The Gulf

by Belle Boggs

  Eric had said no such thing.

  “Yeah,” said Davonte. “I’m working on a book.”

  “That is wonderful,” said Regina. “Novels have the best sales potential.”

  “That’s what I heard,” he said. “That’s what I was thinking when I decided to go with a novel. I always had a good imagination.”

  “They don’t always reach their potential, of course,” said Regina. She looked at Eric, then looked away, as if embarrassed by his lack of success. He grabbed one of the last rolls before Davonte could mangle it, and stuffed it in his mouth. It was consolingly delicious—rich with butter and yeast, warm from the oven. He signaled the waiter for another basket.

  “We think the inspirational market—that’s a little broader than Christian, though I know you have a Christian background, Davonte—is taking off. Is it Donald? Or Davonte? I want to use the name you prefer.”

  “Davonte is fine,” he said. “I go by Donald in an academic setting.”

  Regina nodded. “Donald is your Christian name.”

  “It’s the name my mother gave me.”

  “Though your book will probably sell better with the name Davonte Gold attached,” she said. He agreed. They talked about all the various ways Davonte’s unwritten book could sell and sell. On Oprah and Dr. Phil. On Amazon and the Today show. To teens and moms and old ladies. To blacks and whites and Latinos—there was a marketing angle for everyone. Eric would have loved to be on Dr. Phil or the Today show, but the most he’d done, in terms of TV, was a brief segment on a public-access program in Charlotte. There hadn’t even been hair and makeup.

  Eric carefully swallowed the big gob of bread he’d been chewing—he didn’t want to necessitate the Heimlich himself—and leaned forward. “So how are you doing,” he said, “in terms of word length?”

  “I’m keeping the long words to a minimum,” said Davonte. “Like Regina said, this is a book for everyone.”

  Regina smiled warmly, forgivingly. Silly Eric, her smile said. Trying to trip up an international star. “And how long is the book? The word count?”

  “Oh,” he said. The waiter arrived with their plates—pasta for Eric and Regina, poached fish for Davonte. He frowned at his food like it wasn’t what he ordered. “I haven’t counted them. But not that many, to be honest with you. It’s hard, writing a novel.”

  “It is,” agreed Eric, the only bona fide novelist at the table. A novelist, and a teacher! Not a businessman, after all. “Has using the digital voice recorder helped?”

  “A little.”

  “What about what I said in class—writing to the heat?”

  “What’s that?” Regina asked.

  Eric turned to her, glad for a chance to play the expert, even if it wasn’t a suggestion he personally believed in. He was often giving advice, in his classes, that he didn’t use himself—but that didn’t mean it wasn’t useful to his students. Hadn’t he had glowing reviews from his students in Dubai? Hadn’t they wanted him to stay another term? “Basically, if you’re stuck, you write the more exciting parts—the climax, or just the intense scenes of conflict—first. Then you fill in the rest later. It can be motivating for new writers.”

  “I tried that, but I kept writing the temptation scenes, because that was the part I connect with the most with this character.” Davonte put his hand over his heart. “I think Damian has got too many women in his life now. Honestly, I’m not sure I’m a good novelist on my own. When my life coach found this opportunity, he kind of led me to believe I’d get some help.”

  “The classes aren’t helpful?” Regina asked. She pushed her plate aside and took out a tablet, wiped her hands on her napkin, and began typing.

  “A ghostwriter,” he explained. “I was hoping to find a ghostwriter. Like Jay-Z. You know he didn’t write that book himself. Three hundred and fifty pages? I don’t fucking think so. Excuse me, I don’t think so. I mean, I would supply the ideas—I’ve got the ideas—but someone else would do the rest.”

  Regina nodded. Eric wondered how she’d handle the dispiriting news that a novel wasn’t the same thing as a celebrity tell-all, and Davonte would have to write it himself—just like Joyce, like Hemingway, like Terry McMillan. Like Eric.

  “That’s a marvelous idea,” said Regina. She turned to Eric. “Don’t you think?”

  “Um,” said Eric, setting down his fork. “No?”

