by Jody Gehrman
Now, I write like a sluggish child composing an overdue book report late Sunday night, her frowning mother ridiculing every word over her shoulder.
After Pay Dirt, I waited for inspiration to strike again. The right ideas carry a kind of fever. I knew this. I sat around patiently preparing for lightning to flash inside my brain. Nothing happened. I’d signed a three-book deal with Penguin. Maxine emailed me weekly to check on my progress. I had a file filled with sixty thousand words of false starts. Novels I’d begun and abandoned. I knew the electricity in the blood when a premise had promise. The ideas that came to me all sagged and wilted after a few pages, their characters losing steam, wandering off into the fog.
I wanted to die. I’d just gotten my job at Blackwood. Everyone there kept asking about my next book. My fraudulent reputation as a novelist weighed on me heavily. I ate a lot of chocolate. The fear of revealing my barren imagination turned me stiff and formal. Students complained about my classes. Their evals said I was “cold” and “distant” and “lacking in basic human compassion.” One of the little bitches wrote, “Work out more, you cow, and don’t take it out on us when you’re on the rag!!!” Those three exclamation points were daggers piercing my heart. I gained fifteen pounds and wrote nothing.
Then one day I sat down at my desk and just started typing. I had no idea where I was going or what the damn book was about, but I built it, sentence by sentence, like a bricklayer. I called it Hidden Depths.
Predictably, it was a plodding, boring tome. The Blackwood Sentinal loved it. Everyone else called it what it was: shit.
And now I’ve written another equally forgettable, overwrought, sentimental waste of paper. Only it doesn’t look like it will waste paper, since Maxine won’t send it out.
I don’t blame her. Some agents might try to sell Blood Ties in spite of its worthlessness. She’s got more integrity than that. I don’t want to publish a bad book just because I can. Authors who ride the wave of one excellent novel only to cruise back into obscurity trailing a wake of mediocre follow-ups are pathetic. Not that I have a massive wave to ride, anyway. Pay Dirt earned me moderate praise and a little respect, but not everlasting fame. It won a few modest awards. The German translation sold more copies than the English version. I sometimes wonder about that. Did the translator infuse it with more panache than I’d managed?
I close my email and fold my laptop shut. In the kitchen, I put the kettle on for tea. Before it whistles, I turn off the burner. I don’t want tea. I want a drink, but I’m afraid I might be drinking too much. I come from a long line of staunchly functional alcoholics. Statistically, it’s probable I’ll join their ranks. Being a writer only ups the odds.
I consider calling Zoe, maybe even stopping by her place for a visit. The smell of breast milk and baby powder that fills their house now depresses me, though. I don’t think she wants me there, anyway. The switch babies flip in most women—the cooing and beaming button—seems to be broken in me. Or maybe it was never there in the first place. I fear my silence freaks her out. When I hold Drew, I do it awkwardly, stiffly. He always cries. I hand him back immediately, embarrassed.
A huge part of the human experience I’ll never understand. I can’t make myself want it, but I can’t stop missing it, either.
Fuck it. I go to the kitchen and pour myself an extra-large glass of pinot.
SAM
I’m incensed by Maxine’s email. To think Aging Cher dares to reject both of us in one week. You and me, the writers who will be legendary. Scrawny-necked, big-haired Maxine will never taste the glory you and I will dine on nightly. She will never have the sex we’re about to have. She will never know the thrill of seeing her work translated to the big screen by the Coen Brothers. What am I saying? She doesn’t have any “work.” She’s a peddler, a used car salesman. She sees only numbers and print runs and foreign rights. Her eyes swim with dollar signs. She doesn’t create.
You and me, Kate—we create. We are the gods of our universe. Our hands shape beings and infuse them with life.
I have to intervene. You’ll be polite and generous, self-effacing, gracious. I plan to be none of those things.
It’s times like these when you need a knight. Someone who will swoop in and deal the death blows you’re afraid to administer.
