I tried to imagine myself saying, “I’m Jill Conner, a writer.” It sounded as credible to me as saying, “I’m Jill Conner, pop singer and part-time proctologist.”
An Amazonian blonde, wearing an add-a-bead necklace and painted-on Bonjour jeans, sashayed into the classroom.
“Mr. Hollingsworth, do you have a minute?” There was so much sickly sweet hanging off her words, it made ’em all have several extra syllables. “I have a question about my term paper.”
“Sure, Tiffany,” Bob said. “Fire away.”
“I’d best git,” I said, unfolding my six-foot frame from the student-size desk.
“Don’t leave,” he said. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Adolescent girls today seemed far more sultry than when I was coming up. Bob’s high school crawled with so many pouty-lipped, hip-swinging sex kittens it looked like the site of a Lolita convention. It was a miracle teenage boys could concentrate on anything beyond their pocket rockets.
Tiffany was especially comely. As she chatted with Bob, she kept tossing her long, blond hair over her shoulder and rotating the end of a pencil between her shiny pink lips. Tammy told me female students were constantly slipping perfumed notes into his briefcase.
Bob, on the other hand, was blind to their charms. He acted as if every woman on the planet was a snaggletoothed troll compared to Tammy. His desk had several framed pictures of the two of them, and after several years of marriage he still sent flowers and wrote her steamy love poems.
“Thank you SO MUCH, Mr. Hollingsworth,” purred the junior seductress just before she wiggled out the door.
“Sorry about that. Where were we?”
“You said something about publication. Maybe I’ll try the Fish Wrapper Gazette.”
Bob shook his head. “Come on, Jill. Have a little faith in yourself.”
“I can’t help it! The idea of anyone but close friends reading my stuff makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.” I stood to leave. “I appreciate your time, but I should let you get back to work. Say hello to Tammy for me.”
“If I ever see her,” he said with a sad sigh. “She’s always working. She’s given up her singing gig and is angling to be a full-fledged news anchor.”
“She didn’t mention it to me.” Tammy hadn’t said a word about work. She’d been too busy bubbling over about a new pair of diamond earrings.
“I hope she and I can spend some time alone before I leave.” Bob was in the army reserves, and was shipping out in a couple of days to Fort Dix, New Jersey, for his field training.
“I guess the diamond earrings were a good-bye gift.”
“Earrings?” Bob said, perplexed. “What earrings?”
A feeling of dread stirred in my gut—telling me that something rotten this way comes.
“What am I saying?” I said, banging my forehead with the palm of my hand. “That wasn’t Tammy. I’m getting her mixed up with one of my clients.”
“Oh,” Bob said, accepting my line of bullshit with nary a raised eyebrow. He was so trusting, so innocent. “Jill, will you look after my girl while I’m gone? I worry about her so much.”
“You got it. No problem,” I said, mustering up a reassuring smile. Obviously Bob had not given Tammy those diamond earrings, so the question banging around in my little brain was, where the hell had she gotten them?
I sat around a table in the meeting room of the Jackson Public Library listening to a squeaky-voiced twenty-three-year-old graduate student named Fred read a section from his novel-in-progress. The work was entitled One Man’s Journey. It was about an intrepid photographer named Fernando who had women constantly throwing themselves at him. The novel read like a series of Penthouse Forum fantasies strung together. Fred, however, considered his manuscript to be a groundbreaking work.
“Comments?” said our workshop leader, Louis, after Fred finished reading. Louis was in his forties and had a long gray ponytail.
“You misspelled ‘turgid,’ dear. It’s ‘t-u’ not ‘t-e,’” said Bonnie. She was a retired schoolteacher who wrote poems about nature, her latest being “Ode to an Orchid.” “I also thought the setting for the scene was original.”
“You understood the symbolism, didn’t you?” Fred asked, blinking behind smudged eyeglasses. “The bank vault represents how Fernando seals off his innermost feelings.” He went to explain all the other nuances and metaphors that might have escaped our inferior little minds.
