by Jaime Clarke
“Peter Kline,” the man said. “We met at your party.”
“Peter’s a reporter for the Post,” Christianna said helpfully.
Charlie waited for Kline to correct her, but Kline nodded and smiled. “For my sins,” was all he said. Charlie smirked at Kline’s having elevated his journalistic pedigree. Typical, he thought as the group gathered around the hand-carved mahogany table boasting a pewter candelabra in which cinnamon-scented candles were burning.
The catered meal was served by Christianna, who made no mention of the food having been prepared by caterers, absorbing compliments like “This is delicious” and “This is so yummy” as if she’d cooked the food herself, a personality quirk that Charlie found oddly endearing. She exuded sureness, and he admired how easily she assumed the pose.
Dinner conversation ranged from the vagaries of trying to start a fashion design business to the latest MTV gossip to how hard it was to audition for female directors. Charlie politely solicited information about the rap world from the lone dinner guest who seemed content to sit back and listen, but his questions were answered with a short yes or no and, not really being interested in the subject, he gave up.
Christianna’s Yale roommate—she’d been introduced as Diane or Diana, he couldn’t remember which, though she’d haughtily corrected the rap manager when he called her by the wrong name—raved about an off-Broadway play she’d just seen having something to do with the Wright brothers and their illegitimate sister.
“I tried out for the part of the sister for the Williamstown festival,” Christianna said mournfully.
“You would’ve slaughtered whoever they have in the lead now,” Diane or Diana said.
Christianna smiled appreciatively. “So many parts, so many parts,” she said.
“I could never do that,” the MTV producer said. “Put myself out there like that. To be judged. I couldn’t stand to.”
“How do you keep doing it?” Charlie asked, genuinely interested.
“If you keep wanting it, you’ll get it,” Christianna said simply. “Nobody can take that from you.” Christianna and Diane—he’d decided it was Diane—hooked their pinkies in a secret handshake. “Tell us what you’re working on now,” Christianna said to Charlie.
“Are you a painter?” the fashion designer asked, forking a piece of sweet potato casserole into her mouth.
“You’re kidding, right?” Christianna said. “This is one of our greatest living authors. Haven’t you read his work?”
“I have,” Kline said, raising his hand pointlessly.
The actress turned to Christianna. “Remember that year we watched Minus Numbers, like, everyday?”
Christianna nodded.
“Have you seen Minus Numbers?” the actress asked, the table turning on the fashion designer.
“Umm, maybe,” the fashion designer said.
“That the one with what’s-his-name?” the MTV producer asked.
“Oh,” Christianna said. “I love him.”
Charlie watched this conversation develop with some amusement.
“Julian really needs you right now,” Christianna said to the actress, who in turn uttered the next line, the two playing out one of the pivotal scenes in Minus Numbers for the benefit of the dinner party. The table erupted in applause and Charlie felt himself bowing in his chair.
Candlelight slowly became the only light, obscuring the guests’ faces. Successive bottles of wine were opened, the wine a precursor to cocktails that activated a buzz in his brain. At some point, Christianna left the table to put on some music, the notes of a classical piece fluttering around them like small birds. Between rounds, the fashion designer and the MTV producer and the rap manager begged off. The actress excused herself to go to the bathroom, grabbing the table for support as she rose, and never returned. Christianna would later find her passed out on her bed. Charlie was planning his own exit strategy, the warmth of the food and liquor in his stomach hindering his good-bye, when Kline asked him a question that sobered him.
“How about letting me do a profile,” he said.
Charlie pretended not to hear, an absurdity considering the room was empty except for the three of them.
“Who, me?” he asked, hoping to brush off the request.
“You didn’t think he meant me, did you?” Christianna asked. She laughed at her own joke, but no one else did.
“What about it?” Kline asked.
“Maybe when the new book comes out,” Charlie said.
“When’s it coming out?” Kline asked, slipping into his reportorial persona.
“Who knows?” Charlie said. The conversation began to hang heavy around his neck. The candles burned dangerously low, flames skating on pools of wax. He stood abruptly. “Best dinner party ever,” he said grandly, bringing Christianna to her feet. “Peter,” he said, holding out his hand. “Always a pleasure.”
Christianna escorted him to the front door and kissed him on both cheeks only after he promised they’d do it again soon. He made the short walk to Vernon’s loft with considerable effort, fumbling the key in the lock. Inside, he threw off his clothes and hopped into the shower to cleanse his mind of the entire evening. He checked Vernon’s e-mail, the messages falling into the inbox like snow. He clicked on an incoherent e-mail from Jeremy Cyanin involving a party he’d attended at the Soho Grand. Charlie deduced that Cyanin was speaking in some sort of code he and Vernon shared, which provoked an irrational tizzy about his trying to undermine Charlie’s budding friendship with Vernon, and Charlie deleted the e-mail, cleaning out the trash folder as well to erase all traces of it.
