Love Is a Canoe

by Ben Schrank

  He got Stella on the phone and said, “I am sorry to be slow about returning your calls.”

  “Oh, no,” Stella said. He could hear her getting up to close a door. “Not at all. We are doing this on your schedule. Though we have scheduled the weekend for our winners and we do need to confirm all that with you.”

  “I read the New Yorker piece. A little smug.”

  “That’s the right word! They are so smug. They just do whatever they want. I’m so sorry if any of it offended you. I can call someone over there and complain?”

  “No, no. I’m sure they’re impossible to control. And Fred could’ve been a whole lot worse,” he said. “There’s a backstory there.”

  “I’m sure there is.” She laughed. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Peter considered. What good was there in telling her? Young people didn’t need to know about decades-old misunderstandings. Well, offenses, really. He’d taken it too far with Annika one night when they thought Fred had passed out. They’d been wrong and Fred had popped one eye open and reached across the booth there at the Sally Forth, grabbing Peter by the throat and swearing never to forget. An unfortunate evening.

  “Better not,” Peter said. “What a pretty laugh you have.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes, it’s high and sweet. Delicate as a balsa-wood canoe.”

  “That’s so, Peter—that’s so well said … I mean, my voice is nothing. But your words…”

  “Let me go into the other room, to hear you better,” he said. He’d figured out that the older he acted, the better Stella liked him. People always walked around while on the phone, without telling the person on the other end of the line where they were going. And so did he, old ham that he was.

  “Listen,” he said. “You are saving my life. I’m old enough to be truthful. You were decent and you waited for me to mourn and then you approached, brilliantly, and now here we are. Those people at LRB ought to give you a medal, or at least promote you.”

  “That’s kind, but I’m very happy. I love this job.” She was breathless.

  He was in the front living room looking at himself in the ancient mirror, at his beardy-white jowls and peppery gray hair mushed over his head, his too-tall body stooped to fit into his khakis and itchy red Bean sweater.

  “I can’t wait to meet you,” Stella said. “You’re a legend around here, you know. It’s everyone’s dream to write one book that backlists forever. Not that a new book wouldn’t be…”

  “Maybe after all this contest business I will come and spend some time in New York. It has been a while.”

  “That would be absolutely great! If you’re not too busy, we can go for lunch or drinks. I’m sure there are plenty of people here at Ladder & Rake who want to see you. But for now, for right now in advance of then, shall I continue to firm up plans for you to meet with our winners?”

  “You’re free to make all the plans. I loved that young woman’s essay. What was her name? Emily Babson? Solid name. Well done.”

  “Thank you, Peter. Your trust is inspiring! I’m sure you’ll love our photographer. Would you like me to e-mail you a link to her website?”

  “Photographer? No, no. There can’t be any pictures. That will make us all uncomfortable. No to that.”

  “I see.” He heard her disappointment. He decided to ignore it.

  He began to root around in the coat closet, looking for a blazer he might wear in Manhattan. But, wait. Maddie could help him pick a jacket. She could choose something for him, no problem. Why didn’t he think of her more? They were a couple, weren’t they?

  He said, “We ought to talk about a new project when it’s all over, too.”

  “Ohhh, Peter! We would love that…”

  “Something about how as we age, we need to welcome the future, even as it changes.”

  “Yes, yes, absolutely! You’re sure about the photographer? Because pictures are key—”

  “Out of the question.”

  “All right then,” Stella said.

  “But a new project is not.”

  “A fair exchange,” Stella said. And he could hear that she hadn’t meant to say that aloud. A new book? He shook his head. A new book was a trick he’d used before with handling editors. Still worked, apparently. No, nothing he did could hurt anyone too badly. Except sometimes. Except of course he had hurt one or two people, way back when. But a bit of carrot on a stick never hurt anyone, did it? Carrot … He jerked his head up and realized he’d left his sack of groceries on the front passenger seat of his car.

