The next couple of days.
He muttered a curse.
The weekend was shot. As soon as Lane got home from school today, they would be hitting the road for Los Angeles to visit with Jeans folks.
Just what he wanted to do.
Especially now, with the new idea sizzling in his mind.
Cant get out of it, though. Youll just have to put the idea on hold till Monday.
It would give him something to think about while he drove. He might be able to work out a few of the main scenes, maybe even come up with some nifty new angles. But he knew very well that daydreaming about the story while he steered down the freeway would accomplish very little compared to working at the word processor. The act of typing out his thoughts seemed to give them a focus that wasnt there when he simply let his mind wander. Daydreams seemed to meander and drift. But sentences were solid, and one led to another.
Not this weekend, they wont.
This weekends down the toilet.
Well, he tried to console himself, Jeans folks are okay. And it is their anniversary. Ill probably end up having a good time, even though Id rather be...
He heard the door bell ring.
Jean would take care of it.
He wondered whether he should get back to Night Strangeror spend the rest of the day fleshing out his jukebox story.
Call it The Box, he suddenly thought.
And grinned.
THE BOX, he typed. Great title. Has a mysterious ring to it. And Box not only refers to the jukebox that sends him back in time, but also the box or trap he finds himself stuck in. Hes boxed in by circumstances. No apparent way out. Also, the sex thing. Have one of the bikers refer to the main gal as a box. Foxy box. And maybe the main guy is a former boxer killed an opponent in the ring, and swore off fighting? No, thatd be pushing it. Trite, too. But maybe there are some other box angles. Fool around with it.
He heard Jeans footsteps approaching. She might come in and look over his shoulder, so he scrolled down until foxy box climbed out of sight at the top of the screen.
She rapped on the office door and pushed it open. In her hand was an Overnight Mail bag that looked large enough to hold a manuscript. This just came for you, she said. Its from Chandler House.
His publisher.
Jean watched while he tore open the bag. Inside, he found a fat manuscript held together by rubber bands. And a typewritten note from his editor, Susan Anderson:
Larry
Here is the copyedited manuscript of MADHOUSE. The corrections are light, so Im sure youll be pleased.
We would like you to make whatever changes you consider appropriate, and return it to us if possible by October 13.
Best,
Susan
Larry grimaced.
What? Jean asked.
Its Madhouse. The copyedited version. Im supposed to send it back by the thirteenth. He glanced at his calendar. Christ, thats next Thursday.
They didnt give you much time.
Thats for sure, he muttered. Theyve had it for about a year and a half, and now I get... six days.
Have fun, Jean said. She left the room, closing the door again to keep his pipe smoke from contaminating the rest of the house.
Larry pushed his chair back, crossed a leg, rested the thick manuscript on his thigh and rolled the rubber bands off. He tossed Susans note and the title page onto the cluttered TV tray beside his chair.
Then he groaned.
For light corrections, page one seemed to have an awful lot of changes.
Halfway down the page his paragraph used to read, She tugged at the door. Locked. God, no! She whirled around and choked out a whimper. He was already off the autopsy table, staggering toward her, his head bobbing and swaying on its broken neck. In his hand was the scalpel.
Larry struggled to decipher the changes. Words had been crossed out, others added. The paragraph was a map of lines and arrows. At last he figured it out.
Tugging at the door, she found it to be locked. No! Snapping her head around, she whimpered in despair, for she saw that the corpse was staggering toward her with a scalpel in his hand. His head was swinging from side to side atop its snapped neck.
Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, Larry muttered.
He found Jean in their bedroom, gathering clothes from an open drawer of her bureau and taking them to her suitcase. Both suitcases lay open on the bed.
He sat down at the end of the mattress. Weve got a problem.
The manuscript?
I just looked through the whole thing. Its been wrecked.
Not again.
Yeah. Madhousewas his twelfth novel, and the third to be demolished by a copyeditor.
Whatre you going to do? Jean asked.
I have to fix it. I dont have any choice. He scowled at the carpet. Maybe I could get them to take my name off and publish it under the name of the copyeditor.
Its that bad?
And then some.
Why do they let it happen?
God, I dont know. Its the luck of the draw, I guess. This time, they happened to send my book to some idiot who thinks shes a writer.
Or he, Jean said, standing up for her gender.
Or it.
Couldnt you just write a letter to Susan, or something, and explain the situation? Maybe they could send a fresh copy to someone else.
He shook his head. I dont think shed appreciate that. Itd be like calling them jerks for sending it to some illiterate butcher. Besides, they already paid to have it done. And theyre on a tight time schedule by now, or they wouldnt want the damn thing back in six days.
Maybe you should phone Susan.
The last thing I need is to get a reputation as a troublemaker.
So youre just going to take it lying down?
Im going to take it sitting on my butt with a red pen in one hand and a copy of my British edition in the other. If the people in London didnt fix it, it didnt need fixing. He hung his head and sighed.
Jean stepped in front of him. She rubbed his shoulders. Im sorry, honey.
Fortunes of war. The thing is... itll have to be mailed Wednesday for next-day delivery. If I go to your folks place, that only gives me about three days to go through the whole damn thing and try to... save it.
You could take it along.
I wouldnt be fit to live with, anyway. Maybe you and Lane should just go ahead without me. As he spoke the words, he realized that he didnt want to be left behind. Not for this. But he couldnt go. If I spend the whole weekend working on it, maybe Ill be feeling human again by the time you get back.
I suppose we could call it off, she said, stroking his hair. Go up next weekend instead.
No, dont do that. Its their anniversary. Besides, youve been looking forward to it. No need for all of us to suffer because of this crap.
If youre sure, she muttered.
I dont see any choice.
Larry went back to his office. His throat felt tight.
You didnt want to go in the first place, he reminded himself.
But that was before he found out he would have to be laboring over Madhouse.
He stared at his computer screen.
Maybe there are some other box angles. Fool around with it.
Right. Sure thing. Maybe sometime next week.
No more working out the details for The Box. No more plunging toward the conclusion of Night Stranger.
The next few days belonged to Madhouse, a book that hed finished eighteen months ago. A book that had already been published in England and about all they had changed over there was windshield to windscreen and added us to words like color.
So who said life is fair? he muttered, and shut his computer off.
Twelve
I have a special announcement to make, Mr. Kramer said with two minutes remaining before the bell. As Ive mentioned before, the drama department at the city college is putting on Hamletnext week. Im sure the production will be well worth seeing for all of you, and I urge every one of you to attend if you can. Now, heres the thing. Ive obtained four free tickets to the Saturday night performance. Only four of you will be able to participate, but for those lucky students, Ill provide tickets and transportation. He smiled. That way, you wont have to bug your parents to borrow a car. A few of the kids laughed. If any of you would like to take advantage of the opportunity, just stay in your seats after the bell rings.