by J J Hebert
She keeps the messages flowing—wants to know why I’m interested in the Luncheon. I tell her about my writing, my novel The Forsaken World, and I explain the story about Mitch trying to track Meranda but how he couldn’t and how I spotted the poster inside the window months later.
She writes: So you want to meet Meranda Erickson? That can probably be arranged. I was one of the people who talked her into the appearance. Actually, she owed the library, the establishment that will reap the benefits from this Luncheon. She promised an appearance long ago to support our library, and this year, the committee called her on it.
I write back: So you’re friends with Meranda?
She responds: I wouldn’t go that far. I don’t believe Meranda’s one to hold friends.
* * *
In a bathroom at the school, I spray the toilet seat with disinfectant. I think of Paul from the Bible and his imprisonment. I tear a square away from the paper towel roll and wipe the seat clear of bright yellow urine. Once again, thinking of Paul, his smile, his joyous nature, I squirt acid bowl cleaner into the toilet, the blue liquid that smells of mint, then I use the infamous oversized toothbrush to scrub away the black ring of residue around the bowl.
I flush the toilet, grab the window cleaner from my cart, and start spraying the mirror. I take another square from the towel roll and with it clear the mirror of splattered soap and an assortment of gunk. I look at my reflection, imagine myself wearing a black and white striped jumpsuit, a badge of numbers across my breast, and I smile. If this is my prison, then I need to keep smiling. Jesus is with me. He loves me.
I, the eccentric convert, love him as well.
* * *
Light drizzle falls against my windshield from the dome called sky. I pull into Pine River Colony Club’s parking lot, anxious. I step out of the car, one of Meranda’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novels, Entangled, held at my side (in place of the Bible, my book of choice nowadays), the Luncheon’s ticket in my pocket. I adjust my tie and hike up an incline to the Club’s entrance. A line of people snakes around the building. I get into line as an alien amid refined beings. The extraterrestrial who can’t phone home.
I subtly search for Arthur in the sea of people. I can’t find him, my Master in Writing. The line starts moving. I peek ahead and notice tickets being collected at a table inside the Club. I take my ticket out of the pocket and hold it in my left hand. The line slowly dwindles, and I make my way inside the Club. I approach the elongated table, hand the ticket to the Taker.
“Thank you,” she says. “Enjoy your lunch.”
I boomerang the “thank you” and follow people into the dining hall. Contained in this eating area are about fifty circular tables with white tablecloths and fine china on each, a podium, people scattered over the room, some sitting, some standing, most talking. Near a far wall, before a painting of pine trees and hills and rivers gushing, with the words Pine River Colony Club over the scene, sits a table with copies of Entangled spread out on its surface, lying in stacks, upright on stands, as well as dozens of copies of two of Meranda’s other hits, Perplexed and Say it Loudly. Other than the books, the table is empty.
I scoot to a table that looks out over the adjoining golf course. The fairway is lush, well kept. Alone, I take a seat in front of the windows, smiling, hands folded neatly on the table. I’m worried. Where is Arthur?
A couple in their late forties comes to the table, asks if they can sit with me. “Sure,” I say, and they sit across from me. They jump into a conversation with one another about Meranda Erickson this and Meranda Erickson that.
12:50 according to my watch. Ten minutes until the official start of this Luncheon. The mass of people are slowly filling the seats. I’m trying to keep the seat next to me clear by resting my arm over the backing. So far the plan is working.
Where is Arthur?
12:55 according to my watch. Five minutes until start. Virtually every seat is occupied except the one I’m protecting. Arthur appears in the doorway. I wave him down. He approaches the table in a corduroy blazer of sorts. He sits in the seat I’ve been guarding, apologizes for his tardiness, and lets me know that something came up and he won’t be able to stay for the entire Luncheon. I tell him it’s okay, that his presence, even if only for a few minutes, is greatly appreciated. I want to continue talking but a woman’s voice booms over the speaker system. I look to the podium, spot Cindy Smith, my teacher of old, behind the microphone. She introduces herself, thanks us for coming to support Moose Acres Public Library, gives a brief story regarding past luncheons, closes with a line about us being friends of the library, then steps away from the podium and sits at a table with three other people. One of the people is Meranda Erickson. She looks exactly the way she did in the newspaper clipping Mitch showed me—silvery, mushroomed hair, large Coke bottle eyeglasses, weathered face, petite.
