by Wendy Wax
The thing was, no matter what she fixed her attention on, the shards of her broken life kept poking through: Calvin’s defection, the need to tell the kids, the demise of her career, the triumphant face of husband-stealing Realtor Laura Wiles, the book she had to write. Like Pig-Pen from the Charlie Brown comic strip, her cloud hovered over her, dark and daunting and devoid of a silver lining.
She yawned and waited for the caffeine to kick in, hoping it might at least propel her inside to her laptop, but she was tired, so tired. She had sat up all night flipping channels on the satellite TV—as always amazed that there could be so many options and so little to watch. Exhausted, but unable to sleep, she’d been drawn inexorably to HGTV, where she’d watched episode after episode of people fixing things, thereby changing their lives. Flip that house and prove how smart you are; change the water heater yourself and improve your self-esteem; redecorate your neighbors’ living room for under a thousand dollars and cement that friendship. The channel was filled with thirty-minute programs that could pave your way to happily-ever-after.
She’d nodded off in her deck chair when a stray sound broke the quiet and nudged her out of sleep. A car came up the drive, its tires crunching on the gravel road, and stopped at the side of the house. The engine went off, and a car door opened and closed. Footsteps sounded on the gravel and then on the kitchen steps. Kendall sat frozen on the deck, unsure what to do. There was no time to go inside for a robe and nowhere out here to hide.
“Kendall?” A female voice rang out in the silence, and for a split second, she was afraid that Cal had given Laura Wiles a key for the mountain house, too. She had vowed that if she ever saw that woman again she would be wearing clothes.
There was a loud rapping on the kitchen door. “Kendall?”
Kendall considered her options. This took about one second because she had none.
“Kendall Aims, I left my house at 5:00 A.M. this morning and have spent most of this day traveling to get here. You damned well better answer your door!”
Certain she couldn’t be hearing the voice she was hearing, Kendall crossed the deck and entered the kitchen.
“Kendall, I’m not kidding! Open up! Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll . . .”
Kendall pulled open the kitchen door and there stood Mallory in her low-slung designer jeans and high-heeled boots. “Blow my house down? Right now that would be completely anticlimactic.”
“Would this be the time to mention that it’s afternoon and you’re not dressed?” Mallory stepped through the open door. “I’m pretty sure even the three little pigs would have pulled on their little clothes by now.”
Kendall stepped forward and into Mallory’s open arms. Her friend smelled of the big city and expensive perfume; Kendall most definitely did not. “I’m so mind-bogglingly glad to see you!” She clung to Mallory in the doorway, not wanting to let go. “I don’t even care that you just called me a pig!” She stepped back and swiped at the tears on her cheek with the back of her pajama sleeve. “How did you find me? What are you doing here? Oh, my God, I’m so glad to see you!”
She was crying freely now, all the tears she’d been holding on to so tightly pouring out of her like a damned waterfall. When she’d finally sniffled to a stop, Kendall led Mallory into the house. “I just can’t believe you’re here,” she said, swiping once more at her face.
“One of us would have been here sooner if you’d let us know where you were and what was going on.” She leaned against the kitchen counter and folded her arms across her chest. “Speaking of which, what is going on, Kendall?”
Mallory looked her up and down, and Kendall became fully aware of the picture she must be presenting: the wrinkled, ill-fitting pajamas; the greasy hair; the dark circles under her eyes that attested to her HGTV nights.
Mallory sniffed pointedly. “Is there something wrong with your plumbing?” She winced. “You do still have indoor plumbing, don’t you?”
Kendall gave a final swipe at her tears. She felt as if she’d been toting a full set of emotional baggage around on her shoulders and someone had offered to carry some of it. “Let’s go out on the deck. And to start with your last question first, nothing’s wrong with the plumbing, though I think I could probably fix it if there were after all the HGTV I’ve been watching. And to your first question?” She pulled a second chair next to her old standby and motioned Mallory into it. She drew the mountain air into her lungs and tried to order her thoughts. “Everything’s wrong. It’s like I slipped when the Zelda didn’t happen and then I started rolling down the mountain and everything I thought I could cling to ripped out of my hands.”
She told her then about her conversation with Sylvia Hardcastle and her need to leave New York, her desperation to get home only to be forced to confront the truth about Calvin. She described the call from Jane’s assistant and Cal’s B-movie dialogue, his Realtor girlfriend and demand for a divorce. It all poured out of her along with another stream of tears.
“I don’t know what to say to Jeffrey and Melissa. When they went away to school a month ago everything was fine. Suddenly their father has a girlfriend, their mother doesn’t have a career, and their parents are getting a divorce. I don’t understand how all of this happened. How can they?”
Mallory stared out over the deck railing, listening without comment.
“It’s all so overwhelming I can’t seem to clear my head long enough to think. I keep telling myself I don’t have to do anything about Calvin right now. There isn’t really anything to do, anyway. But I am supposed to write a book and I don’t see how that can possibly happen. Definitely not now. Maybe not ever.”
Mallory turned and looked at her but the “That’s ridiculous, of course you’ll write” that Kendall was expecting didn’t come.
