“Mr. Lee?” A young man with a defiantly new-wave blond haircut hovered suddenly before him.
“Yes,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Thanks for waiting; sorry to keep you. Will you come with me, please?”
Clay was led to a comfortably disheveled office with two outstanding features: a gorgeous view and barely any room to move. How could anybody function in so small a space? he wondered, particularly since every inch seemed to be crammed with books, papers, piles of orange- and green-bound galleys, flagged manuscripts wherever he turned. How could she breathe? And with an utterly breathtaking view, at present gleaming with the sunny weather, how could she do any work at all?
The one thing missing was the editor herself. The young man apologized again, explaining that she’d been called into an emergency meeting. “But she’ll be back before you know what hit you. Would you like some coffee?” Gin, thanks, thought Clay, shaking his head. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable for the next few minutes,” the boy added. Why not? No doubt she would be gossiping about her friends or breaking into song before he knew it.
Clay sat down in a chair squeezed into a corner of the office, putting his briefcase on the floor and gazing out the window. Down the hall a man was screaming he would fire the entire staff, they were nothing but a bunch of useless pederasts. And you asked for useful ones, thought Clay. Unable to remain still, he rose and went to the overcrowded bookshelves, which housed a remarkable variety of books. His eyes roved over cartoon collections, esoteric literary novels, oversized photography books, novels whose covers displayed women in pearls getting out of limousines, topical nonfiction, books on rock music. Pasted inside the door was a cartoon called “Poodle with a Mohawk” by someone named Lynda Barry, with the caption “You’ll never call him Fifi again.” This might take some readjustment, he thought; it didn’t quite fit the editor he’d had in mind. He opened a cartoon book, laughing at a page entitled “Supermarket Hell.”
“Hello?” The door pushed Clay against the shelves precipitously, and a young woman peered anxiously around the corner as he stumbled to regain his footing. “Mr. Lee? I’m sorry—are you all right?”
“Yes,” he stammered. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have been—”
“Hiding?” She smiled slightly.
“Trying to steal everything in sight, if you want to know the truth.” He was astonished to find someone his own age facing him. “I was hoping you’d take a little longer so I could make off with the bulk of your collection.”
“Not that I would have noticed, considering how organized these shelves are.” She motioned for him to be seated. “Sorry to have kept you—my employers keep forgetting that Monday’s the seizure, Wednesday’s the full-fledged psychotic break.” She sighed, shaking her head. He stared; was she teasing him? She looked familiar somehow, but he couldn’t think why. “Thank you for agreeing to meet on such short notice, by the way,” she went on, studying him with a puzzled expression, as if she, too, wondered where she had seen him before. “Well,” she said finally, extending her hand, “I’m Louisa Mercer, the woman who holds your fate in her cruel hands. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” He shifted in his seat, examining her face as if it would explain the nagging question in the back of his mind. Her eyes were a clear blue, large and questioning, and her skin was fair and porcelain-fine, radiant as a teenager’s. In fact, with a face rosy and untouched by makeup, she looked remarkably like a student. Perhaps it was because she was small that she appeared so young, he thought; he towered over her.
“So”—she smiled up at him. Her smile transformed her face: it was unrestrained, as if she were a gleeful little girl unable to disguise her delight at coming upon him. “You know,” she said, frowning abruptly, “you look familiar to me.”
“I get the feeling I’ve met you before, too.”
“Must have been the Folies-Bergère,” she said, “before you quit, anyway.” Her eyes twinkled. This was hardly going as he’d expected. “So tell me about your manuscript.”
“Not much to tell.” He hated talking about the project; it embarrassed him to hear his voice take on an air of gravity. With her grinning at him, he realized he would rather talk with her about almost anything but the book.
As if sensing his reluctance, she changed the subject, firing away questions on a variety of topics and gently mocking his replies. Finally she steered him back to the book.
“Thank you for your note,” he said.