  Stella, November 2011

  Every third Tuesday, if Helena was in the office, she took the morning to do a surprise set of “management by walking around” visits. Most employees had figured this out and set their Outlook calendars accordingly, but Stella had never been able to get the hang of the schedule. Of course up to now it hadn’t mattered, since she didn’t rank high enough to get on Helena’s stop-by list. However, because of the new multigroup focus on her Canoe activities, Stella was on alert. And sure enough, Lucy Brodsky shot Stella an early morning e-mail titled “Watch out!”

  Stella didn’t fool herself into thinking she’d been warned because Lucy liked her. She knew Lucy had done it because if Stella really screwed up, Helena would be in a nasty mood all day and Lucy would suffer.

  Stella just had time to snag a flower from someone in Ad/Promo’s engagement bouquet and put it in a coffee cup on her desk. She printed a fresh copy of Emily Babson’s essay. She hadn’t spoken to Emily personally, not just yet, on the off-chance that Helena wanted to weigh in on the winner and reject Stella’s first choice. Stella wasn’t afraid of the messy sequencing—she believed she could spin with the best of them. Nobody knew who the winner was, so they could just pick another. And in-house counsel could deal with Emily Babson if she caused a fuss. The only real problem was that Stella didn’t have a runner-up, since all the other entrants appeared to be so irreparably damaged that to put them through the weekend and then reveal them to the public would be an act so immoral Stella would not even consider it. Not because of the act’s immorality, but because it would be a professional disaster.

  Stella bustled around her office one last time, clearing her head and rolling her shoulders in her blue-and-silver paisley shirt. The shirt was intentional. She would be electric today. Helena would absorb her energy and then want to be around her more. She adjusted the Canoe quotes on her bulletin board, moving aside rejected covers and pulling down a few photographs of her out at night with coworkers, women whom she wasn’t actually friendly with at all, though they all had their cheeks together and were blowing air kisses in the pictures.

  “Knock, knock!” Lucy Brodsky called out, musically, from somewhere down the hall.

  “Who’s— Hello!” Stella moved backward as Helena and Lucy stepped into her tiny office.

  Lucy made bug eyes at Stella and then went to stand and listen in the doorway, as was required of her, while she punched in updates on her iPad, which listed Helena’s next stops. Although it subverted the surprise, Lucy alerted the targets with an ETA that was plus or minus one minute so everybody was in their office and off the phone and prepared and no time was wasted—or at least, Helena’s time was not wasted.

  “Hello, hello,” Helena said as she stepped inside and dropped into the single chair across from Stella’s desk.

  Helena wore a purple turtleneck and she had her hand on the ever-present gold chain. She smelled of something flowery and light that Stella imagined was custom-mixed in a tiny boutique just off Madison Avenue. Her eyes were that same filmy dark brown. Stella found herself staring into them. Helena’s eyes, Stella realized, tricked you. They were warm and loving. But the things Helena said were not often that way.

  “So,” Helena said. “I’m told you have a winner.”

  “We do,” Stella said. “And our contest even made it into The New Yorker! I have friends over there. Would you like to read the letter?”

&nb
sp; Helena shook her head no. She said, “Peter Herman read it and liked it?”

  “He did. He’s been a sweetheart. He—”

  Helena held up her hand. She said, “Enough about Peter.” She lifted her gold chain and then let it go so it thudded against her breastbone. Stella held her breath and waited. “What else do you need to tell me?” Helena asked.

  “Plenty!” Stella smiled. “We’ll schedule the visit this week. Then we’ve, well I’ve, been setting up some parameters around the visit—what should be expected, what both parties will say to any early press requests.”

  “Photos or video?”

  “Um, photos. We’ll do a photo session with the couple. On the famous porch.”

  “You should also do video. Do you have pictures now?”

  “Of the couple? Yes, I found them on Facebook.”

  “Together?”

  “Yes, I think there’s one of them together.”

  “Show me.”