  “At GWGW, we believe that our students need to be given the tools to access success—on their terms. It’s one of our founding philosophies,” she said, tapping a screen on her tablet and holding it up for Eric and Davonte to see. “That’s one of the things we like so well about the Ranch. You are built to honor the students’ needs for a flexible schedule.”

  “The low-residency model is pretty well established, actually,” said Eric.

  “But combined with your focus on faith—that’s what makes the school unique. Plus a flexible schedule and availability to the students’ needs. I think what Davonte needs is someone to help him, to get him started. Would that be useful to you, Davonte?”

  “Definitely,” he said. “It would also be great if the Ranch had a gym.”

  Regina typed that into her tablet, too. “I just know that with my marketing contacts, and Eric’s talent, we can help you make a big splash in the publishing world.”

  “Have you read my book?” Eric asked suddenly. He couldn’t help it—it was a question that seemed to ask itself.

  “Have I read Copper Creek?” Regina hefted her formidable handbag from the floor and plucked a copy—hardcover—from the side pocket. It was like a glimpse of lacy bra, a flash of panties. He was helpless. She shyly slid his novel toward him. “I was hoping to get your autograph.”

  In her room, Marianne waited for the sound of Eric’s door opening and closing, and kept peeking through her window to see lamplight in his window. But his window was dark when she peeked, and dark when she peeked again, five minutes later. This was the time of day when Marianne was supposed to be writing poems; her black notebook was waiting on the bureau. She had not opened it in days; her only recent writing, other than work emails and memos, had been unreturned texts and emails to Ruth.

  She wanted to talk to him about his date—that’s what she would call it, teasingly—with the prim, capitalist Regina. Where had they gone, and what had they talked about? Had Davonte stuck to his diet? No carbs, she’d specified, though Regina had invited them to an Italian place. No carbs and no dessert. Nothing fried. Eric had seemed preoccupied, changing his shirt twice until he finally decided on a pale blue button-down, khaki pants, and the blazer he’d let her borrow on the beach. You look like your brother, she’d said, reaching to brush a scrap of bloody tissue from his face. He’d looked at her like she’d slapped him.

  She’d make it up to him, when he got back. She would walk right across the courtyard and knock on his door; she’d lounge across one of the beds in Eric’s room and ask him to tell her about his whole day—the afternoon workshop, the dinner, the drive back from the restaurant with Davonte. She wouldn’t say, as she often did, hurry up, get on with it. She’d listen.

  Marianne put on her favorite dress, wispy silk in flattering peacock blue, and dangling silver earrings. She put up her hair the same way Regina wore hers, but it wouldn’t stay, so she took it down again, dabbed on lip gloss and powder. On the beach trip, with Ruth, they’d found a 1970s marriage guide called Loving Him Best, and they’d cracked each other up with the sexist advice, taking turns reading to each other in serious voices. “Look as attractive as possible when he comes home,” Ruth intoned. “What if this is the best I can do?” Marianne had said, clutching her beach-frazzled locks in mock despair. “What if this is all I’ve got?” And Ruth had howled.

  She checked his window again. Still dark, though they’d left hours ago. He must have gone to the office, she decided, where he was probably intently reading terrible manuscripts, making good suggestions that their authors would not heed. Marianne put on
a pair of heels, low sandals, and walked across the garden. She could see the light inside, the door propped open.

  But it was Tom she found, not Eric, standing helplessly next to the copier. All its doors were opened, and there was a burning smell in the room.

  “Mary-Anne,” he said. “Thank God.”

  In her heels and her dress, she knelt beside the copier, pulling levers and turning knobs, extracting torn bits of paper that smeared her fingers with ink. He backed away, not even bothering to pay attention to how to do it. Finally the copier made the sighing noise that indicated you could try again.

  “Okay,” she said. “All yours. Just try one at a time. Have you seen Eric?”

  “Not my day to watch him,” Tom said. He set his book on the glass and pressed the copy button without closing the lid, though she’d warned him that it wasted ink and made the machine more likely to jam. Turning his face from the copier’s green flash, he gave her the once-over. “Hey, you look really nice. You and Eric going somewhere?”

  Marianne looked down at her wrinkled, toner-smeared dress. “No, I guess not.”

