Blind Submission

by Debra Ginsberg

  “We are deeply shocked and disturbed,” the letter read. Alice scanned the page, which practically burned her fingers with the heat of its outrage. “Literary theft is egregious in itself,” the letter went on, “but to abuse the good faith of this publisher is beyond heinous.”

  Alice felt no hint of remorse. Everything she had done had been justified in her mind. What really hurt, what tore at her soul, and why she was sitting at her desk with Scotch and razor blades, was that her book was not going to be published. Now she would never see her name on the spine of a book. She would never be able to walk into a bookstore and gaze at her own image on a dustcover. Not now, not ever. And worse still than that, she would never, ever be able to bask in the glow of legitimacy that came with being a bestselling author. And it would have been a bestseller, Alice knew. As had Carol.

  Carol could have played this differently, Alice knew, but the bitch was caught up in her own damn ethics. Carol had been the one who discovered that the novel belonged to another writer. She’d been sly, as had Carol. She hadn’t told Alice about her discovery until after she’d contacted the publisher.

  Bitch!

  Of course, Carol was a smart bitch. She didn’t know, could never prove, that Alice had had anything to do with Vaughn’s death, but she suspected something foul. Clever. Had Carol confronted Alice before this all became a publishing scandal, Alice would have seen to it, somehow, that Carol never opened her mouth.

  “I’m deeply disappointed in you,” Carol had said. “I put such trust in you. To think I even made you an associate agent in this office. You had such a promising career, Alice, and now you’ve thrown it all away.”

  Carol had been “kind,” allowing Alice to take her things and leave the office without making a scene. Well, Alice had plans for a much grander exit.

  Alice closed the file and placed it neatly in Carol’s in-box. It was time. She uncorked the Scotch and took a long slug from the bottle. The liquid flamed as it ran down her throat, but Alice kept it down. She needed the warm courage the booze would provide as soon as it hit her stomach. As Alice opened the razor blades and held one in her slightly trembling fingers, she was struck with a final inspiration. Rising unsteadily from Carol’s chair, Alice plucked a sheet of paper from the fax machine. Using a fat, permanent marker, Alice wrote, “I did it for Vaughn. I loved him and he loved me. Now we’ll be together in heaven.” Let the bitch find that when she stumbles on my body in the morning, Alice thought.

  Alice took one more slug from the bottle and sat down heavily. The office was quiet and dark. Alice smiled to herself. Carol had had no idea that Alice had an extra key made. Nobody knew that she was here, in the middle of a Sunday night. Tomorrow morning would provide a real Monday surprise for the famous Carol Moore.

  How strange it was, Alice thought as she dragged the razor blade up each wrist, it didn’t even hurt. But there was more than enough blood to make a fabulous mess of Carol’s office. Alice was surprised at how much. She held her arms up slightly and moved around in the chair, coloring Carol’s carpet crimson. Soon, very soon, Alice was no longer able to move. Her eyes were closing and her thoughts floated, disconnected. She remembered something, dimly, as she began to slip away, and it made her want to laugh.

  It was something someone had once said about writing…that it was so easy…all you had to do was sit down…and open a vein. That was it, open a vein. Alice’s lips curved into a half-smile. Who was it who had said that? It was clever, Alice thought as the darkness closed in on her. So very, very clever.

  IT WAS THE BRIGHTEST, clearest Monday morning I’d ever seen. The sky held a deep range of blues, from cool sapphire in the west to golden azure where the sun was just rising. Heading north on the Golden Gate Bridge, I could see the greens, reds, and browns of the Marin Headlands ahead of me. The bridge stretched out, a perfect design of flame-colored lines and curves, so beautiful in the clean light of morning.

  The traffic on the bridge was surprisingly light for a Monday morning and I was making good time. I considered this a positive sign of things to come. I planned to get to the office early enough to beat the rest of the staff, but it wouldn’t make any difference when they showed up. I was going to have my time with Lucy regardless.