“Where’s the plot?” said Norah, who always sounded angry. She wrote aggressively feminist haikus about areolas and labias. “Am I the only one who is wondering when something’s going to happen besides sex?”
“It doesn’t need a plot, Norah,” Fred said very slowly, as if he were talking to a dim-witted child. “It’s a literary novel.”
“I agree with Norah,” Louis said. “You should consider adding some conflict. The scene reads a little static.”
Louis wrote wonderful short stories, one of which had been published by a literary magazine called Ploughshares. He was also finishing up a novel.
I was too shy to comment. After all, what the hell did I know about writing novels? I just scribbled “good effort” on the bottom of Fred’s pages and handed them back to him.
“Do you have anything today, Jill?” Louis asked.
I’d brought an essay about all the crazy diets my clients went on (cabbage, stewardess, grapefruit, and the ever-popular pink weenies and ice cream) and had planned to read it, but couldn’t bring myself to share it with the others.
“Not this week,” I said. “But I do have a question. If, on the off chance, I ever wrote an essay good enough to be published, where would I send it?”
“The New Yorker, or The Atlantic Monthly,” Fred said, impatiently.
“Guideposts takes essays,” Bonnie said. “So does Reader’s Digest.”
“Actually,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I was thinking of something a little bit less intimidating.”
“Good for you, Jill,” Louis said with an approving nod of his head. “Learn to walk before you run. Why don’t you try that free circular in town? It’s called The Diddy Wah Diddy, and they publish essays.”
“Thank you, Louis,” I said. “I’ll look into it.”
I don’t know why I lied. I had no intention of submitting my work anywhere. I wasn’t near ready yet.
“Gerald?” I said, squinting through the peephole. He stood on my stoop with a very fat dachshund on a leash. I immediately flung open the door. “What a fabulous surprise! This must be the infamous Kitchie Koo.”
Every year Gerald and William sent Christmas cards with Kitchie posing in the center like a beloved child. Gerald claimed he warmed the dog’s Alpo and fed him with a sterling silver spoon.
I hugged him, and he stiffened in my arms.
“Are you okay?” I said, after I dropped my embrace.
“Can we come in?” His expression was somber.
“Absolutely!” I said, beckoning him inside. “It’s great to see you. Where’s William?”
Gerald sat ramrod straight on the couch but allowed Kitchie to jump up on his lap. It was the first time I noticed he had dark crescents under his eyes, and he was unshaven.
“Did the two of you have a falling-out?”
Gerald didn’t answer right away. His features were so still they could have been cast in plaster of Paris.
“You could say that,” he said in a barely audible voice.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” he answered immediately and vehemently. Judging by the sound of his voice, it must have been a bitter breakup.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“I’ve quit my job at the university in San Francisco. There’s a position at Jackson State. It’s an adjunct professorship but it could turn into full-time. I’ve also rented an apartment here.”
I knew Gerald was close to becoming tenured in San Francisco. It used to be all he could talk about, so I was shoc
ked to hear he’d left his job.
“I wanted you to know I was back in town. Naturally, I’d like to get together with you and Tammy.”
“Of course,” I said, sitting beside him. “Sometimes it helps to get these things off your chest. See this,” I said, grabbing one of my ears. “This is one big, ol’ floppy listening device. It is right here, waiting for you to talk into it.”
Gerald placed Kitchie on the floor and stood. “I’ll be glad to gab all you want. But there’s one thing I won’t discuss, and that’s William. Understand?”
“But—”
“I mean it, Jill. I never want to hear his name mentioned again.”
Chapter
16
I was going to call and tell you about getting the part of Electra, but I guess you already know!” Mary Bennett’s voice said on my answering machine. I had left a message about the parade at the studio. “I would love to be in the parade. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll come in a few days early so I can have some time with you and Tammy. We’ve got a lotta catching up to do!”
