If living with Paul leeched the color from daily existence, then marriage to Paul would estrange her from common humanity. Frances rationed the time she devoted to thinking of marriage, since she knew artists often don’t marry, or, if they do, shouldn’t. Mate to Paul Treat or a cog in the human collective—was there some third position, some nook reserved only for Frances? At the back of her thoughts was a vision of unconfined spaces, not a niche or retreat, but a wilderness, prairie, or desert; and an image of herself in a noble and lonely vocation—forest ranger, lighthouse keeper, birdbander, goatherd. Or writer? In the dead of the night, when her unconscious mind was unfettered, she had sometimes imagined that writing might be her true destiny. Why else was she editing books? Why else was she Paul Treat’s apprentice? She could put down on paper the thoughts she disclosed to no person. She would answer to no one except to herself and her standards. She and Paul could cohabit as equals with dual obsessions. This picture of freedom always ended in a sweat of self-doubt, with Frances aghast at the range of her high-flown presumption. Who was she, unevolved and half-hatched, to lay claim to a destiny? She needed more time watching Paul, learning courage and purpose.
A yearning for solitude, so often peculiar to writers, did not seem to appeal to most writers in Frances’s custody. These authors were leery of confinement and fled from their studies. They wrote best, so they claimed, in reading rooms, parks, and cafeterias. Frances had imagined that writers were dreadful misanthropists; but the authors she edited were sociable in the extreme. They telephoned her often and dropped in on her once or twice weekly. If Frances was busy, they tried to spend time with Ruthanne. If Ruthanne shooed them off, they might sit in the lobby reading magazines, or chat with Arlene, the receptionist, as she handled the switchboard. When Frances tried calling an author, she found the line busy. Authors were as fond of the telephone as girls in their teens. Frances marveled that writers were able to finish their manuscripts. Did one hand write all by itself, like a medium in a trance, while the rest of the person made phone calls and talked to its friends?
In her three years at Harwood, Frances had known many writers. Their demands and strange habits had kept her in training for Paul. Contrasted with Paul, they were merely eccentric, not lawless; thus Frances concluded that writers were not always artists. It was wiser, she felt, to keep her conclusion a secret, since no one would be happy to hear it, especially her poet, Matt Bennett. Since Frances’s charges might not have been genuine artists, they nibbled and plucked at their editor, instead of devouring her. At the end of a given day at the Harwood Press, she found her skin mostly intact, although one layer thinner. Epidermally speaking, her job was not unduly risky. She had several years left before she became disincarnate.
Ruthanne had no patience with authors. According to her, they were monsters of need and dependency. She tried to shield Frances from calls that were not purely literary, calls relating to symptoms of illness or the names of astrologers. When Frances was closeted with a writer for more than an hour, Ruthanne opened a window, no matter the state of the weather. If Matt Bennett, the poet of Manhood, came in for a session, Ruthanne put a bowl of fresh water on top of the bookshelf. When Matt left, with his boots and his bedroll, she poured out the water, an old Chinese custom for ridding a dwelling of toxins. After days filled with sessions, she often looked closely at Frances, like the owner of a dog who has romped unrestrained in a field. If Frances had allowed it, she would have gone over her with tweezers, to extract bits of authors that had fastened themselves to her hide.
