Erasure (42 page)

“I think I came. Yes, that would be good, right?”

She put her cigarette-free hand down on my penis. I was still hard, but far from excited.

“Mister Ready,” she said.

Paying a visit to Linda had been a bad idea and it was still one. I could not simply get dressed and leave, though guiltily I must admit that is exactly what I wanted to do. I harbored no ill feelings toward Linda and in fact respected her enough not to pity her. Oddly, her anxieties were coming across as endearingly comic. Even then, when I first considered that awkward thought I understood my judgment to be mere rationalization, not to have me think better of her, but of myself.

“Shall we watch a movie?” I asked.

“Don’t you want to make love again?”

“I’m afraid you’ve worn me out,” I said. “You’re really quite athletic.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I used the remote control to turn on the television. Linda nestled her head onto my chest and I was saddened by the fact that I disliked the coconut fragrance of her shampoo. The first image on the screen was a wildcat tearing apart a rabbit. “Change,” she said and I did. “Change.” I did. “Change.” I did and offered her the controller. She refused, said, “No, you hold on to it. Change.” Finally, she had me settle on some noir film with actors I didn’t recognize. She squirmed playfully, as to get more comfortable, then promptly began to snore.

It was the season of the absent or lazy editor. So many of the novels were needlessly fat. Six were more than nine hundred pages, twelve were better than seven hundred and any one of them would have and could have been, with a modicum of editorial attention, a good four-hundred-page novel. There was an incredibly dense novel from a well-known, reclusive writer of dense novels. There was a nicely crafted and notably lean novel from a writer whose reputation was astonishingly well made. There was a volume of collected stories from a dead writer, a shelf of first novels about fatherly abuse and motherly alcoholism (and the reverse), a mid-list author’s new (but dreadfully old) take on the academic novel, twenty-eight middle America, domestic, where-will-the-children-live novels, forty coming-of-age novels, thirty-five new-life-after-the-wrecked-marriage novels, thirty crime novels, forty so-called adventure novels and six yeah-we’re-Christians-with-chips-on-our-shoulders novels. For the most part the titles received more consideration than the stories or the writing. Still, I found thirty I wished I had written—ten because I would have done a better job. Of ten others I was saddened to admit I could not have written them better. The other ten were simply good, well-crafted, serious, thoughtful.

At the first conference, one of the judges, I am not to say which one, said, “I’d like to see Rita Totten’s
Over My Body
on the short list.” When asked why? she said, “For two reasons: because Rita is a good friend of mine and because she got such a scathing review in the
New York Times.”

I pointed out that one could argue that either of those reasons might be enough to keep her off the list.

Thomas Tomad sighed, “This is Tomad speaking—” (as it was a telephone conference it was kind of him to identify himself) “—and I believe that Totten’s novel is just so much fluff. Filthy fluff, but fluff none-the-less.”

Another judge: “I’d like to see Richard Wordiman’s book on one of the lists.”

“Don’t you work with him?” someone asked.

“Why yes, and although I don’t think it’s his best book, I’d like for him to know that I take his work seriously.”

“Why don’t we wait until all the books come in?” I asked.

“Sounds reasonable,” Wilson Harnet said. “This is my suggested course of action. We each compile a list of twenty-five books. Then we see if there’s any overlap. We’ll discuss the list and any book with at least two mentioners goes to the next round. From there we’ll wing it.”

Tomad: “Sounds good. I’ve already got a couple I’m willing to go to the mat for. There is some gritty stuff out there.”

Sigmarsen: “Ya, sure. The nature writing is skinny by my standards, but still there are a couple good ones. Toby Lancfugen’s book is remarkable.”

Hoover: “I didn’t get all of that. Yes, of course. I was surprised to see so many books by such big names. Shouldn’t we just go ahead and put them on the first list?”

Ellison: “Okay.”

Christmas came and went. Mother’s body became more fit as her mind failed completely. My editor called my agent with the exciting news that
Fuck
was going to be released earlier because of the great interest. And even then, when I heard that I would see the book in March, I did not suspect that in January I would open a padded envelope addressed to Thelonius Ellison and find a bound galley of
Fuck
with the request that it be considered for
The Book Award.

