Eddie slept in the middle of the bed that night, clutching Amanda’s lemony pillow, able to smell but not touch her. His sleep made shallow by the alcohol that wore off just after midnight and rendered him insomniac, he rearranged himself and the pillow, reviewing Amanda’s words and telling himself that he would moderate his drinking as soon as she returned. At four he rose and did something that surprised him: he wrote a poem. It struck him as a good poem, though he knew it would be awful if read in the morning light. He pressed himself into a few more hours of sleep.
Shortly after he got up the next morning, he understood what Amanda had meant on the phone: she had one national morning show; Jackson, the other. In a moment of panic, Eddie pictured them both in Los Angeles, leaving their television studios, walking tan arm in tan arm to the beach. But, no, Jackson had been in a Chicago studio; only Amanda was in California. Still, Eddie wished that she’d invited him to go on tour with her and worried about what it meant that she hadn’t. And it wasn’t lost on him that his wife had known about Jackson’s television appearance even though they were separated by numerous states. They’d been comparing notes, if nothing else.
Eddie poured himself his earliest drink to date. After he drained it, he poured more whiskey into a flask. Sensing that Henry Baffler might make him feel better about his life, he headed out and caught the subway to the 125t? Street station.
Chapter thirty-eight
Rather than riding all the way into Grand Central, Andrew Yarborough disembarked the commuter train at the 125t? Street station. Most people he knew did not, and in fact would not, get off or on the train in Harlem no matter how many artists or former presidents set up lofts or offices in the neighborhood. And so he was surprised when he saw a familiar face on the platform. Andrew tried to place the young man but could not, and so was more relieved than irritated that the fellow strode past, looking too preoccupied by anger or dyspepsia to recognize the man of letters.
It was unlike Andrew to forget a name, but lately he had forgotten more than names. He’d missed more than one appointment and sometimes found himself standing in the market unable to remember what he had come to buy. Throughout his career, he’d often failed to meet deadlines due to procrastination or even malice, and many times he had claimed that a deadline had slipped his mind. But that had never actually been the case — not until this week, when he’d received a phone call asking for a book review he could not for the life of him remember agreeing to write. There on his desk sat the book — a meta-fictional detective story narrated by a deaf-mute protagonist — but he couldn’t remember how it had landed there.
It was this episode that had convinced him, finally, to see a doctor, which is how he came to be standing on 125t? Street, buying a bag of boiled peanuts while fending off a vocal young woman hell bent on selling him a pair of ostentatious knock-off sunglasses.
He hailed a taxi with little trouble and closed the door as the woman screamed, “you rich fuck.”
As he ascended in the Upper East Side elevator, he thought how ironic it was that he had just been called a rich fuck; he wished he had spent some of his earnings on better health insurance. During his hour in the plush waiting room he tried to ignore the other waiting patient: a drooling elderly man with blank eyes who was accompanied by a sad-looking, overweight daughter. To distract himself, he read the available magazines, including The City and some woman’s magazine with an attractive redhead on the cover. Finally, grudgingly, he lifted The Monthly from a glass side table and felt his blood pressure rise as he saw Chuck Fadge’s name on the masthead. He scanned the table of contents and saw Jackson Miller credited with a story about the travel destinations of well-known writers, as though any idiot couldn’t figure out that the Amalfi coast was a nice place to be if you could afford to stay above the crowds. Perhaps, he thought, a faulty memory was more blessing than curse.
The doctor was small and bespectacled. His head was as smooth as an egg, unblemished by lines, pocks, or even, Andrew noticed with small alarm, eyebrows. Andrew completed the series of word games, picture-grams, and jigsaws with which the doctor tried to puzzle him. The man nodded and took notes with a small pencil, but his face was inscrutable.
“That all I’m getting for my money?” Andrew joked.
“Follow me.”
The doctor led him through another door, which opened into what appeared to be a fully furnished, uninhabited apartment. Had it been a real residence, it would have rented by the month for tens of thousands of dollars. Andrew felt his anxiety grow: the doctor’s bill was going to dwarf his wife’s wardrobe budget.
The doctor handed him a hat, a ring of keys, and a book. “Pretend you’ve just arrived home. Put your things where you would if you lived here and then sit down to read.”
“This is absurd.”
“Perhaps, but like so many of life’s absurdities, necessary.”
Andrew placed the hat on a shelf and his keys in a drawer in the model kitchen, before sitting in a recliner with the book.
“Have you read it yet? My wife’s book club loved it.”
The doctor left, and Andrew soon found himself absorbed by a depiction of the sexual antics of the French court. It wasn’t the kind of book he would ordinarily open, but the prose was competent and, despite himself, he was caught up in the romantic quandaries of the main character. He closed his eyes and conjured up the buxom Libertine in a tightly laced corset, batting her eyelashes at him and whispering provocations, practically begging to be spanked for her saucy behavior.
He woke up when the doctor opened the door. “All right, Mister Yarborough. Please collect your hat and keys and return to my office.”
Andrew stood in the center of the faux apartment. He was sure he was in New York, but where and when he had no idea.
“Where am I? Where’s Felice?” he asked, looking around for his college sweetheart, a lovely girl from Lyon.
“Do you remember where you put the keys, Mister Yarborough?”
Andrew looked helplessly around the room.
Chapter thirty-nine
Henry Baffler settled happily into the Harlem apartment given to him, for a luxurious year, by the mysterious benefactor he still hoped might be J.D. Salinger. Though the size of the place made the possessions he’d acquired with the book advance seem all the more sparse, Henry believed that the airiness and light from the apartment’s nine large windows would do wonders for his writing. He was formulating the idea of an open book. Though he had yet to discover precisely what ‘open’ meant, or how it would translate into a literary form, he was certain that he’d found his next direction.
His concern was that the hunger he had loathed for all the months it had taken him to compose Bailiff was actually a creative necessity. Now that his pantry was reasonably well stocked, he worried that he would lose his momentum, that his edges would be blunted, that he’d become soft and corn-fed, fit for little more than hacking out legal thrillers or sea adventures. It was good to be eating well, but he vowed to restrict his calories should he find his sentences growing flabby.
Such were his thoughts when his doorbell sounded for the first time since he’d moved in. Despite promises of visits, none of his acquaintances had trekked up to Harlem, not even when the Museo del Barrio hosted an exhibit of Rivera, Kahlo, and Seranno — an event that lured quite a few lower Manhattanites into higher street numbers than they tended to frequent.