  My fingers went to the hollow of my throat and I touched the small golden angel hanging there. I smiled as I felt the tiny points of its wings under my forefinger. “For protection,” Damiano had said when he’d fastened it around my neck. “An angel for an Angel.”

  When I’d left him less than an hour before, at the door of his North Beach apartment, he’d kissed my throat just above the charm. “I knew it would be perfect,” he said, touching the chain with his fingers. “It was made for you.”

  “I’m going to need it today,” I said, kissing his lips, soft and warm from sleep.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asked me then, concern creasing his forehead. “I can be ready in five minutes. Dai, Angel, let me come with you.”

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “It will be fine.”

  “You will call me?” he asked.

  “I will.”

  “And I will see you?”

  “Later,” I said. “You’re going to meet me there, right?”

  “Sì,” he said. “I come early.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t want to let you go again,” he said, holding fast to my hand.

  “And I don’t want you to,” I said. “But it’s not going to be for long.”

  “Okay,” he said, and pressed his cheek against mine in a gesture more intimate than a kiss. “Angel,” he whispered, “ti vòglio bene.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked him. “It sounds so lovely.”

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said, and then he let me go.

  I touched my guardian angel again, drawing strength from its small weight. He’d given it to me late Saturday night as we sat in the bay window seat in his living room. We were drinking small glasses of dessert wine and eating almond biscotti that he’d baked himself. The sweet taste of the fruit was heavy in my mouth. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small red box. The angel was inside.

  “I got it in New York,” he said. “After…I never should have left you there. It was a mistake.”

  “You didn’t know,” I told him. “You couldn’t have known.”

  Elise had been right about Damiano, although I’m sure she didn’t expect him to reappear as soon as he did.

  I’d come straight home after I left her house. I’d called my mother and the two of us had talked for the better part of an hour. Then, as Elise had suggested, I’d taken a long, hot, full bath. I put Damiano’s CD of angel songs in my stereo, turned it up loud, and submerged myself in bubbles up to my neck, holding the pages of Blind Submission above the edge of the tub so as not to get them completely soaked. I couldn’t remember when I’d last taken a bath. Since Lucy, I hadn’t allowed myself time for anything as luxurious. Elise was right about Blind Submission, too. Now that I knew who was writing her, Alice finally made sense to me. And as I read the last few chapters, it became clear to me how I was going to change the ending, not just of the book, but of my own story.

  Halfway through the third rotation of Damiano’s CD, as if summoned, my phone rang and he was on the other end.

  “Angel, it’s Damiano. Please don’t hang up.”

  “Oh, Dami…” I could feel tears of relief stinging my eyes. “I tried to call you so many times. I didn’t get an answer. I didn’t know where you were.”

  “I was in New York,” he said. “I just got back this afternoon. I was afraid to call you….”

  “You stayed…in New York,” I said. I couldn’t stand up anymore, my knees had gone liquid and weak, so I sat down on the edge of my bathtub, the phone pressed against my wet ear. “I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

  “But Angel…Non capisco. I don’t understand.”

  “Lucy said you never
showed up for your meeting with her,” I said, the words coming fast and high. “She said you never called her, that you just didn’t show up. It was right after we…and I thought…but now I know…oh, Dami…” I sighed deeply.

  “She said I didn’t show up?” Damiano sounded confused. “I had a meeting with my editor in New York. Porca misèria, Angel, I wish you were there with me. I didn’t know what I was doing.” He blew out a short puff of air in irritation. “I had to go by myself,” he said, “because Luciana wasn’t there. She called me to tell me that she had to go home early. She said she had an emergency.” I pressed the phone to my ear as if I could push him through it. “I was worried about you,” he said finally.

  “You were so upset….”

  “I’m sorry,” I said to him. “I’m so sorry about that. I need to explain it to you.”

  “Sì,” he said. “Can I…Can I come to see you?”

