by J J Hebert
I hold out a hand to Brad, then smile. I found the answer. I’m not going to hate you anymore. I’m no longer going to wish ill upon you.
Brad tilts his head like a confused dog.
I take a step closer to him, and say, I’m not going to give you what you want anymore.
Brad lunges at me, then tackles me to the ground as he did with Chris. I lie pinned beneath Brad’s body, his face hovering over mine, expecting a punch on my nose. I stare into his dead eyes, smiling. I’m not going to give you what you want anymore. I won’t throw him a bone.
Brad stands, and I don’t stay on the ground like Chris did; I spring to my feet, invincible as the Road Runner, and I keep smiling. I forgive you, I say, the bigger man.
Brad’s eyes expand as from under a magnifying glass. Forget forgiveness, he says.
I think of Chris as I observe Brad. I love you. I open my arms to Brad. I forgive you.
Brad begins to laugh, but I persist with another I forgive you, and it’s like he gets shot in the heart with those words; he’s holding the left side of his chest, wincing.
I step to him, place a hand on his sweaty forehead, and he doesn’t take a swing at me. He just stands there, weak and submissive, wobbly on his feet, and I wish Chris could see him now because I think Chris would get some redemption from this scene. I love you, I tell Brad, and I must really mean it because I feel genuinely sorry for him, watching him struggle like this.
White light suddenly seeps from his face. I let go, step back. He stumbles away, screaming, thrashing, hand still on his chest. Light shines from his torso and his legs. The light engulfs him, then implodes, and in an instant, Brad is no more.
* * *
The snow piles dwindle.
Four more rejections (i.e., hate mail) emerge.
I don’t hear from Brad.
I still think of Meranda and Arthur. I miss them. I miss them so much, but I know that they would want me to be happy.
Brad is silent, Satan locked away for a thousand years.
* * *
The snow fades away.
Birds, sun, warmth, rain, grass, plants, bugs, flowers, leaves, they return. I open and tear up six rejections. I make an effort to swap negative thoughts with affirmations: I’m a good writer. I deserve success. I’m worthy of success. The more I focus on these self-esteem boosters, the more I start to believe them.
Leigh went home two days ago. She tells me that her parents treated her shoddily—ignored her—and she finally got up enough courage this time to pack her overnight belongings, tell them that they were treating their daughter unacceptably and that she wasn’t going to stand for it any longer. They wouldn’t apologize, so she headed toward the door, and they followed. Then she told them, “If you want to talk to your daughter, you’ll have to call me. And if you want to see your daughter, you’ll have to visit me.” Her mother glared, and her father shook his head, and Leigh left the house. She tells me that she felt stronger at that moment than she ever has. I hug her, tell her that she is very brave, and that she should be proud of herself for standing up to her parents. She shrugs, looks down. I tell her to keep that chin up. She looks into my eyes. I smile, tell her I love her. She smiles back.
She waits for their phone call. One day passes.
Two days pass.
She says that she’s been second-guessing herself. I remind her that she did the right thing.
She waits.
Waits and waits and waits.
* * *
It’s been two weeks and a day since she left their house and she hasn’t received a call. We go for a walk along her street, and she starts to cry. We stop on the side of the road. I ask her what’s wrong. “I just wanted them to love me,” she says. I hold her. She buries her head in my chest, sobbing. “They do love you,” I say, “and maybe that’s the hardest thing about all of this . . .” I tell her that she’s very brave, and that they were abusing her and she’s better off without their abuse. “I know it hurts,” I say, “but you’re better off.” I tell her that she deserves better.
She cries, letting go of her parents.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Enthusiastic Editor Lady calls four days following as I step out of the shower. She reminds me of the query letter, says that she would really love to see the entire manuscript, says that I can send The Forsaken World via e-mail as an attachment, if I would like to. I chuckle, shivering, wet, a blue towel covering my waist, then say, “Of course I would like to.” She provides her e-mail address, tells me that she’ll keep an eye out for the manuscript and she’ll look forward to it. I thank her and thank her and thank her. She laughs, says, “If the rest of your book is as good as the three chapters you included with your query, I’ll be the one thanking you.”
After the phone call, I fall to my knees, chuckling. An editor wants to read my manuscript. This means that there’s a chance I may actually get published.
* * *
I take Leigh out to a Mexican restaurant, and it’s not Taco Bell. We sit outside on a deck beneath a party tent overlooking the Piscataqua River. Just beyond the deck, tugboats float through the water toward a vessel, seagulls circling above the ship in the noonday glare.
Mexican music plays softly from a speaker overhead. Droning chatter ripples through the heavily peopled tent. The smell of chimichangas, tacos, burritos, nachos, and refried beans fill the air. My stomach growls. I reach across the table, take Leigh’s hand into mine, smile. “I have something to tell you,” I say.
She leans forward. “What is it?”
I tell her about the editor requesting the manuscript, fill her in on the rest of the short conversation.
Leigh beams, squeaks elatedly, looking like she’s going to jump up from her seat. “That’s great!” she says. “You deserve this!” Her excitement doesn’t bring us any attention from the others.
