by Packer, Vin
THE GIRL
ON THE
BEST SELLER
LIST
VIN PACKER
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
The Young and Violent
Also Available
Copyright
One
… and the town sat in the lush hills of the Finger Lakes, sat like an unsightly red pimple on the soft, white back of some sultry and voluptuous woman.
— FROM Population 12,360
ROBERTA SHAGLAND parked her Volkswagen on Genesee Street, the town’s main thoroughfare. She parked in front of The Book Mart. Beside her on the seat was a cellophane-wrapped novel from the Mart’s lending library. It was this book which had come like a sudden avalanche on Cayuta, New York, leaving its populace shaken and angry; this book which had put Cayutians under some merciless microscope, like a community of wiggling amoebas, swimming in stagnancy. It was the woman who wrote this book whom Roberta Shagland hated, and her name was Gloria Wealdon.
Miss Shagland picked the book up and rubbed her fingers along the cellophane, along the author’s name, as though with that motion she could rub out the name.GLOR-I-A first — rubbed out — thenWeal-don. Next, the title:POPULATION 12,360…. That would leave just the blurb above the title: “… a searing novel of a small town by a daring new writer.” She ran her thumb across those words, then dropped the book in her tote bag on the Volkswagen’s floor. For a moment, she sat behind the wheel watching the people pass back and forth on Genesee…. How many of them were hurt by Gloria Wealdon’s novel; how many angry, amused, disgusted? As much as she wanted to ponder this, she found she was able only to think of Milo Wealdon, Gloria’s husband — big, good-looking, strong, gentle Müo — and of the way he had been maligned in the book.
Miss Shagland had arrived in Cayuta in the middle of January, five months ago. She had come to fill the post left vacant by the sudden demise of Cayuta High’s dietician. A farm-born, awkward and shy woman nearing the end of her twenties, she had come from a horribly confused settlement on the outskirts of ever-expanding Syracuse, New York. It was a settlement that was ugly and treeless and smelly, with the noise and odor and look of growing industry. She had hated the greasy diners near there, the half-dozen used car lots, the junkyard, the smoke, and the new, new — everything about them new — ranch house developments that were all alike — little lawns, hugging the highway, pink or bright blue or lemon yellow, within walking distance of the shopping center with its sleek A&P, drugstore, Five & Ten. Modern and young and obvious and vulgar.
She had come from there to Cayuta in dead winter, so that it did not look as fabulous and amazing as it did now in May, but she had known what Cayuta would look like. In her imagination she had undressed those great hills of their snow like an eager lover in his erotic fantasies; and she had with dreamer’s kisses put the blush of color to all the trees and brush surrounding. She had known that Cayuta would be like so many of the lakeside cities in the Finger Lakes, hiding behind and between huge green mounds. A sudden surprise of glinting blue water, church spires, farm houses dotting the approach; then the city limits sign, the tall Victorian houses with their peaked gables making the new ones in between seem squat and crazy-modern; the immense Norway maples and horse chestnuts ticking the green soft long lawns; and the sprinklers now, turned on at summer’s near-beginning, and at the lake the boats being scraped and painted, their sails airing; all of it — Cayuta. How had Milo Wealdon put it?
“Cayuta,” he had said, “is like a perennial plant. Some plants — the annuals and the biennials — are pretty for a while, but they change and die. Towns are like that too. Cayuta’s not. It’s like a perennial — it stays. It dies down in the winter, but renews its growth again in the spring.”
Milo Wealdon was the physical education teacher at Cayuta High where Roberta Shagland was dietician. Even though she knew him very, very slightly, Miss Shagland knew he was different from any man she had ever met. When he spoke (just those few times, just those precious few times) it was like a poet speaking; still, her nose came just to the level of the huge muscle on his arm, and she had seen him once outside the gym, near the lockers, in shorts, and she had trembled to notice his build; and she had thought about how much a man he looked…. She had thought about that quite a lot.
