“And, Mrs. Goldblum—Harriet Wyatt and Cassy Cochran and I have been talking, and we all think it would be a most wonderful thing if Rosanne and Jason came to live with you.”
Silence.
“Rosanne and Jason who?” Rosanne said.
“I’m serious,” Amanda said, pushing on with Mrs. Goldblum. “It would help them out, and Jason adores you—and the cat too, right, Rosanne?”
“Mrs. G living with her cleanin’ lady?” Rosanne exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “Daniel boy’s gonna love this one.”
“Rosanne would be working right in the neighborhood,” Amanda continued. “And it isn’t as if you won’t be up and around. Dr. Renaldi says that you will be more fit than ever. Think about it, Mrs. Goldblum, you love children and Rosanne would keep house and do the shopping and—”
“I’m still a pretty good cook,” Mrs. Goldblum said, a smile forming.
Rosanne gasped. “Hell no, Mrs. G, you don’t know what you’re saying. You forget what it’s like to have a child in the house—”
“I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Goldblum said, highly indignant. “I certainly have not forgotten.” Then she smiled at Amanda. “I think it’s a splendid idea.”
Amanda turned to Rosanne. “And you, Rosanne? Living with Mrs. Goldblum on Riverside Drive? In a nice big apartment? Don’t you think the judge will be impressed? Mr. Thatcher seems to think so.”
Rosanne thought about this.
“Rosanne dear,” Mrs. Goldblum said, “it would make me very happy. I love you, and I love Jason very much.” She paused, smiling. “You could have the bedroom next to mine.”
“Yeah, right,” Rosanne said, dropping her head, “the one with the kitty litter in it.”
“And we’ll fix up the back room for Jason. It’s just right for a boy.”
“And if it doesn’t work out,” Amanda said to both of them, “it doesn’t work out. There will always be other options.”
“The important thing, dear, is to win that hearing,” Mrs. Goldblum said. “Isn’t that right, Amanda?”
“Right,” Amanda said.
They waited, watching her. Rosanne’s mouth twitched to one side and then the other. Then she rolled her tongue inside her cheek. Finally, she nodded.
Mrs. Goldblum smiled. “I believe we’ve come to an agreement,” she said, holding out her hand to Rosanne.
And the ladies shook on it.
36
DADDY COLLINS CALLS
HOWARD A FIDDLE-FADDLER
AND A NEW ENTERPRISE IS BEGUN
Daddy Collins had been the one to break the news to Howard. “Why?” Collins had yelled, prompting Howard to hold the phone away from his ear. “Why? Why the hell do you think?
She doesn’t want to be married to you anymore!”
“We haven’t even talked since—”
“Talk? Hell, my little girl’s been talking to you for eight years until she’s blue in the face—and look where it got her. No kids, no—hell, my girl needs a real man, not some high falutin bookworm who’s been fiddle-faddling around the neighborhood.”
Silence.
“You understand me, Stewart? I said fiddle-faddling around the neighborhood with that Miller slut. We know all about it, so I’m telling you not to waste your time trying steal any of my little girl’s property. Hell, I’ve got half a mind to kill you, but Lissy just wants out. And she wants out now, so she can get on with her life. With a real man. So just get your ass down to the lawyer’s and get this over with.”
The next day a messenger had arrived with several papers for Howard concerning the Stewart divorce. There had also been a letter from Melissa the first communication Howard had received from her:
Dear Howard,
You better look these over before coming to Winston Claridge’s office (and don’t tell Daddy I sent these to you). You’ll see that, in terms of money, the only assets you have are in your IRA account (see attached).
I heard about Gardiner & Grayson (a Mr. Blank called here looking for you) and I’m sorry. Strike that—I’m not sorry. It will do you the world of good to have to look for a new job.
I should tell you that I found out Amanda Miller was one of your writers—and that you have not been back to see her since I saw you go there. Don’t take Daddy’s threats seriously. He wants to blame you, when in fact it is me that wants out.