You’re too kind. Thank god I’m not.
From: Kate Youngblood
To: Maxine Katz
Subject: RE: Your Latest Manuscript
Thank you for your very unhelpful email. A real agent would not suggest I “put it aside” but would offer insightful comments that inspire me to make it better. Your unflagging pessimism begins to weigh me down.
Your services will no longer be required.
The lack of faith you show in my work leads me to believe you are an anchor on my writing life. At the moment I need a hot air balloon.
Kate
After I send it, I delete it from your sent mail. A few minutes later, an email from you to Zoe pops up.
From: Kate Youngblood
To: Zoe Tait
Subject: Yoga
I’m going to Sarah’s 6:00 class. Sorry so last minute. Come if you can, or just meet me for a beer after at O’Malley’s. Alcohol’s more efficient than yoga anyway. xo
I look at the time: 5:25. Zoe will never get her shit together to meet you. But I know someone who will.
* * *
The rain’s pouring down in sheets. The sound of it on the roof of my car soothes me. I’m parked outside Radiant Yoga Studio, watching middle-aged women and college girls in leggings and hoodies hustle in and out of the glass doors. Next to the studio, there’s a church. It has one of those sandwich-board marquees. I squint through the rain to make out the words: MORALLY BANKRUPT? GOD OFFERS INSTANT CREDIT.
I feel good tonight. Raul’s been a nonissue for more than two weeks. The cash I stole from his wallet and the gear I took from his home have convinced the cops it was a home invasion that went south. I know you’ve been low-level worried about his death. I’ve seen your preoccupied frown in workshop when you think nobody’s looking. You’re not all that upset by his loss, though. That’s good. I like a woman who knows how to get perspective.
You’d never admit it to anyone, but you’re relieved he’s gone.
Here’s the thing about homicide: It never pays to make it complicated. Murder mysteries and police procedurals imply you’ve got to be a tactical genius to get away with it, but the truth is much simpler. All you have to do is choose someone you’ve got no apparent connection to, find an isolated spot, and leave as little of yourself behind as possible.
Simple.
Add to that the moral high ground of knowing you’ve done the right thing, and you’ve got the perfect murder. No pangs of conscience means no chance of saying anything stupid to anyone.
The cops haven’t questioned me. Why would they? I’m not even a blip on their radar.
You push through the glass doors. I’m on high alert, one hand on my door handle, the other reaching for my big black umbrella. None of those cheap, fold-up, toy umbrellas for me. I like a sturdy, Singin’ in the Rain kind, the old-fashioned variety with a solid wooden handle shaped like a candy cane. The kind you can share.
What can I say? I’m a romantic.
You clutch your water bottle and squint out at the rain, which does me the favor of hammering so hard it sounds like marbles on the roof of my car. It’s a sign. Even the rain wants us to be together.
You’re ill-prepared, Kate. A thin, white tank top, a sweater that will dissolve like cotton candy the second you step out from under that awning.
I leap from my car and thrust open my umbrella. Like a man with someplace to go, I hurry down the sidewalk toward you.
“Professor Youngblood!” I show you my startled face as I draw near.
You break into a radiant smile. The yoga must have been good for you. You’re even more incandescent than usual; your alabaster skin glows. “Sam. Miserable out, isn’t it?”
>
“Depends on how you define ‘miserable,’” I say. “I love the rain.”
You step aside from the door, careful not to leave the shelter of the awning. “You going to yoga? Wouldn’t have pegged you as the type.”
“God, no.” I nod at the pub down the street. “Headed for O’Malley’s.”
You eye the pub, your face wistful.
“Can I give you a lift?” At your confused frown, I jiggle my umbrella. “Shelter from the storm? I can walk you to your car. Or wherever you’re going.”
Your hesitation lasts only a second. A fresh deluge decides it. The wind hammers the drops like tiny, fierce fists against the sodden fabric of the awning. Thank you, rain.
