Steven Rowley - The Editor

Jackie makes a rich sound like an exquisite piece of chocolate is melting on her tongue. “And those are just the last few lines. Beautiful, isn’t it? Take that book home with you and read the rest.”

“It’s remarkably … apropos.” But have I always known? Is my book some sort of misadventure to understand something that, deep down, I already know?

“Inspired by Homer, if I’m not mistaken.” Of course she’s not mistaken.

“The return of Odysseus home,” I say, grateful this time for something more intelligent to say. “Homer, I’ve read.”

“The maturity of the soul as we all travel home is, I think, all the traveler can hope for. I want you to think of that, especially in the context of your manuscript’s ending. I think that’s where the bulk of your work lies.”

“The ending.”

“The last third of the book. I have a clear picture of who your characters are at the start of the quarantine, but I don’t know exactly who they are at the end. To each other, to themselves.”

“I keep thinking of our first conversation. How you said books are journeys.”

“That’s right.”

“But …”

Jackie rests her chin on the back of her hand. “What is it?”

I hesitate, not sure how I can say this. “I’m sorry. I haven’t worked with an editor before. I don’t want to overstep.”

“I tell my writers our conversations are privileged. Like doctor and patient.”

“Lawyer and client?”

“Priest and parishioner. Confession only if you want.” Jackie raises her glass.

“I was just thinking if my book is in part about motherhood, that’s a journey you have taken.”

“One that has given me some of my most sublime moments. But your book. Yes, it’s about motherhood, but through the eyes of a son. And I haven’t been one of those.”

“I suppose that’s true,” I concede.

Jackie takes a long, slow sip from her glass. “I want to see real growth on the page, how the events have changed them, particularly the son. You have a remarkably fresh voice, so I know you have it in you.”

My drink is going down too easily, and I can feel the rum rushing to my face, coloring my cheeks, creating a blessed hollowness between my ears, allowing me not to pass out. “I can taste the molasses.”

Jackie narrows her eyes, scrutinizing me. “It’s hard for you to hear a compliment.”

“I don’t suppose I’ve received enough compliments to know.”

“That was wonderful deflection. The molasses.”

“Another compliment?”

“Another deflection?” She takes one more sip, then sets her glass down on a coaster. “You can taste it, though, I’ll give you that. Especially when you know that it’s there.”

I place the Cavafy book on the corner of her desk and inspect what’s left of my drink.

Jackie refocuses. “Before we get to the ending, tell me more about your mother.”

I burst out laughing and am immediately embarrassed, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Oh, heavens. I sounded like your analyst.”

I’m fascinated to know if she’s familiar with the language of therapy. It wouldn’t surprise me, and yet it’s hard to imagine her vulnerable enough to seek help. But as much as our conversations may be privileged, I’m sure the privilege of probing conversation flows only one way. “What would you like to know?”

“Was she always sad?”

“No” is my first answer. But then I have to think— Is she sad? “I don’t think so. Perhaps. Are we talking about Ruth? I’m afraid I’m a little confused.”

“There’s confusion in the character.” She leans forward to retrieve the glass from my hand, and I barely loosen my grip enough for her to take it. If it weren’t for the condensation from the ice, it might not have wiggled out of my hand at all. “There are several moments where you get close to expressing something real, and I think you pad your observations with what I guess are fictional details and it keeps you from hitting some of the harder truths.”

She pours more rum into my glass. “Not too much,” I say. But as she refills my drink I think, To hell with it. You know? If we’re going to do this, let’s do this. Let this be the grand marshal in a parade of lunch ladies to come.

“Tell me something true,” she says.

“About my mother?”

“Even if it has nothing to do with the book.”

I think about this and how not to further betray her. She’d already be horrified if she were a fly on the wall right now. Do I tell Jackie my mother resents me for her being alone? That she took my side once, and it cost her her marriage? That even though it was the right thing to do, in the moment she probably didn’t envision how long life would be in the wake of it? That we’re barely on speaking terms right now? “I don’t think my mother got much of what she wanted out of life.”

“She has her children.”

“That’s true, but hardly anything else.”

“Does anyone? Get what they truly want.”

The question strikes me as odd, borderline offensive, even, from someone who has lived such a fascinating life. I need more alcohol for this. “Well, no. I would imagine that’s rare. But I also don’t think she was given the tools to ask.”

“That’s true for a lot of women our age.” Jackie steps in front of her desk to hand me my drink. She stands and leans elegantly with her legs crossed and one hand on the desk, looking like the perfect line sketch a fashion designer might make while dreaming up patterns for clothes. “I feel for her.”

“That’s good. As a reader, I hope that you would.”

“I’ll try over the course of our working together not to sound like your analyst. Writing it, I’m sure, was therapy enough.”

“If I hadn’t written it, I think I might have gone insane. Or become a Republican. Something horrible.”

Jackie laughs in such a way, not heartily but genuinely, that I want it to be my validation forever. “You remind me of my son.”

I can feel my face turn beet red, so I look down at my feet. They look cloddish in large, heavy shoes, the opposite of her narrow, elegant heels. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Acknowledge that I have difficulty accepting compliments, then lay the biggest one of all on me and expect me to be okay.”

Jackie waves her hand over her drink, wafting in some of the aroma. “Perhaps this round is too sweet.”

“Deflection!” This is the rum talking. “Are you not comfortable with compliments either? Could this be something we have in common?” I take a victory sip.

She shakes her head. “You didn’t compliment me.”

“The heck I didn’t.”

“A compliment for my son is a compliment for me?”

I nod enthusiastically, and I can tell this pleases her. She moves behind the desk to retake her seat. “He failed the bar exam multiple times, which I’m sure you know if you read the Daily News .” I can feel her utter sense of pride in him, as if this were self-depreciation.

I sink back into my chair and chuckle. I do remember the headlines: “The Hunk Flunks.” That must have stung. But, still. I can’t believe how much fun I’m having. I can’t believe how much my outlook has changed in a matter of weeks. I can’t believe that this is my life now. It feels resurgent, sparkling with possibility, like I’ve made some sort of comeback from an exile I hadn’t deserved.

“I think my lunch lady is working,” I confide.

Jackie sips from her cocktail and her eyes sparkle with thousands of secrets. “I think mine is too.” When she finishes, she sets her glass down and holds out the silver tray to collect mine. Another magical moment ended too soon, and we’re on to something new. “Now,” she says. “Let’s get down to work.”