Ruthanne voiced complaints and resentment on Frances’s behalf, so Frances was able to take a mature, balanced viewpoint. Ruthanne was especially outspoken on the subject of Matt, who was writing a handbook in verse on male tribal identity. With his bedroll on his back, Matt made camp in a new place each night—in the park, on the wharves, or on the floor of a crony’s apartment. One cold morning he was found on a bench in the Harwood Press mailroom, tucked into his bedroll with two canvas mailbags spread over him. The newscasts reported another eventful occasion when he stayed in a church after closing and slept on the altar. Matt had no fixed address, since the Home was the sphere of the Mother, the Witch Woman working to render men hairless and knock-kneed. (Ruthanne pointed out that Matt Bennett himself was quite hairless, a trait caused by genes from the father’s side, never the mother’s.) Since the night of his publicized reading at the Battery Landfill, by the light of a bonfire fueled with crates, bedsteads, and siding, Matt had gained converts who followed him in his migrations, worried men who hoped sleeping in their clothes would restore their lost maleness. Some of these men came with Matt when he visited Harwood, since the offices were heated and equipped with hot water and telephones. Ruthanne made them cocoa, which contained more nutrition than coffee. Frances posted their letters and supplied pens and paper to write them. Matt’s men were suspicious of generous actions from women. They avoided brushing the hand that brought chocolate or paper. They kept their backs to the wall and their eyes on the exit. As they crossed her threshold, Frances noticed them moving their lips, and presumed they were mouthing a charm or an invocation. She wished she could reconstruct the magic phrases, but she never caught more than two words: “dissolve” and “buffalo.” Sometimes one of them left a trail of spicy dust, which had seeped through a hole in the pocket of his parka. It smelled like nothing found in any kitchen, which was logical, since no spice rack carries witch bane. Ruthanne took offense and stopped dispensing cocoa, but Frances thought Matt might teach her something useful. Perhaps she could master his spells for taming women and utter them in reverse, or with changes of gender. In trying to find a substitute for “buffalo,” she wondered if “harpy” would do, or “Atalanta.” If she chanted them often on her own home turf, she might reduce the level of Paul’s agitation. For that matter, she could direct the chants at Matt, especially during contract negotiations.
Frances had learned in her short career at Harwood that poets are closely related to Hollywood agents. It had come as a shock to overhear their gossip. They talked about money: percentage points, grants, and deals. The old saw about Yankees also applied to poets; they kept cash under floorboards or hidden in the stuffing of mattresses. Rumor had it, a fellow poet had reported, that Matt was the owner of one twelfth of a racehorse. If most poets who passed through her office were closet materialists, the mystery writers she dealt with were shy and unworldly. Frances was in charge of crime and detection at Harwood, since her elders believed that these works did not count as “real” novels. Their opinion was buttressed by the sight of these mystery writers, who were elfin and odd and did not always look like real people. The females of the species resembled cat breeders or fanciers; as it happened, they doted on cats and wore coy, cat-shaped jewelry. They were costumed, not clothed, in disparate, outdated garments: sprays of tulle in their hair, piqué dickeys, and embroidered boleros. They were quite unaware of the fashion, the weather, or the seasons, and might well be caught out in a snowstorm in a clear plastic raincoat. Male crime writers dressed in the daytime for a night at the opera. They were partial to long, swirling scarves, zippered boots, and black capes. These fey, gentle people lived alone or in rooms as paid boarders. They came to see Frances for company as much as for business. As a means of insuring their welcome, they brought gifts of candy, and offered to help with the menial clerical chores. Adelaide Merlin, whose hero was the captain of a vice squad, had damp-dusted the bookshelves while Frances was called to a meeting, and the cloth she had used was her own pink-and-white pocket handkerchief.
Unlike regular writers, who felt Frances owed them her time, the mystery writers believed they should earn her attention. Their dearest delight was a talk about plots and plot elements relating to books they were writing or might write in the future. On a typical day, with Adelaide or one of her kindred, Frances engaged in the loftiest speculation, dealing only with matters of ultimate ethical importance, such as life and death, sin, retribution, and bodies i
n wardrobes. When discussing a story line, Adelaide would clasp her large handbag; she required something solid to ground her, so great was her fervor. Though her handbag was weighty, she was often compelled to her feet, bouncing and skipping, uplifted by sheer inspiration. Neither author nor editor stayed long in a seated position, so these heated discussions were usually conducted in motion. Ruthanne sometimes joined in, since it made a nice change from her duties, pacing the length of the room and outshouting the others.
“A Ripper plot?” Frances might query.
“Overdone,” said Ruthanne. “Done to death.”
“One second,” answered Adelaide. “I’m thinking. It would work if the Ripper was female.”
“A prostitute.” Frances waved her pencil. “No, a call girl. It’s more hygienic.”
“She murders her clients,” said Adelaide.
