Hoag: Her name would be Skitsy Held?
Noyes: That’s right. Tanner arranged it, of course. Skitsy was the editor he thought would share his enthusiasm for me.
Hoag: What did you think of her?
Noyes: She seemed hard-shell, but nice enough. The two of them spent most of the ride gossiping about people I’d never heard of. I nodded off. Of course, I had no idea then at the extent of their relationship, or how they operated.
Hoag: Let’s talk about that.
Noyes: (silence) Tanner and Skitsy go back twenty-five years, back to when she was a blushing Barnard coed and he was an associate English professor. This was long before she had tits. Or at least the same exact pair we know today. (laughs) He was still married to his first wife at the time. Skitsy broke up the marriage, actually. His New Age Fiction Quarterly was in its infancy. When she graduated, he made her his teaching assistant and put her to work on it. She helped him start the New Age Writers Conference, which he still does for a week every summer in the Catskills. Ever go?
Hoag: Once, a few centuries ago.
Noyes: There are a number of writers’ conferences now, but his was the first, and is still the biggest. The idea, as I’m sure you know, is to offer would-be writers from around the country a chance to rub shoulders with genuine New York publishers and hopefully sell them that Great American Novel they’ve been toiling on in their basement since 1946. He takes over a resort hotel in the Catskills for a week, and for a fee of what is now a thousand dollars, several hundred of these housewives and carpeting salesmen flock to it, manuscript in tow. He invites a dozen or so editors, literary agents, and big-name authors to come, and they do come. It’s an excellent opportunity for them to promote their own books, and they usually get laid up there. There are cocktail mixers, seminars, panel discussions. Editors talk about what they look for in a manuscript. Authors say how they made it. The whole thing is a scam — not one new writer has ever been discovered at a New Age Writers Conference. But they keep flocking to it, and Tanner keeps getting rich off of it. He’s really quite shrewd. By awarding fellowships to people like me, he’s allowed to say the Quarterly is published by a nonprofit foundation. That’s entirely legitimate, since the magazine never makes any money. But the conference does. Lots of it. He claims that the profits from it underwrite the fellowships. They don’t. He pockets them. Keeps an entirely bogus set of books. Walks away with about fifty thousand dollars a year from the foundation, tax free.
Hoag: Which he stands to lose when this is published.
Noyes: Yes. I suppose he will.
Hoag: How do you know all of this?
Noyes: I’ll get to that. Eventually, Skitsy became a very successful editor. She and Tanner married and divorced. Though the divorce was ugly, their greed still cements them together. Thanks to the Quarterly and to his own horn-blowing, Tanner enjoys an enviable reputation for discovering new writers. He steers a lot of them her way. It’s a good deal for her because she knows he’ll excerpt them in the Quarterly, which is the Good Housekeeping Seal of Hype for a first novel. Guarantees a review in the New York Times. If the Times review is good — and how can it not be if Tanner’s writing it — then the other newspapers and the newsmagazines and the book clubs will fall into line. Then Skitsy can start taking out ads. For another ten grand she can buy her way onto the Walden’s Recommended List, which gets her chain shelf-space, and from there it isn’t far to the best-seller list. As a payback, she throws a nice finders fee Tanner’s way. See, Skitsy has her own little scam, and it’s quite a beauty. She takes kickbacks. In the case of Bang, for instance, she offered $35,000. That’s good money for a first novel by an unknown. I only saw $25,000 of it. Boyd had to give ten of it back to her, and she split that with Tanner. Not huge stakes, but they can be. In the case of Delilah’s book, she offered Boyd $250,000 with the understanding that $50,000 came back to her. She’s put away a couple of million tax free through the years that way.
Hoag: Doesn’t her company get suspicious?
Noyes: Murray Hill Press is one of the last of the small independent houses, and she’s the boss. As far as anyone there knows, the only thing she’s guilty of is overpaying, which is no problem since her titles almost always make money. Other publishers hate her because she’s inflated prices across the board to accommodate her kickback, though most of them don’t really know why she’s inflated them. The agents do. Some of them won’t stand for it — the older ones in particular. She steers around them, does business with the ones who will, like Boyd, and steers clients their way. She is worth it. She makes authors a lot of money. And it’s not like they’re getting ripped off. Her company is the one that is.
