A Bigamist's Daughter

by Alice McDermott

  “That’s true,” Elizabeth says.

  “It wasn’t until her second book that she really started to be popular.”

  “Yes.”

  “They said some authors just take a while to get a following. They said some need to develop a momentum.”

  “Yes.” There is, she knows, no telling the limits, or limitlessness of their hopes, what they will chose to believe. “Lorraine,” she whispers, gambling, but somehow perfectly assured. “You wouldn’t happen to have another book, would you?”

  There’s a pause. “Yes,” she whispers. “I do.”

  She wonders why she doesn’t feel like laughing. “Do you think, do you think I might see it?”

  “Well, I don’t know. It’s a sequel. All’s Fair in War. I must admit it’s much better than the first—that one may have been too short.”

  “Would you like to send it to me? Would you like to try again?”

  More silence. Elizabeth can almost hear her making the leap, reweaving the dream: If not this time, next time. If not this one, then another. She can almost hear in the woman’s shallow breath, the tight, restless sound of hope. Hope springing, like a Jack-in-the box.

  “All right,” the woman says. “Yes. I’ll send it to you. I’ll send it to you tomorrow morning.”

  “Wonderful,” Elizabeth says. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Yes,” says Mrs. Webb. “Thank you. Thank you very much, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth bows her head. “You’re very welcome, Lorraine.”

  As she hangs up the phone, she glances at her calendar. Mrs. Webb is only the first of her authors to be canceled. In the next two years, every author she’s ever signed will receive Mr. Owens’ letter. And by the time she’s heard from them all, Mrs. Webb will be calling again, asking why her second book has been canceled.

  She makes a note to herself to find out what famous authors had unsuccessful first and second books. What famous authors died penniless and unknown and yet never, never gave up hope.

  She throws Mrs. Webb’s folder into her OUT box, stands, straightens her desk. It occurs to her that she is becoming a real master of literary name-dropping. A real master at her trade.

  Mistress, she corrects herself. Mistress of hopeless cases, of eternal optimists. Mourning and weeping in their valley of tears. She picks up a stack of manuscripts and walks into the hallway. Someday they’ll erect a shrine.

  Ann is just coming to see her. “Sorry about that call,” she says. “But it wasn’t my fault. The woman asked for Owens first. He took it and then told me to pass it on to you, without even talking to her. I thought it was something you already knew about.”

  Elizabeth smiles. “That’s all right.”

  “Is she going to sue?”

  “Sue?”

  “Yeah, she told me she was going to sue us.”

  Elizabeth turns up the corner of her mouth. “She’s sending me her new novel,” she says. “She’ll probably sign again.”

  Ann frowns. Then laughs a little. “Slee-zee,” she says, rolling her eyes. “How the hell did you accomplish that?”

  Elizabeth shrugs, passing her by. “It’s an art,” she says.

  Ellis is on the floor of his office, on all fours, tucking a small yellow wire under his rug, perspiring. His tie hangs before him like a broken leash. “For my speakers,” he says to her, over his shoulder and his plaid rump. He raises a paw to the windowsill where there are two small stereo speakers. “Thought I’d get some music in here,” he says, standing, his face flushed, “now that I’ll be here more.” His face, like his body from the waist down, is large and round, fleshy, his graying hair almost unnaturally bouffant, and although Marv has told her that he is the scion of a wealthy Midwestern family who, until he became editor-in-chief at Vista, had considered him their golf bum, their failure, she can only think of him as one in a long line of Fuller Brush men. Perhaps it is his plaid suits, or his ready smile.

  He turns the smile on her now, brushing his hands together. “Those for me?”

  She puts the pile of manuscripts on his desk. “Yes.” She has a sudden vision of breaking down the wall between their offices, throwing Ellis out, taking over the larger space. She could, she knows. She’s better at this than he is. Better than Owens himself. Her own, unique talent. “I’m giving you each of their manuscripts,” she says, “their questionnaires and the correspondence thus far. They should all sign within the next two weeks.”

  He nods, lifts the manuscripts one by one. Tupper Daniels’ is in the middle. He picks it up and puts it down as if it were exactly like all the rest.

  “This all you’ve got?” he asks.

  “All I’ve got pending.”

  He nods, grunts a little, and then smiles at her with all his teeth. “Hey,” he takes her hand. “Have a good trip and if you’ve got any questions, you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Back in her office, she combs her hair, puts on her coat. She checks her desk again and then, lifting her manuscript bag—a black, square case that makes her feel like a musician—turns off the light.

  Owens calls to her from his office.

  “What time’s your train?” he asks, reading a letter.