Dilemma: I refused to admit that I, Thelonius Ellison, was also Stagg R. Leigh, author of
Fuck.
But yet here was the book. I could not disqualify myself, because I would betray my secret.

Solution: Ignore it. Who in his right mind would consider giving that novel an award?

Yep.

I had become a hermit. I had a stack of mail from friends, which I had not opened. I had a stack of letters from people at various universities either requesting letters of recommendation for applicants seeking employment or students seeking admission to programs—such was my conjecture, as all of them remained sealed. I felt guilty about those, more so than the personal ones. From a couple of institutions there were three or four letters and I guessed that they were invitations to give readings. I gave few enough readings, as I found the whole custom rather idiotic. “Read the damn book,” I always wanted to shout and just sit down. Once I considered taking a couple of boxes of books and having the audience read silently while I read silently, then point out that they didn’t need me after all. I was not a popular reader, a fact that never hurt my feelings, but now I could imagine that my failure to even respond to the invitations made me that much more desirable.

I sat back on the sofa in the study, closed my eyes and imagined a reading given by Stagg Leigh:

Site:
East St. Louis Public Library or the Lansing Public Library or the Worcester Public Library or Borders Bookstore in Philadelphia, Dallas, Jacksonville or Waterstone’s Bookstore in Boston, New York, Chicago.

Stagg’s outfit:
Yellow, baggy, draping wool pants. Black silk shirt with loose sleeves and several buttons at the cuff. A gray, sharkskin blazer, double vented, double breasted with a yellow kerchief peeking from the breast pocket. Gray hose. Tasseled loafers, black.

or

Black pants, black shirt, black watch cap, dark glasses, black army boots.

or

A colorful dashiki, white trousers, sandals, red fez.

Stagg is to be introduced by a young white woman, a representative of the Friends of Books Society, Becky Unger. “I’m just so pleased you could come and read for us,” she says privately. “We’d heard that you’re very shy. Oh, I didn’t mean anything by my use of the word ‘shy.’ Private, I meant to say private.”

“I prefer ‘reclusive,’” Stagg says, his voice barely audible.

“Reclusive. Okay, then.” The friend of books gets up and steps to the lectern. She clears her throat and the room comes together “Thank you all for coming,” She clears her throat once more. “It is my pleasure to introduce our guest, Mr. Stagg Leigh. I know that many of you have been as eagerly awaiting Mr. Leigh’s reading as I have, so I’ll make this short. Mr. Leigh is the author of an exceptional first novel,” looks at the audience, catches her breath, looks at her hands, then,
“Fuck.”
Mixed giggles and muttering erupt in the audience. “This first novel is a runaway bestseller and is presently enjoying its third week at number one. I believe that Mr. Leigh lives in Washington, D.C. This book meant so much to me when I read it. It opened my eyes to ways of black life and helped me understand the pain of those people. So, please join me in welcoming Mr. Stagg R. Leigh.”

Stagg stands and steps to the lectern, acknowledges Ms. Unger with a nod and faces the audience. There are a couple of blue-haired older white women in the front row, nervous-seeming, eyes darting, Stagg says, “Thank you for having me.” His voice is barely audible. The audience leans forward, collectively, hanging on his voice, staring at him. Stagg takes a breath and says,

“Fuck!”
The audience is knocked back into their seats. “—is a true story.” Again his voice is barely loud enough to hear, but they do and they moan their approval. “This novel is not true factually, but it is the true story of what it is like to be black in America. It ain’t pretty.”

“Here, here,” from a white, bow-tied man in the back.

“During my time in prison,” a look at the blue-haired ladies, “I learned that words belong to everybody, that I could make my place in this bankrupt society by using my God-given talent with language.”

Applause.

“Fuck!
is my contribution to this wonderful country of ours. Where a black ex-con can become rich by simply telling the truth about his unfortunate people.”

Applause. Applause. Applause.

Stagg opens his book.
“Fuck!”
The audience falls back, then forward to listen. “‘Mama look at me and Tardreece and she call us human slough …’”