Are you surprised, Howard? I don’t think you should be. Things have never been right between us—and I could only see that after you left. I know what I want now, and I want to start again while I’m still young enough to start a family.
Perhaps one day, when all of this is over, we can see our way to being friends. But, for now, let us just wipe the slate clean so we can both start again.
Melissa
And who, had Howard presumed, did Melissa want to start again with? Howard had no trouble guessing. In fact, he could envision the whole scenario:
Melissa calling Daddy, telling him she had followed Howard to Amanda’s; Daddy telling Melissa to throw Howard out; Melissa packing his stuff and writing the note; Melissa fleeing to Fishers Island, crying on the ferry, pulling up in the driveway, Daddy running out of the house, screaming, “I’ll kill him for hurting my little girl!”; Melissa calling Stephen Manischell; Stephen running up the road... No, that part was wrong. Stephen would have been waiting for Melissa with Daddy Collins.
God, this hurt.
Howard had sorted through the papers until he came to the IRA. There had been little yellow stick-um things stuck up and down the margin, with notes in Melissa’s handwriting that, put together, read:
Howard—
Legally, the money in the IRA is yours. However, you may remember that all of it is not. I’ll trust you to do what you feel is right. If you choose to pay me back, I suggest you not take the money out of the IRA (you will pay heavy penalties), but take out a loan from the bank, using the IRA as collateral. You can probably get a loan at 7%, and your IRA is locked in at 13% for four more months.
HOWARD’S IRA ACCOUNT [it said]
It had hurt. It had hurt a lot. Amanda. Melissa and Gardiner & Grayson. Well, Howard thought, he might as well call his parents and see if they were going to fire him too. “How do you feel about Melissa, Howard?” his mother quietly asked on the bedroom extension.
“I’m not sure, Mom. Shocked, I think, more than anything else.” The crackle of long distance.
A sigh from his father on the extension in the kitchen. “Howard, I’m just going to go ahead and say it. I think this is the best damn thing that could happen to you. That girl—”
“Ray—” Allyson said.
“No, go on, Dad,” Howard said.
“Look, Howard,” Ray said, “I don’t want to sound like your wise-ass old man, but when you’re really in love with a woman, she brings out the best in you. Right, Al?”
Allyson laughed. “On some days, dear.”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Howard it isn’t any of my business—”
“But you just have to say it,” Howard finished for him.
“You only get one shot in this life,” Ray said, “and if it’s not working out, you have to do something different. Else—what’s the point?”
Crackle, crackle went the connection.
“We haven’t felt you’ve been happy for a long time,” his mother said gently.
Howard sighed, regripping the phone. “No, I haven’t been. Not for a long time.” He hesitated and then said, “Mom, do you think I could just talk to Dad for a minute?”
Of course he could. Did Howard know how much she loved him? How much all did? And how they would love it if he came home for a visit? Debbie had got divorced, did Howard know that?
Finally, Allyson did indeed get off the phone, and Howard told his father about Gardiner & Grayson and about what he was thinking of doing, the literary agency, and what a literary agency was, and how he could fail—
“Hold it, hold it,” his father said. “Tell
me about what happens if you succeed.”
And so Howard started talking about the discoveries of new talent, about fostering the careers of writers for years, every book getting better, every day bringing new ideas, new directions, new possibilities in publishing—
“Okay, okay,” Ray said, “I’ve heard about Disneyland before. Now what I want to know is, how much do I get to invest in it?”
Invest?
“Dad, I—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” Ray interrupted. “But just remember that I let you and Melissa invest in my business—”
“And got a twenty percent return on our—”
“But the point, Howard, is that I let you.” Pause. “Remember that, Howard. I needed help, and I knew it was your mother’s doing, but I took your help because I needed it. And because from you I could take it. No point in the Stewarts losing the farm again, so to speak. That’s how the family lost it, you know. They wouldn’t ask anyone for help. Brains, Howard, let me tell you, the Stewarts have always had brains—and none of us have ever been scared of hard work. But pride...” He sighed. “Pride. That’s the one that will always bring us down.”
Crackle, crackle.