Servers provide us with our lunch, a fancy chicken dish with miniscule portions and far too much parsley on the side. I thank Arthur for coming, for showing me support. He smiles, says, “You’re welcome,” digging into his food. I turn my head a tad to the left and watch Meranda Erickson, the legend, eat. Her hand visibly shakes as she lifts the forkful to her mouth. She chews like a real person, swallows like a real person, and wipes her mouth with a napkin like a real person. Wow, wouldn’t you know it, she is a real person. She reaches for her wine glass, takes a swig, and sets it down. Takes another bite of chicken. Takes another drink of wine. Feeds herself more chicken. Back to the wine, she knocks the rest of it back, and gets a server to pour her another glass. She digs into the chicken, hand shaking a little more as she slips a piece into her mouth. Again, she drinks and drinks and drinks. She is so enmeshed in her meal—especially the alcohol—that she doesn’t have time to talk to anyone at her table.
I look away, concentrate on my table, on my plate. I need to eat. What seems like ten bites later, my plate is clear. The couple across the table suddenly becomes vocal. They ask Arthur what he does.
Calmly, Arthur says, “I edit a few magazines, some non-fiction, and fiction.” He shakes the couples’ hands. “Arthur Pennington,” he says. They introduce themselves as Bob and Emery Sindel. Arthur turns to me. “And this is one of my clients, James Frost, one of the best writers around.” He nods at the podium. “He’ll be up there one of these days.”
Heat rushes to my face. They eagerly shake my hand, tell me how nice it is to meet a young writer. I laugh inside. They don’t know that this suit was borrowed. They don’t know that after this Luncheon, I’ll peel off this posh outfit and clothe myself in ripped carpenter jeans and a tee shirt. They have no idea that after I dress in that tattered clothing, I’ll go to the school to clean up after people. But then again, I have no idea what they’ll do either.
“I’ve been editing the newest draft of James’s novel,” Arthur says. “We’ll be putting it out there with agents before long.”
They nod and seem impressed. I’m enjoying this inflating-of-my-head moment.
“Have you been published?” Bob asks.
Cindy’s voice sounds over the speakers, cutting our conversation short. She introduces Meranda Erickson, the Pulitzer Prize-winning, New York Times bestselling author, then calls her to the podium. Meranda sets her wineglass aside and walks carefully, somewhat off balance, tipsy, it seems, to the podium, where she takes Cindy’s place at the microphone.
Meranda speaks slowly, hand unsteady on the podium: “The good news is I’m calm.” She pushes her glasses up the ridge of her nose with a forefinger, scanning the audience, me included. “The bad news is I’m feeling woozy.” She chuckles at her state.
A gentle titter rolls over the room.
One woman in the crowd holds up a wineglass and announces, “Cheers!”
Laughter breaks out, fills the space between these walls.
I wonder if anyone else is alarmed by this sight, a Pulitzer Prize-winning, New York Times bestselling author with a buzz. I’m not laughing and I don’t find her
semi-drunkenness amusing. Nothing funny about that.
Meranda holds out her hand to the audience. It’s still shaking. “I can assure you that I don’t have Parkinson’s, despite what some of you may be hypothesizing,” she says, lowering her hand to the podium.
Giggling, chortling, and sniggering courses through the occupied tables.
As before, I do not unite with the laughter.
