Henry displayed the new Swanky, not mentioning his own fan-mail but downright bubbling about the remarkable Clarice Aames. Whelpdale’s crying diminished to sniffing, and he talked some about the new features of his website and his plans to compose a novel-writing manual. This cheered him up sufficiently to depart with a bit of dignity.
After he left, Henry asked, “Do you think it’s possible that his girlfriend was actually decent in the first place? Or was it a scam all along?”
“Anything is possible in women,” Eddie replied. “Speaking of which, are you getting out and about at all?”
Henry laughed. “Missed a chance not long ago. But as soon as the novel’s done, I might just write a fan letter of my own.”
“The mysterious and possibly lovely Clarice Aames?”
“I’m mostly just kidding, but I really would like to meet her. How many people are there in the world I can talk to about what I do?”
“Four?” Eddie said, pushing the rest of the bagels toward his friend. “Or is it three? Tell me, have you ever thought about doing something else?”
Henry’s grin faded and he blinked slowly. “Something else?”
“Besides writing. It’s all I ever wanted to do, but now I’m not sure why.”
“Who was it who said that writers write because the poor bastards can’t do anything else?” Henry poked through the bag and extracted an onion bagel. “Or did he say that writers write because the poor bastards can’t help themselves?”
Eddie watched his friend. If he ignored Henry’s Ramones tee-shirt and imagined a white smock instead, he could see an eighteenth-century poet: thin frame, pale cheeks, large, heavy-lashed eyes. “Do you think it was easier,” he asked, “back in the days when artists had patrons?”
Henry shook his head. “Just the tyranny of a different kind of marketplace.”
Chapter twenty-five
On Thursday, Jackson Miller stayed close to his phone but tried to distract himself with work. He was writing a satirical article on “services” being offered to aspiring writers by those seeking to take financial advantage of them — themselves often writers more failed than aspiring. He debated whether to name Whelpdale specifically or merely describe him.
Writing such a piece, he felt like a “content provider” more than a writer. Yet the work was fun, and he hacked out a few pages with little effort. As the morning wore on, though, he found it difficult to concentrate. What he needed, he knew, was to master the art of unconscious composition — to write without thinking about it.
When Doreen emerged from her room at eleven, Jackson feigned irritation to mask his relief. He shoved back his chair with a great show and a loud sigh; in truth he was glad both for the company and for the excuse to take a break.
“Sorry,” said his roommate from the doorjamb. “Don’t mind me. Just grabbing a bite and a shower and heading to work.”
“It’s all right, sorry,” he said. “I was in deep concentration is all. You know how I am when I write.” He followed his roommate to the kitchen.
Doreen poured herself coffee.
“Dynamite date the other night with Mr. Dolomite?”
“I’m breaking it off. He’s a nice guy, but I’m not in love.”
“Not in love? You know I don’t put much stock in love. I hardly know anyone who married for love. Eddie Renfros maybe, but not necessarily his wife, and no telling where that will get him. I think marriage is mostly based on mild preference, convenience, and advantage — made more interesting by sexual attraction. Almost anyone who isn’t repulsive could fit the bill in the right circumstances.”
Doreen rolled her pupils with deliberate exaggeration. “I’ll agree with you that there isn’t one right person out there for anyone. I could probably fall in love with any of a hundred men in the world. But not with anyone, and a hundred’s not very many, really. How many people live in the world? And he’d have to fall in the right age range.”
Jackson wasn’t sure whether he believed his own argument, but he was having fun with it. He hoisted himself up next to the sink, knowing that it annoyed Doreen when he sat on the counter. “I think I object to the word ‘love’ generically, categorically. There probably is one woman out there who is perfectly fitted to me, and if there were any way to find out who she is and where she lives, I would probably make the effort and be blessed with decades of fantastic sex. But it’s clear that most of us don’t find that right person, and it’s when people pretend they’ve found the ideal substitute that they act like the biggest asses.”
“Are you saying you’ve never been in love?”
“Only with you, my dear, which makes my point.”
“Thanks a lot.” She swatted him with the dish towel, which she then folded in half and draped over the oven handle. “You’re sweet on Margot, though, or did things not go so well the other night?”
“The other night was delightful. I’m extremely fond of Margot, very serious about her. But I’m not going to be so false as to say she’s my destiny or the only woman out there for me. I do prefer her. I think we’re compatible, and she’s terrific, really terrific. Really cute and really sweet, and we got on well in bed.” He paused for Doreen to make a face. “But I’m not going to lose my head over her or make bad decisions.”
“You’re waiting to marry money,” she said triumphantly. “Please get off the counter.”
“Not for money, but it’s true that when I marry I want it to be a good match in every way — in circumstance as well as affection.”
“My, isn’t Margot a lucky girl to have found you!”
“No need for sarcasm. I’ve been very straightforward with Margot. She knows who I am.”
“Well, Jackson, I’m not a good audience for this particular theory of yours. I’ve met someone, someone I’m really quite taken with. You’ll laugh at this: he’s a writer.”
“Tell me he’s not writing a book about a bailiff.”
“Bailiff? I’m pretty sure not. At any rate, I wish I could see you fall madly in love and repent your cold analysis. Now, seriously, get off the counter. You know I hate that.”
After Doreen left for work, Jackson managed to type out another two paragraphs and work in a very good line about the bull in front of the stock exchange. But soon enough his gaze darted to the telephone. His thoughts vacillated between bright fantasies of author tours and screenplay contracts and dark ones of alcoholic descents into obscurity.
At two, he allowed his mind to be diverted by his recent memories of Margot. Despite his cynical words to Doreen, the night Margot had spent with him had made him feel all the more tenderly toward her. If the worst news came, he believed that Margot’s affections and goodness might save him from being too despairing. She really was a fine person.
By three, he was convinced that no news would be worse than bad news — and that no woman could console him in either event.
The phone rang at four, and he inflicted his full repertoire of obscenities on the hapless telemarketer on the other end of the line. When the phone rang again at four-thirty, he had just tossed back his second shot of vodka.
It was Chuck Fadge, editor of The Monthly. “Our readers love your stuff,” he said in his mealy voice. “We want you to write a regular column. Do you have some more ideas like the iPod story?”
“I’m never out of ideas. I ooze them. They drip from my fingers. How about a piece on how famous writers who are dating other famous writers met?”
“Perfect,” Fadge said across the crackling connection.