Elise Blackwell - Grub

Elegant variation was effortless work for Jackson, and, as always, the sentences came easily. He soon realized, though, that the sardonic tone that came to him more naturally than intentionally, and had worked so perfectly in Oink , was inappropriate for the new book. So he worked more conscientiously with his ideas, creating full-blown on the page the beautiful female main character for whom his artist-protagonist forsakes art for a desk job, and then used the events of his plot to blame her for the world’s loss in paintings. Jackson presumed this was a much better story than Hobbema’s actual biography. More than likely, the man had lacked artistic commitment from the get-go, was lazy, or had succumbed to the dull pressure of a new father-in-law or small-pursed uncle. Some people needed schedules dictated by others, or maybe the man hadn’t really cared for the smell of paint. Whatever the historical truth was, Jackson penned a romantic tragedy, delivered with a droll cynicism moderated by empathetic diction.

After turning down several invitations because he was busy with the book and with the Jonathans, Jackson at last agreed to have dinner with Doreen and her abominable fiancé. He figured he owed it to Doreen, and Whelpdale’s doings might provide fodder for an article and, possibly, a bit of amusement. Besides, even without formal training, Doreen was a great cook.

His former roommate did not disappoint: she served a first-rate Insalata Caprese, pepper-encrusted lamb shanks with a mint salsa, perfectly roasted potatoes and parsnips, and a simple custard-filled cake studded with pine nuts.

Jackson was struck by the genuine fondness Whelpdale exhibited for Doreen. He would quickly hoist up his large body whenever she approached or rose from the table.

“Southern upbringing,” he said apologetically.

“It’s charming,” Jackson said, as he considered recovering his own manners. “But aren’t you from Toledo?”

He briefly considered a column about the table habits and general levels of politeness of well-known authors — who’s a gentleman at dinner and who’s a real boor, that sort of thing — but dismissed it because it would likely get him in trouble with the Jonathans, one of whom had never encountered an entrée he didn’t consider finger food, and another who guarded his plate with his forearm as though he’d spent long years in maximum-security lockup. Instead, he offered the idea to Whelpdale, who pulled a small stack of index cards and a pen from his inside coat pocket and jotted down a note.

“Yes,” said the large young man, “it might be a good topic for my publication’s ‘Right Writing’ column. I’ll see if there’s someone I can assign it to.” He returned the cards and pen to his jacket pocket. “Say, Jackson, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in writing for me?”

Doreen set down a forkful of lamb and watched Jackson, fearful, no doubt, that he’d say something rude. As she made eye contact with him he was overwhelmed by fraternal love for this gold-hearted girl.

“I’d love to, naturally,” he said, “but my plate is full just now. So to speak, no pun intended. But I hear ProProse is a tremendous success.”

Whelpdale’s already formidable chest expanded as his posture straightened. “Well, I just hope that it’s helpful. That’s my mission in life: to help us poor sots who pick up the pen for our livelihood.”

Jackson couldn’t help himself. “So, you’re still writing fiction? Got anything coming out?”

Whelpdale was not flapped. “You know me; I’ve always got my irons in the fire.”

“Caff or decaff with dessert?” Doreen injected into the small pause. “And I hope you both left room.”

“Leaded,” Whelpdale said. “I don’t plan to retire early, and I always have room for your desserts.”

Pushing away the appalling thought of Whelpdale coupling with the pretty Doreen, Jackson asked him if he’d read Henry Baffler’s book.

“A work of genius,” Whelpdale exclaimed. “It’s wonderful.”

“Can I borrow it?” Doreen asked.

Whelpdale shook his head.

“You’re right,” Jackson said. “Poor Henry needs every sale he can get. I’m not going to loan mine out either.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Whelpdale said quickly. “It’s just not the sort of thing Doreen would like reading.”

“Surely you don’t imagine me so feeble-minded that I’m capable of reading only beach novels and chick lit? If it’s a work of genius, I should read it.”

“Of course not. You have a perfect mind! It’s just that by work of genius, I meant that it’s impenetrable. Literally almost nothing happens in four hundred pages. And I can’t stand the thought of you associated with what Baffler calls the ignobly decent — not even on the page.”

Despite Whelpdale’s blatant flattery and the affectation of his manners and gestures — he’s no more a gentleman than I am, Jackson thought — his tone evinced sincere affection for Doreen.

“I’m afraid,” Jackson said, “that the reviewers are with you there.”

“Except for the anonymous reviewer in The Monthly ,” Whelpdale said.

Jackson wondered if Whelpdale knew that it was he who had written the review. He hoped not. Real charity is anonymous, but, more important, Jackson wanted Henry to believe a neutral reviewer had really admired and tried to understand Bailiff . “Yes,” he said, “now that fellow understood the literary importance of what our friend is up to.”

“Or else,” said Whelpdale slyly, “he’s good to his friends.”

“Let’s hope the occasional good deed goes unpunished,” Jackson said, filling his mouth with pastry.

Between her uncertainty about her feelings toward Jackson and her trepidation in the face of pending reviews, Margot Yarborough couldn’t say she was happy. No matter which angle she came at the problem of Jackson from, she could not commit to the idea of a future with him. But neither could she determine to give him up.

She decided to take some sort of action about the review journals though, and made a study of their respective styles in order to armor herself. Her editor had been right: about half of the Circus reviews were downright spiteful, and the other half, possibly written by friends of authors or publicists, were kind enough but said next to nothing. The Monthly rarely offered blanket praise or condemnation and, in fact, often said little about the book supposedly under the microscope, instead using the review to launch a more general discussion of some literary passion or pet peeve. The Times was fairly even-handed. It seemed to save its harsh reviews for well-known writers with disappointing new books while reviewing only those debuts that it could praise.

There was a glaring exception to this generality, though. The Times had eviscerated a new book by a first-time author named Henry Baffler. Its comments nauseated Margot: “Let Mr. Baffler remember that a novelist’s first responsibility is to tell a story”; “A reader must want to finish reading the book”; “A pretentious book guilty of the intentional fallacy. Just because one writes about ennui does not mean one should induce it in the reader”; “Here is another of those intolerable objects that prove the sheer wrong-headedness of what Baffler would have us call the New Realism. This book is never interesting, never profitable, never insightful, and hardly ever readable.” The reviewer paraphrased Mickey Spillane’s assertion that no one ever reads a book to get to the middle.

Another publication that had reviewed Baffler’s novel included the sensational story of the young author rescuing his book from flames, noting that it was the news coverage of the rescue that had led to its publication. “We can only wish,” the piece concluded, “that the fire had consumed the manuscript rather than spitting it out into the world.” Others had their fun with Henry’s name, as though describing his book or its publication as baffling was the height of original wordplay.