“Okay, okay,” she says. “I’m told I have to talk for a while . . .” She does, voice occasionally wobbly; gives a glimpse into her childhood by telling us about her family growing up. Her father was a factory worker; did factory work to earn a living, the way I see it. Her mom was a stay-at-home mother (she didn’t have any talents and wouldn’t have known where to start in the world of work, Meranda explains) who took care of the children (which is actually work in itself, she says), Meranda and four siblings, all of whom live abroad nowadays. Meranda’s mother also looked after the house and prepared and cooked the meals for the family. Meranda reveals that when she was a young girl, seven or eight, she began writing stories. For the first story—and she chuckles while telling us this because, well, we learn that even when she was a young girl, she had a twisted imagination—her protagonist was a rabbit that was trying to stop a coyote bent on eating the rabbit’s family for dinner.
“Gruesome, I know,” she says, her voice flattening out. Her hand is not visible anymore; I wonder if it is still shaking. “I shared the story with some of my peers and they found it fascinating,” she says. “By the time I was nine, if I’m remembering correctly, I had turned that heroic rabbit into a series of short stories.”
Meranda Erickson, one of the greatest writers of all time, started her career writing about a valiant rabbit?
Meranda hops to her adult years, discloses information regarding the first novel she penned, Say it Loudly. It was literally penned in those days; she didn’t own a typewriter, and computers were a thing of the future. From start to finish, it took her three years to write Say it Loudly. Sixty-two rejections (she says)—right on with the quoted number from the clipping I read—and the sixty-third agent to read her material chose to represent her work, thankfully. The debut novel went on to win the Pulitzer Prize.
A man in the audience raises his hand. She calls on him, jokingly says that this isn’t the question and answer segment of the show but to shoot away, nevertheless. He asks, “When do you plan on publishing your next novel? Nine novels just aren’t enough.” He grins.
She releases a short laugh. “Can someone hand me my glass?” She points to her table, to the wine. “Need another swig.” People out here in Spectator Land express amusement at her dry sense of humor—laughing, chuckling, assorted renditions of the two. Once the crowd calms, Meranda leaves the man’s question in limbo, discusses the books following her debut tome. . . . The writing time for her novels went from the original three years to pen one book to about six months each, with years of down time from book to book. Right before she started writing her third book, she bought her first typewriter, deserting the pen except for when she needed to jot quick notes for herself on the run. By the fifth book, she switched to a word processor. The writing process became considerably easier. Saving to floppies was a nice upgrade from whiteout and became her savior; gone were the days of retyping a single page dozens of times. “Now that was progress,” she says, smiling. She wrote her seventh novel with an Apple—the computer, not a fruit, she makes sure to clarify, as if we do not know what an Apple is. “It was a real piece of crap, looking back, but in those days, a computer was a computer. I was thrilled to have a monitor. Every time I sat down to write, I felt like Scotty from Star Trek. I cannae hold ’er together much longer, Captain. I don’t have the power.” Yes, she tests the Scottish-American accent. Not quite a match but funny, funny, funny. I laugh. Arthur almost chokes over his drink, laughing.
After the raucous din stops, Meranda goes off on a tangent. “I never took any classes on writing. Didn’t see much reason to. There wasn’t anything there that could be taught that I didn’t learn on my own.”
I think of my visit with Barbara, her opinion that attending classes on writing isn’t always necessary.
Meranda says, “If you’re thinking about taking a course or two on writing, don’t waste your time and money. Expressing yourself on paper can’t be taught. You either have it or you don’t.”
I like this woman, find her intriguing. She could do without the booze, but still, I like her.
As Meranda continues to talk, Arthur leans toward me, cups a hand over my ear, and whispers into it. “I need to get going. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
I nod at him, whisper another thank you. He stands quietly and walks soft-footed past the mesmerized audience, out of the room.
Meranda takes a moment to clear her throat. She glances at her wristwatch, then back up. “My time’s up,” she says. “Thanks for listening to this old goof.” She looks to Cindy, who’s sitting with hands clasped over the table. “Oh,” she says, an afterthought, “and thanks for supporting the Library.” A couple hands shoot up out of the throng, but she responds to them by saying, “I’ll be signing after. I need another drink. Can you save your questions for when you meet me? Thanks.” She looks to her table and the wineglass, then steps away from the podium.
