Elise Blackwell - Grub

Margot’s gaze held his steadily, yet he could not read it.

“I’d hate to see you squander your literary gains when you could be ensuring not just your literary future but indeed that of your country.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Dad. It’s just so clear to me that there are more journals than there are good stories. Most of them fold. And it seems as though soon more than half of them will be online only. If we start a journal, no one will notice, and what little money I have will be gone.”

Anger rose in Andrew’s chest, but he stayed seated and kept his mouth clamped.

“Besides, my paltry advance would cover you for all of six months.”

Quarmbey countered: “But by then we’d be fundraising, applying for grants, putting on some events, and of course building circulation all the while.”

“I don’t want to be the arbiter of taste,” Margot said. “I just want to write some stories and then maybe another novel.”

Now Andrew rose and in his lowest growl said, “About what? Syphilitics in Alabama? That’s what the world needs, not a quality journal, no indeed, but a very quiet novel about syphilitics in Alabama written by an upper-middle-class white girl from Annandaleon-Hudson.”

Quarmbey looked down and shook his head. Hinks rose, placing a physical obstacle between father and daughter.

“You’ve always been bellicose and pig-headed and basically selfish. But I didn’t realize until just now that you are a cruel man.” Margot did not cry before leaving the room.

“It’s time for you to leave,” Andrew told the two men. “My wife will drive you to the train.”

Later, he sat in the dark in his study and pictured himself walking down the hall, tapping softly on his daughter’s door, asking if he could read her a story. He knew he should go and apologize, but he could not translate the thought into action, could not lift himself to stand. He pushed the skin of his face, using his fingertips to smooth it up and out, trying to remember the names of the books he’d read to Margot when she was a child. Some of them he must have read a hundred times, forcing himself to repeat them over and over while she listened raptly, fighting sleep, as though the ending might be different each time.

On Christmas Eve, Jackson Miller was enjoying Amanda’s saffron-laced seafood stew. Amanda and Eddie had toasted Jackson’s publishing contract at the beginning of the meal, and Amanda had inquired about every detail of the sale except for the size of his advance, which was, no doubt, the piece of information that most interested her.

Jackson talked some about his publisher’s plans for the book: the pre-publication publicity lunch, the publication soiree, the plot for media infiltration, the advertising budget, the corporate sales. It was clear by the way he concentrated on his utensils that Eddie was not enjoying the conversation. Jackson wasn’t even sure that his friend was happy for him.

When Eddie’s book had sold, Jackson had faced down his own jealousy and cheered on his friend. He had told himself: I wish it were me; I’m glad it’s Eddie; I look forward to the day when it’s me. And so now he felt a bit dented by the lack of reciprocal enthusiasm. After all, Eddie had already published a book — and he had Amanda.

It rankled Jackson, too, that underlying Eddie’s lukewarm congratulations was the belief that Jackson’s success was undeserved, that he wasn’t a good writer. Still, Jack sympathized with Eddie’s failure to follow up on his early success, even if the misery was largely self-inflicted, and understood that disappointment fuels bitterness. Jackson could now afford to be magnanimous, and he’d always been affable if not particularly loyal. He always wished others well, all the more so if it didn’t cost him anything.

Directing the conversation away from his contract for Eddie’s sake, he said, “So fill me in on the doings of Whelpdale.”

Eddie lightened. “He’s offering a local workshop called ‘how to write and sell a novel in ten weeks,’ if you can believe it. He claims to have invented something called the ‘crystal method’ of novel writing, which he promises will generate a publishable novel through a series of easy-to-follow steps. All you need to start is one idea for a character.”

“At least he’s trying to succeed,” Amanda met Jackson’s eyes as she poured more Pinot Gris into his glass.

“At what?” Eddie’s tone echoed the contempt in his wife’s.

“That’s funny,” Jackson said, stepping around the palpable tension between his married friends. “Doreen had a copy of a pamphlet called The Crystal Method of Novel Writing . I hope that means she’s going to write some romances or children’s books so she can quit her godawful job.”

“What’s most scandalous,” added Amanda, “is that the advertisements for Whelpdale’s workshops suggest that he can help his victims get their dreadful little novels published. The ads have lines like ‘instructor has extensive contacts in the publishing world’ and ‘instructor will evaluate completed novels for suitable agents.’”

Jackson set his spoon down in his empty bowl and sipped the wine. “Speaking of literary enterprises,” he continued, “what’s up with Henry? Any news?”

“He says he’s close to finishing his novel. He read some pages to me. He really is a first-rate writer. It will be unfair if he can’t find a publisher.”

“I, for one, will be quite disappointed if I never get to read it.” Amanda spoke with such charm that it was unclear whether she was serious or making fun of Henry.

“I’m not sure it’s your cup of tea, Amanda,” Eddie said. “You’d likely call it too quiet.”

“The hero’s actually a bailiff, right?” Jackson said, amused. “What does Henry call him? The decently ignoble or the ignobly decent? Something like that.”

“No doubt your sales will dwarf his, but he’s like me,” Eddie said. “He’s not in it for the money.”

“Art and money are not antonyms,” Jackson replied, “but I freely admit that money does motivate me. I’m not a martyr for literature like you. I plan to develop an extravagant lifestyle and lead it into deep old age.”

“Did you tell your family about your book?” Amanda asked him.

Jackson saw his father compulsively touching the tops of his sailing trophies, counting them forwards and backwards. He shook his head. “When it’s published, I’ll send a copy to my mother. She can tell my father or not. I don’t give a damn.”

“Really?” She paused for his answer but quickly moved on when he didn’t respond. “Are you dedicating it to anyone?”

Again he shook his head, thinking that he had no one he could dedicate his first novel to. “No one helped me write it,” he said, his voice buoyant. “I’m taking all the credit.”

Two bottles of wine later, Amanda excused herself to go to bed. “Merry Christmas, Jackson,” she said as she hugged him. “I’m glad you still have time for your ordinary friends.”

“There’s nothing ordinary about you, my dear,” he said, holding the embrace for what felt like a few seconds too long, his hands spanning her shoulder blades, his fingertips only a layer of angora from her skin.

The two men finished another bottle of wine. Jackson felt remarkably even and fresh, but clearly Eddie was feeling the wine’s effect; he was beginning to slur his words and was now pacing the room erratically.

“You know,” Eddie said, “it’s all well and good for you to worship Mammon, but you should at least try to notice what it costs me when you’re always praising success in front of someone else.” He emphasized the final two words.