Elise Blackwell - Grub

Andrew instructed his wife to prepare some snacks and drinks but to stay out of the conversation beyond the initial pleasantries.

“What are you up to?” she asked.

“Nothing at all. I just don’t want you frightening our guests with any of your psychobabble.”

“If you knew me at all, you’d know that I believe that Freudian analysis has done the world far more harm than good. Women especially. Jung is a different matter, of course, but that’s not psychobabble.”

She would have continued ad nauseam, he was sure, had the saving doorbell not sounded.

“Would you be so gracious, dear,” he said, “as to open our home to our guests?”

For the first time in years, his wife surprised him. She stuck out her tongue.

“The orator’s last recourse?” He inserted a sneer in his tone, but what he was thinking was that his wife was still an attractive woman underneath the swirling prints and absurd earrings and layers of so-called natural cosmetics. He pressed this thought from his mind and mixed himself a Scotch and soda.

The smell of cigar smoke on wool moved with Quarmbey into the kitchen, where he made himself at home stirring vodka around a large tumbler of ice.

“What’ll it be for you?” Andrew asked Frank Hinks.

“Wine, I think,” said the younger man, who hurriedly added, “or beer is fine.”

Andrew worked the corkscrew into a bottle of red wine while he took stock of Hinks. Though nondescript, his face was not unattractive. The nose was all right, and he had a decent jaw on him. But Andrew’s hopes shrank to nothing when Hinks removed his blazer, revealing sloped shoulders and womanly hips. The young man had a severely inclined neck, making his face jut far out in front of his body; it was clear that he would look more and more like a turtle as the years went by. He doubted that Margot would go for such a fellow, nor could he wish on himself an old age surrounded by terrapin-like grandchildren. He pulled out the cork with a loud thwop and consoled himself that Hinks could still serve the primary function of convincing Margot to finance the journal.

The three men sat in the living room and talked about the state of literature, Quarmbey arguing that the relegation of literary fiction to university writing programs had drained the vitality from the short story and Hinks arguing that the academy was as good a home and patron to literature as any other arrangement.

“Margot!” Andrew bellowed. “Do pour yourself something and join us.”

When she finally entered the living room, Margot was wearing a simply cut black dress and sipping half a glass of wine.

“What’s your view, Margot,” Quarmbey asked. “Should the country have a fiction laureate in addition to a poet laureate?”

Hinks, who was sitting in the room’s most comfortable chair, huddled himself up and offered the seat he had been occupying to Margot.

She sat and tucked a curl behind her ear. “I think it might lead to more literary quarrelling, and we have quite enough of that as it is.”

Quarmbey and Hinks laughed, murmuring “True, true,” and Andrew produced a smile before steering the conversation to periodicals.

“There’s really no journal or magazine that publishes uniformly fine short stories. The problem with the university-based journals is that it’s always decision-by-committee, or student readers who don’t know what the hell they’re doing, or else editors trying to boost their meager circulations by including the drawer-leavings of anyone with a name bigger than their own. It’s the usual suspects, but it’s the stories The City didn’t want.”

“And of course,” chimed in Hinks, “they all publish their friends.”

“And each other,” Quarmbey agreed. “You publish me, and I’ll publish you, and we’ll all get tenure.”

“But the magazines outside the university are just as bad in their own way. Hopping on trends, half of them, or surviving by bilking aspiring writers with contest after contest with ever-higher entry fees and ever-smaller prizes.”

“I’ve spent hundreds of dollars this year,” Hinks said, “and I don’t mean to sound immodest when I say that the winning stories are worse than what I submitted.”

Quarmbey nodded. “The judges often pick the work of their friends or former students. Or else the readers screen out everything that’s actually interesting, leaving the poor judge to try to pick something from among the bland leftovers.”

“The other day,” Hinks said, his neck curved, his head jutting from his tortoise body, “I received a rejection letter from a journal that was considering two of my stories. The editor wrote that she couldn’t decide whether to publish one or both of the stories, so she was going to opt for neither.”

“That’s terrible,” Margot said sympathetically. “I once received my self-addressed stamped envelope back from a journal, and they hadn’t even bothered to put in the form rejection letter. They just sent the empty envelope.”

Hinks pumped his head. “I once received a lovely rejection letter that went on and on about the story’s wonderful control of tone, vivid characterization, and all. Then I realized that it wasn’t even about my story and that some other writer had received my rejection letter.”

“Terrible,” Margot agreed. “And the rejection letters are getting smaller and smaller, have you noticed? I’m all for saving natural resources, but it is disheartening to receive a sentence on one-sixteenth of a piece of paper in exchange for a thirty-page short story.”

“Thirty pages?” Quarmbey asked. “I don’t want to offend you, sweetheart, but that might be the problem right there.”

“There are the glossies, of course,” Andrew put in quickly. “But they’re hodgepodges, and it’s rare for any of them to publish more than one decent story amid their general clap-trap. What this country needs is a good quarterly publication that publishes the highest quality fiction with a few good critical essays.”

“It wouldn’t take a lot of start-up money, either,” Quarmbey added, “and the thing would likely pay for itself in no time, with grant money and such.”

“I think it would be downright successful just in subscriptions. It would take its place between those academy-based annuals and Fadge’s horrendous monthly. It would publish only the finest stories, without taking the pulse of the trendy set. Solid craftsmanship, strong imagery, vivid characterization, classic plot arcs. The kind of stories you write.” Andrew paused and turned to Margot. “Did you know that Mr. Hinks, one of our finest short story writers, has trouble placing his work?”

“That’s terrible,” she said. “Especially since there are so many journals these days.”

“But not of the right kind! Hardly one of them is worth its salt,” Andrew spouted.

“I ran across one the other day,” said Quarmbey, “that actually bragged about publishing no realism whatsoever, while claiming to be socially and politically relevant. How can you pretend to be socially and politically relevant if you don’t publish representations of the times in which you live?”

Hinks shook his head, and the three men proceeded to discuss their imaginary journal as though they were its editorial committee and the first issue was about to go to print.

A good half an hour had passed when Margot, who had finished her drink and was not participating in their conversation, rose to leave. “Can I get anyone another drink before I retire?” she asked, collecting Quarmbey’s empty glass as he nodded.

“Yourself,” Andrew said. “Get yourself another drink.”

His daughter lifted the back of her hand to cover her yawn.

“We very much wanted you to be part of this discussion. I’m thinking about your wellbeing, financial as well as intellectual, and I think the opportunity to launch a really quality literary journal would prepare your way.”