  “Five,” she says.

  “You sure you wouldn’t rather drive?”

  “No.”

  He looks up at her. “Where’s your suitcase?”

  “I checked it at the station. This morning.”

  He throws the letter onto his desk. Leans back, putting his hands behind his head. He stays that way for a few moments, staring into space. She watches him.

  Finally, he looks down at her, says huh as if he’s surprised she’s still there. “And sweetheart,” he says, “when you’re on the road, remember the accountants, emotionless dolts that they are, who’ll be looking over your expense account when you get back.”

  He winks and she feels herself blush, feels some strange intimacy between them.

  He closes his eyes slowly, slowly opens them again. He smiles at her, points a thick finger in her direction. “You see,” he says. “I’m keeping track of you.”

  “Good,” she says, smiling too.

  As she walks through the office, Ann is on the phone, already saying, “Ms. Connelly is out of town. May I take a message?” She mouths something as Elizabeth walks by—maybe “Tupperware,” maybe “toodle-ooo”—rolls her eyes and waves. Elizabeth waves back.

  The ladies in the file room are holding up small mirrors, putting lipstick on at their desks.

  Bonnie is at the board, paging through a copy of Vogue, waiting for five o’clock. She says, “Have fun,” as Elizabeth goes out the door.

  She takes the elevator down alone and walks to Penn Station. By the time she gets there, she remembers that she’ll need gloves and that she forgot to bring them. She decides, as she boards the train, that she’ll buy a pair in Hartford, and then realizes that from now on, many of the things she owns, small pieces of clothing, cosmetics, jewelry, will be inadvertent souvenirs, picked up here and there across the country.

  She imagines herself, like some tattooed sailor, meeting strangers and showing them how these shoes are from Philadelphia, these gloves from Hartford. These panty hose I got in Albuquerque—oh, what a night that was—and this ring, well, it’s from Milwaukee. Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a town of some significance to me …

  The train starts with a jolt, as if it had broken off something, and then moves slowly through the tunnel, out past the dark train yard, the black outline of the city. The businessmen in her car reach up to turn on the soft reading lights above them, clear their throats, rustle their newspapers. Somewhere behind her, two of them laugh, one talking through the laughter, all his words ending with eeesh. When they are silent, the train is silent.

  And her father was a businessman who traveled. Left again and again. Carried his history with him like a tattooed sailor. Left nothing of himself behind. When sh
e asked him what he did on those long trips away, he said he was a gigolo and she had to imagine even the meaning of the word. She chose to believe it was something unique and wonderful. She chose the lie.

  As, no doubt, he knew she would.

  She sinks down into her seat. Below her is a yard full of Greyhound buses, their backs humped, their windows only reflecting light. Beside it, a field of mail trucks. Then what seems to be a power plant. They pass a highway crowded with cars, white lights on one side, red on the other. Men coming home for the evening, only to leave again in the morning. To return, to leave. And all the wives waiting in their kitchens, listening to traffic reports, fearing the worst until he comes through the door. All the wives creating those small domestic dramas that can transform their day, shine through its dullness like fools’ gold.

  She looks around the car. In a little while, she’ll get up to get a small bottle of wine. Maybe even meet someone on the way, invite him back to her seat. He’ll see her manuscript bag and ask, What are you, a musician? A doctor? A traveling saleswoman?

  If she likes him, she’ll say she is an artist, a mistress of her art. A hall of mirrors and secrets. A mystery.

  If she likes him, she knows she’ll lie.

  A Note on the Author

  Alice McDermott is the author of seven novels including After This, Child of My Heart, Charming Billy (winner of the 1998 National Book Award), At Weddings and Wakes, That Night, A Bigamist’s Daughter and, most recently, Someone. She has been a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize three times and has also been nominated for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize and the PEN/Faulkner Award. She lives with her family outside Washington DC.

  Also by Alice McDermott

  Someone

  After This

  That Night

  At Weddings and Wakes

  Charming Billy

  Child of My Heart

  Someone

  It is the 1920s and from the stoop of Marie’s Brooklyn apartment, the stories of her neighbours unfold before her short-sighted eyes. There is war-blinded Billy Corrigan and foolish, ill-fated Pegeen – and her parents’ legendary Syrian-Irish marriage – the terrifying Big Lucy, and the ever-present Sisters of Charity from the convent down the road. As the years pass Marie’s own history plays out against the backdrop of a changing world. Her older brother Gabe leaves for the seminary to study for the priesthood, his faith destined to be tested to breaking point. Marie experiences first love – and first heartbreak – marriage and motherhood, and discovers how time can reveal us all to be fools and dreamers, blinded in one way or another by hope, loss or the exigencies of life and love.

