Pynchon novel as well as the Nicholas Windust book she’d looked at during their visit to The Spine. He thought she was reading them but then discovered she’d just used the dust jackets to cover up her romance novels.
“Please have another cheese straw, Laurie. If you don’t eat them, my husband will, and the doctor’s been after him to watch his sodium.”
Laurie smiled at Jake’s mother and said, “Yes, ma’am. Don’t mind if I do.” She wasn’t the least bit hungry and there was far too much cayenne pepper in the cheese straws. But she was always eager to please Marvel. Poor thing had been wasting away since Jake’s death. She’d always been thin, but it looked like she’d lost about twenty pounds. She’d also stopped touching up her gray. No traces of her former honey-colored hair remained on her head.
They were sitting in the living room which was now a shrine for Jake. Photos were displayed on every surface, and his athletic trophies glinted from shelves. Laurie happened to know that Marvel spent hours lovingly polishing each and every one. There wasn’t a speck of dust on any of them.
“And there she is! The prettiest girl in Emanuel County.”
Marvel’s husband, Brick, charged into the room in his usual high-energy fashion. He looked mostly the same, still barrel chested and ruddy faced, but in recent visits, the ruddiness had spread and his cheeks were a map of broken blood vessels. Laurie suspected he’d upped his scotch drinking in recent months. On his heels was Jake’s older sister, Kate.
Laurie stood and gave both Brick and Kate a hug. Brick’s embrace was enthusiastic, Kate’s much less so. She lived next door and was always in and out of Brick and Marvel’s house.
Brick settled into his easy chair. “How is Hot-lanta treating you?”
“Daddy,” Kate said. “No one calls it that anymore.”
“Sorry. I guess I’m out of touch. How’s the Big Peach?”
“It’s fine, sir,” Laurie said. “Thanks for asking.”
Marvel clutched at her pearls. “I don’t know how you stand all those traffic snarls. The way people drive? Like demons out of hell.”
“I’ll never get used to it.” Laurie matched Marvel’s dramatic tone. She didn’t mind the traffic so much. It meant she lived in a place that was fast-paced and vibrant, and if she got stuck in a long jam, she simply pulled out one of her romance novels.
“Who’s this furry thing?” Brick said. He pointed to Dusty.
“My new dog, Dusty.” Laurie had called ahead to make sure it was okay to bring him. She didn’t want to leave him alone for a full day.
“Very wise of you to have a dog in the city. All that crime,” Marvel said.
“How’s nail school going?” Kate said. “Mastered cuticles yet?”
Cuticles were more complicated than most people might imagine, but Laurie knew Kate wasn’t asking a real question. She and Jake’s sister had never been bosom buddies, but after Jake died she was almost hostile with Laurie.
She also treated Laurie as if she were frivolous and dumb. She even told blonde jokes in her presence. (Kate’s hair was unruly and brown.) Two weeks after Jake’s death, Laurie overheard her saying, “Mama and Daddy are probably going to have to help Laurie out financially. That girl has zero skills.” Laurie had no idea why Kate had gotten so testy with her.
“Nail school’s going well,” Laurie said. That was a lie. She was very close to flunking out. For some reason nothing the textbook or teachers said stuck in her brain.
“We surely do miss seeing you,” Marvel said.
“And I miss y’all.”
Silence. Their visits were always marked with awkwardness. Nobody seemed to know what to talk about, and Jake’s absence always hung over the proceedings. Yet Marvel insisted on them. Likely Laurie’s presence was akin to having a little piece of her son in the room. Laurie counted the minutes until she could politely leave. Brick and Marvel’s house always made her feel hemmed in.
“I hear you’re keeping busy up there in Atlanta,” Kate said. “Making new friends?”
Laurie bit her bottom lip. She recognized that smug tone. Delilah must have said something to somebody about Aaron. Laurie was surprised. Her friend was generally good at keeping secrets.
“One very special friend, I hear?” Kate said, her voice a challenge.
“What’s Kate talking about, Laurie?” Marvel said, blinking innocently.
Both Brick and Marvel’s eyes were on Laurie, waiting for her answer.
“Kate’s right. In fact, I’ve been meaning to tell you...But I just...”
“Laurie has a new beau,” Kate said.
“I have a new friend.”
“And they’re living together,” Kate said triumphantly. “Have been now for several months.”
More silence. This time it was a stunned silence.
“Is that true?” Marvel’s voice was pinched with alarm.
“Well, it’s expensive living in Atlanta, and Aaron and I thought—”
“Several months? And you didn’t tell us?”
“Well...”
Marvel shot up from her chair.
“Marvel, listen. I meant to tell you. But I—”
She was talking to empty air; Marvel had fled the room.
Laurie turned to Brick. “I’m so sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to upset her.”
Brick wore a weary expression. “It’s okay, sugar. You’re a young woman, and you aren’t expected to wear widow weeds for the rest of your life. Marvel knows that. I think it just came as a shock.” He stood. “I best go after her.”
Brick left the room, and Laurie was alone with Kate.
“Don’t give me that injured look,” Kate said. “You deserved that. Why didn’t you tell them?”
“I was waiting for the right time,” Laurie said. Not that there was such a thing. She should have mentioned it, but she knew the news would be upsetting so she kept putting it off.
“You never did love Jake, did you?”
Laurie widened her eyes at the absurd question. “How can you say that? His death devastated me.”
Kate shook her head in disbelief.
“Just because I’m seeing
someone new doesn’t mean I didn’t love your brother,” Laurie said. “He was the love of my life. No one can replace him.”
Kate shot Laurie a look of such coldness, it made her shiver.
“Why don’t I believe that?”
She left the room. Laurie couldn’t move for a moment. The exchange had shaken her. She gazed directly at a photo of Jake in his football uniform, kissed her fingers and touched the photo. “I don’t care what Kate said,” Laurie said vehemently. “You know I loved you.” Then she picked up Dusty, grateful to leave.
Eleven
The elevator opened up into the W&W reception area, and Aaron waited for his editor to come and greet him. Instead, the receptionist told him that Max was on a phone conference and Aaron would first be meeting Rebecca, head of publicity.
Rebecca was a mannish-looking woman in a boxy suit; the only hint of femininity in her appearance was her high heels. Aaron had noted that the women of New York City had a fondness for towering footwear. That seemed counterintuitive considering the amount of walking required to get around the city. You’d think they’d choose sturdy heavy-soled footwear, instead of the flimsy and teetering contraptions he’d seen so far.
Rebecca mentioned they had a fountain-style Diet Coke machine and inquired if he wanted a drink. Aaron declined.
“Let’s dive in then, shall we?” She sat behind her desk and swiveled in her chair. “I’d like to talk about platforms. We’ll need to start working on yours.”
A platform was a flat surface that was raised from the ground, often used by speakers or performers. In middle French it literally meant flat form. Why did Rebecca want him to have one? For author appearances? At five foot nine inches, Aaron wasn’t a giant, but he was no midget either.
“I don’t have the carpentry skills or tools necessary to construct a platform. Can Wilner provide one for me?”
Rebecca’s baritone laugh rang through the small office. “A platform is what the author brings to the table to publicize the book.”
“Does Webster’s accept that particular usage?”
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