Scissors (15 page)
At the very moment when I’m leaving the magazine, you come and ask me how things are going. You want me to appraise—how did you put it?—“the art of the short story in our country.” Strike “art,” strike “short story,” strike “country.” Call your article “The Secret Life of Our Time.” That’s the title of my first anthology. My stories have never been about anything else. I’ve been whispering my secrets for seven years. Before getting fired.
You’ve been here before? Really? In this office? Seven years ago … Well, how can you expect me to remember that? A student. Do you have any idea how many eager female students I’ve had? Yes, I know what that sounds like: Do you have any idea how many eager female students I’ve had in my bed?
The most annoying part of the whole thing is that I’m not going to be able to take my stained-glass window with me. The outfit across the street has a rule—all the windows must be the same. You see? Already I have to contend with formatting. I held out a long time, but they got me in the end. They kept adding zeros. No, I won’t tell you the figure.
Of course I’m keeping my authors. Why should they leave me? I love them like my children. And as for the ones who aren’t novelists, the short-story specialists, well, I’ll publish them in collections.
Raymond—you know the author I mean?—when I talk about minimalism, I think of Ray. It’s as if the very word was
invented for him. No, I didn’t ask his opinion. Be careful; writers don’t like labels. The only ones they’re willing to put up with are the bar codes on the backs of their books. Because nobody can decipher them. But for somebody who knows how to read between the lines, Raymond’s a minimalist.
So your article, when does it come out? In the weekend supplement? On page one? Listen, I’m not going to give you his telephone number. He doesn’t like to be disturbed. But you can run with minimalism, don’t worry. He’ll thank you. Raymond expects only one thing: to be recognized for what he is.
You can quote me if you want, but the word’s in the air. Minimalism is the environment we live in. Well, if you insist on a source, attribute the word to Judith. Say it comes from a woman who’s leaving and slamming the door behind her.
July, you say? Perfect. I’m publishing Raymond that same month. I can already envision it: your report on minimalism on page one, and inside a boxed article about his story collection. I could buy space and run an ad for my list. How much space do you have left?
Now I remember. You had a scarf around your neck. You didn’t take it off, not even in bed. What about the scars on your throat? It’s much sexier when they’re visible. Look here, see my scales. Do I try to hide them?
Married already? A married woman, the mother of two children, and a literary critic. All that in seven years. I bet you read Kerouac at night. I do too, you know. I too let books live my life in place of me.
No, I have no idea what I’m going to do with that stained-glass
window. Don’t you know somebody who could buy it off me?
I didn’t tell him everything when I met him. I made out I’d never seen him.
But I knew him already. I was waiting for him.
I’d watched his hands. They shook the way my former husbands’ hands did. It was in a bookstore, about a year ago. He’d come there to talk about his short stories. I paged through them. Then I read them over and over. So I knew Ray well before I met him. I followed the grooves of his sentences like someone stroking a beloved face. I figured out where his pain was.
When I saw him the other night, it was like a sign. I gulped down two cups of punch and headed straight for him.
There he was, encumbered with himself. I wasn’t afraid I’d make him drink, I could tell how much strength there was under his fragile exterior. My ex-husbands were different. Rough exteriors, fragility underneath. I wasn’t able to heal them. They no longer believed in their luck. But Raymond … I tried right away to coax him into drinking. As if I was challenging him to stop the very next day.
To tell the truth, it wasn’t as calculated as all that. After the fact, I can always find the reasons behind my intuitions. I spread a layer of glue over them so they’ll stay put. I am, if you will, a post-sensual intellectual.
“Glue Girl.” I had a boyfriend who called me that, because he thought I was full of fixations. “Glue Girl.” I like that a lot. I dumped the boyfriend and kept the nickname.
To Raymond, I’m Joanne. He doesn’t know what’s in store for him.
Happiness without end.
June 3
Good grief, Raymond, if I’d had any idea … Is she really the one I’m thinking of? We’re talking about the same Joanne? I’m writing because her name rings some kind of bell. Three or four years ago, a poet who was one only in her imagination sent me a package, an envelope stuffed with her verses. Well, believe it or not, I read them. On weekends I treat myself to poetry. I read
Paradise Lost
twice a year, and also Dante’s
Purgatory,
which is a documentary about the publishing business
.