I stare into her eyes, those remarkable brown eyes. “I think I’m starting to believe that.”
“You’ll make it. I just know it.” Her smile remains. A tugboat whistles in the distance.
“I don’t want to jump to any conclusions just yet, though. There’s still ample time for rejection.” My focus falls to the table as our waitress drops off the nachos.
Leigh tells me to look at her. I do. She says, “Listen to me. You taught me this. You deserve to be published.”
* * *
I wait for Enthusiastic Editor Lady’s response. One day, two, three . . . A week, two weeks, two and a half. I shoot her a short e-mail, ask if she’s had a chance to read the material. Still no response.
I feed myself encouraging words. Be patient. Good news will find me. I’m a good writer. I’m worthy of success. I deserve success.
I can’t concentrate at work, constantly focusing on what she may say, if she ever says anything at all. In my thoughts, I see her in an office at a desk somewhere in Manhattan. She starts on the fourth chapter and shakes her head at the computer screen upon reading the first page. She summons her colleagues to the desk, shows The Forsaken World to them, laughing, and they all poke fun at the prose, the corny magical elements, the archetypical characters, the author who scribed such overwrought nonsense.
In an alternate scenario, I see her reading the manuscript at her desk, only this time, she realizes that she requested material from the wrong person. The man who she meant to contact has a name closely resembling James Frost. She laughs at herself, the honest mistake, deletes my file, immediately phones the person who she had originally intended to contact.
Sleeping doesn’t come easily. I count sheep. That doesn’t work. I take sleeping pills. That doesn’t work. I need an answer from her one way or the other—to publish or not to publish.
Soon.
So I can sleep.
So I can concentrate.
So I can live.
* * *
June begins.
Heat, thunderstorms, sun, humidity, air conditioners, fans, tans, barbeques, beaches, parks, shorts, ski
rts, bathing suits, trunks, sandals, T-shirts, sun, humidity. Leigh in a bikini!
Enthusiastic Editor Lady becomes Mysterious Editor Lady once I read an e-mail from her. She apologizes for her lack of communication and wants to let me know that she’s close to completing the manuscript and that she’ll contact me with her thoughts shortly.
Apparently, the scenarios I conjured before were inaccurate. She wouldn’t apologize for her “lack of communication” if she thought my work was garbage and if she and her colleagues poked fun at it. If she confused me with another writer, I would have been notified by now about her unfortunate blunder.
I remind myself to be patient, that I’m a good writer. That I’m worthy of success. That I deserve success. That she’ll contact me shortly, whatever that means.
* * *
June 16.
Mysterious Editor Lady transforms back into Enthusiastic Editor Lady when she calls and we talk for forty-five minutes. She first talks about the “wonderful aspects” of my book. She says that I’ve produced great characters, that she loved the beginning, the honesty of it, that the pacing was superb, that I kept a perfect amount of conflict flowing through the story, that the ending was both heartbreaking and inspirational and she couldn’t help but cry and smile at the same time.
That’s exactly what I do after she expresses herself, cry and smile. She asks if I’m okay. I tell her I’m fine, just very pleased that she enjoyed my book. Then she talks about the aspects of my book that need improvement. She tells me that the book needs a little work on sensory stimulation—infusing the story with descriptions of smells and sounds and sights and tastes. She then asks me to work on sensory stimulation in the novel as she starts the book through the acquisitions process.
I agree to her terms, my heart running, hands shaking, smiling.
* * *
June 24.
I’ve imbued the tale with descriptive smells, sounds, sights, tastes, and I’m pleased with the improvements.
Enthusiastic Editor Lady calls and tells me that my novel will go before the acquisitions committee tomorrow and that she will certainly contact me with any news. I ask her what she means by “acquisitions committee” and she says that it can also be referred to as the “editorial board” or the “publishing committee” and it approves the acquisition of a book or denies the acquisition of a book. Jokingly, I ask her to give me the members’ names so I can shower them with gifts and other briberies. She laughs.
* * *
Sleep.
Is.
Not.
Something.
I.
Can.
Do.
It’s two o’clock, the sun has yet to rise, and I open my laptop from bed and stay busy writing random, nonsensical thoughts into a Word document the night before my book is brought to the acquisitions committee, the night before people I’ve never met, all faceless, play God in my life and decide whether or not my work is worthy of publication, whether or not I can quit my job as custodian, and whether or not I can move out of this seedy apartment I’ve had to call home.
Nerves. Anxiety. Fear. Excitement. I try to block all of this as I write and write and write.
Not sleep.
Write.
And wait.
* * *
Enthusiastic Editor Lady calls after work as I’m driving to Leigh’s apartment. She says that she spoke with the acquisitions committee and they were extremely excited about my book. Based on the excerpt that they read, they thought the characters were extraordinarily realistic, that the story was fantastic, and the writing splendid.
I shift, ask her what this means for me. She says that she’ll phone me shortly with an official offer. I think, There she goes again with her favorite word: shortly.