An e-mail from a famous writer whose new book was being adapted for film by Tom Cruise asked if he and Vernon were still on for drinks at Lucy’s, and Charlie took the opening to inform the famous writer that Vernon had left New York for the foreseeable future, signing his full name, adding “Asst. to Vernon Downs” after reading the e-mail four times for typos. When the famous writer replied that he, too, was in Vermont, as was Lucy’s, Charlie switched off the computer to stanch his severe embarrassment; a clutch of days passed before he could bring himself to fire it up again, finding a lone e-mail from a woman named Shannon Hamilton with the subject line “From a fan.” He rolled his eyes and clicked on the e-mail.
Dear Mr. Downs,
Where to start? I’m guessing you get a lot of letters like this one, and I’m not sure how much you read before you stop reading, so I’ll dispense with the usual chatter about how big a fan I am of your work and go right to the heart of it: Like you, I’m a graduate of Camden College, but unlike you, I’m a writer that no one has heard of. I did my Camden thesis about you and am wondering if you had any advice as I start out into the real world. A lame question, perhaps, but the answer is very important to me, so if you can see your way through to write back, I’d appreciate it.
Sincerely,
Shannon Hamilton
Charlie deleted the message, instinctively discerning that Vernon would not waste his time responding to Shannon Hamilton, but something compelled him to retrieve it. He read the e-mail a second time. Before he realized it, he’d clicked reply and had written, “Dear Shannon.” He contended that Vernon wouldn’t want to slight a fan over an unanswered e-mail. Better to dispatch with the e-mail, he thought, regarding the chore as one of his clerical duties. He’d mention it to Vernon and they’d both chuckle and then forget about Shannon. Convinced, he touched his fingertips to the keyboard.
Very many thanks for your e-mail. As you might imagine, I get numerous queries such as yours, both through my agent and in my personal mail, but I’m always happy to hear from a fellow Camdenite. (Flattered about your thesis, by the way.) I guess I’d say the best advice is not to let anyone dissuade you from what you want to do. If you want to write, write. Don’t take no for an answer. Good luck.
Charlie proofread the e-mail and then typed Vernon’s name. A thrill ran through him as he clicked send. He deleted both Shannon’s e-mail and
his response.
Where to start? Charlie thought as he lorded over the boxed archives. A binder dated around the time of the publication of Minus Numbers revealed Vernon’s previous attempt to chronicle his early years, despite the impression he’d given Jessica when announcing Camden’s desire for his papers. He scoured the index to see what had come before, a little surprised by the sentimental entries:
1972.01
Sunshine-gram from Mrs. Ormiston (2nd grade teacher) for excellent penmanship
1973.01
Photo from Los Angeles Times dated April 19, 1973, re: Vernon in Cub Scout parade at Rose Bowl
1975.01
Article from Los Angeles newsmagazine dated October 14, 1975, re: Mrs. Cotton’s 5th grade class trip to courthouse; incl. photo of VDD
1977.01
Manuscript—“The Mystery of Dead Man’s Grave.” Original.
1977.02
Pocket Books’ declining letter for “The Mystery of Dead Man’s Grave,” dated April 8, 1977.
1978.01
No-Name News—broadside for Fowler Elementary
1981.01
Receipt for private phone line for bedroom
1982.01
Manuscript—“The Last Lemonade Stand on the Block.” First draft.
1983.01
Beverly Hills High yearbook—1983
Thoughts of Vernon as a Cub Scout amused Charlie as he read through the index, matching his personal chronology to Vernon’s, remembering his own unhappy days against Vernon’s popularity at Beverly Hills High, the catalog of manuscripts and love notes faithfully labeled as correspondence; the notebooks and tests for each class carefully maintained, the instructor’s name appearing in the binder entry; the letters of recommendation to Camden, Vernon’s Camden application, and his acceptance letter the last entries in the archive. Charlie realized that he’d be responsible for cataloging the bulk of Vernon’s public life. He eagerly dived into the material. He opened an unmarked box and reached for a black folder containing a sheaf of email from the Bank of America in Sherman Oaks, all sent at the same date and time, the body of the email left blank. He fanned through the printed e-mails, looking for some indication of what they represented— were they documents or correspondence?—and quickly became frustrated by the lack of identifying detail. He was disheartened, too, to find the sealed envelope with the typed interview buried on Vernon’s desk, though he had decided to try to publish the interview with a more established outlet than Oneironaut, so there was no hurry for Vernon to proof it.
He cracked open a window and let the street noise permeate the loft. The first order of business would be to create piles by year. He marked out a space on the floor for 1982 and then paced off a spot for 1983, and so on. He doubled the volume of the space for The Vegetable King, assuming that a preponderance of documents would be dedicated to the controversy the novel had inspired. Next he unpacked the boxes and scattered their contents into their respective spots. In all, it took him two days to separate the material, a feat Charlie celebrated with a tall glass of a leftover cabernet. With the sorting stage complete, he assessed the loft, a paper landscape of letters and reviews and drafts of manuscripts.
