Love Is a Canoe: A Novel

by Schrank, Ben

  “Not this.” Melissa stood up and went behind her desk. “I think my author wrote it in German and then sent it through Google Translate.”

  “Okay, maybe not that,” Lucy said.

  “I have a couple of novels I can e-mail you,” Stella said.

  “Would you?” Lucy smiled. “I promise I’ll write great reports. Because if I don’t get out of executive and into editorial soon I swear I am going to off myself. Bye, you two!” And Lucy clicked down the hall.

  Melissa sat down behind her desk and kept smiling for a full five seconds after Lucy left.

  Stella figured, What the hell, common enemy—I’ll take a shot. “She’s too clean for editorial,” she said to Melissa.

  “Editorial? Is that what you think you’re doing?” Melissa smiled at Stella. And suddenly Stella felt that she’d lost her read on the situation.

  She stood up and said, “I’m sorry she bothered you.”

  “You’re sorry?” Melissa stared at Stella and licked her lips. “Listen, I have no idea what the fuck that was all about. And I don’t want to know. But I do want to tell you that I’ve been here eight years without one problem and it’s all because I know enough to stay the hell away from Helena. That’s the only politics I play. Get it? So clean this Canoe problem up, Stella, ’kay? Because I do not want to be on Helena’s radar.”

  “I can—”

  “Don’t you have Julie waiting for you in Alger? I believe Alger’s where that lapdog dug you up.”

  “Right,” Stella said, suddenly remembering. “Sorry. I’ll clean it up right quick.”

  “Clean what up?” Melissa said. “You don’t get it, do you? You are blowing up a balloon and you think you’ll be able to hang on to it and it’ll sail you over all our heads, but what if you don’t have enough gas?”

  “Um. I understand that metaphor but I don’t exactly follow the sentiment,” Stella said, and wished that Melissa would just come out and tell her she didn’t like her instead of being so subtle about it.

  “Now’s a good time to figure it out. Because they’re watching you. Next time it won’t be the foot soldier coming at you. You get me?”

  “I promise I’ll make us look good.”

  “Us?” Melissa rolled her eyes and pulled a plastic container of apple slices out of her handbag. “Sure you will. Now go back to your meeting. I don’t need to have issues with Julie, too.”

  Emily, October 2011

  “What is this?” Eli asked Emily. He’d just come out of their bedroom, where he’d been getting dressed. He held the book out to her. She gasped—speechless in front of this longed-for image of him with his hands on a copy of Canoe.

  She’d learned that he never looked at what was on the coffee table, or at the books and things on their nightstands. So she had placed a copy of Canoe on top of the Sports Illustrated and Bicycling and Fixie magazines that lay in a steel crate next to the toilet. And then when he didn’t pick it up there either, she’d jammed the book into his laptop case.

  She said, “It’s that Canoe book. I want you to have a look at it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have a surprise for you.”

  It was mid-morning on a Saturday and they had planned to part soon. Before he had gone to get dressed, Eli had peeled and eaten a grapefruit, and now the rind lay in a perfect swirl on his plate on the kitchen island, where he’d left it. His rinds were so beautiful. She used to dry them because she’d always imagined that she would make something out of them, but she could never figure out just what. She had one on her bulletin board at work.

  He began to page around in Canoe. He appeared to note the new afterword and foreword and index and exercises. Then he turned his face up to her, silent and wide-eyed, looking for an explanation.

  “It’s a good surprise,” Emily said. “I like watching you read it.”

  “This book.” Eli held it up between them. “It’s like a cautionary measure.”

  “What’s bad about that?”

  “I guess nothing.” Eli stared at her and nodded. “I understand. Of course it’s okay.”

  “I love that you’re so open. Anyway, that edition starts out with a kind of sports story. I want you to read it. You can read while I go to yoga.”

  Eli stroked his chin. She saw him read a few lines. He winced but caught her watching and pretended as if he hadn’t. He said, “You know about the different editions of the same marriage advice book?”

  “I do. We’re in a good place now, right? But you understand that I’m still not totally happy. I’m still healing.”

  “Yes,” Eli answered quickly.

  “Then I want to reveal more about myself. Isn’t that part of what you’re asking for? For me to be more open?”

  “Yes, definitely. Open. So I can love you. And so we can repair. Like we said.”

  “This is part of how we’re doing that. I still get angry when I think about it. Really angry. But this is helping. When I get back I can tell you the surprise and maybe we can … spend the day together.”

  “Why don’t we go for a ride and that’ll be us spending the day together?”

  “Maybe. But right now I really want to do a class. Then we can be together, and if we end up on bikes, that’s fine.”

  She grabbed her bag and her mat and practically ran out of the house. Totally calculated and a bit dishonest, she thought. But Eli liked surprises. He liked to think about situations and then be surprised at how they turned out. She’d learned this about him at their beginning. It was true when they cooked together. It was especially true when he worked. So she had created a way for him to discover what she had done that was sympathetic to how she believed he actually was.