Her verses were worthless. I hope her cooking’s better than her poetry. And I hope she knows how to fix drinks. I’ve always thought a person needs two reasons for being with someone else. One isn’t enough. Take the word of an expert, Ray: One isn’t enough
.
The more I read her, the more she exasperated me. A prime example of lyrical psoriasis, your Joanne. Not everyone can be Anne Sexton
.
But enough talk about poetry. I’ve moved the publication date of your collection up three months—an opportunity appeared and I had to seize it, I’ll spare you the details. I made an unimaginable spectacle of myself in the marketing department, and now those
analphabets seem to be on board. For the first time, they’re going to devote as many resources to promoting a collection of short stories as they do to promoting a novel. They’re going to pull out all the stops. I have a meeting Monday about this
.
Your book’s publication date is July 20. The date when a man walked on the moon, and the date when I launch Ray into the literary cosmos
.
I think you should settle into your chair. Are you good and comfortable? You know I’m waiting for your corrections, I mean your validations of mine. I’d appreciate it if you’d get busy. Don’t forget I have a load of novels to take on between now and July 20. Poor me … Novels aren’t like stories, it’s a lot harder to remove their bones. When I get down to work on a novel, it turns into something like a wrecked car. Sometimes I take out the engine by mistake, sometimes I remove the chassis, and sometimes all four wheels because I think they’re useless. You get the picture? Ever since I started editing novels, I feel like I live in an automobile graveyard
.
Douglas
P. S. Don’t be mad at me for that section about Joanne … If she is, as you say, “a woman from the working class, an alter ego,” so much the better. You know what happens when someone tries to step out of his proper milieu. Kipling shows the consequences in his story “Beyond the Pale”: The guy gets his balls cut off. Ah, Kipling, what concision. I don’t know why he’s considered old-fashioned
.
Joanne has given me two scarves. A blue one last month, to celebrate our meeting. Then, a few days ago, she signed a contract with a publishing house. Her next collection of poems will appear next fall. And to mark the event, she gave me another scarf. That one’s green.
Their patterns are invisible to the naked eye. The label reads “70% cashmere, 30% silk.” I told Joanne, “These are luxury gifts. They’re too expensive for me.” She answered, “Nothing’s too expensive for you.” I was surprised to hear that, but I didn’t say anything.
Joanne’s scarves really look good on me, although this isn’t the season for them. Who wears scarves in summer? I wrap them around my neck. One one day, and the next day the other. They keep me warm. Maybe even too warm.
The idea of losing them terrifies me.
He visits me without any warning. “You could have called me first,” I say. He wanders around the living room and smokes all my cigarettes. When I notice the scarf around his neck, I have to laugh. Ray has never bought or worn a scarf. It’s a gift from a woman, a way of marking her territory. Someone’s got her hooks in him. It’s serious this time. I can tell by how agitated he is.
Or is it because he’s off the booze?
“I’m happy, Ray. I’m so happy you’ve quit drinking.”
“It’s not that easy. A daily struggle.”
“I’m sure. Twenty years of alcoholism …”
“Almost as long as our marriage.”
The words strike me like a slap in the face. I’m stunned for a moment.
“Did you have to say that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you have to make that comparison? What’s your point?”
“It was just a remark, that’s all.”
“There are more positive things to say about our twenty years of marriage.”
“What’s up? Are we going to have an argument?”
“I didn’t force you to come here.”
“I had to come. I’ve got a favor to ask you.”
“I’m sure you do. You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
He sits down on the edge of a chair. Like a guy who’s just passing through.
“How’s Edgar?”
“He’s fine. We’re really happy.”
I have a feeling I sound false. It’s part of the feeling I have that whatever I say about Edgar is always going to sound false.
“Fabulous.”
I’m sure he doesn’t give a shit. “How about you?”
“I’m good. I quit drinking.”
“I know, you just told me.”
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Did you think I could do it?”
“Do what?”
“Stop. Did you think I had it in me?”
“What do you mean? What are you trying to prove?”
“Nothing at all. Nothing, for Pete’s sake!”
He loosens his scarf. It looks like it’s keeping him warmer than he wants. I lower my eyes to the carpet. If I look at him too long, I’m afraid I’ll start to cry.
I stammer, “You have the nerve to tell me … You’re implying I didn’t believe you were capable of quitting … As if staying with me was what drove you to drink—”