  I looked around at my unmade bed, stacks of manuscripts, and unwashed cups on the table. I hadn’t even washed out the coffeepot from the last round I’d made for Malcolm.

  “No,” I said. “Let me come to you this time. Tell me where you are.”

  It was late by the time I arrived at his apartment, set amid a throng of restaurants. The air smelled like garlic, rain, and espresso and was bright with neon. The noise of diners, revelers, and car horns echoed off the street. Damiano waited for me outside his building, leaning against a wall, a cigarette in his hand.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” I said by way of greeting. It was suddenly awkward to be seeing him in the flesh after what had happened between us. I didn’t know where we were supposed to pick up or what level of intimacy we’d reached. And I suspected he didn’t, either.

  “Only sometimes,” he said, grinding the cigarette out under his shoe. “When I’m nervous.”

  When we got upstairs, Damiano poured the wine and we talked, hesitantly at first, then comfortably, gradually moving into a conversation that was quiet and tender. I told him everything I could about the events of the past week and everything I should have told him in New York. Damiano spoke little while I told my story, saving his own thoughts and feelings until I stopped. He didn’t touch me until he clasped the angel around my neck. We’d been talking for hours.

  “It’s so late it’s early,” I said then, looking out the window at the violet lines starting to break in the sky.

  “You should sleep,” he said, and led me into his bedroom. In the center of the room was a king-size bed covered with a simple olive green comforter and two large pillows in matching fabric. There was one bedside table with a lamp and a shallow dish of change. On the far wall, there were three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books of every size and shape in English and Italian. I wanted to study them right then, to look at every title, but I was suddenly so weary I could barely stand up.

  Damiano sat me down on his bed and leaned over to take off my shoes. “Vieni qua,” he said, patting a pillow. “Lie down, Angelina.” I did and he lay down next to me, taking me gently in his arms and resting his head close to mine. I was asleep in seconds. When I woke up the window was flooded with daylight and Damiano was smiling at me.

  “Shall I make you breakfast?” he asked me.

  “No,” I said. “Make love to me.” And then neither one of us spoke again for a very long time.

  Much later, the two of us ate dinner together by candlelight.

  “So, of course I am going to fire her,” Damiano said. “Don’t you think?”

  “You can’t fire her, Dami. I mean, you can, but she’ll always be the agent on Parco Lambro. She sold it. It’s hers.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s your book as much as mine.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I told him, covering his hand with my own. “There will be other books. She doesn’t own the rights to you. Or to me.”

  “But I have to do something,” he said.

  “I have a plan, Dami,” I told him. “But let’s not talk about that now. Let’s…I’m sure we can find better things to do until I have to leave in the morning.”

  “È vero,” Damiano agreed. “I think we can.”

  I SIGHED CONTENTEDLY as I followed Highway 101 to the San Rafael exit. I could still feel the touch of his fingertips stroking my face and could still smell the faint scent he’d left on my skin. Neither one of us had gotten very much sleep the night before, but I felt as refreshed as if I’d gotten a full eight hours. When I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, I saw that my skin was fresh and glowing, as if I’d spent the day in a spa. But love can do this, too, I thought, and wondered where I’d heard the line before. It took me a minute to realize that it came from Shelly Franklin’s novel.

  As I wended my way through the streets of lovely San Rafael, I felt the familiar flip in my stomach that I got every time I got close to Lucy’s house. But this time it was anticipation, not fear, that was giving me butterflies.

  I pulled in to Lucy’s driveway and saw that I’d judged my time well. I was the first to arrive. I took a moment to gather my wits and take a few long, deep breaths, and then I picked up my things and went inside.

  The office was cool and much neater than we’d left it on Friday afternoon. Lucy had obviously spent some time over the weekend going through everybody’s desk. Periodically, she was wont to do this kind of “cleaning up” after we left for the day, and we’d come back to our desks in the morning to find them completely rearranged. It was another way of letting us know that everything in her domain, including her staff, was controlled by and belonged to her alone.