  Tom turned the page in his book, then set it down on the glass again. “I forgot, he’s out with that Republican babe, right?”

  “And Davonte. It’s a business meeting,” said Marianne. “Why would you be into a Republican, Tom? It doesn’t seem like your thing.”

  He shrugged. “People have a lot of things. Sometimes you want to be with a woman you hate. Sometimes you want to feel bad. Guilty. It’s some kind of potent Oedipal shit.”

  “Eric isn’t like that.”

  “Yeah, probably not.” The copier jammed again. “Forget it. I’ll deal with this in the morning.”

  “Great,” she said, yanking the paper drawer open again. “You’ll deal with it. Thanks a lot, Tom.”

  She looked behind her and saw that Tom was already gone, and she was alone. She sank down to the grubby tiled floor and leaned against the exhausted copier, which should have been leaching chemicals into a landfill by now. It occurred to her to go by Janine’s room—it was only ten o’clock—and see if she wanted to take a walk.

  She looked up her room number, then went back to her own room and changed into her only pair of shorts and a sweatshirt. She scuffed on her comfortable flip-flops and took out her heavy earrings.

  Janine’s light was off—she was probably already asleep, after Skyping with her family and writing three poems and saying her prayers. Marianne wondered if she’d prayed for her—what would she have prayed for? It was not a thing you could ask someone, the way you hinted around at Christmas or birthday presents. But she could guess at what it would be: for Marianne to find peace, comfort, solace. For her school to thrive. She was probably not praying for anything as mundane and insubstantial as Marianne’s love life.

  11

  “Ghostwriter?” Marianne coughed at breakfast, after Eric told her about his new assignment. He motioned for her to lower her voice, though the dining hall was full and lively. She’d slept badly and was on her second cup of watery Ranch coffee, which left her both jittery and distant. She spotted Janine with two other women at her favorite spot by the big, gulf-facing window, and waved, then turned back to Eric and hissed, “How is that even ethical? Or possible?”

  “I was skeptical too,” he said, calmly spearing the pale cantaloupe and watery melon left on his plate. “I was resistant. But Regina pointed out, for someone like me, this is really a no-brainer.”

  “A no-brainer meaning an obvious decision?” she asked. “Or like an idea to which you have devoted very little brain power?”

  “Look, Davonte is obviously a big star,” Eric explained. “His work is going to sell, he just has a problem with getting the words on the page. If I sign on to help, I can get a substantial cut, Davonte’s work actually gets finished in a quality way, and the school gets some major attention, too. It’s win-win-win.” He ticked the wins across his fingers.

  “But you’re his teacher. You’re supposed to be teaching him how to write. How is that going to look, with your name on the cover?”

  Eric hushed her again, though Davonte was nowhere to be seen. He usually skipped breakfast so he could go running: in that sense, at least, he had some discipline. “My name won’t be on the cover. I’ll be thanked, the Ranch will be thanked, you’ll be thanked—”

  “Thank you Marianne, for microwaving my Lean Cuisines….”

  “It’s good business, Marianne. It makes sense. I talked to Mark, and he thinks so, too. After the meeting last night, Davonte took a cab home and I stuck around with Regina. She ran all these numbers, and she determined that he had the best shot, of any of our students, to make it big.”

  So that’s where he was when she’d looked for him—and not even with Davonte along. At least, Marianne thought, it was a business meeting. Marianne leaned close to Eric. “Why does she care how well our students do? Didn’t you say we’d be better off looking at their ability to pay the bills and not even worry about writing talent?”

  Eric shook his head. “That isn’t what I said. But they’re interested because Davonte’s success will help us grow the school. It’ll help us get more applications, it’ll justify raising tuition and open up other markets. Look, you should be happy. I told Regina that you were the one who found him, who argued for admitting him. She said you had real foresight.”

  “I’m so proud.”

  “She’s also booking a photographer to take some pictures.”

  “Of the students? Don’t you need their permission?”

  “Yeah, but mostly of Davonte.” Eric lowered his voice. “She and Davonte both pointed out our diversity problem. Maybe some photographs that show a more inclusive environment—”

  Marianne felt her face reddening. “That doesn’t seem like a top priority for GWGW.”