“Five thousand,” Howard said.
Well, there it was. His desk. His telephone. His lamp. His Rolodex. His battered copy of Literary Market Place, filched from G & G, courtesy of Bob. His clock that said 2:30 P.M.
Howard Stewart Literary Agency, Inc.
Now if he could just keep his clients from seeing his actual office, Howard thought it would be fine. Maybe he’d get a little stir crazy—it was one room, after all. But, it was his. His company.
He grinned, kicking his feet up on the table, looking out the window at the woman ironing across the way.
Howard Stewart Literary Agency, Inc.
On the desk lay Howard’s business checkbook from Chemical Bank. It was funny, that. He had just walked off Broadway one afternoon into the branch office on the corner of 91st Street. Melissa would have sneered at the office; Amanda, Howard was sure, would have described it as “utterly charming.”
It was a little village bank in the middle of New York City. With villagers. Just neighborhood folks, sashaying on in and on out each day, hailing the tellers and bank officers by their first names. A mom with a stroller; a grandfather buying a savings bond for his grandson; a Puerto Rican couple conversing in Spanish with a teller; an elderly Hungarian woman watching a bank officer figure out her estate papers; a Fordham Law student, taking out a loan; a seven-year-old depositing $4.35 from his bottle collection business; a doorman cashing his paycheck; a nurse asking for her balance...
Howard had walked in and was watching all this activity (he didn’t think he had ever been in a bank this small), when an attractive young woman asked him if she could be of assistance. Howard had been startled. (At First Steel Citizen, Melissa’s bank, the goal was to see how long employees could avoid contact with their customers—visually, verbally and certainly in terms of service.)
Howard had ended up sitting down with this nice woman and telling her more than he had probably ever told anyone about his financial life. And within an hour Howard had said he wanted his money transferred out of First Steel Citizen and into Chemical. Yes, he would like a personal checking account. Yes, a money market sounded good too. And yes, God, yes, a checking account in the name of Howard Stewart Literary Agency, Inc. And yes, Howard would like it if they transferred his IRA account to Chemical too, in four months, and yes, he would appreciate it if they loaned him the money to pay back Melissa. Yes, he promised, he would see an accountant to set up the finances of his company. And yes, he promised, he would take her card and call her if he needed any help or questions answered.
Yes, Howard liked his new little neighborhood bank very much.
The buzzer of the apartment startled him. He got up from his desk, went over to the intercom by the door and pushed TALK. “Yes?”He released the button. Nothing. He pushed TALK again.”Hello?” Nothing. He hit the intercom and then pushed the OPEN button, hoping the visitor was not another kindly soul pushing the Watchtower like yesterday. He walked out on the landing and peered down the five floors of ancient wooden stairwell. “Hello?” There was a grunt and Howard could see a body dragging a very large box in through the door.
“Hi,” he called again. “Are you from O—Olden’s?”
A young guy looked up the stairwell at Howard. “Man, you expect me to go mountain climbing or what? This thing’s heavy.”
“I’m coming,” Howard called, loping down the stairs. Carrying the box between them, they managed to get it up to Howard’s apartment. Howard gave him two dollars, thinking, Don’t forget to write it down. This is a business expense.
After the delivery guy left, Howard opened a Coke and circled the box. This was it. His office. And then he dove into it, searching for, finding and lifting out the stationery. He opened the smaller and his heart skipped a beat. On wonderfully white rag paper, there, in elegant black type, it said THE HOWARD STEWART LITERARY AGENCY across the top. Along the bottom, in discreet small type: 319 West 95th Street Suite 5A New York, New York 1002S.
Suite 5A. (Snicker.)
There were legal envelopes and smaller, printed note paper and envelopes; printed announcements of the agency’s opening; and manila envelopes and printed labels and notebooks and accounting books and ribbons for his printer and file folders and paper clips and a stapler and a ruler and a pencil holder and a blotter and glue sticks and accordion files and index cards and legal pads and nifty pens that flowed black ink in smooth streaks.
