Elise Blackwell - Grub

“Oh,” Eddie said when she told him. “Then let’s get drunk, too.”

Ignoring the deflation in his tone, Amanda said, “For once I agree with you, but we’re getting drunk on the best champagne. If I can get a reservation, we’re eating dinner at Grub. What’s Jackson’s roommate’s name again? Maybe she can get us a good table. I’ll phone while you shower.”

Amanda was glad to have this reason to call Jackson. Though she was annoyed that Eddie seemed less than happy that she’d also sold a book, she couldn’t rub her advance in his face — not on the day he’d finally sold another book. But Jackson could share in her exultation. She was disappointed to hear Jackson’s recorded voice when she called.

“Me too,” she said to the answering machine. “Six figures, that is.”

The train braked for and jerked away from one absurd stop after another, depositing doughy men to stomp across filthy snow to drive their generic cars home to overweight, practically-shod wives in soul-deadening subdivisions and characterless towns. Jackson Miller promised himself that he would never live anywhere but New York, except, perhaps, Paris.

As he stepped off the train at the Annandale-on-Hudson station, he spotted Margot on the platform. It had been only a couple of weeks since he had last seen her, but she looked smaller than he remembered — shorter and, in pale jeans and a black turtleneck, thinner than ever. She smiled when she saw him, but glanced away when he made eye contact.

“Everything all right?” Jackson put an arm around her narrow shoulders.

“Of course. I’m just happy to see you. And I’m a little nervous.”

She hooked a curl with her index finger and tucked it away from her eye, a small gesture which endeared her to Jackson all over again.

“Especially now that you’re on the verge of fame,” she said. “And my father’s not the nicest host in the world.”

“Let’s face it, even the most famous novelist is hardly mobbed on the street. People may know his name but not his face. Anyway, I’m here to see you and not your father, so never mind about that. We’ll get through the best we can, and we know that you can always come to me.”

The Yarborough house sat on a pretty hill overlooking the wide river, but the Cape Cod itself was smaller and plainer than Jackson had anticipated. Jackson knew little about architecture and construction, but the roof bowed and it was obvious that the clapboard needed a fresh coat of white paint. It probably looked better in the spring; against the snow and bare trees, the house looked dingy.

“It’s a great place, isn’t it?” Margot said. “I’m afraid the day is coming when Dad will have to sell it, though no doubt he’ll hold out as long as possible. My mother would actually like the change.”

“I suppose real estate up here is worth a lot, regardless of the condition of the house itself. Being a train ride from the city and overlooking the Hudson and all.”

“Yes. My parents bought it a long time ago. Only rich people can move here now.”

Jackson laughed. “What’s that joke about middle-aged men? They talk about sex but think about real estate?”

“We’re not middle-aged.”

“Exactly, so perhaps we’re doing the opposite.” Jackson slithered an arm around her small waist and pulled her momentarily closer to him.

Margot, whose cheeks were already pink from the cold, blushed hard, and Jackson felt refreshed. There weren’t many girls who’d lived in the city and still blushed at so mild a comment.

Margot led him into the house and introduced him to her mother as though they had never met. He was relieved he hadn’t made a pass at her at the Blue Ridge Writers’ Conference, which of course was the only thing that would have been worse than what he had done. She was attractive, though, in that way that aging women with leisure and some financial resources can be when they make appearance a priority.

She was gracious as well, taking his hand between both of hers. “Call me Janelle. I’m glad you’re here.”

“It’s my pleasure to finally be here. I think the world of Margot, and I’ve been working very hard at learning to be well behaved.” Jackson made sure his voice was loud and even, that his hint of apology was in no way servile or obsequious.

After they were seated in the living room with drinks, Andrew Yarborough stomped in. For a moment he looked as though he would retreat, but, caught, he came in and took a seat. Jackson stood and nodded, and the old fellow offered a grunt.

They fumbled their way through the relatively safe subject of sports, and Jackson refrained from making his usual comment that Ivy League football is not actually a sport. After touching on movies and politics, they dipped into an uncomfortable silence.

“I’ve been hearing the highest praise for your new work, sir.” Jackson knew that flattery, even if transparent, was his safest course. “And I think it’s high time for just the sort of measured synthesis you’ve attempted.”

“Attempted? It’s finished, and it’s not an attempt at anything. And, mind you, it’s no mere synthesis either. I take some real stands.”

“Of course, sir, I merely used the word ‘synthesis’ to allude to the comprehensive nature of your project.”

“Buttering me up,” Andrew grumbled even as his body language softened. “Fix me a drink, Janelle. Scotch and soda, I think.”

Margot was seated on a large chair, and her toes barely grazed the floor. “Dad’s career certainly doesn’t need a crown. This will be a jewel in it.”

“That’s an absurd metaphor, my darling, and another reason I think your real future lies in editing rather than writing.”

Jackson wanted to weigh the advantages of defending his girlfriend or siding with her father, but he knew that a quick reaction was likely the best. “Of course I adore Margot’s lyrical prose — and her dedication — but she does strike me as someone with a fine editorial eye. There’s no reason, is there, that she can’t practice both literary activities?”

“Dad wants me to start a journal. He’ll be the editorial board, and I’ll be the editor.”

“Well, that’s a capital idea. Except, of course, there’s a lot of competition, and much of that competition can claim institutional financing.”

“Yes,” honked Andrew, “and institutional kowtowing and tastes. Even the newest, supposedly independent reviews are clamoring to publish Adam Richards so he’ll review the editors’ books on his radio show. Even those without books always assume they‘ll write one soon, so they’ll pass up four great short stories to publish some egomaniacal ninety-page monstrosity by Richards. Or else they’ll publish Don Darlington or some other usual suspect just because.”

“I don’t disagree with you, sir. In fact that’s why I was so relieved the other day to read something really interesting in Putrid City . It was by a new writer named Clarice Aames.”

“I haven’t read it, but Putrid City only publishes New York stories. You know, you can be so avant-garde as to be old-fashioned. Besides, that name. It’s ridiculous.”

They skirmished over the relative merits of a few other journals, Jackson cautious not to mention any publication related to Chuck Fadge.

“Oh,” Margot said as though she’d been stuck with a pin, “I saw that Hinks finally placed that story he was having trouble placing. It’s in the new issue of the MidMichigan Review .”

“It’s harder and harder for him to publish, though,” Andrew said.

As the alcohol and the conversation relaxed Jackson, he felt his guard lowering and relished the edge of excitement, the hint of social danger, that accompanied it. “Speaking of old fashioned,” he commented. “Hinks has trouble placing his stories because they’re bland. Well-crafted pieces of nothing. Nothing at stake. Nothing new to say.”