  She ran to Yogasana. It was her third-favorite studio but it was the one nearest their apartment. She was late but they let her in. In the last row, too close to the clanking radiators, she went through the poses, trying desperately to engage. And she was amazed to discover that by the time they arrived at headstands she was there, not thinking of Eli or the contest she’d won, but instead entirely able to relax and let the energy out through her toes, which were still and pointed toward the dark ceiling.

  “Really nice, Emily,” the instructor said as she touched Emily’s calf. “Now picture your arms as big strong cables and plug them into their sockets. There you go. Beautiful.”

  In the super-calm that came at the end, while she relaxed in corpse pose, she felt happy and was immediately angry at herself for slipping so easily into happiness. Maybe it was because she was a winner now? That was ridiculous and she hoped that might be the answer. But she’d also felt like she was going to win the moment she’d e-mailed her entry. It was nice to win something. She was proud of herself. And she was giddy at the idea of meeting Peter Herman. This wasn’t fate. It was even better. It was her, taking control of her destiny—in much the same way she had met Eli. And she believed that was when she was her best self, when she tried her hardest.

  When she returned to their apartment, she found Eli in a chair he had dragged to the front bay windows. His head jerked around in a way that made her suspect he had been dozing. But he still had the book near him. That was enough.

  “I’m enjoying this,” he said.

  “You are?” She sounded surprised.

  “You want me to care about it. I like that.”

  She kneeled in front of him. He reached forward and kissed her forehead and then her lips.

  “I have a surprise.”

  “I’m hungry. Is it a food surprise?”

  “There was a contest related to this book. I entered it.”

  “A contest? This is the thing you were talking about with Ida at that dinner? I knew I overheard something weird.”

  He kept shaking his head while she told him about it.

  “I can’t believe this is where we are,” he said. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “I know,” she said. “I can’t either. We’ve been through something bad but
now we’re winners. You have to see it that way.”

  “I do?” he asked.

  She went to the kitchen for water and she looked at the grapefruit peel, still on its plate. He hadn’t cleaned up. She’d once explained that peel stuck to her bulletin board to a woman at work, and the woman had given her a funny look and said, “Wow, you must really love your husband.”

  And Emily had said, “Yeah, I guess I really do.”

  Now Eli called out, “I feel like this isn’t a surprise exactly … This is more like being pushed into doing something without totally being asked. I mean, marriage counseling? That’s essentially what this is.”

  “Because we need it!” Images of Jenny Alexandretti came rising up in Emily. She fought against saying her name and tried to fake a laugh. She said, “Don’t erase my yoga glow by questioning this.”

  “No, no.” Eli shook his head like he’d sworn already, to himself, not to do just that. “I get it. I was just—you’re pushing me a little. But I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want. I owe you.”

  He came into the kitchen.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Peter Herman, the guy who wrote the book—I’m sure he’s really old now but I used to dream about him as a kid. I almost know that book by heart.”

  “Yeah?” Eli wrapped his arms around her. She had a sports bra on and he worked his fingers beneath it.

  “I promise it’ll be fun. And I’ll tell you more about the book and what it meant to me. And about when I was a kid. This is me, like you asked. Me revealing myself to you.”

  “Good,” Eli said.

  “And don’t forget that we’re winners.”

  “Sure. You … planned to win. You’re such a good writer.”

  “No, I’m not. Don’t say that.”

  “The moment you entered, I bet you knew you’d win.”

  “Maybe I did. Thank you for being cool about this.”

  “It’s more than that. I want to do whatever you want. You know what I think about? I want to get back to where we were last summer when we were seeing your sister a lot.”

  “Before…”

  “Yes,” Eli said. “And now it’s more than a year later and let’s go in the bedroom.”

  “Not out here?”

  “No, in there where it’s not so bright,” Eli said. “I want to smell you in the dark.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Humor me.” Eli pulled at her arms. “Like I’m humoring you.”

  “Did you get the idea of what he’s saying about the canoe? The safety of it?” Once they were in the bedroom she was surprised at how much she wanted him. She pulled off her yoga pants.

  “It’s you and me in a canoe.” Eli threw himself down and looked up at her. “This bed. This bed is our canoe.”

  She looked down at him. They were having sex more and more often now. And she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that she was happy. Happy, in some ways, that the bad thing had happened so they could get over it and get further toward the real love they were having now. And back, soon, to being ready to have children.

  “You’re amazing,” Eli said. “I’m lucky to be with a woman who surprises me. A marriage counseling contest? Only you, Emily. Only you could win that.”

  “Stop,” Emily said. “I’m lucky, too.”

  “You promise that you feel that way? Come here. I want to touch you.”

  “Let me stand here for one more second,” she said.

  Stella, November 2011

  Now that she had a winner, Stella was on to phase two. Which was short-lead publicity. After they’d agreed on Emily Babson and Eli Corelli as the winners, Stella was hesitant to get in touch with Peter Herman again until she had some real media hits. He had been so easy to deal with and she was afraid to waste his time. But her winners were motivated and her publishing house was curious and Peter was happy. So she was in a rush. She spent a few days trying to get on the phone with her ex-friend Elspeth Simon, who worked at The New Yorker. Elspeth had just been promoted to Talk of the Town from the website and was getting a big head about it.