“Would she slash them?” asked Ruthanne. “She’s a woman.”
“You lose sympathy with slashing,” said Frances. “On the other hand, poison is static.”
Adelaide was swinging her handbag, with some danger to Frances’s jade plant. “Don’t get bogged down with the murders. The challenge is in the detection.”
Frances thought for a moment. “It’s perfect. Finding the link between the victims?”
“I love it,” said Adelaide, pirouetting. “I love driving Captain Sparks crazy.”
“Watch out for the lamp,” said Ruthanne. “Make the captain be one of her clients.”
“Your readers would hate it,” said Frances. “You got mail when you broke his engagement.”
“That’s a thought,” answered Adelaide. “I’ll use it. Not a lapse, just a steamy temptation.”
“Take Sparks out of vice,” added Frances. “It’s time you promoted him to homicide.”
Ruthanne stooped to pick up some papers, blown down during Adelaide’s gyrations. “Do I get a vote?” she demanded. “Promote him without Sergeant Cooney.”
At the end of these brainstorming meetings, which would end as abruptly as they started, the editor, the assistant, and the author were as flushed as three dancers after a workout. Hammy Griner poked his head in the door late one morning. Observing the scene, he looked stricken. “You’re enjoying yourselves,” he admonished. Hammy worked with the glossier authors, whose names were the staples of book clubs. These journalists, biographers, and critics served on juries and made reputations. Hammy often passed wry, mocking comments on the oddity of Frances’s clients. Hammy hid when Matt came to the office, since he feared Matt might try to recruit him. He feared Adelaide, too, or her clothes, which he thought needed cleaning and pressing. “I can’t talk to your people,” said Hammy. “They make me feel stodgy.” Hammy’s people, by contrast, made Frances feel rowdy and freakish. With these authors, dressed in suits, vests, and neckties, who might have been bankers, she found slang and unladylike oaths on the tip of her tongue. In the eyes of the world, Frances melted right into the background, although being a towhead had brought her unwelcome attention. She herself was not odd—or, at least to her knowledge, exceptional; but she knew odd was better, and rare birds made far sweeter music. Leonardo da Vinci was odd, since he thought men could fly. Saints were odd, without doubt; no plain man claims to gossip with angels. Her own Paul was odd, too; oddness went hand in hand with his talent. Did Hammy dread talent as much as he dreaded strange people? If so, reasoned Frances, then Hammy was in the wrong business. Hammy rarely read fiction. He preferred books by men who explained things. As an editor, he closed open questions and tied up loose ends. “You ought to like mysteries,” said Frances. “They come with solutions.” “I can’t stand suspense,” Hammy said. “I don’t like being fooled with.”
Life fooled with you, whether you wished it or Hammy denied it. Life was full of sly hints and stray clues with disquieting undertones. All was not as it seemed, in spite of broad smiles or bright sunshine. When you walked in the woods, stepping briskly and humming a ditty, the dead log you tripped on might well be a moldering body. If you trusted the surface and walked with your head lifted skyward, you would miss the small patch of slick ice partly covered by leaves. The suspense in crime stories was temperate—if not soporific—compared to suspense in real life, which supplied no catharsis. Suspense in crime novels moved forward, directed by logic. The suspense line in life was not straight; it was wavy or crooked. Life with Paul, for example, was a cliff-hanger, filled with uncertainty. Paul himself was a mystery, as was his connection with Frances. Loving Paul was like swimming in a quarry too deep to be sounded, lined with outcroppings jutting forth sharply and fatal to divers. Most people were riddles, but they yielded their secret in time. Their secret, for the most part, was only the sum of their habits. Whether musing or resting, his face and his body in repose, Paul Treat was a caldron of secrets, of thoughts behind thoughts. Frances paid no attention to the thoughts Hammy might be concealing, though his round, whiskered face wore expressions of constant unrest. At home, she kept watch over Paul like a student seismologist who fears the least waver of the needle or scratch on the drum.