As if to force the subject from her mind that morning, Roberta Shagland jerked up the Volkswagen’s door handle and got out. The suddenness of her movement caused her to hit her head, and her own “Damn!” made her feel naughty and slightly sophisticated, but she was neither of these. She slipped a dime into the parking meter and walked toward The Book Mart; and she did not even have to look closely at the window to know that there was only one book on display. Twenty-five, thirty, fifty — how many copies of that one book arranged every which way?
She nearly collided with an elderly woman standing near the entrance. A parent. She recognized old Mrs. Waterhouse from out on Grove Street, who still came to P.T.A. meetings though all her children were well into their thirties and had children of their own.
They said hello, but Mrs. Waterhouse had something to add, and Roberta Shagland turned to listen. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I said if Miss Dare was still with the Mart a thing like this would never have happened.”
“You mean the window display.”
“Miss Dare had taste.”
“I never knew her,” said Miss Shagland.
“She was a fine girl. She wouldn’t have kept that woman’s book in stock!”
Roberta Shagland had often heard Gloria Wealdon described as “That Woman” since the novel’s publication. “That Woman,” Cayutians said, as though her name was a strange one to their ears; as though her name were not worth remembering — the way an irate wife might refer to her husband’s mistress, or the local chapter of the Women’s Temperance Union might identify a female barfly. Gloria Wealdon’s name was as well known to Cayutians as cod to Boston, steel to Pittsburgh. It was not a strange name to many outside Cayuta either. People “out of touch” might not have heard the name — pedants, coal miners, expatriates who had suddenly returned from abroad and who wanted to know if she was a murderess, a television star or what? — but most everyone else in the country knew that Gloria Wealdon was synonymous with sex and money, that she had written a novel which theTimes had called “a feverishly inept exposé of a festering small town,” and that it was selling like knishes in the Catskills.
“I don’t know why anyone would waste their time on such trash,” said old Mrs. Waterhouse.
Roberta Shagland’s tote bag felt suddenly enormously heavy. “Yes,” she murmured. “It mustn’t be a very worthwhile book.”
“When Miss Dare ran The Book Mart, she sold literature. Now look.” Mrs. Waterhouse waved her hand at the display. “Trash!”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Waterhouse,” said Roberta Shagland.
Mrs. Waterhouse nodded, still standing before the window, shaking her head and mumbling angrily.
Inside the Mart, the clerk beamed at Miss Shagland when he saw her take the book from her bag. “We’ve been
waiting for this!” he said. “We have a waiting list as long as Genesee Street!”
“I’m sorry if I kept people waiting.”
She was not sorry at all. She felt sorry for Milo Wealdon, and if she had kept other Cayutians from reading his wife’s descriptions of him, she was glad.
The clerk said, “We just got a whole new order of the book in, but you know how people are. People don’t want to buy anything they can borrow for a few cents a day.”
“Yes,” Roberta Shagland said.
“I’m not casting any aspersions on you, Miss Shagland. Don’t get me wrong. On a schoolteacher’s pay, I don’t blame you if you don’t buy books.”
“I buy books. Some books.”
“I always put my foot in my mouth. I didn’t mean anything like that.”
“I just wouldn’t buy this book.”
“It’s pretty exciting though, isn’t it? I mean, someone from right here in Cayuta writing — ” but when he saw that Roberta Shagland was not indicating any enthusiasm, he did not bother to finish the sentence. He took a piece of paper and began to figure.
When he was finished, he looked embarrassed.
“You’ve had this out for some time, Miss Shagland.”
“I know.”
“It seems a shame.”
“Well, how much do I owe you?”
“You had it for ninety-three days, Miss.”
“And that comes to?”
“It comes to $2.79, Miss,” said the clerk. “I mean, youcould have bought it, just about.”
When Roberta Shagland handed him the three dollars, her hands were trembling. The hiccups came while she was waiting for her change. Unable to bear it, she left the Mart.
“What’s the matter with her?” the clerk said. “She wasn’t even in the book!”
A man buying greeting cards said, “Maybe that’s what’s the matter with her.”