  Elspeth Simon had been her roommate during sophomore year, when they were nineteen. And just two years ago and a full seven years after something similar happened when they were roommates, she had stolen Stella’s boyfriend, Joe, an acoustic guitar player who opened for Will Oldham from time to time. Joe was the guy before Ivan, and it had taken her some time and a few casual hookups before she got over him. There had actually been three, but Ivan was the one who stayed. And that had been a nice result. Still, she sometimes missed Joe, even though he’d been so incredibly withholding. He was a sweet and gentle guy with eyes the color of raw almonds.

  At the time, Stella had let Elspeth take Joe without a fight. The new couple was humbled by Stella’s generosity. They had been caught by mutual friends at the seventh anniversary of a “Let’s Be Naked” party, and someone more insecure than Stella might have been a real jerk about it. About how cliché it was and also about the fact that the context implied bodies were major factors in the hookup. Like, oh, check this out! Look at all that’s still working here at twenty-six! Let’s use these hot bodies for some serious pleasure-fucking! Really, it was both depressing and repulsive in equal measure. Also a bit of a turn-on, Stella thought.

  To this day, she berated herself for having gone to a lamb tasting that evening to celebrate a new April Bloomfield cookbook. She had eaten too much and found herself, at ten, feeling far too fat to meet Joe at a party where she would have to be naked. So her ambition had already lost her one boyfriend. Still, things had worked out in the end. She loved Ivan, maybe, and wouldn’t have hooked up with him if Elspeth hadn’t yanked Joe into a bathroom or wherever at that party while Stella lay at home, watching her stomach rise and fall. Or maybe Joe and Elspeth got into it out in the open? Ugh!

  “You owe me one big naked-ass favor, to say the least,” Stella said once she got Elspeth on the phone.

  “I totally agree,” Elspeth said.

  “It’s about this weird self-help book, Marriage Is a Canoe.” Stella went on to describe what she needed. “I already messengered a copy over to you.”

  “So that’s why it’s on my desk,” Elspeth said. “It’ll be a Herculean effort, but I think I can make it happen.”

  “It’d help me out a lot,” Stella said. “I also think it would help us both, karmically.”

  “I feel you. I’m on it.”

  From Marriage Is a Canoe, Chapter 5, On Beginnings

  My summer wasn’t spent entirely with the older folks. There was little Johnny, who became a good companion, if not a close friend. And then there were kids who lived in houses up and down the lake. I didn’t play with them too often, but enough so I was invited to a square-dancing birthday party in the Lindermans’ barn, which was up on a hill about a mile from my grandparents’ house. The birthday girl had honey-colored hair and she said I could call her Honey. Everyone did. Honey Linderman. Thirteen years old and she rode a fourteen-hand mare, one I’d heard had come all the way from a stable in Wyoming.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Honey said, when she saw me. “Come on!”

  I had to chase her to the middle of the barn where the picnic tables were. I knew my grandparents thought she was spoiled. But she was so happy, it seemed right to spoil her. She did curse. It was damn this and the hell with that. And she always cursed and I always wondered why her parents let her.

  There were twenty or twenty-five of us kids at that barn dance. First we had an icebox cake with vanilla frosting and strawberry ice cream and we sang “Happy Birthday” to Honey, all of us in a circle. We presented our presents, which most of us had bought at Casey’s store in town. There was a kaleidoscope and a white patent leather pencil case from her best friend at school. One boy gave her a copy of the new Dion record and I saw her mother thank him and then hide it out of sight.

  “Goddamn it, Mom,” she said, so only us kids could hear.

  The
adults began to arrive when the square dancing got started. But first it was a children’s dance, with a violinist who we recognized as the druggist from town, and a caller, a tall man with a mustache and a pinstripe suit who no one knew at all. There was a lady singer, too, who got up and sang with her hands clasped in front of her. We danced and sang and I knew I was perspiring and that I probably smelled. I stared at Honey all through the songs and she stared back at me. When we were partnered, I felt sure we were holding our hands together more tightly than anyone else.

  The caller let us know that he was going to take a break. He disappeared behind the barn with the lady singer and the druggist. We all knew for sure they were going to smoke and drink whiskey. But we said nothing. Instead, we played and chased and ran. And then Honey came behind me and covered my eyes.

  “Come with me,” she said. “But don’t follow too close. Hurry up.”

  A moment later, she was gone. I was sure she was going down the path to the stables, just a few hundred yards from the barn. There was moonlight, thank goodness. And I followed her, but not too close, just like she’d said.

  “You found me!” she said, too loud, when I came in after her. There were just a few lights hanging from the rafters, swaying up there, and we could hear her family’s three horses asleep in their stalls, snuffling through their dreams.

  I remember staring at her beautiful face, her tawny hair and sunburned summer skin and bright green eyes. Maybe she wasn’t beautiful. Maybe her eyebrows were a little thick. Her voice was husky and that didn’t fit either, because though she had a mouth on her, I would later discover that in the really big moments, she was shy.

  That first kiss in the stables was more than everything. It was a perfect thing. All around us was the smell of wet hay and strawberry ice cream on our fingers from the party.