  Stella tapped quickly at her keyboard. She found the image while snapping closed pages of personal stuff: her tiny Greenpoint Savings bank account, currently in overdraft; a blue-and-white wave-patterned pillow she wanted to buy on Etsy; an e-mail she’d been writing to one of her older sisters explaining why she wasn’t going to make it home for Thanksgiving—all the while knowing that Helena probably didn’t give a damn. The image struggled to load. One second, two seconds … Maybe she should show Helena the pillow?

  “What are you excited about lately?” Stella said, in what she prayed was an offhand attempt to break the silence and maybe learn something about what mattered to Helena.

  “Right now, I’m excited about seeing this goddamned photograph.” Helena’s voice was toneless. Stella felt a familiar hate directed at her—a schoolteacher’s hate for a pretty student.

  “Well! That’s exciting for me!” Stella said while simultaneously remembering that Helena did not like cute in women. She bit her lip.

  “Here it is!” Stella twisted her monitor around.

  The picture showed Emily Babson and Eli Corelli at a Save Prospect Park benefit. Eli and Emily stood on a grassy hill with the white conservatory building behind. It was twilight. Eli was in a blue blazer, blue jeans, white shirt, and no tie. Emily wore a light summer dress. They were not fat or thin, but solid-looking, confident. They looked, Stella thought, as she watched Helena stare at the photo, like an actor couple, a pair of hardworking actors from a show like Weeds or Mad Men or something on HBO. Solid, friendly people who smart people liked.

  “If you squint, the husband looks like a South American polo player,” Stella said. “Like that guy Nacho who models for Ralph Lauren … you know who I’m talking about?”

  “A model named Nacho? Like a nacho chip?”

  “Um, forget it. They’ve been married about three years. In their thirties. No kids yet. They feel familiar, you know? Emily could be a friend of mine’s older sister. I’m absolutely sure they are not going to break up.”

  “And that’s what we’re going for.”

  Stella couldn’t figure out if Helena was asking a question. She said, “Yes?”

  “They’re the prettiest couple so I guess they won’t do,” Helena said. “Stop. I mean the opposite. They are fine. The man is handsome. The woman is quite attractive. She’s our letter writer?”

  “Yes, I—” But then Stella knew to clamp her mouth closed and let Helena talk.

  Helena said, “Oddest little contest I’ve ever been involved with, that’s for sure. If nothing else it’s generating some industry chatter. Gives me something to talk about at lunch tomorrow with that snooty bitch who runs Funk and Whooten Press. Lucy, who is next? Get in here.”

  Lucy pivoted into the room and fake-smiled at Stella, who stared back at her wide-eyed, the warning of a week earlier suddenly stark in her head. Helena yawned and kicked at Stella’s desk.

  “Nice flower,” Helena said. “I like lavender.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean the color. I’m not crazy about the smell in here.”

  Stella tried a smile.

  “We’re off to see Richard Glickstein,” Lucy said.

  Helena did not appear to have heard Lucy. She stared at Stella.

  “The thing is,” Helena said. “The most crucial thing is to keep Peter happy. We have a long-standing relationship. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Stella said. She glanced at Lucy who gave her a quick right answer nod.

  Helena reached forward and smelled Stella’s flower. Then she said, “You smell it,” and gestured to Lucy, who immediately leaned forward and smelled the flower. “See?” Helena said. “Smells musty.”

  “You’re right,” Lucy said. “It so does.”

  “And can I take it?” Helena asked.

  “The flower?” Lucy and Stella said, in unison.

  Helena raised an eyebrow at Stella. “No. You. This contest. If you uptick sales by thirty, forty-five percent, maybe even change the distribution pattern so we get some mass merch going, get into Kroger or the airports or Costco—I mean, that’s great. We should’ve been there all along so that’s fine. But if Peter stops speaking to us, if he disconnects further from LRB—that’s a problem. I would not like that.”

  Lucy made a noise in her throat. Helena didn’t turn back to look at her.

  “Who?” Helena asked.

  “Glickstein.”