I was so pleased Mary Bennett had decided to come home for the St. Paddy’s parade, I forgave her for calling me at home during work hours, knowing full well I wouldn’t be there. I had a sneaking feeling she didn’t want to talk about what had happened between her and Brian just yet. Obviously, she didn’t know anything about William and Gerald, which kind of surprised me. If Gerald were going to confide in anyone, it would be Mary Bennett.
I made my daily phone call to Tammy, listening to the familiar trill of the phone ringing, when I finally heard her say a harried hello.
“It’s about damn time.”
“Jill?” Tammy said, not sounding at all pleased to hear from me. “I thought you were someone else. I can’t talk long. I’m expecting a call.”
“Well, that’s a fine greeting to someone you haven’t spoken to in a coon’s age. Can we get together later on?” I’d planned to interrogate her about the diamond earrings. “I know Bob’s out of town, and I thought—”
“I’ll call you,” Tammy said in a hurried voice. “I need to hang up now.”
“Just two quick things.” I proceeded to tell her about the St. Paddy’s Day parade.
“Sounds like a blast,” Tammy said. “Count me in.”
“Also, guess who has moved back to Jackson?”
“Jill! I gotta go.” Why was she so desperate to get me off the phone?
“This is important. It’s Gerald. Something happened between him and William. He’s in a terrible state—”
I heard the dial tone. I was talking to empty air. Tammy had hung up on me.
The month before the parade flew by. I had a couple of strained dinners with Gerald, who still seemed absolutely miserable. Despite much gentle coaxing on my part, he remained stubbornly closemouthed about William. I was pleased to see him perk up a bit when I mentioned the St. Paddy’s Day parade, and he’d promised to participate. He mentioned he was going to a support group, but refused to tell me any details. I was just grateful he was talking to someone.
Tammy joined us only once and begged off early, saying she had an early-morning meeting, but when I passed by her house on the way home from the restaurant her car wasn’t in the driveway. What was she up to—and more important, how bad was it gonna fuck up her life?
I didn’t have much time to worry about Tammy’s shenanigans. I was working harder than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest keeping up with all my personal trainer clients along with my regular job, and doing a little bit of writing on the side.
After downing a couple of glasses of excellent red wine, I’d stuck several of my essays into an envelope and addressed it to Buster Henry, the editor at The Diddy Wah Diddy, but hadn’t gathered the courage to toss it in the mailbox yet.
“Before we start reading, there’s something special I want to share with you,” said Louis. There was a foiled bottle of sparkling grape juice on the table and several Dixie cups.
I felt a pang of disappointment. I’d been hoping to dive right in. I had promised myself an entire bowl full of my world-famous raw chocolate chip cookie dough if I managed to muster the nerve to read out loud my latest essay. I’d gone over it by myself several times before the meeting, and the last time, my cheeks hadn’t gotten hot with mortification. I was even a tiny bit proud of it.
“This is a huge moment in my life, and I wanted to share it with my fellow writers,” Louis continued. “Today, I received a letter from New York’s most powerful literary agent, Bunky Lazar.”
“Bunky,” Fred repeated in a hushed, respectful tone. Both Bonnie and Norah nodded in recognition.
“I haven’t opened it yet.” His voice was shaky with emotion. “I wanted to wait until you, my esteemed colleagues, were gathered around me.”
It was flattering to be identified as Louis’s colleague even though he hadn’t yet read a single word I’d written. The others must have felt likewise, because they were beaming up at him from their chairs.
“Here goes nothing.” Louis slit open the envelope with the blade of a pocketknife. Bonnie and Norah grasped hands. Fred made a gulping sound.
“I don’t think I can read this,” Louis said with a nervous chuckle. “Would you do the honors, Jill?”
The others shot me irritated looks. I could practically read their thoughts. Why should the newbie get such a great honor? She doesn’t even contribute to the group.
“Certainly,” I said, uncomfortable at having all their eyes upon me.