  Eric shrugged. “It’s kind of obvious—the bigger your applicant pool, the more successful you’ll be. Plus the readership of popular Christian literature—the readership of Davonte’s book, for example—will be highly diverse.”

  “And what about diversity scholarships? Fellowships? Did she talk about funding those? Or expanding the advertising beyond Southern Baptist church newsletters?”

  Eric didn’t answer.

  “And Davonte’s book,” she said. “Don’t you mean your book? Why is the coffee here so terrible? How is it possible that I founded a whole school and the most important thing to me is substandard?”

  “Coffee is the most important thing to you.”

  “It’s up there.”

  Eric snorted, then got out his manuscripts for the day and thumbed through them. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about. I’m the one who’s got to write this thing.”

  “What’s it like? I mean, the parts you’ve read?”

  “It’s like an AA meeting, with pornography. Bragging about misdeeds, then a bunch of pious blathering. But apparently that’s a whole genre now. Regina calls it ‘romance and redemption.’”

  “Regina,” said Marianne, downing the rest of her coffee. “So what’s her story?”

  “Divorced,” said Eric absently. “Two kids. Had ’em when she was really young. Very type A. For fun she bakes competitive gingerbread houses. That’s her hobby. She’s won, like, three national competitions.”

  Marianne laughed. She pictured Regina with an X-Acto knife and a tube of frosting, elbowing her kids out of the way. “That’s intense. Tom thought you might have the hots for her.”

  “Tom is an old pervert,” said Eric. “Who has the hots for you, by the way.”

  “Wouldn’t that be funny? If you wound up with a GWGW executive, and I wound up with Tom?”

  “Very funny, Marianne.” Eric stacked his dishes and stood. That was how it was with him: one minute, laughing and joking, the next minute you’d gone too far.

  “Sorry,” she said, grabbing his shirtsleeve. “I promise I won’t wind up with Tom.”

  Eric nodded to show that he forgave her, but
didn’t make any promises himself.

  Meanwhile, unaided by GWGW, the workshops took on lives of their own, their strangenesses multiplying like feral cats under a porch. Lorraine began holding her classes in the sculpture garden, so she could smoke, and her students looked fairly happy to be sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the ground, in between Cain and Abel and Adam and Eve, while she barked instructions at them. Tom now began each of his classes with beachfront tai chi or meditative deep breathing to help soothe the anxieties and feelings of his students. Eric had begun running in the afternoons with Davonte, so they could talk about ideas for the novel. A few times Marianne caught him when he returned from these runs, sweaty and breathless and slightly scandalized. You don’t want to know, he told her, when she asked what they’d talked about.

  The special classes on publishing and marketing were not scheduled until their next session, in August, but each day Marianne received emails from Regina, many of them including animated PowerPoint résumés of speakers they planned to book. The students’ complaints, so vigorous at first, had lessened with each passing day. She was not sure if the complainers were getting used to their teachers’ methods and quirks, or losing faith in her ability to intercede on their behalf.

  As the lines to her office grew shorter, Marianne waited for the inevitable seriousness and buckling down to take over, for the teachers’ strong personalities—at least Tom’s and Lorraine’s—to win out, for people to reevaluate why they had come and what they hoped to accomplish here. But that wasn’t how things went down—or, at least, it didn’t happen the way she expected. By the end of the first week, the Ranch had clubs, activities, initiatives, all student-organized—more than Marianne could remember from two years at NYU. There was a running and exercise club founded by Davonte, a knitting and prayer circle that met after supper in the dining room, a sunrise prayer and a sunset prayer. Someone drove into Bradenton to buy lawn games—croquet, badminton, bocce—from the Walmart, and there were after-dinner games nightly. There was a discussion group that was taking on the question of smoking in common areas (some thought it should be banned entirely, while other people thought that was infringing on their God-given liberty). There was a group that convened to discuss biblical allusions in contemporary literature, and another group devoted to the answer (not the question, Marianne noticed) of self-publishing. There was a small group that had met to discuss outreach possibilities—maybe conducting literacy workshops at the prison in Tampa. They had another reading on Saturday night, a boisterous event punctuated by yeses and amens and foot-stomping, which Marianne watched from the back of the room.