  “Right. Fuck. Motherfuck me.” Helena stood up and continued to stare at Stella, who was transfixed by the sweetness in Helena’s eyes. “Hard. In the ass. If he mentions the novel he’s writing, pull me out of there.”

  “Will do,” Lucy said.

  Helena didn’t move. She would not stop staring at Stella. Helena said, “More pretty flowers, that’s what we all need. But not old ones from someone else’s bouquet. More fresh flowers and more romance.”

  “Right,” Stella said.

  “Goodbye, you,” Helena said. “Let me know next steps when you’ve got them.”

  “I’ll keep you updated.” Stella took a deep breath. “In fact, I’m even hoping that Peter may be writing again. We’ve touched on a new book in our conversations. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Well now.” Helena smiled. “He says that to all the girls. Don’t get taken in. Though of course a girl can dream.”

  “Then I’ll dream,” Stella said. She thought, This goddamn thing might just work! The photos were kind of a huge problem, sure, but she’d figure that out.

  “I’m sure you will, dear. And remember what we talked about a few months back.”

  “What was that?” Stella asked, and instantly wished she hadn’t.

  Helena only smiled and toggled her chain before walking out of the room. Stella followed her into the hall. And then Helena and Lucy turned right and disappeared. Stella found she was still waving goodbye.

  From Marriage Is a Canoe, Chapter 6, Speaking of Togetherness

  One evening in the kitchen, just a few nights before the end of my stay, I watched Pop throw his arm around Bess and hug her tight. She squealed and rubbed her forehead on his chest. I looked out the window. I could smell a roast in the oven and I kept my eyes on the lusty pink of the sun’s final rays as they pierced through the clouds. My grandparents’ affection for each other didn’t look like anything I had seen at home with my mother and father.

  Later that night, I had plans to meet Honey under an oak tree at the edge of her property. I was hoping for moonlight and I’d memorized the path to that tree. I kept running the path through my head so I wouldn’t think about anything else. But right then, with my grandparents, I couldn’t help but feel a weird anger overcome me. I know now that I was angry because I felt that they were flaunting their love, that they were trying to stuff their love into me, all because my parents had none to show or share and my grandparents were trying to make up for that. And I felt the indignance of the boy who realizes that the gambler isn’t teaching him how to gamble, he’s trying to teach math. When I fi
nally looked back at them, they were still in each other’s arms.

  So I said what I was feeling aloud before I could think it through: “Could you two not kiss and show off so much in front of me?”

  “Why, Peter!” Bess sang out. “You should be happy to see us happy.”

  I glared at her. Because I didn’t think she should take being happy for granted that way. Happy, I thought, is not so easy.

  A few hours later, my Pop took me over to the far end of the porch and said, “Peter, you upset Bess earlier, with what you said.”

  “I’m sorry.” I shrugged his hand off my shoulder.

  “And I’m sorry your mother and father aren’t treating each other well. But that doesn’t mean me and Bess are showing off for you! What you see is how we actually are. Believe it or don’t. Now in your life, you’ll be shooting for our kind of happiness, won’t you?”

  “Yes. I will,” I said. We’d just had banana splits and my stomach rumbled with the nuts and ice cream and hot chocolate pleasure of them.

  “You going to go see Honey now?”

  “Yes, if it’s all right.”

  “Sure. Sure, it is. You be kind to that girl just the way I’m kind to our Bess.” He wandered off to find his pipe.

  * * *

  It took me a long time to come to believing that true love between a man and a woman who are married is the one and only thing that gets people through life’s storm, safe and in one piece. But now I want that belief in marriage to be true forever, for as long as I’m alive and as long as this book survives me, should that come to pass, and forever after that through your lives and your children’s lives, too.

  The rest of life is fine. The hard work that makes up each day and the family relationships and playing games and hobbies and friendships and all the other things that make us who we are. Sure. That stuff is good. But the marriage between Bess and Pop? That happy thoughtless incidental love in the kitchen? That’s the one true thing we’ve got to celebrate. Every day. Reader, won’t you agree?

  Honor your love and know that it is the one true thing.