Hoag: I think I understand now how Boyd pried you away from her — he threatened to tell the Internal Revenue Service, didn’t he?
Noyes: No, he was much more creative than that. Boyd’s an artist, coach. Want to know how he did it?
Hoag: Do tell.
Noyes: Skitsy signed me up for a second book before Bang came out. A smart investment on her part. She was able to get me for a modest $50,000. I was able to get an advance. Who knew the book would go through the roof? When it did, I was worth ten times what she’d paid. Naturally, Boyd was dying to get me out of it. But how? She had a signed contract. So what he did was tell her I was suffering from acute anxiety brought on by the sudden success of Bang, and couldn’t write. He told her I felt incredibly pressured by a signed contract, that I needed to work just like I had before — on spec, no pressure. He proposed that we return the advance to her and that she tear up the contract — all of this strictly for the benefit of my delicate artist’s psyche, mind you — and then when I had written a few chapters we’d submit it to her and sign a new deal on the same exact terms. Word of honor. She agreed to it. We gave her back the advance. She tore up the contract. Boyd sold my second book to another house for a million and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Strictly legal.
Hoag: I wouldn’t have expected her to fall for that.
Noyes: Let’s say she was somewhat blinded by personal considerations.
Hoag: What kind of personal considerations?
Noyes: (silence) Skitsy Held has … she has this itch for young writers. And I was scratching her itch, okay?
(end tape)
(Tape #5 with Cam Noyes recorded May 12 in his study.)
Hoag: I can’t believe you did this, Cameron.
Noyes: Were you really surprised?
Hoag: What, to walk into my apartment and find your writing table sitting here? Of course I was surprised.
Noyes: Big Vic and I took it uptown in the back of the Olds after work yesterday. He was planning to pick your lock until we discovered that giant hole in your —
Hoag: I can’t accept it, Cameron.
Noyes: You said you liked it.
Hoag: I do. But you spent hundreds of hours making it. It’s a work of art. It’s yours.
Noyes: Not anymore. Besides, I can always make another. In the meantime, this old workbench will suit me fine. Your apartment is awfully dreary, coach. Why don’t you get a nicer one?
Hoag: I tried once. It didn’t work out. Are you sure about this?
Noyes: Positive. I want you to have it.
Hoag: Thank you, Cameron. I’ll cherish it.
Noyes: Don’t cherish it. Write on it.
Hoag: I’m interviewing Skitsy tonight.
Noyes: Maybe I should come with you.
Hoag: I’d rather you didn’t. I’ll get more out of her if I’m alone.
Noyes: Whatever you think is best, coach.
Hoag: So when did your thing with her start? At Stony Creek?