Two
‘What’s the matter with Miles?”
“Listen,” she said. “I don’t love him. I can’t stand him. And the frosting on the cake is that he’s lousy in bed!”
— FROM Population 12,360
MILO WEALDON stood by the kitchen sink in the small, sky-blue, split-level house on Alden Avenue. He watched his wife hurry along the well-worn shortcut through the fields behind their house. She was on her way to their neighbors, the Fultons. For a coffee klatsch with Fern, she’d said. He had mumbled something about the fact two people couldn’t have a klatsch; a klatsch meant three people or more.
“Jealous because you weren’t asked along?” she’d said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he’d said, “I’m just telling you what a klatsch is. Look it up in the dictionary.”
Gloria had laughed. “You look it up. I’m in a rush.”
He couldn’t find it in the dictionary. He had been so eager to prove to himself that he was right, that he had run for the Webster’s while Gloria was putting her coat on. Now while he watched her go along the path behind their house, he was angry with himself for having tried to find out the definition for klatsch. What did it matter? Why, again, had he been goaded into pettiness?
He continued to watch her until she was out of sight. She had her hair done up in socks — his old ones — and she wore one of his freshly-laundered white shirts, though he had asked herplease, if she had to wear his shirts, to wear one of the colored ones. The pants were her own, old black frontier pants, which were rapidly being disowned by her hips, thighs and buttocks. As sloppy as she was, Gloria did not like gaining weight. She counted her calories now; she only had 1,000 calories a day thatshe knew about. Milo’s lips tipped in a grin as he recalled fixing her coffee that morning. He had not used saccharin the way she’d thought. He had used two teaspoons of sugar.
• • •
On her feet, Gloria wore those ugly boats — her space shoes, which she had discovered in New York City. They looked grotesque to Milo; prehistoric. His dentist wore them too. Until Gloria had come home with a pair, Dr. Saperstein was the only person in Cayuta, New York, to own them. Milo could not forget that the first time he had ever seen them on Saperstein he had thought that they made good sense. Your feet needed room. Your feet could get like houseplants that are cooped up in containers that don’t give the roots room to grow in. Such plants become pot-bound. Milo had had some Rosary Peas die on him, because he hadn’t given the roots room. He had felt as bad about that as another man might feel about starving a dog…. After Saperstein showed Milo his shoes, Milo had written down the address of a place where they were sold in Syracuse, New York. He had kept it in his wallet for months, before he had decided they were too expensive. When Gloria had unpacked her pair, Milo had explained in a contemptuous way that she had been taken in again; he had said you’ll believeanything, won’t you, Glo! Any old thing anyone comes along and tells you.Space shoes, migod!
• • •
His mood that Saturday morning in mid-May was striped with rancor on the one hand, clemency on the other. Since her sudden success as a novelist, Gloria seemed to take even more pride than usual in her unkempt appearance. What was the sense in being a success if you were going to look like something the cat dragged home? That was something he couldn’t figure out. He thought somehow Gloria would return from her publicity trip with a whole new wardrobe. He expected black silk dresses, cuckoo hats with dippy feathers on them, jewelry, maybe even a fur. He should have known better. For her photograph on the book jacket, Gloria had worn the same outfit she was wearing this morning; and when he had picked upThe Cayuta Citizen one evening three weeks ago, Glo’s picture had confronted him on page three. It was a U.P. news photo of her press conference in a suite at the Waldorf. She was wearing a mannish trench coat, over a pair of Milo’s old blue-and-white-striped Orion pajamas. Underneath the photograph there was a caption:
The uninhibited authoress of Population 12,360says she wrote her book for laughs. But reports from her home town indicate few people think it’s funny!
Milo’s fury was always arrested by certain scenes that flashed across the screen of his memory; the pitiful incidents of the past, which belied the present. He remembered how he used to fold Glo in his arms and rock her like a small child, to reassure her after she returned from an afternoon of bridge at Fern Fulton’s — usually with one of her stomach aches which overtook her whenever she felt inferior.
“I’m just not like them, Milo,” she would sob.