“You write a pretty good letter yourself—piqued my curiosity.” He flushed. “How’d you get my name?”
“LMP,” he confessed; the catalogue held names of publishers and editors. “I’ve met a multitude of editors from personal recommendations, but no one seemed quite right Finally I decided just to pick a bunch of names and take a shot at writing them. You’re the first to answer me.”
“Now that’s good luck,” she teased. “What editors have you met?”
He told her, watching the expression on her face shift from disbelief to barely contained hilarity. At the final name, she sank her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. “You poor boy,” she said, stifling laughter, “you got the grand tour, didn’t you? How did you ever manage to single out that group of people?”
He was almost afraid to tell her how it had begun. “Anyway,” he added, after a brief synopsis, “I decided I would probably have better luck with someone I picked for myself.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said. “Now how about a preview? You can tell me, honest.”
“Well,” he said, “it’s called Flirting with Greatness.”
“Great title.”
“Do you think so? I got it from a movie; I was walking downtown one day when I saw this marquee blazing: ‘Flirts with Greatness,’ quoting The Village Voice. Anyway, the book’s about—well, you seem like a rational person, but here goes: love and fantasy, the way we transform a fairly basic emotion into this mysterious force, a catalyst that turns another person into someone with almost infinite power over us. In fact, we’re responsible for the very emotions we think they cause, but instead we glorify the person who provokes these inexplicable feelings in us, relinquishing control. It’s not as esoteric as that, really—I’ve done a lot with movies and music and how popular culture feeds into it, but it’s a sort of tribute, if you can believe anyone would want to pay tribute to mass insanity …” Seeing the color drain from her face, he trailed off. “Of course, not everyone would consider this to be a legitimate topic for a book,” he added.
“No, no, I’m sorry.” She shook herself. “You’ll have to excuse me, Clay, my mind just lurched somewhere else. I’m in the early stages of senility these days.”
“Wait till you see what I say about that.” He grinned, patting the manuscript.
“I can imagine. Well, as long as people live and breathe they’ll be interested in love and sex. My chief criteria will be your writing and the strength of your perceptions—if they’re striking enough to make a reader feel they’re new, somehow revolutionary, shedding light on our oldest patterns of behavior. As for my publisher”—she shrugged—“this business likes to put books into categories, unfortunately. A self-help book, for example, has a slot, while a more analytical one like yours may have a hard time finding its niche. It needs to be dazzling, both topical and fun. Not easy.”
“The prognosis for my seeing print is getting dimmer by the minute.”
She shook her head, leaning toward him. “I don’t mean to discourage you. Good writers are always in demand, so if you write well, and you’ve managed to come up with something intriguing to say, your chances aren’t bad. Of course, I think it’s a miracle that anything ever gets published, considering how many obstacles a book faces—the number of people who have to approve it, the timing, the climate of the industry toward certain kinds of books, the existing competition—”
“—the connections of the author—”
She nodded, raising an e
yebrow. “—the power of the author’s family name—”
He clutched his stomach in mock assault.
“—and so many other factors it would make your head spin. If most people knew what publishing was really like, they wouldn’t have the remotest desire to go near it.” She patted his manuscript emphatically. “But none of that should concern you at the moment. You’ve got one of the most critical readers on your case”—a quick grin—“and I’ll give it my attention as soon as I can, once I’ve read the twenty-six other rush projects facing me.” She brushed away his exclamation. “No, but I will get to it as soon as I can, and I’ll give you a call when I’ve had a chance to read it.”
“Could I take you for a drink to thank you? We could always talk about what other careers you think I might be better suited to pursue.”
“Brain surgeon,” she said. “No need for me to bother reading a line; it’s written all over you.” He blushed, sheepish, and she held out her hand. “I don’t drink, but I will call you with my reaction. Nice to have met you, Clay.”