The remainder of the car ride passes in a blur. I’m so happy, I could fly—Peter Pan thinking happy thoughts. I end up in Leigh’s parking lot, go inside, tell her, with hands raised, about the recent conversation with Enthusiastic Editor Lady and Leigh gives me a huge hug and says, “I’m so proud of you!”
* * *
August 6.
Enthusiastic Editor Lady phones me with amazing news: The acquisitions committee approved The Forsaken World! She goes on to make an offer for my novel. I chuckle, think she’s joking about the amount. The offer is a large offer. More than I currently make per year, which isn’t much to some, I suppose, but I’m thrilled. I thank her, thank her so much, tell her that I’ve been waiting for this for so long, she doesn’t even know.
I run outside my apartment, raise arms toward the cottony expanse. Tears of happiness fill my eyes. I thank God for his hands.
For finally revealing his hands.
Smiling, laughing. This is my payment, my wonderful payment for all of my writing and all of my pain. I think of Arthur, who lives within the pages, and I flash on Meranda, who died among them, and I cry and think this is for them.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The best autumn of my life.
After over a month of contemplation, I approach the Facilities Manager and give my two-weeks notice, explaining that I won’t need this job anymore because of my recent book deal.
His face shows shock, then he says, “I don’t require you to stay with us for the next two weeks. I prefer that this be your last day.”
I can’t help but smile. “My last day it is,” I say, watching him roll his eyes.
I understand that my decision to give my notice probably appears foolish to society. Here I am with a steady job and I’m tossing it for my art. I say, let pessimists—like the supervisor standing in front of me—think whatever they want. It’s okay. Really, it is. Since when have I listened to them anyway? Plus, a couple days ago, I received my first check from the publisher. And there are many more to come. . . .
I clean, smile, clean, smile. This is my last day of cleaning. I clean the bathrooms one last time. I go to the warehouse and retrieve paper one last time. I enter the Sales Department with the rolling garbage bin, come to the first desk, tell Ingrid to look into my eyes and see me, not this custodian but this person who writes, this person who is never going to clean for a living again, this person who instead is going to play pretend on paper for a living because he worked hard, worked so tirelessly and that is his reward, his payment for the pain. She smiles, extends a hand, introduces herself for the first time, her eyes locked with mine. I shake her hand, smile in return, and she says, “It’s nice to meet you.” I collect her garbage one last time.
I roll the bin to Tom’s desk and I give him the same treatment as Ingrid. He turns from the computer screen, hands off the keyboard, eyes on me, and he nods, wishes me good luck with the writing. I chuckle, thank him. I take his garbage one last time.
I walk to Virginia’s desk, tell her to look into my eyes, ask her if I’m talking too much, ask her if this makes her feel uncomfortable, ask her what’s wrong with being friendly. Her eyes bulge. She’s speechless. I grab the garbage one last time, depart her area.
At the end of the day, I vacuum around the cubicles one last time. I sweep the hallway, mop the hallway, buff the hallway one last time. I say goodbye to the mop, the buffer, the broom, the rolling garbage bin, the cleaning supplies, the vacuum, cleaning as a whole. I’m finally able to say goodbye to cleaning! I say goodbye to the Sales Department, not the people but the cubicles and the empty space. I say goodbye to the building, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, and I leave the office one last time.
One.
Last.
Time.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I decide to purchase—with play-pretend-on-paper-for-a-living money—a modest cottage by the seashore, fifteen minutes from the rundown apartment. The home—kind of a fixer-upper—consists of granite counters in the kitchen, cherry cabinets in the den (which I plan to transform into my writing office), an in-need-of-repair fireplace in the living room, two small bedrooms, one bath, central air, and so forth. The mortgage fits my tight budget perfectly, and I love
this place, can picture myself here for a long time to come.
I stand alone before the fireplace in the unfurnished living room. This is my home. I earned this. Next week, I will move my belongings from the apartment and formally graduate from the studio to this house. Leigh has no knowledge of this acquisition (I haven’t even started packing, so as to remain inconspicuous), and for good reason. I pull a jewelry box from a pocket, open the lid, and marvel at the white gold princess-cut diamond, the dazzling combination. I want to spend the rest of my life with Leigh. I want to have children with her and I want us to smile, smile, smile, and be happy. I want to wake up next to her and look into her eyes and tell her I love her and I want us to make love. I want to be able to call her my wife and I want her to be able to call me her husband and I want us to know that we are one and we are pure.
She deserves this.
I deserve this.
We deserve this.
* * *
I call Mitch, and he tells me that he still can’t get over the fact that I’m going to be published. He says he’s been telling everyone he knows that he’s so proud of his son, so proud!
I thank him, feeling his warmth, then I say, “There’s some place I want to go, and I want you to come with me.”
We visit Robert Frost’s house in Franconia, walk the leaf-littered trail, stop at the plaques, reminiscing. Before we leave, I walk to the gray mailbox, remove a folded note from a pocket. I open the letter, double-check the words:
Dear Robert,
Thank you for your letter. You were correct; I was on the right road all along.