Noyes: Yes, it started then. In its own way. (pause) Stony Creek turned out to be the former country estate of a railroad millionaire, this huge, gothic mansion surrounded by five hundred acres of sugar maples, and dotted with a couple of dozen little cabins, one writer-in-residence to each. Dinner was a communal affair in the main hall. Breakfast
and lunch were delivered to your cabin in baskets. No distractions. No TV. No radio. Nothing to do but work. Tanner headed back to New York after dinner. Skitsy stayed over for the night in the main hall. I unpacked my things, sharpened my pencils, got into bed early, anxious to get an early start the next day. I had just closed my eyes when there was a tapping at my cabin door. I opened it to discover Skitsy standing there with a flashlight and a bottle of wine. Said she couldn’t sleep in a strange place and would I invite her in for a drink. So I did. She sat down on my bed and told me how anxious she was to read my manuscript, because Tanner had told her how very talented I was. Naturally, I was thrilled. She was an important editor. We worked our way through the wine, and we talked, and before long I realized her hand was on my leg. I was at Stony Creek to work, not luck around, especially with a middle-aged woman who I wasn’t particularly attracted to. I told her so. I wasn’t tactful about it. She left in a huff. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. I didn’t like what had happened. I didn’t like being there. At dawn I packed up and hitched a ride out of there due south on I-91, all the way down through Connecticut to New Haven, then another one east on I-95 to Old Lyme. There’s a general store a few miles up Route 156 where I got provisions and some freshwater lures. Also a small marina where I rented a rowboat. I put it in Crescent Moon Pond and started rowing. I hadn’t been to the shack since Smilin’ Jack died and it became mine. The mooring was rotted out. I had to tie the boat to a tree. Kids had been using the place for beer parties. There were empties everywhere, windows busted out. There were a few sticks of furniture. A framed, mounted copperhead skin on the wall. Smilin’ Jack had found it coiled in one of his wading boots one morning. There’s no electricity or running water. Just a well out back with a hand pump. I chopped some wood and made a fire in the stove. Rigged up a makeshift rod and reel and caught myself a perch for dinner. I spent three weeks there in my little shack. Probably the three happiest weeks of my life. I worked all day. Swam for miles at dusk in the cold, clear pond. Fished. Spoke to no one. Grew a beard. When my rewrites were finished, I rowed back out and caught a train for New York. Called Tanner as soon as I got home to tell him I was done, all excited. He wouldn’t have been chillier. Told me he’d terminated my fellowship. When I asked him why, he said I’d violated it by running off without submitting a written application. He told me I was uncooperative and obviously not committed to my work, and then he hung up on me. I couldn’t believe it. Tanner wanted nothing more to do with me. I told Boyd, and he couldn’t believe it either. He said I must have done something else to warrant getting dumped. I told him about the night in the cabin with Skitsy. He looked at me like I was some kind of naive jerk. That’s when I kind of realized what Tanner meant by uncooperative. I had been expected to sleep with her. It was part of the deal. A rite of literary passage, if you will, and I’d refused to pay the toll. … I don’t know, maybe it was all of those weeks alone, but I went into a blind rage. Stormed straight downtown to her office without shaving or changing clothes. Barged fight past the reception desk, locked her door behind me, threw her down on the sofa, and fucked her. There was nothing gentle or quiet about it, and she couldn’t have loved it more. Took the rest of the day off. Dragged me up to her apartment, where we did a lot more deliciously nasty things to each other. The next day Tanner asked to see my revised manuscript. A week later Skitsy Held made an offer on it. I asked Boyd to act as my agent. I didn’t trust anyone else. (silence) I suppose you think less of me now.
Hoag: What would have happened if you hadn’t slept with her?
Noyes: I’ll never know, will I? All I know is I wasn’t going to let sex get in the way of my literary future. It just isn’t that important to me. I mean, it’s important, but it’s not sacred or precious or anything. … You give people what they want, the world opens up to you.
Hoag: That’s your philosophy of life?
Noyes: That’s reality. I gave Skitsy what she wanted. So what if it was sick and perverted and —
Hoag: And is still going on?
Noyes: (pause) How did you know that?
Hoag: You just told me.
Noyes: You’re awfully slippery. Would have made a damned good lawyer.
Hoag: And my parents very proud. Actually, it’s that red lipstick Lulu found under your bed the day we met. Skitsy’s color. Hers, wasn’t it?
Noyes: You mean you’ve known about us all along?
Hoag: Let’s say I’ve suspected. So that’s how you know about her and Tanner’s little schemes?
Noyes: Yes. Pillow talk. She tends to get blabby afterward.
Hoag: Does she know yet about you and Delilah?
Noyes: What about us?
Hoag: Don’t kid a kidder.
Noyes: No, I don’t think she does.
Hoag: What would happen to their editorial relationship if she found out?
Noyes: It wouldn’t be enhanced. Skitsy is definitely the jealous type, and vindictive as hell.
Hoag: Delilah knows about you and her?
Noyes: Yes.
Hoag: She must like to play with fire.
Noyes: She does. She believes danger heightens the intensity of the female orgasm.