Oh, and there was other stuff too, and Howard spent the better part of the afternoon and night unpacking and organizing it all. At the bottom of the box, tucked in the comer, was the smallest box containing the biggest news—Howard’s business cards.
It was fun, this setting up shop. Setting up his shop.
The day Howard was to appear at Melissa’s lawyer’s was the day that Howard worked hardest on his new enterprise. He was up at five, at his word processor at six, and by eleven had completed nine very important letters. The first was to Gertrude Bristol, Howard’s former bestselling author. His letter, like the others he had written, said in part:
My years spent as an editor, combined with my newness to the agenting profession, have placed me in a rather unique and exciting position. While I have no desire to try to steal established writers away from the agents who have served them so well over the years, I do, however, want to have a chance at representing some of the writers coming up in the generation behind them.
In short, Gertrude, send me your unpublished proteges. As an editor, I will help them write their very best; as a new agent, I will kill myself to see that they get published.
“Kill myself to see...” Hmmm. Howard decided to leave the letters out overnight and see how they looked in the morning.
His phone rang at eleven-thirty. It was Shaye Areheart, a marvelous editor at Doubleday. “I just called to see how you were doing,” she said, her voice exuding genuine warmth and cheerfulness—two precious commodities Howard was in dire need of, of late.
“Oh, pretty good,” Howard said, putting his feet up on his new desk. “Did you get my announcement?”
“Yes, it looks terrific. Actually, that’s the real reason I’m calling,” she said. “Howard, you are going to find me the most wonderful new novelist of the decade, aren’t you?”
Howard laughed. “Well, I’d sure like to. And if I find him or her, you know it’s going to be you I’ll call first.”
“Oh, Howard, you are always so nice,” she laughed. “So when can I take you to lunch? I hope your new celebrity status doesn’t mean you’re going to be difficult to pin down.”
“What celebrity status?”
“Well, what other—and I quote—’devilishly handsome young editor threw a certain powerful publishing exec across the table during an editorial meeting’?”
“What? What are
you reading from?”
An intake of breath. “Oh,” Shaye said quietly, “then you haven’t seen it.”
“Seen what?”
“Leonore Fleischer’s column in PW this week.”
Howard asked Shaye to read him the piece, which she did. It was very, very funny. Someone—Patricia? Harriet maybe?—had given her a blow-by-blow description, plus a copy of his proposition to publish one book a year. They talked a bit longer, about Sperry in particular, when Howard was struck by an idea.
When he got off the phone with Shaye, Howard searched through his Rolodex, found the number he was looking for, and placed a call. He was on the phone for over an hour, his smile expanding with the excited discussion taking place on both ends of the line. When he got off, he looked at his watch. He had a half hour before he had to leave for Melissa’s lawyer’s office. And so he placed another call. To Publishers Weekly.
“Yes, hello, is Leonore there, please? Tell her it’s Howard Stewart, the editor who throws powerful publishing execs across tables.”
Howard hummed, tapping a pencil, as he waited. She took his call. “Hi, I wanted to thank you for your piece.” He scanned the notes he had made on a legal pad. “Yes, yes. Ha! Right. It was right down to the last detail.” He laughed. “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m calling. There’s actually a sequel to the story.” Tap, tap, tap with his pencil. “If I were you, I’d leave his name out of it. He’d probably shoot you.” A laugh. “Oh, so you know about the guns. Yes. No, it’s true. More like twenty of them.” They finished that little item and Howard moved on.
“Well, I’ve started a literary agency. Oh, good, you got it.” He leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Today is my first day of business, and I have a project I thought would interest you. As I said, it’s sort of a sequel to your story.” Pause. “Right. It was Sperry himself who gave me the idea.”
He sat up and pulled his chair up to his desk. “The working title is: How to Get Ahead When Your Boss Doesn’t Have One.”
Howard nodded, smiling broadly. “Subtitle: ‘The Psychology of Corporate Oppression....’ That’s right, anyone who’s interested can contact me here. William Trent, at Wharton. He did a book with me two years ago, you might recall...”
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