Love Is a Canoe: A Novel (23 page)

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?”

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 finally 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.
Sing out in celebration of your love!
Call out hallelujah from your canoe!

Stella, November 2011

“You promised Helena photos and you can’t deliver?” Sara Byrd asked.

“Because stupid Peter Herman won’t let me!” Stella hammered at her desk with her little fist. “He called this morning and gave me a bunch more restrictions. No pictures, no recordings. Nothing. I’m afraid to ruffle him, because of Helena. I thought I could figure it out but it’s been several days and apparently no, I can’t figure it out.”

Sara Byrd had taken to Stella because of a pair of two-toned sunglasses she’d seen Stella wearing once, on line at the we-toss-it salad place off the lobby. They had ended up talking about the Sol Moscot shop on Delancey Street and how fun it was to try on funky frames there.

“And the event is happening this weekend?”

“Yeah.” Stella took a deep breath. It was happening and she’d created it and she had shockingly little control over it.

“Boy, have you got an unenviable set of problems,” Sara said.

“I know.” Stella folded her arms over her chest and frowned. “If you got caught being me for half an hour, what would you do?”

“Yikes. Let me think for a moment.”

Stella stared jealously at Sara. Sara wore a charcoal dress under a charcoal cardigan. She looked sexy and smart, less like someone in editorial and more like the head of a sales group that was beating its numbers. It was just after lunch and Stella had run into Sara in the elevator and asked her to stop in. Stella had heard that Sara was one of the few people who really understood how LRB worked. And on top of that were the glasses, which she’d given to Sara in a padded envelope via interoffice mail eight months ago. She knew the gesture had been totally over the top but what the hell? Back when she’d started, Stella had wanted to be known for grand gestures. She’d quickly discovered she couldn’t afford to sustain the habit.

“I like that pen you’ve got there.” Sara smiled.

“This?” Stella held up a black mother-of-pearl pen she had bought in Chinatown when she’d arrived in New York after college. She’d promised herself that she’d use it to write one smart thing. Just one intelligent thing that she would never regret. It hadn’t happened yet. Sara snatched the pen from Stella and swished it through the air.

“Maybe she’ll forget,” Sara said.

“No. Lucy is there whenever I talk to Helena.”

“Ah, the trusty little iPad girl who’s always trying to read for me. Well, maybe you can Photoshop something together. Do you have favors logged in with the art department?”

“Yes. Stop. I mean the opposite,” Stella said, remembering her last crappy meeting with Julie and her team.

“You don’t know the history there, do you?” Sara squinted and tapped the pen against her cheek.

“History where?” Stella asked. “With Julie and the art department? I don’t mess with her.”

“Helena and Peter. They’ve got a history, those two.”

“I’m not following.”

“Imagine her younger than you. She liked to wrap her arms and legs and her whole body around a problem. You know? Granted she can be icy now, but imagine how hot that iciness was forty years ago.” Sara tapped Stella’s pen against her lips. Then she bit it.

“Oh, no.” Stella felt miserable but tried to sound glib. “Kill me. Use the pen. Stab me. She told me and I didn’t listen. I’m a dead person.”

“Look, the only things more fragile and carefully protected than the current state of publishing are the oldest relationships in publishing. Helena discovered Peter Herman. Peter is a large part of how Helen came to be Helena. I mean, she’s really just a poor Jewish girl from the darkest wilds of Brooklyn, out where only Chowhounds dare to go. And sometimes an editor has to create a writer in order to become a bigger editor. See? I do believe Peter is entirely hers. Plus in those days, people worked intimately. Way more than now. Get me?”