“I mean, what’s the point?” Kendall asked. “Even when I thought my personal life was OK, my career was dying. In fact, of all the writers I know, you’re one of maybe two hand fuls I can think of who have real, big-time, name-recognition careers. You know?”
“But, I . . .”
“No, I don’t hold it against you, Mal. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying what are the odds of really making it? What if I somehow, miraculously, got my life back together and managed to write a really incredible book? What are the chances that something major would happen? A billion to one? A trillion?”
“I . . .”
“You know, the writer who most inspired me, other than you guys, is a woman who helped found the local writers’ group I belong to. She wrote for years, one book after another, just trying to get somewhere. At one point, despite all the roadblocks her publisher put in her way, she hit the New York Times list and got a multimillion dollar contract with another publisher.”
Mallory listened, her attention rapt, but she didn’t interrupt.
“When I was trying to get published, she once said to me, ‘The published people are simply the last ones standing.’ And I believed her. I put the line on a Post-it note and taped it to my computer screen and on my bathroom mirror. I looked at it every day. I repeated it to other aspiring writers who were getting tired and wanting to give up.
“I understood what she was saying. The publishing business is brutal but if you just keep at it you can beat it. You just have to stay on your feet, never give up. That’s what she said and I believed her.”
“That’s good, Kendall. That’s right. It’s all in the head anyway. Sometimes it’s hard, unbelievably hard. You just have to—”
“That woman is selling houses now, Mallory,” Kendall said quietly. “She’s in real estate!” She grimaced. “And I’m not feeling too kindly about that field right now.”
Mallory had thought she’d toss and turn all night, distraught over Kendall’s situation, but she’d slept like the proverbial baby; a result no doubt of the crisp mountain air. Or the two bottles of wine that she and Kendall had consumed.
She’d heard the TV on during the night, little snippets of what
sounded like “cornice mouldings” and “router,” but her sleep had been deep and untroubled. For the first time her own problems weren’t front and center clamoring for attention. Her first order of business needed to be getting Kendall back on track.
Pulling on her robe, Mallory followed the smell of coffee out to the kitchen. There she found Kendall dressed and smiling and writing something on a legal pad. Her gaze strayed to the clock on the kitchen wall. It was 8:30 A.M.
“Wow, you’re already dressed.” She sniffed. “And showered, too. I may change careers and become a counselor.”
“What can I say?” Kendall said. “You’ve inspired me.” She gestured Mallory to the empty mug on the counter near the coffeemaker.
Mallory poured herself a cup of coffee, mixed in creamer and sweetener, then took a long sip. “What are you writing?” she asked. “An outline? Character notes?” Maybe this wouldn’t be the emotional ordeal she’d been anticipating. She’d offer to brainstorm or help solidify plot points to get Kendall started and then she’d do the same. Just the change of scenery should be a solid shot in the arm. How could a view this beautiful fail to inspire?
“Actually, it’s a list for Home Depot.”
Mallory dragged her gaze from the view to consider her friend. “Home Depot?”
“Yeah, all those HGTV shows I’ve been watching have inspired me to take care of some things around here.”
“But you don’t have a renovation due.” Mallory felt compelled to state the obvious. “Scarsdale is expecting a completed manuscript, not photos of a room remodel.”
“Oh, I’m not planning anything major,” Kendall said. “But one of the back steps is loose and so is part of the deck railing. We wouldn’t want either of us to fall through now, would we?”
“No, of course not. But . . .”
“And there’s something wrong with the toilet handle—it’s starting to drive me crazy. I’m sure I can fix that in no time.
“Why don’t you run and get dressed and we’ll drive down. We can have breakfast at the Clayton Café while we’re down there and we can hit the grocery store on the way back. It shouldn’t take us more than two or three hours.”
“But I thought we’d work this morning,” Mallory said. “We both have books due. We could just bring our laptops out here on the deck and—”
“Look, Mal, you can stay here and work if you want to. I need to get these supplies and some groceries. Trust me when I tell you I’m down to my last bag of Doritos.”
“But I came here to help you. . . .”
Kendall smiled and pushed her hair back off her face. “Mallory, this is the first time I’ve showered or had clothes on in the last three days. As far as I’m concerned you’re already a miracle worker.
“But I can’t even think about the book until I take care of these small repairs and we have some food in the house.” She looked at Mallory, her expression both grateful and innocent, but Mallory had become a first-rate procrastinator in her own right and she knew an evasive move when she saw one.
She took another sip of her coffee, trying to decide how best to handle Kendall. The truth was that although she had never held a hammer or driven in a nail, that being Chris’s bailiwick, she didn’t think she could face the computer screen right now, either. Maybe breakfast and an outing would put them in the right frame of mind.
Besides, if she let Kendall go by herself, she might blow off the entire day. If she went along, she could keep their joint procrastination to a minimum. They’d have breakfast, pick up some supplies and sustenance, and get back here and down to work.