“Wouldn’t mind grabbing a pint.”
I’m careful not to look too pleased. Must play this cool.
I employ my best Irish accent. “To O’Malley’s it is, then, lassie.”
KATE
O’Malley’s is warm and festive. Guess there’s something about a good November storm that drives people to the nearest Irish pub. I scan the room for familiar faces. Aside from a few former students, it’s mercifully clear of colleagues and acquaintances. I tug my cardigan a little tighter, pull it down over my ass. When I pictured myself meeting Zoe here after class, yoga wear seemed totally normal. Now, though, with Sam, I feel a little naked.
All the booths are taken. Sam orders us a couple pints at the bar, and we sit at a two-top near the pool tables. It’s noisy and boisterous. The cacophony of pool balls smashing into one another makes me flinch. A girl playing darts wears a pink shirt that’s ridiculously bright. She swims in my peripheral vision like a lurid tropical fish. My senses feel sharper than usual. Could be the yoga. I’m afraid it’s Sam’s proximity, though. The strangeness of being here with him, outside the classroom, gives me a heightened awareness of everything around me.
He notices me cringing from all the noise and color. His gaze scans the bar like a military officer before landing on a booth with a lone old man tucked inside.
“Give me a second.” He stands and crosses the room in a few long, loping strides.
As I watch him consulting with the stranger, I can’t help but notice his preternatural confidence. It fascinates and mystifies me—that blithe, illogical faith in himself, unearned and, for the most part, untested.
He returns a few minutes later looking pleased. “Come on. Let’s grab the booth before someone else does.”
“What about the—?” I glance to where the little guy in the windbreaker sat. He’s gone. “Okay. Great.”
As we settle in across from one another in the cozy booth, I can’t help asking, “How’d you manage that?”
“Not much you can’t get if you ask nicely.” His smile’s so innocent.
I shake my head, amused.
“What?” he says with a laugh. “You don’t believe that?”
“It works pretty well when you’re twenty-two and beautiful.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. To my horror, I feel heat rushing into my cheeks. Dammit, blushing will only make this worse.
His crooked smile makes something in my stomach flip over.
I clear my throat. “So, how did it go with Maxine? Did you send her your manuscript?”
“Yeah.” He sips his beer, swallows with a grimace. “She said ‘thanks but no thanks.’”
“What? Oh, God, Sam, I’m so sorry.” My surprise is genuine. “I really thought she’d love it. Did you make those changes we talked about?”
His brow puckers in confusion. “What changes?”
With a sick falling feeling I realize I never gave him my revision notes. The ones about chapter seven. The clumsy foreshadowing he needed to cut. That day in my office, I planned to explain my suggestion with the clarity and tact of a master teacher. Except then we got interrupted. Frances barged in, with her piggy stare, her suspicious squint. That kiss. Thinking of it, I can still taste the shape of his mouth, can feel his hands on me, the cold, metal file cabinet against my back.
And I fucking forgot. I went home that day and got drunk, had sex with Raul. The next thing I knew Zoe was having her baby, Raul was dead—it all collapsed around me like a sand castle hit by a sudden wave. In the midst of that chaos, Sam must have sent Maxine his manuscript as is, because I never explained what he needed to change.
I take a long sip of my beer to hide my confusion.
He must see something in my face, because he pins me with that icy gaze of his. “Professor Youngblood? Is something wrong?”
I clutch at my head, elbows on the table. “Sam, I feel terrible.”
“About Maxine?” He shrugs. “It’s not your fault. That’s just how it goes.”
“But it is—my fault, I mean.”
He shoots me a skeptical look.
“I meant to give you notes that day in my office. There’s something in chapter seven that needs changing, only we got distracted, and…” I trail off, miserable.
“You forgot,” he finishes.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I forgot.”