He rose, taking her hand. Towering over her, he found it hard to imagine this tiny woman having such control over his fate. He forgot to release her hand, examining her, and when she pulled away slightly he blushed again, apologizing. “Thank you for all your time, Ms. Mercer.”
“Louey. Please. After all, I’ll be delving into your innermost fantasies.”
“Louey,” he said uncertainly. A stray thought prodded his memory. Her phone line lit up and then a moment later flickered expectantly, as if demanding her immediate attention. “I’ll look forward to your response,” he added, as an insistent buzzer followed and she shrugged apologetically, turning to the phone. Clay made his way out of her office. As he waited for the elevator, her infectious laughter echoed down the hallway.
“Don’t boys in New York ever call their mamas?”
Clay’s morning started with the cool voice of his mother on his answering machine. “City life must be exciting,” she said; Clay opened his eyes. “And call for so much energy.”
He listened, stretching, then threw off the sheet when she brought up the topic of his moving home as if it were a plan they had discussed. “Hello, Mama,” he cut in, picking up the phone. She was silent, tacitly condemning him for his deceit in not stopping the machine as soon as he’d heard her voice. “You woke me up.”
“At eight-thirty?” she exclaimed. She always expressed astonishment at waking him, despite the fact that each time she’d called before noon this had proved to be the case. “What were you doing last night to make you so tired?”
“Celebrating, Mama.” He waited for her to ask what he’d been celebrating; when she didn’t, he forged on anyway. “I finished my book. The one I’ve been working on for the past two years.”
Her voice was guarded. “That’s quite an accomplishment, darling. Does this mean you won’t be coming home just yet?”
Clay rubbed his eyes. “I’ve told you, Mom, I live here now.”
“Naturally, you’re a grown man,” she said, “you’re an adult now, you don’t need your mother. You’ve got your own money to prove that well enough.” As usual this provided Clay with a twinge of guilt; he hated to think of the trust fund to which he now had free access, while his mother was still forced to live off the allotments sporadically dispensed by his father.
“Do you need any money, Mother?”
“Save it for yourself, dear.” Her voice grew even more remote. “You’ll need all the resources you can muster to find a publisher.”
“I’ve got one looking at it now,” Clay said, somewhat sheepishly. Why did telling her such news seem as if it were brutally chipping away at the fragile foundation of her confidence? She should be happy for his success, he thought; instead, it only seemed to emphasize her frailty.
“Oh?” she answered faintly. His stomach lurched.
He barreled ahead despite her, too weary to keep up the delicate maneuvering that conversation with his mother always required. “Yes, Mother. I’ve been meeting with people. Dad called someone he knew … I met an editor yesterday who seemed, uh, smart.” There; he’d said it.
A pause followed. “How is your father?” She spoke at last, a note of macabre cheer creeping into her voice. She was on the verge of cracking, he could tell. “And his new—Doris?”
“Deena. They’re fine. I’ve only seen him once, Mom, since I’ve been here.” A random thought prodded his unconscious, then faded. “I’ve hardly said two words to him in the last three years.”
“There’s no need to ignore your father for my sake, Clay,” she said. Now he could hear the hysterical edge in her voice; she’d begun drinking early. “He loves you, in his way, and he is your father, after all.”
“And I love you, Mother.” Clay sighed. “But I have to go now. I’ll call you soon, okay? Give my love to Mona.”
He hung up, feeling as if he’d just done something illegal, her plaintive goodbye ringing in his ears. Had it really been years since he’d lived with his mother? It seemed like a scant weekend since her presence had enveloped him. He could picture her clearly, her delicate blond beauty set off by a pastel sundress, a tall cocktail at her side as she reclined in the sun, fanning herself. She had no one to amuse her these days, since her daughter and both her men had abandoned her.
For the first time in two years, Clay rose at nine in the morning to fix himself a stiff drink.
