A Bigamist's Daughter (35 page)

At the time, she had thought two years a terribly long way away.

“You said you believed in it,” the woman on the phone wails. “Don’t you remember? Those were your exact words. I even saved your letter.”

“I remember,” Elizabeth says, sincerely. Ann is still in the file room, looking for the woman’s data. Elizabeth can remember nothing about her.

“When the letter came this morning,” the woman goes on, her voice twirling down into a tight, desperate sound, “I was so excited. I had to sign for it, and my hand trembled. I saw it was from Mr. Owens. I thought it was good news. I thought you were going to make it into a movie or something.”

Ann rushes in with the pale folder. Elizabeth grabs it from her, making it clear she is annoyed. Ann should have screened the call, kept the woman on hold until Elizabeth had figured out who she was and what she might want. What she could say in reply.

The woman begins to read from Mr. Owens’ letter. “ ‘I am sorry to note that your book has not been selling well. While no one can predict such an unhappy circumstance …’ ”

Elizabeth opens the folder. There are copies of all her letters, dated two years ago, praising
All’s Fair in Love
and welcoming Mrs. Lorraine Webb to Vista. Letters from Mrs. Webb—yellow, slightly scented stationery with scalloped edges and small white doves in each corner—thanking Elizabeth for her “kind kudos,” asking, if she’s ever in State College, Pa., to come and spend an evening with them. “p.s. Enclosed is my check.”

“ ‘It seems best at this time,’ ” the woman continues to read, “ ‘that we cancel our agreement and, if you wish, send you the
remaining bound copies of your book for your own personal use.’ ”

There are other happy letters to Production—thanking Ned’s predecessor for sending her the galley proofs, for making the few changes. An ecstatic letter praising the lovely bookjacket design they so kindly showed her. A polite, inquiring letter about how much longer it will take for the book to be printed and bound. (“It has been three months since I last heard from you and I’m beginning to think it may have all been a dream.”) A slightly less-patient letter written a month later. (“I fear I’ll meet with some accident and never see my book …”) And then, “Just got my first copy of
All’s Fair in Love
and my feet still haven’t touched the ground!!!”

“You said you believed in it,” the woman cries again. “You said it was good. You said it would sell!”

Elizabeth knows the woman is lying. One of Mr. Owens’ cardinal rules: When they talk sales, just smile. Promise nothing.

“I don’t understand why you want to cancel my contract!”

She sighs; What to say? “It’s not my decision, Mrs. Webb,” she begins. “I did think it was a good book. It is a good book.” She quickly skims the woman’s summary. “Even now I remember that powerful scene on the mountain when Agatha thought her husband was trying to murder her.” She is reading from her own letter. “It was chilling, beautifully rendered.”

“It was true,” the woman interjects. “It’s a true story.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth says, going through the letters once again. “It was chilling, brilliant I thought.” At the back of the folder is the original copy of the woman’s dust-jacket photo. It shows a blond, fortyish, carefully made-up woman leaning over her typewriter, looking serious, books piled all around her. There is a pencil stuck over her ear. “A rare piece of real literature, I thought.”

“Then why are they canceling my contract?” Her voice has softened, sounds more defeated than outraged. And, Elizabeth notices, the
you
has gone to
they.
“Why didn’t it sell?”

Elizabeth sighs deeply, as if she too were about to cry. She notices that the photo seems to have been taken in a small room, full of books. A room, no doubt, the woman has set aside for herself, for her work, her career. She says in her questionnaire that she has taken many writing courses. “Oh, Lorraine,” Elizabeth says, “Who buys books anymore? Who, in this television society, is even interested in literature?”

“But no one even heard of my book.”

“People heard,” Elizabeth says wisely. “You’re not aware of it, but people in New York, in publishing, heard. And for a new writer, that’s sometimes more important than sales, notoriety, lasting notoriety.”

“But I didn’t even make my money back,” the woman goes on. “You promised me I’d make my money back.”