After a quick lunch at the Blimpie on the corner, and against the blazing Minus Numbers soundtrack, Charlie began picking through the piles. An item he’d previously resisted—a folder marked CAMDEN – ADV. CREATIVE WRITING —called out to him, and he leafed through drafts of early chapters from Minus Numbers, line-edited by Vernon’s mentor, Harrison McInnis. Charlie hungrily devoured the early work but put the folder away short of the conclusion he was hurtling toward: The early drafts of the novel weren’t very good. He agreed with the comments McInnis had written in the margins: “Melodramatic” or “Too dark” or “Is this supposed to be funny?”
A folder from the 1981 pile labeled PHANTASM caught his eye. The folder contained hand-drawn flyers for what apparently was a high school band in which Vernon was the keyboardist. Charlie studied a heavily xeroxed photo of the band posing with the Beverly Hills High auditorium in the background. A packet of lyrics buried behind the flyers fell to the floor and Charlie scooped them up, saying the words out loud.
Touch Me Words and music by Vernon David Downs
The touch of your hand
Can tame any man
You’re an obsession
No one can have
You walk across the room
And I shiver and shake
My heart’s beating faster
I just can’t wait …
Please!
(Touch me!)
With your tender touch
(Touch me!)
You can’t love me too much
(Touch me!)
Touch me all over and you’ll see
All I want
Is you to touch me
I don’t know what you’ve got
But I know I want it
I don’t know what you’ve got
But I know it’s hot
It’s so hard to ignore
Just reach out and touch me
Don’t let up
Keep givin’ me more
Please!
(Touch me!)
With your tender touch
(Touch me!)
No, no, you can’t love me too much
(Touch me!)
T-t-t-touch me
So true
Touch me
I want it all from you
(ad-lib, repeat & fade)
He caught himself singing the lyrics as he pecked his way through the archives, selecting an envelope marked THE ANGEL’S TRIP – CHRISTMAS 1971 that contained a handwritten story about an angel atop a Christmas tree who falls on Christmas Eve and follows the tinsel trail back to the top, encountering villainous ornaments who orchestrated the angel’s fall and who prevent her ascent before Christmas morning. Charlie noted the genesis of Vernon’s adult handwriting in the child’s hand, the disconnected letters, the violent Rs, the pointed Ds. He couldn’t imagine the discipline and patience required to stick with a passion from childhood through adulthood. How had Vernon not been diverted by wanting to be a center fielder, or an astronaut, or a lawyer, like practically everyone did? Vernon’s tunnel vision gave Charlie hope for his reunion with Olivia. The fact that Vernon had committed to what he loved, and had found success in his fidelity, seemed to bode well for the future, he thought.
The song Charlie liked best on the Minus Numbers soundtrack filtered through the speakers, and as he moved to turn up the volume, he skidded on a folder peeking out of the stack for The Vegetable King, crashing hard to the floor, causing the CD to skip. He massaged his left knee and could feel the bruise forming under his skin. He kicked at the file folder, trying to shove it back where it belonged. He lifted the stack and pulled the folder free, a swatch of manila sticking to the hardwood floor.
The unmarked folder held a letter from Vernon to someone named Burton LaFarge, dated the previous May.
Hey, Burt,
Your letter shook me up some, especially since I stood up for you when they first talked about kicking you out of Camden. I even went before the administration for you, do you remember that? Hope you do. Hope you remember it as I try to deal with what you’re saying re: The Vegetable King and the manuscript I helped you with sophomore year. A lot of people sent me stuff that year and I looked at it all, so I find what you’re suggesting to be an incredible coincidence. It’s been a dark year for me, people coming at me from all directions. Can’t use any more bad publicity. Just can’t use it. Remember that, Burt? That was your line whenever someone handed you drugs after you were already out of your mind. Just can’t use it. I ask you to remember those days as we work through this. Is there any chance you’ll come down from the figure you mentioned in your letter? It’s a lot of money, as you know. I mean, if that’s the figure, then that’s the figure. But if there’s a different figure, will you let me know?
V-E-R-N-O-N
A bus
iness card for a detective agency in Jersey City was paper-clipped to the letter. Charlie replaced the letter and slipped the folder back where he found it, as if he hadn’t seen it. He started the Minus Numbers soundtrack over from the beginning and poured himself a vodka tonic, which stayed the onslaught of questions raised by the letter.
Charlie sensed an impending drink invitation from Christianna long before it arrived in the form of spontaneity in the elevator—“I’m meeting some friends at Aviator, would you like to join us?”—and he knew, too, that he would accept, not least because he was addicted to her fawning over him, the Famous Writer. He’d just returned from the Upper East Side, someone having claimed to have found Vernon’s dog, but who in reality only wanted to meet Vernon Downs and get him to sign a book, which Charlie obliged. He’d found cataloging Vernon’s archives a lonely endeavor, his days taken up with boxes of memorabilia celebrating Vernon Downs’s success and with little else, leaving him restless and utterly alone once he stopped shuffling papers for the day. So much so that Charlie began to participate actively in the archives: An envelope containing correspondence with an author Charlie had vaguely heard of sandwiched between drafts of Minus Numbers provided the details of a small literary feud involving an article Vernon had written for USA Today. Charlie judged the feud to be too trivial to ruin a friendship and penned a short note of apology to the author in Vernon’s handwriting.