  One life in all its devastating pains and unexpected joys; its bursts of brilliant clarity and moments of profound confusion. Fragments of a curious childhood, of adolescent sexual awakenings, of motherhood and, finally, old age are pieced together in this resonant story of an unremarkable, unforgettable woman.

  After This

  ‘Sublime … A radiant portrait of family life’ Daily Mail

  John Keane has been left haunted by his experiences of action during World War II, but when he meets Mary he settles down to bring up a large traditional Irish Catholic family in Long Island. As they struggle to uphold the family’s framework, their four children must experience the challenges and liberties born in the crucible of the 1960s. Michael and Annie taste the fruits of the sexual revolution; Jacob finds himself on the way to Vietnam; and Clare, the youngest, seeks to maintain and almost saintly innocence. With McDermott’s inimitable grace, After This captures the joy, sorrow, anger and love that underpin, and undermine, what it is to be family.

  ‘A moving and evocative story about life and loss’ Irish Independent

  ‘Unsurpassable … A great work of art … A universal story, one that captures both the intimacies of family life as well as the distances’ Independent on Sunday, Books of the Year

  That Night

  ‘McDermott is a spellbinder, adding a cachet of mystery and eloquence to common occurrences … a dazzling mosaic of details and images … McDermott has wrought a miracle’ Chicago Tribune

  Rick and his high school sweetheart, Sheryl, are being torn apart and their romance seems doomed. On this warm suburban night, the sound of lawn sprinklers is drowned out by the rumble of hot rods. Suddenly, a car careens over a neat front garden, teenage boys spill out brandishing chains, and Rick cries out for the girl he loves. Tonight, fathers will pick up shovels and rakes to defend their turf, and children will witness a battle fuelled by fierce, true love. This is the night they will talk about and remember as the moment their quiet world changed.

  ‘McDermott’s novel has a universal appeal because it is coloured by an experience which everybody will recognise … There is a depth of feeling here which is beautifully – and seriously – realised’ Independent

  At Weddings and Wakes

  ‘A beautifully observed chronicle of New York family lives … Few writers have exploited the half-silence to such exquisite effect’ Observer

  Twice a week, Lucy Dailey leaves suburbia with her three children in tow, returning to the Brooklyn home where she grew up, and where her stepmother and unmarried sisters still live. Aunt Veronica, with her wounded face and dreams of beauty, drowns her sorrows in drink. Aunt Agnes, an acerbic student of elegance, sips only from the finest crystal as she sees Aunt May, the ex-nun, blossom with a late and unexpected love. And all the while, the children watch, absorbing the legacy of their haunted family.

  ‘A haunting and masterly work of literary art’ Wall Street Journal

  Charming Billy

  Winner of the National Book Award 1998

  ‘Eloquent … Heartbreaking … McDermott is brilliant’ New York Times Review of Books

  On Long Island one summer years ago, Billy fell in love with a beautiful Irish girl. Billy wanted to marry Eva, but she went back to Ireland. Then Billy’s cousin Dennis had to break the terrible news: Eva had died of pneumonia. Billy never got over it. Anybody who knew him would tell you so. Billy began courting Maeve not long after, but for the rest of their lives, he, she and Dennis shared a hidden, twisted grief.

  ‘As powerful as watching a film. We are there with the characters, we know and understand them intimately’ Independent on Sunday

  Child of My Heart

  ‘McDermott is a genius … A poignant and rewarding fictional world. Child of My Heart extends her artistic triumphs, and we should rejoice’ Los Angeles Times

  Theresa is the town’s most sought-after babysitter, cheerful and beloved by children and animals – she is Titania among her fairies, the one person to call on for help with a child in distress. But she’s also a solitary soul with a huge understanding of human nature for a fifteen-year-old. Theresa does not doubt her power over the fathers of her adoring charges either, whose potential lechery she toys with. Yet this unforgettable summer, it is her cousin Daisy, a frail little creature with glittery shoes and worrying bruises that don’t heal, who captures Theresa’s heart.

  ‘Richly textured, intricately woven … A work not only of, but about, the imagination’ Margaret Atwood, New York Review of Books

  First published in the USA in 1982 by Random House, Inc.

  This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Copyright © 1982 by Alice McDermott

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Grateful acknowledgement is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material: New Directions Publishing Corp.: Excerpt from Scene VI from The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. Copyright 1945 by Tennessee Williams and Edwina D. Williams. Reprinted by permission of New Directions

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ut the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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  eISBN: 978-1-4088-5323-8

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