  I had a flash of my first day in the office, a visceral memory of how I felt in those initial moments. I felt again the fight-or-flight response I’d had standing there, surrounded by the sound of telephones and voices and the silent, pressing demands of all those words, written, typed, and printed, coming at me all at once. I’d thought I was in over my head then, like Alice falling into Wonderland. Alice. There was that name again. It turned out I’d been closer to the truth then, on that first day, than I would get until this moment.

  I walked past my desk and went straight to Lucy’s office. Her door was open and I stood at the threshold, looking in. She wasn’t there, but the lights were on and a cup of still-steaming coffee sat on her desk. Behind it, the door that led into the main part of her house had been left ajar. I looked at the slice of white light coming through the crack and realized that never once had I seen Lucy leave this door open. I walked over to Lucy’s side of her desk and sat down. She’d see me as soon as she walked in, but I would see her first.

  I didn’t have to wait long.

  “Angel!”

  I’d expected her to jump or startle at the sight of me, and I was slightly disappointed that while I’d certainly caught her unaware, my sudden presence in her office hadn’t given her any kind of fright.

  “How nice to see you here so early,” she said. “At my desk, too. Very industrious of you. I hope your colleagues don’t think you’re trying to kiss up to the boss, hmm?”

  “Hmm,” I answered. Lucy sat down in the chair opposite me, the chair that I normally sat in, and reached over for her coffee. She took a sip. I noticed that she hadn’t taken the time to style her hair this morning. It was pulled back and pinned up behind her, giving her face a severe, slightly strained effect. She was wearing a black catsuit, the kind that had become so popular in yoga studios of late, over which she’d thrown a filmy white duster that tied in a bow at her décolletage. Her feet were clad in a pair of shiny silver ballet flats. All in all, a ridiculous outfit, I thought. Classic Lucy.

  “Well, I assume that you’ve been checking my call list for the day,” she said, “since you’re sitting at my desk.” She gave me a pointed look tinged with curiosity. “Shall we discuss?”

  “Actually,” I said, “what I’d really like to talk about is the reading I did this weekend.”

  “Oh?” Lucy leaned back in her chair, an enigmatic smile spreading across her
lips. I couldn’t tell what she meant by it. My heart was beating wildly and my mouth felt dry. I lifted my hand to my throat and ran my fingers across the angel. I could feel warmth and confidence returning to me. The gesture caught Lucy’s eye and she said, “That’s an interesting little charm, Angel. Is it new?”

  “Yes,” I said, and I could hear new strength in my voice. “A friend gave it to me when he came back from the dead.”

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed to emerald slits as she studied me, waiting to see what I’d come up with next.

  “I found a fascinating little book over the weekend,” I said. “A real gem.” I leaned over, reached into my purse, and pulled out Flaming Heart. I held it up for her to see. “Les jeux sont faits,” I said. “You’re the author of Blind Submission.”

  Lucy’s face was a study in conflict. Surprise, discomfort, relief, and excitement all battled one another in her eyes. She started to speak several times but kept stopping herself, the words dying in her throat before they had a chance to escape her mouth. For the first time since I’d met her, she was tongue-tied. I knew it couldn’t last long because, surprise or no, Lucy was still Lucy, and so I stayed silent, savoring the moment, until she folded her arms across her chest and said, “Well, I must say, it took you long enough, Angel.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “There were enough clues along the way, but I suppose I just chose to ignore them. It was so much easier to believe that Malcolm had set this all up, but I know now that I was giving him much more credit than he could ever deserve. At one point, I even thought that Anna had authored the book, if you can believe that.” I took a breath and went on. “The tattoo was a nice touch, Lucy.” I raised my hand reflexively to my breast. “I suppose you saw mine that night at your party. Unless Malcolm told you…” I shuddered at the grotesque images that appeared in my mind’s eye and went on. “It was the why of it I didn’t get, though. Why me? Why paint me as Alice when Alice is so clearly you?”