We applaud. A man from somewhere hoots; I don’t know where exactly, can’t see him. Meranda crosses paths with Cindy on her way to the table. Cindy approaches the podium.
“Meranda Erickson, everyone!” Cindy, behind the podium, extends her arm toward Meranda, who’s tipping back merlot. People clap again, laughing and chuckling. She finishes the glass and smiles at the applauders.
I don’t know why people find watching someone drink so entertaining. She obviously has issues, and it hurts to watch, reminding me of Dad, the lush version, and Gramps.
Cindy thanks us again for joining in on this event and reiterates that there will be a signing after lunch. She points to the table in the back with Meranda’s novels on its surface. I must go there. I must meet Meranda Erickson at that table. But first, dessert. The servers give each table a platter of chocolate cookies, chocolate-covered strawberries, and slivers of chocolate cake, everything chocolate. I grab a cookie, nibble at it, watching Meranda eat a piece of cake, quaking.
I’m the camera-less paparazzi, and I don’t let her out of my sight.
* * *
The servers take our plates. People stand and scatter. Cindy escorts Meranda to the signing table. I stand, say “goodbye” to Bob and Emery; I’ll never see them again, I’m sure. Bob nods. “Nice meeting you.” Emery waves, cloning her husband’s halfhearted farewell. I walk away from the table, clutching Entangled, toward the signing area. Meranda is sitting in a chair behind the table, stacks of books surrounding her, gripping a pen. A line begins to take shape in front of her.
Cindy walks in my direction. I try to wave her down. She looks beyond me, through me, then toddles by. I turn. She twists around, does a double take. “James?”
“Mrs.—”
“Cindy’s fine.” She steps to me, shakes my hand.
“It’s been a long time,” I say. Our hands part.
“Are you ready to meet Meranda?”
“Sure.” Adrenaline kicks in. This is it.
“Follow me,” she says. I trail her past the forming line and we end behind the table. Meranda is two feet away, signing a book for a fan. Cindy tells me to wait a second. I wait at least fifteen, then Cindy gets Meranda’s attention by stating her name.
Meranda looks to Cindy, then me. “Who’s this?”
Cindy nudges me forward. “I want you to meet someone very special. This is James Frost, one of my old students. He’s a great writer and wanted to meet you.”
A great writer? Cindy hasn’t read my current work. “Very nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand.
Meranda stands, faces me, level with my chest, ignoring the people in line. Our hands hug. She asks, “What have you b
een writing?”-
Cindy says, “I’ll leave you two alone.” She walks away.
Meranda appears unstable on her feet, leaning on the back of her chair. “What’s your preference? Short stories? Novels? Poetry?”
I adjust my tie, nervous. “A novel called The Forsaken World.”
“What a true title that is. Which genre?”
“Fantasy.”
“Oh, I’ve read a few of those in my day. Tolkien is my favorite. Is your novel complete?”
“Yeah, just recently.”
“Do you have a publisher lined up.”
“No, ma’am. Any recommendations?”
“All sorts. But none of them accept unsolicited material.” She takes a quick look at the line. “We’ll have to finish this conversation later.”
I glance at the impatient faces.
“Here.” Meranda hands me a business card, which contains her snail mail address and e-mail address.
“So I can e-mail you?” I tuck the card in my breast pocket.
She nods. “Do you want me to sign that?”
I remember Entangled. “Oh, yeah. I mean, sure, that’d be great.” I hand her the novel.
“James, correct?”
She remembered my name! “You got it,” I say. Meranda Erickson remembered my name!
She sets the book on the table, and starts her pen moving on the first page she opens. She presents the book to me. I take it and thank her for her time.
“It was my pleasure, James,” she says.
“I’ll e-mail you,” I say, shaking her hand again.
“I’ll look for it.”
