Steven Rowley - The Editor

“You asked her a question that rhymed?” Daniel is incredulous.

“I don’t think I phrased it as a couplet.”

“But it was about the physical stature of the former president of France.”

“I couldn’t think of what else to say!”

“And that’s what popped in your mind. Not ‘What do you do in your spare time? Is that an original Oleg Cassini design you’re wearing? Do you have any shirtless pictures of your son?’”

“Who is Oleg Cassini?”

“My point is—”

“Your point is clear,” I interrupt. “But what else are you supposed to say to someone who wants to publish your book?”

Daniel takes a lap around our minuscule living room. Since the couch and the coffee table and the TV and the one accent chair we found on the curb near Ninth and Forty-Third take up most of the space, he basically turns in a very tight circle, careful not to trip on the edge of the oriental rug, which is folded in half because it’s too big for the room. When he stops he says, “What I don’t get is why . Why does she want to publish your book?”

I mime a dagger going into my heart.

“Oh, come on. I don’t mean it like that. I’ve read your book. I love your book!”

“But you can’t imagine anyone wanting to publish it.”

“In fact, I can. I just didn’t think she published fiction.”

“It’s a memoir. Sort of. Just fictionalized.”

“It’s a novel, genius, and I didn’t think she did that.”

“What did you think she did?”

“I don’t know. Art books.”

I blanch at the thought, but I don’t know why. If you asked me yesterday what kind of books Jackie Kennedy published I would have had no idea. I had only a vague recollection that she even worked in publishing. Today I have no sense of her list either, but I’m feeling oddly defensive of it.

“You know,” Daniel continues. “Coffee-table books. Like on the history of tatting.”

It’s infuriating at times, the things he knows. In the middle of our worst arguments he’ll produce a fact that makes me want to hit him in the face with a shovel.

Daniel can read my bewilderment. “Lacemaking.”

“The history of lace?” The idea is almost absurd.

“The history of making lace.”

I glare at my boyfriend. “You frighten me.”

Daniel does another turn in place, the way a dog might before lying down.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you other than she’s interested in publishing my book. We’re going to work on it. Together.”

Daniel chews the inside of his cheek. “And what if she wants to change it?”

“I imagine she will want to change it. That’s her job. It’s called editing.”

“But what if she wants to change it and you don’t agree with how she wants to change it, but you can’t say anything because she’s Jackie fucking Kennedy?”

“You’ve really got to stop calling her that.”

“I’m serious. What if she wants to set the story on Cape Cod?”

“You could try being excited for me.”

“What if she wants to set the story on Cape Cod and add schooner racing as a leitmotif because that’s what she and Ethel did off of Nantucket.”

“She and Ethel discussed leitmotif?”

“No. Raced their … lady schooners.”

I want to laugh but also bang my head against the wall. “Please don’t say ‘lady schooners’ again.”

“But …”

“She doesn’t.”

“You just know.”

I nod. I don’t know how else to explain it to anyone who wasn’t there. We talked a little about characters and relationships and motivation, and I know we will talk more. And even if we hadn’t, we definitely discussed my ability to tell her no.

Daniel finally relents, his engines out of steam. “Well, congratulations. I mean it. Bravo.” This time he hugs me.

“Thank you.” This is what I’ve wanted. I grip him tight. His T-shirt smells like dryer sheets from the fluff-and-fold we splurge on sometimes when we have money. But more than that. It smells like him. Daniel breaks the hug first to look me square in the eyes and I bite my lip to avoid a toothy grin.

“You had me going there for a moment,” he says. “The bit about Charles de Gaulle was a nice touch.”

Huh?

“Can you imagine if you ever did meet her and that’s what you asked?”

“I did meet her and that is what I asked.”

Daniel laughs. “Is Charles de Gaulle tall? Was he on the ball or off the wall? Did you two break bread on the National Mall? Tell me, Jackie, is the frog the opposite of small?”

I punch Daniel in the arm. Normally when I do this it’s meant to be playful. This time I’m not so sure. “I asked that for my mother. She used to talk about the presidential visit to Paris like she was there and not stuck in rural New York with three children under the age of ten. I knew she would love whatever the answer was. Oh! And there’s a whole story about the Mona Lisa that I can’t wait to tell her.”

“Your mother …” Daniel says.

“You may remember her. You’ve been introduced on numerous occasions.”

“Your mother, who has adored the Kennedys for most of her life.”

Oh, shit.

“Your Irish Catholic mother whom you wrote a not entirely flattering, although, to be fair, not entirely unflattering, book about? The one who named you Francis? The one who will have a book about her edited by Jackie Kennedy?”

At least he doesn’t say “fucking” this time.

And then it hits me. As frustrated as I have been with Daniel for not immediately getting it, there are layers to this bonanza that even I have yet to process. I’m still scooping my chip through the top layer of a fourteen-layer dip. There are thirteen more layers of mush and fattening sludge to get through before I reach the bottom. As I chew on that image I realize it’s a horrible metaphor—with each passing moment, I feel more like the dip, in another sense of the word.

“Come here.”

Daniel motions for me to step closer, but I’m frozen in place.

“Come. Here.”

I take two steps in his direction and he hugs me again, this time for real. “You really did this. You really met Jackie Kennedy.” He pauses, the truth now undeniable. He cups the back of my head, massaging my scalp.

“I thought you didn’t believe me.”

“I do now! It’s written all over your face. You bastard.” I can feel him smile, his cheek pressed against mine. “I’m so proud of you.”

He squeezes me even tighter.

“What’s more, I think this is a terrific marriage.”

“You don’t believe in marriage,” I say, halfheartedly. I’m hundreds of miles away.

“I don’t believe in monogamy and the subjugation of women, but I’m not so worried in this case.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“This could be a great creative marriage.” He leans back to see if I’m paying attention. “You’ve worked so hard. Been so disciplined. This is your moment. I’m really happy for you.” He musses my hair. “Seriously, though. How are you going to tell your mother?”

“I don’t know.” I’m certain the words fall out of my mouth, but in my head I just say Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, over and over again until my mind goes dark.