Elise Blackwell - Grub

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.

“It was a joke. I didn’t plan to write anything that stupid. Next you’ll be wanting a piece on the gym regimens of Pulitzer winners. If so, I have to tell you I may not be your man.”

“Joke, yes. Stupid, sure. Perfect, you bet. Shall we say eight-hundred words by Friday after next? And don’t rule out that workout story. I’m serious.”

The second Jackson returned the phone to its cradle, he felt it vibrate in his hand. “Hello, Jackson Miller here,” he said, practicing the confident tone of a regular columnist for one of the country’s most recognizable literary publications.

“Jackson.” It was his agent’s voice. “Don’t say anything, just listen to these words: six figures and page one in the catalogue.” She paused, not without drama. “The lead book, Jackson! I told them to put the marketing budget in the contract. That’s rare — they hate doing it — but they want to publish this book more than they want to breathe.”

Margot Yarborough expected the year between the acceptance and the publication of her novel to be a long agony, but time moved quickly and was punctuated by small pleasures.

Several times during the winter, Margot rode the train into the city to spend a night with Jackson, whose pieces now regularly appeared in The Times and — she knew but hoped her father did not— The Monthly .

When Jackson was with her, she felt the brightness of his full attention. He was always concerned that she get enough to eat. He solicited her views on various events and books. And he seemed to find it difficult to keep his hands off her. She enjoyed this — who wouldn’t, she asked herself — but it was always a bit of a relief to leave the spotlight he shined on her, to no longer measure her words or worry that she had packed the wrong clothes when he wanted to take her out for a drink. And when she was at home, Jackson seemed much further away than an hour’s commute. She thought of him, but it often seemed that he was separated from her by time rather than space, as though he belonged to her past rather than her present. Or, as in a fantastic film, that he existed in some alternate or imagined future that would never arrive in this life, that he lived in a parallel world that was visible, yet fully curtained off.

Between visits to the city, she worked. Among other projects, she wrote book reviews for a small trade journal. Though she received only forty dollars per review, she felt ethically bound to read every word of every book she was assigned. Often she was disheartened by the television thinness of the plots and the poor quality of the prose itself. She kept her mood from plummeting by reminding herself that many good books also make it into print. In her reviews, even of those books she did not admire, she was kind — sensitive to the truth that a real human being sat behind even the frailest effort.

During this time, she also proofread the galleys of both her book and her father’s, going over each carefully and twice. Knowing she would be charged if she changed more than a certain percentage of lines, she chose her edits carefully, debating whether her use of the word ‘night’ in a description of the Creole girl’s eyes was a cliché in need of repair, whether a particular pronoun was absolutely clear in its reference.