“All right,” Mallory finally said. “Give me fifteen minutes to get ready.” She looked up and caught the expression of relief that washed over Kendall’s face, as if she were a death-row prisoner who’d just received a last-minute reprieve from the governor. “But we’re going to stock up so we don’t have to keep running into town. And then we’re going to come back and start fleshing out your story idea.”
Kendall didn’t respond; she just carried her coffee out on the deck, the relieved smile still on her face.
Mallory started toward her bedroom wondering how dressed up people here got for a trip down to Home Depot. And whether the abject relief she felt at not having to sit down and work yet was as clearly etched on her face as it was on Kendall’s.
11
What I would say to a young person trying to become a writer is ‘Don’t.’ It won’t make any difference because they’ll do it anyway, but they really shouldn’t.
—A. L. KENNEDY
After practically licking their plates clean at the Clayton Café, Kendall and Mallory strolled Clayton’s tiny Main Street to try to work off some of what they’d eaten.
“God, I’m full.” Kendall tugged at the waistband of her jeans, trying to create more room.
“It was good,” Mallory agreed. “Although I can’t quite get comfortable with the idea of brown gravy at breakfast. And I do not understand the appeal of grits.”
“Shh,” Kendall admonished. “Don’t say that so loud. Around here it’s enough to get you tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail.”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know this town isn’t big enough to work off all the calories we just consumed. We’re going to have to take a hike later today.”
Anything that didn’t involve assessing her life or sitting down in front of a computer sounded good to Kendall. After all, she had that new family motto to live up to. Avoidus, avatas, avant. Having Mallory here made her feel less alone and isolated, but she didn’t see the fear and emptiness roiling inside her disappearing anytime soon. And she couldn’t imagine how she was supposed to turn all that turmoil into a book.
“Sounds good,” Kendall said, as they meandered past a row of antique stores and a carefully maintained garden that fronted a historic stone building now operating as a museum.
When they came to the town’s lone bookstore, Mallory stopped, turning to Kendall. “God, do you remember when our first books hit the shelves?” She smiled at the memory. “How many stores did we go into when you came up to New York that first time? Twenty? Thirty? Remember how we cabbed from store to store and raced back to the fiction section as fast as we could without actually running?”
Kendall nodded, but for her the memory was tainted by her present reality.
“Do you want to go in and see if they’re carrying us?”
Kendall looked into Mallory’s face, with its almost dreamy look of nostalgia and felt the need to erase it. “I’m sure it would be fun for you, Mallory. Everybody stocks plenty of your books. But if they do have my books, they probably won’t have enough of them to make me feel better. And if they don’t have my books, I’ll just feel worse. Which is kind of hard to imagine at the moment.”
Mallory let go of the doorknob. Her hand dropped to her side.
“The thing is, Mallory, even in a tiny bookstore like this, there are thousands of titles vying for a reader’s attention. And I have to ask myself, what are the chances that someone wandering in off the street is going to choose one of mine? And if they do buy one of the few copies of mine the store might have in stock, what are the chances the store will bother to reorder?
“For me, walking into a bookstore is a reminder of what I’m up against. It’s too depressing.”
“All the more reason to write this next book,” Mallory countered. “Increase your backlist and your name recognition. It can never hurt to get your name out there.”
Kendall shook her head, trying to suppress the surge of irritation at Mallory’s response. “It seems pretty pointless to me.”
“Now you’ve got me depressed,” Mallory said, turning away from the store.
“Well, I try to be an equal opportunity depressant,” Kendall replied. Her tone was purposely flip but inside she felt like a dark cloud bulging with rain.
“But, of course, you have no reason to be depressed or worried. You’re prolific, your publisher has be
en pushing you from day one, your numbers are great.” She tried to swallow her resentment at the unfairness of it all. “You have a husband who worships you.”
Her voice broke on the last accusation and she hated herself for letting loose all over Mallory’s parade. At the moment she simply couldn’t seem to get past the fact that Mallory had absolutely everything she had ever wanted. “I’d be eager to write, too, if I were in your situation.”
Turning on her heel, Mallory began to walk toward the car. She moved so quickly that Kendall, who had been focused on her own misery, was taken by surprise and had to scurry to keep up.
“So you think I have no problems? No stress?” Mallory bit out as she increased her pace. “You think that I don’t have a care in the world and that when I sit down to write I just snap my fingers and out it comes?”
They reached the car and took their positions on either side of it, the lazy comfort of the morning blown to smithereens. “Is that what you think?” Mallory demanded.
Their gazes locked, Kendall told herself to choose her words carefully. She was grateful that Mallory was here and disgusted at the little pity party she’d just thrown. But that little green monster continued to egg her on. “Well, yeah, pretty much,” Kendall said, popping the door locks. “You’ve certainly never indicated otherwise.”
Mallory snorted and slid into the passenger seat. Kendall climbed in behind the wheel.
“You know what the real pisser is?” Kendall asked, as she turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the parking space. “The pisser is you’re such an incredibly good friend I don’t even have the luxury of hating you for it.”
Mallory kept her mouth clamped shut and her retorts to herself as they crossed the Home Depot parking lot and entered the massive box of a building.