“Dear Author,” I began.
“Louder!” Fred said, cupping his ear.
“Dear Author!” I repeated.
“Hear that?” Bonnie said, clapping her hands. “Louis is a real-live author now.”
I continued. “Thank you for sending us your manuscript. I’ve had a chance to review your work, and have decided…” My voice slowed as I continued to read. “I’m not the right agent for this project, and therefore…I cannot offer you representation.”
“What?” Louis said, in an almost inaudible voice. The others were too dumbstruck to comment.
“Do you want me to continue?” I asked.
Louis nodded very slowly, as if in shock.
“Please understand publishing is a subjective business and taste and judgment may vary among agents. Also forgive this form letter. Due to the volume of submissions received, it’s impossible for me to write personal rejection letters. Best of luck with your writing. Signed Elizabeth Primrose, assistant to Bunky Lazar.”
No one spoke. I carefully folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope.
“Well,” Louis said in a ragged voice. “Clearly I thought the outcome was going to be slightly different.”
“You were robbed!” shouted a wild-eyed Fred.
“What a brutal business this is!” Norah said in a small, scared-sounding voice.
Bonnie’s mouth was a crinkly line of distress. “The letter says publishing is subjective, dear. Maybe you should send it to another agent.”
“I wanted Bunky,” Louis said. “He’s the best in the business.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“This isn’t the end of the world,” Louis said, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve heard of writers who paper their walls with rejection letters. It’s a rite of passage. It’s…uh—” His brave front started to fray. I thought he was going to either cry or get sick. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Then he fled the room.
“Good going, Jill,” Fred hissed.
“Hush, Fred,” Bonnie said. “It’s not her fault.”
I picked up my papers and my purse. “Good night, everyone,” I said, knowing I was never coming back.
As soon as I got home, I tore up the letter to The Diddy Wah Diddy and threw it in the trash. If someone as talented as Louis had problems getting published, I didn’t stand a chance. Writing was far too risky.
“Y’all are a sight for these sore eyes!” Mary Bennett said, looking eve
ry inch a rising star in a raw silk pantsuit, wearing expensive-looking shoes and carrying a Chanel handbag.
I hoped Mary Bennett’s visit would help snap Gerald out of his funk. After all, they were both going through breakups.
“How was your flight?” I asked.
“De-vine,” Mary Bennett said. “I kept the first-class stewardesses on their toes, fetching Bloody Marys. Gerald, don’t just stand there with your dick in your hand. Come here and hug my neck!”
Gerald shuffled over to her and gave her a perfunctory embrace.
“You help Mary Bennett with her luggage,” Gerald said to me. “I’ll bring the car around to the passenger loading area.” Then he plodded out to the parking lot.
“His face was so sour it could turn buttermilk,” Mary Bennett said. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He and William have apparently split,” I said, as we headed for Baggage Claim. “And don’t even try to bring it up. He’s totally clammed up about it.”
“Poor baby,” Mary Bennett said. “If that guy broke Gerald’s heart, he’ll have me to answer to.”
“I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t like it was just ‘some guy.’ It was the love of his life—it was his precious WILLIAM. This is HUGE, I’m telling you—Gerald refuses to talk about it. He’s been going to some kind of support group.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. He’s already GOT a support group: the Queens! All he needs is our loving devotion, a pan or three of Chocolate Stuff, some Pig Candy, and a couple of shots of te-killya. He’ll be as right as rain.”
“I think it’s more complicated than that.”
“No it isn’t. When someone knocks you down, you gotta get right back up. No point in wallowing in it.” She stopped short. “Where’s Tammy? Why isn’t she here to meet me?”
“Good question. I called to tell her you were coming home, but I can never catch her.”
“But she’s coming to the parade?”
“She promised. All of the Queens will be there.”
We reached the luggage carousel and Mary Bennett chattered about the show and her co-stars. Never once did she say a word about Brian.
The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel Page 13