“Honestly, I don’t know if I’m ready.” He says this with perfect humility. An actor hitting just the right note. I don’t know what it is that alerts me to his performance. I just know in my gut he’s not telling the truth.
“You don’t mean that.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears.
“I don’t. But Maxine Katz isn’t the right agent for me.” This time there’s nothing rehearsed about it. He’s raw and honest at last. There’s something somber in his tone, like a prophecy.
I can’t help feeling a little thrill of victory. So he’s more than just a series of calculated performances. He can drop the mask. He’s starting to with me.
“It’s a wonderful book. You’ll sell it easily when it’s ready. I just feel terrible about botching your first shot.”
“No.” His hand lands on mine. It’s warm, solid. “You didn’t botch it. I did. I’m too impulsive.”
“You believe in yourself,” I correct him.
His thumb strokes mine. “I’m a cocky bastard. I dive right in when I should proceed with caution. I should have revised more.”
“There are so many other agents out there,” I remind him.
“You ever think Maxine’s not the right agent for you?” The question comes out of nowhere. His eyes lock on mine with unnerving intensity.
I hesitate. “Sometimes. Sure. But every writer has doubts about—”
“She doesn’t understand what a genius you are.” He traces soft circles around my knuckles. “You should be with someone who gets you.”
I pull my hand gently from where he’s trapped it, take a long pull from my pint. “I’m not exactly a hot commodity right now.”
“Why do you say that?” He watches me with a solemn frown.
“Because I can’t write anything worth selling.” I put my glass down. It thunks against the scarred wooden table. “That’s a big problem.”
“You just need the right situation,” he says.
“The right situation?”
“You know. Inspiration.” He gestures at the air, as if great books can be plucked from the ether. “Your writing’s extraordinary. Luminous. You’re just looking for the right idea.”
I can’t help flashing a wry smile. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Absolutely.” His confidence is charming, damn him.
“And when I find it?”
“When you find it?” he echoes.
“Will I even know it? Or will it float right on by?”
He grins. “Oh, you’ll know it. When something’s right, you know.”
I’m not exactly sure what we’re talking about anymore. His smile wraps me in its warmth. As usual, with him, I wonder if that heat is real or manufactured. At this point, I don’t know if I care.
* * *
“Maxine, what’s this about?” I don’t bother trying to be subtle. My nerves are frayed
, and her mysterious email about the “end of our working relationship” has me mystified.
“What’s there to say?” She’s cold—glacial, in fact—and my stomach goes wobbly. “You made it perfectly clear I’m of no use to you.”
I clutch my forehead, pacing around my office like a caged tiger. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your email.”
“I haven’t emailed since you told me to put away Blood Ties. You’re right, by the way, it’s not ready, and I don’t know if it ever—”
“Don’t play games with me.” Her voice is so hard, I barely recognize it. “You dropped me. End of story.”
“I—what? No! I assure you I didn’t,” I protest.
She sighs. “Look, Kate, I don’t have time for this. I don’t do author drama, okay? If you’re blacking out, fine, but—”
“I swear to you, that’s not—”
“I got an email from you telling me we’re through.” Her words are like hail, brittle and icy. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s all there is to it.”
I recoil at the note of relief in her voice. “You wanted to drop me.”
“It’s not personal.” She breathes, tired now, all the fight gone.
“Send me this email you supposedly got,” I say.
“Please!” she scoffs.
“Do it,” I say, sounding just as bitter and hateful as her now. “I want to see it.”
“Fine.” I hear a gentle tapping in the background. “Check your inbox. And good luck, Kate. You’re going to need it.”
* * *
The homicide detective circles back to ask me more questions about Raul. This time he comes to my office, which is unnerving. My colleagues treat me with a mixture of curiosity and repulsion, like someone who’s contracted a rare and deadly STD. I catch them whispering and casting sideways glances at me in the halls. A part of me savors being the center of a scandal. That’s the writer in me, I guess, squirreling away the details for later use.