Another lie: Even the Vista brochure says, in very large print, We cannot guarantee a return on your investment. But then, given a chance, they’ll always choose the lie. It is, after all, what she and Mr. Owens depend on. “Look, Lorraine,” she whispers, as if she is suddenly making some confession. “I’m an editor. Not an accountant. When I read a wonderful book like yours, a real contribution to women’s literature, I can’t worry about how much money it will make. I just have to get it into print, for posterity, if you will.” She waits. Mrs. Webb is silent. “And do you know, Lorraine, to tell you the absolute truth, although I’m sorry you’re so upset, I don’t really care that your book didn’t sell. In fact, it only confirms for me that it is not an ordinary book, that it is too deep, too good for the general public.” She is still silent. “And
I
have no regrets about publishing your wonderful story. Do you?”

The woman hesitates. Elizabeth smiles at her office. “Well, no,” she says. “It’s just that …”

“Personally, I think it’s a travesty that accountants, those soulless, emotionless dolts, are the ones who finally judge a book’s worth. As if monetary profit is all a piece of literature is created for. If I had my way, accountants wouldn’t be allowed even to speak to artists like yourself.”

Mrs. Webb chuckles a little. “Well, I suppose publishing is a business, too.”

“Please!” Elizabeth cries. “Don’t remind me. But I’m not a businesswoman, Lorraine. I’m an editor, and it breaks my heart to think that a fine writer like you can be so discouraged by the decree of the accountants.”

“Oh,” she says, bucking up. “I’m not discouraged. I did read somewhere that even Jacqueline Susann’s first novel didn’t do that well. Not as well as the others.”

“That’s true,” Elizabeth says.

“It wasn’t until her second book that she really started to be popular.”

“Yes.”

“They said some authors just take a while to get a following. They said some need to develop a momentum.”

“Yes.” There is, she knows, no telling the limits, or limitlessness of their hopes, what they will chose to believe. “Lorraine,” she whispers, gambling, but somehow perfectly assured. “You wouldn’t happen to have another book, would you?”

There’s a pause. “Yes,” she whispers. “I do.”

She wonders why she doesn’t feel like laughing. “Do you think, do you think I might see it?”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s a sequel.
All’s Fair in War.
I must admit it’s much better than the first—that one may have been too short.”

“Would you like to send it to me? Would you like to try again?”

More silence. Elizabeth can almost hear her making the leap, reweaving the dream: If not this time, next time. If not this one, then another. She can almost hear in the woman’s shallow breath, the tight, restless sound of hope. Hope springing, like a Jack-in-the box.

“All right,” the woman says. “Yes. I’ll send it to you. I’ll send it to you tomorrow morning.”

“Wonderful,” Elizabeth says. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“Yes,” says Mrs. Webb. “Thank you. Thank you very much, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth bows her head. “You’re very welcome, Lorraine.”

As she hangs up the phone, she glances at her calendar. Mrs. Webb is only the first of her authors to be canceled. In the next two years, every author she’s ever signed will receive Mr. Owens’ letter. And by the time she’s heard from them all, Mrs. Webb will be calling again, asking why her second book has been canceled.

She makes a note to herself to find out what famous authors had unsuccessful first
and
second books. What famous authors died penniless and unknown and yet never, never gave up hope.

She throws Mrs. Webb’s folder into her OUT box, stands, straightens her desk. It occurs to her that she is becoming a real master of literary name-dropping. A real master at her trade.

Mistress, she corrects herself. Mistress of hopeless cases, of eternal optimists. Mourning and weeping in their valley of tears. She picks up a stack of manuscripts and walks into the hallway. Someday they’ll erect a shrine.

Ann is just coming to see her. “Sorry about that call,” she says. “But it wasn’t my fault. The woman asked for Owens
first. He took it and then told me to pass it on to you, without even talking to her. I thought it was something you already knew about.”

Elizabeth smiles. “That’s all right.”

“Is she going to sue?”

“Sue?”

“Yeah, she told me she was going to sue us.”

Elizabeth turns up the corner of her mouth. “She’s sending me her new novel,” she says. “She’ll probably sign again.”

Ann frowns. Then laughs a little. “Slee-zee,” she says, rolling her eyes. “How the hell did you accomplish that?”

Elizabeth shrugs, passing her by. “It’s an art,” she says.