Hoag: Does it?
Noyes: (laughs) It certainly doesn’t reduce it in her case.
Hoag: Why don’t you break it off with Skitsy?
Noyes: What makes you think I want to?
Hoag: Something about the words “sick,” “perverted” …
Noyes: I happen to be into that. The fact is I’m total scum. Don’t ever introduce me to your sister.
Hoag: Haven’t got one.
Noyes: Good.
Hoag: I repeat, why are you still seeing Skitsy? (no response) Does she have something on you?
Noyes: Like what?
Hoag: You tell me. Why does she own you?
Noyes: She doesn’t own me.
Hoag: Bullshit. What is it? Tell me!
Noyes: There’s nothing to tell!
Hoag: There is! You’re holding out on me — I can see it in your eyes. What is it? (no response) Damn it, Cameron! I won’t collaborate on a whitewash, you hear me!
Noyes: (silence) I hear you.
Hoag: Then decide what you want. And let me know. Until you do, we have nothing more to say to each other.
Noyes: But coach — !
(end tape)
CHAPTER EIGHT
TANNER MARSH WAS NAKED again, this time on the canvas Charlie was working on in her studio when I came down the stairs from Cam’s study. Tanner looked frightened and vulnerable in the painting, like a turtle with his shell yanked off. He had no penis. She had given him a Bic pen there instead.
She worked intently in the late-day sun, often substituting her fingers for a brush. She had on an old, white, paint-splattered shirt, gym shorts, and clogs. There was yellow paint all over her nose from pushing her glasses up with her painted fingers.
“He’ll look terrific hanging next to you at Rat’s Nest,” I observed.
She smiled wearily. “Thanks.”
“Here.” I took out my linen handkerchief and began to wipe the paint off her nose. “I’m afraid you’re making better progress than we are.”
Charlie’s brow furrowed with concern. “Trouble?”
“The worst kind. He’s hiding something from me.”
Lulu stretched out between us. Charlie kicked off a clog and rubbed Lulu’s ears with her toes.
“Don’t take it personally,” she said. “He hides things from everyone.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me. He is getting it on with that redheaded bitch, isn’t he?”
I left that one alone. I wasn’t going to lie for him.
“I’m leaving him,” she announced quietly.
“Sorry to hear that. You want to be the one to tell Barbara Walters or shall I do it?”
“I’ll finish these portraits. I won’t allow this to jeopardize our project. But I’ll finish them elsewhere.”
> “That’s very professional of you,” I said. “I don’t know if I’d feel the same way in your shoes. In fact, I’m sure I wouldn’t.”
“I don’t blame him,” she explained. “He can’t change the way he is. He’s just making me too crazy. I don’t like myself when I’m that crazy.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “God, what I’ve been through with him. You know one night I found him naked out there in the park, three in the morning, on his hands and knees, face bleeding, babbling incoherently, ‘Dead inside. All of us are dead inside.’ I had to drag him inside, patch him up, put him to bed. I won’t anymore. I won’t bring him home so he can go to another woman’s bed. I’m not his mother.” Her eyes searched my face. “Am I?”
“No, you’re not.”
“I just don’t know what I’ll do with myself,” she said, her eyes locking onto mine now. “Alone, I mean.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” I assured her.
With that, Lulu got up and went over to the stairs and sat with her back to us.
Charlie watched her and swallowed. “No?”
“No. I’d say you’ll be alone for about as long as you feel like it, and no longer.”
She reddened, “Are you … offering your services?”
“If I were, I’d have to go stand at the end of a long line.”
“You could get right up to the front of it if you wanted to,” she offered matter-of-factly.
I tugged at my ear. There was no idle flirting with this one. There was only the real thing. “You wouldn’t want another writer. We reserve our best qualities for our lead characters. There’s not much left over for real life.”
“Oh.” Disappointed, she pushed her glasses up her nose and got paint all over it again.
I sighed and dabbed at it again with my handkerchief. “What am I going to do with you?”
The Man Who Would Be F. Scott Fitzgerald Page 10