By the time supper had come—and gone—Clay had worked himself into an old-fashioned alcoholic stupor. He leaned up against the headboard of his bed, staring out onto the darkening street across from him. What gave most people the illusion that life was worth living? he wondered. Money did it for some people; they worked all their lives to accumulate it, and perhaps if they succeeded in amassing great wealth they felt they’d lived up to their dreams. “Strike one,” he said; no chance of that for him. There was always love, of course. People did all sorts of things in search of some perfect love, some ideal; for some, its very unattainability was the chief requirement for the true love object. “You should talk,” he told his reflection in the darkened window.
Clay lurched out of bed, going to put some music on the stereo. What would have happened, he wondered, if he’d simply drifted on with Charlene Watford, even gotten married? “Droves of bland, blond babies,” he thought aloud, shuddering to think how easily such a fate could have befallen him. Bless Charlene’s heart for not accepting him as true husband material; who could say if he’d have had the will to put up a struggle against a future with her should she have elected it for them? “Spineless,” he muttered. This was the chief feature of his personality so far, it seemed to him.
The sound of Oscar Peterson filled the room and Clay soaked it in, energized by the power of the music. Talent was another ticket to fulfillment some were born with gifts—musical, artistic, physical—and measured their success by how well they fulfilled their creative potential, acquiring recognition, fame. Clay held his hands out, staring at them. Once he’d been naïve enough to think he had some talent, that was why he had been given music, but that was clearly no more than childish folly. It must be something to be born with a real talent What must life be like to have Art Tatum’s hands, the voice of Ella Fitzgerald, the body of Baryshnikov, the mind of Lily Tomlin?
He didn’t fool himself that what he had done by writing a book was an expression of any such gift, just as he had known there was no point in talking of his future as a pianist. “You have no talent”—he sighed—“whatsoever.” Unlike his mother, he had never deluded himself that physical attractiveness and a modest ability to charm were the equivalent of accomplishment. If he’d enjoyed writing a book, it had been because the completion of a concrete task was a pleasure to which he was unaccustomed; it was satisfying to see how his mind could work, pairing creative leaps with practical research. He wondered what Louey Mercer would think of the pages he’d written, if she’d tell him he had any ability or anything of merit to say.
On a whim he picked up the phone and dialed her office. It had been three weeks since she’d said she’d look at the manuscript as soon as possible, and though he’d vowed to wait until she called, he had a sudden, overwhelming need to hear her voice, as if by sensing something in her tone he would be given a vital clue as to her ultimate decision. The phone rang and rang. Finally he hung up, glancing at the clock beside the bed. Of course no one had answered, he thought; it was after eight. (Saved from committing a tactical blunder by sheer logistics.) He staggered into the bathroom to examine the effects of his drinking. When he looked in the mirror, the gleaming eyes of a desperate man peered back at him.
Two days later she called him. He returned from grocery shopping to find a message on his machine, her voice cheerful, friendly. No editor was supposed to sound like that, he thought, trying her number without waiting to see if there were other messages on his tape—editors should be subdued professionals, not frisky kids. Shifting from one foot to the other, he waited for her to answer. Just as he was beginning to think about redialing, he heard an abrupt “Hello?”
“Louey Mercer, please?”
“Who’s this?” He answered the tense voice and the tone grew instantly warmer. “Oh, Clay, it’s Louey, I’m on my other line. Kevin must not be at his desk, or I’d—let me call you back in a few minutes, okay?”
“Sure,” he said, momentarily deflated. He hung up, waiting for a few moments for the phone to ring before shaking himself. Get up, asshole, he thought, going to put away the groceries; she didn’t have all day just to talk to him, after all.
He had settled down with an Irish coffee when the phone rang. Nerves slightly dulled by the alcohol, he answered, “Yello?”
She laughed into his ear. “Clay? It’s Louey Mercer.”
“Hi, how are you? Thanks for calling me back.”
“I called you first, remember? Listen, I’ve had a chance to read your manuscript, and I want to talk to you about it.”
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