Ellis is on the floor of his office, on all fours, tucking a small yellow wire under his rug, perspiring. His tie hangs before him like a broken leash. “For my speakers,” he says to her, over his shoulder and his plaid rump. He raises a paw to the windowsill where there are two small stereo speakers. “Thought I’d get some music in here,” he says, standing, his face flushed, “now that I’ll be here more.” His face, like his body from the waist down, is large and round, fleshy, his graying hair almost unnaturally bouffant, and although Marv has told her that he is the scion of a wealthy Midwestern family who, until he became editor-in-chief at Vista, had considered him their golf bum, their failure, she can only think of him as one in a long line of Fuller Brush men. Perhaps it is his plaid suits, or his ready smile.

He turns the smile on her now, brushing his hands together. “Those for me?”

She puts the pile of manuscripts on his desk. “Yes.” She has a sudden vision of breaking down the wall between their offices, throwing Ellis out, taking over the larger space. She could, she knows. She’s better at this than he is. Better than Owens himself. Her own, unique talent. “I’m giving you each
of their manuscripts,” she says, “their questionnaires and the correspondence thus far. They should all sign within the next two weeks.”

He nods, lifts the manuscripts one by one. Tupper Daniels’ is in the middle. He picks it up and puts it down as if it were exactly like all the rest.

“This all you’ve got?” he asks.

“All I’ve got pending.”

He nods, grunts a little, and then smiles at her with all his teeth. “Hey,” he takes her hand. “Have a good trip and if you’ve got any questions, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Back in her office, she combs her hair, puts on her coat. She checks her desk again and then, lifting her manuscript bag—a black, square case that makes her feel like a musician—turns off the light.

Owens calls to her from his office.

“What time’s your train?” he asks, reading a letter.

“Five,” she says.

“You sure you wouldn’t rather drive?”

“No.”

He looks up at her. “Where’s your suitcase?”

“I checked it at the station. This morning.”

He throws the letter onto his desk. Leans back, putting his hands behind his head. He stays that way for a few moments, staring into space. She watches him.

Finally, he looks down at her, says
huh
as if he’s surprised she’s still there. “And sweetheart,” he says, “when you’re on the road, remember the accountants, emotionless dolts that they are, who’ll be looking over your expense account when you get back.”

He winks and she feels herself blush, feels some strange intimacy between them.

He closes his eyes slowly, slowly opens them again. He smiles at her, points a thick finger in her direction. “You see,” he says. “I’m keeping track of you.”

“Good,” she says, smiling too.

As she walks through the office, Ann is on the phone, already saying, “Ms. Connelly is out of town. May I take a message?” She mouths something as Elizabeth walks by—maybe “Tupperware,” maybe “toodle-ooo”—rolls her eyes and waves. Elizabeth waves back.

The ladies in the file room are holding up small mirrors, putting lipstick on at their desks.

Bonnie is at the board, paging through a copy of
Vogue,
waiting for five o’clock. She says, “Have fun,” as Elizabeth goes out the door.

She takes the elevator down alone and walks to Penn Station. By the time she gets there, she remembers that she’ll need gloves and that she forgot to bring them. She decides, as she boards the train, that she’ll buy a pair in Hartford, and then realizes that from now on, many of the things she owns, small pieces of clothing, cosmetics, jewelry, will be inadvertent souvenirs, picked up here and there across the country.

She imagines herself, like some tattooed sailor, meeting strangers and showing them how these shoes are from Philadelphia, these gloves from Hartford. These panty hose I got in Albuquerque—oh, what a night that was—and this ring, well, it’s from Milwaukee. Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a town of some significance to me …

The train starts with a jolt, as if it had broken off something, and then moves slowly through the tunnel, out past the dark train yard, the black outline of the city. The businessmen in her car reach up to turn on the soft reading lights above them, clear their throats, rustle their newspapers. Somewhere behind her, two of them laugh, one talking through the laughter,
all his words ending with
eeesh.
When they are silent, the train is silent.

And her father was a businessman who traveled. Left again and again. Carried his history with him like a tattooed sailor. Left nothing of himself behind. When she asked him what he did on those long trips away, he said he was a gigolo and she had to imagine even the meaning of the word. She chose to believe it was something unique and wonderful. She chose the lie.