Paul had been dormant for nearly three weeks at a stretch, although dormant in Paul’s terms was active—in fact, hyperactive. He went out before breakfast and often returned after dinner. With Paul in high gear, there was no conversation between them, but Frances deduced he was close to a source of new funds. The suicide play had been bound between black cardboard covers; stacks of copies were piled on Paul’s desk, as were copies of the budget. Paul sat up at night sorting résumés from actors and stagehands. In one intimate exchange, he asked Frances to brush his good suit. All these clues added up to a backer in hand or in view, as did Paul’s collection of matchbooks from elegant restaurants. On the face of the evidence, Frances had a case, and a good one, except for some interesting data that did not fit neatly. Why was Paul carrying a book on heredity in his briefcase? Or an article concerning the genetic transmission of genius? How was the theory of genetics related to suicide? Was Paul bent on proving that suicide ran in the family? Perhaps he had studied the subject and reached the conclusion that suicides were geniuses and geniuses were earmarked for suicide. The reader may wonder why Frances engaged in detection when she could have asked Paul direct questions and got some straight answers. Straight answers from Paul had the power to increase her anxieties. What she got was not “straight” as in “honest,” but “straight” as in “straight between the eyes.” Paul never divulged his thought processes, just his decisions. He never gave answers; he issued pronouncements or edicts. Frances had learned to postpone these dire moments of reckoning. One direct question might turn her whole world on its head.
The evidence mounted, and the evidence boded good fortune. Paul bought a new suit and a watch that told time under water. He subscribed to a service that picked up his telephone messages, and a paper that ran daily listings of box-office profits. He asked Frances to call him at night during meetings or dinners, to convince his companions that other producers were wooing him. Since success bred success, he hooked up a sunlamp in the bathroom; a tan in midwinter is not a criterion of failure. There was hope in the air and a side of smoked salmon in the icebox. Paul never drank spirits, but he ordered lime soda by the case. Once again he exhibited a personal interest in Frances, or at least in her tenderest tissues and undermost areas. After such a long drought, Paul was ardent as well as ingenious. With Frances for his exercise mat, he was spry as a primate. The Act of Darkness promoted physical fitness; Frances soon found her wind was improving as well as her balance. In some ways these workouts were more scientific than amorous. Paul seemed to set store by the depth and the angle of entry. Since Paul was so diligent, Frances began to conjecture that she might be his choice as the channel for transmitting genius. (A girl prodigy, sprung from her womb, would be short and flat-chested; she was glad, nonetheless, that her genes might have earned Paul’s acceptance.)
Major cycles of sexual bounty had one of two meanings: Paul was close to the end of his
tether or else optimistic. Every sign seemed to point to the latter, and one sign in particular. Paul had given his bees to the Roosevelt Botanical Gardens. When the weather was cold, bees would sometimes get in, seeking warmth. Drugged with heat, they might settle on the arms of a chair or the carpet. Drowsy as they were, they delivered a powerful sting, right through Frances’s sleeves, or her socks if she went without shoes. The bees had worked hard for their food when they lived on the fire escape. Their chief source of nectar was the parks, where the plant life was sooty. In their home amid beds of exotics, they would sting her no longer. Paul was eating rich foods nowadays, like his hardworking bees. Since his diet had improved, perhaps he would not sting her either.
With these notions in mind, Frances eased herself out of Paul’s grasp, disengaging their arms and their legs and their centers of pleasure. Paul muttered at Frances’s desertion and tried to restrain her; he was sluggish and weak, like a python digesting a rodent. Frances went to the kitchen and got out a plate and a tray. She assembled the ingredients for Paul’s favorite three-decker sandwich: anchovies, peanut butter, lettuce, and Limburger cheese; pumpernickel, cucumber, mayonnaise, and optional onion. When she brought back the tray, Paul raised himself on one elbow. He inspected its contents, then fastened his eyes on her haunches. He seemed to be waging a lengthy internal debate about which would slip down with less effort, the sandwich or Frances. Paul chose the sandwich, since Frances did not come with onions. He ate quickly, with small, dainty bites, and made noises of happiness. With Paul so contented, Frances abandoned all caution.
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