“Pay them no attention, honey.”
“My clothes are all wrong, my hair, everything!”
“I like the way you — ”
“I wear the same things they do, but I look — washed-out, colorless, plain!”
“Do you want to know something, Glo?” Milo would say. “When I was staking out our grounds here, I chose those hornbeam hedges because the tulips would be lost without them. The tulips need something substantial to back them up. Do you understand what I’m saying, Glo? Season after season I’ve seen the flowers come and go, but the plain old ordinary hedge stays. You can count on it; and the hedge doesn’t need the tulips, remember that. The tulips need the hedge for contrast, but the hedge doesn’t need — ”
“Oh, for the love of Christ, shut up, Milo!”
“If you’d listen, you’d see that — ”
“That I was nothing but a plain old ordinary hedge, Milo?”
It was the only way he knew how to philosophize — by talking in terms of the things in life he loved. His gardening; his collection of saints, which he sculptured out of Ivory soap and preserved with Krylon spray enamel; and sometimes, too, the world of sport, though he thought of that more as his vocation than his avocation.
He had become interested in gardening after his marriage to Gloria, but the saints had fascinated him ever since he was in the navy. A shipmate of his, Dacky Kent, a robust, intelligent comedian with aspirations for the priesthood, had entertained him through many long and perilous voyages, telling him stories about famous and infamous saints. Mi
lo used to appreciate particularly Dacky’s ability to see the humor in many of the saints’ lives; in fact, the first soap sculpture Milo had ever done had been that of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. Dacky had told him about her during that ironic trip to the Aleutians, when the ship was carrying rations for the troops and the food served on board was stomach-crying skimpy. Through long watches when both of them yearned to break into the hold and devour the precious cargo, Dacky told how St. Elizabeth gave so bountifully to the poor that she starved her own household. One day her husband met her going out with her apron filled with something heavy, and he demanded to know what she was carrying. She had told him she was merely taking flowers to the poor — and God had converted the loaves of bread in her apron into flowers, to save the lie. Milo whittled out a meticulous likeness of the saint as he saw her, before the miracle. Dacky raved at his craftsmanship, and howled when he saw the tiny soap loaves in the saint’s apron. Before they reached the Aleutians, Dacky made tiny, intricate paper roses, so that one evening when Milo opened his locker he found his Elizabeth carrying flowers in her apron.
After that, Milo made other soap sculptures, all saints. Dacky made a bet with him that before Milo could whittle out the thirty-seven saints of diseases and ills, the eighty-three saints of cities, nations and places, and the ninety-three specialist saints for tradesmen, children, wives, idiots and children, Dacky would be back in mufti, wearing his collar backward. When Dacky was killed years later in an automobile accident, he was in his second year of study for the priesthood. Milo had just finished sculpturing Saint Blaise, saint of sore throats, number thirty-two of diseases and ills…. Now, Milo was all the way to the brewers’ saint, Florian. He had one hundred thirty-one sculptures, and he knew quite a lot about sainthood.
• • •
At first, during their marriage, Gloria had seemed to enjoy the stories of the saints. During their courtship, too, she had given the promise of sharing Milo’s hobby with him. Gloria had always been a very insecure person, and in the beginning, when they met on the Cornell campus and began going to The Ivy for beers, they had seemed an unlikely couple, even to themselves. In those days, Milo wasit. Track star, football hero, DKE, big, smiling, handsome — he was a catch. Gloria had never made a sorority. She pretended she had chosen to be an Independent; pretended to scorn the close-knit little coterie of Kappas, Pi Phi’s, or Tri Delts, but Milo had been told by his fraternity brothers that she had gone through rush week and hadn’t made it. Milo’s fraternity brothers were always criticizing her: her looks (she was very skinny in those days, and as sloppy as ever); her rowdy “hail-fellow-well-met” personality, which soured whatever remaining semblance of femininity she had; and her almost defiant, angry mood switches, which led her to pound you heartily on the back in one turn and snarl sullenly at you in the other.
