Shriver (26 page)

“I am just so profoundly embarrassed,” Simone said for the seventh or eighth time. “To have fallen for that . . .
liar
.”

Shriver watched her skin turn red with shame every time she said it, and he had to wonder what had transpired between her and the imposter. Had she . . . ?

“I should have known better,” she said. “Even for a writer he was full of himself.”

“Simone . . .”

“It just burns me up that he got away,” she continued. “I'd love to see him in shackles. Do they execute people for this kind of thing? Of course they don't—I know that—but I sure wish they did. I'd like to pull the switch myself, or whatever it is they do nowadays.”

“You look lovely,” Shriver said.

“Excuse me?”

“In that dress, I mean. Lovely.”

She blushed an even richer shade of red, if that were possible. “Why, thank you.”

She drove in silence now, his compliment having dammed for a moment the torrent of shame.

He took out his story and straightened the papers on the still-unopened manila envelope atop his knees. There was the opening line: “The water mark appeared on my ceiling on the rainy day my wife walked out on me.” So far, so good. “At first it was just a spot, approximately the size of a quarter, directly above the bed where I lay weeping.” His heart beat rapidly as he read on.

He read the first page, then the second. He laughed. They were good, the words, and the story was good. What was it Gonquin Smithee had said? She had pronounced it “wonderful.”
Wonderful!

Simone pulled into the Union parking lot and shut off the engine. “Well, here we are.”

Shriver gulped. “Yes.”

“The culmination of the whole conference.”

“Don't tell me
that
.”

“The final event, after all that planning.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Everybody's been talking about this reading for months.”

“Simone.”

“And to think I nearly ruined it.”

“Please . . .”

“To think I made a fool of the conference and the college, and dragged you through the mud in the process.”

“No . . .”

“As for me, I'll be lucky to keep my job after all this. I'll never get tenure now.”

“I'll speak to Mr. Wimple.”

“And even if they keep me on as an adjunct, surely they'll have someone else organize next year's conference.”

“They'd be crazy to let you go.”

“That's sweet of you to say.” She sighed. “I'm sorry I doubted you.”

“Simone, you don't have to—”

“No, I can't say it enough. I think I was just so disappointed at the thought of . . . of you and . . .”

“You mean Dr. Keaudeen? I told you, Simone—”

She turned squarely toward him. “Tell me nothing happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Shriver said.

“So you were up in her bedroom because . . . ?”

“Because I needed to use the restroom.”

Simone's face wrinkled into a quizzical expression. “And you were on her bed because . . . ?”

“She was showing me her novel.”

Simone leaned in. “And you were writhing on top of her because . . . ?”

Shriver thought hard. This was not easy to explain. “Because she's stronger than me?”

Simone smiled. “You know, as hard as those answers are to swallow, they're so absurd that they must be true.”

Shriver felt the air return to his lungs. “It's absolutely true. Plus, have you ever tried to climb out of a waterbed? It's like quicksand!”

“I'll take your word for it. Anyway, that whole . . .
tableau
put me in a state of shock, and I felt vulnerable, and then that bastard caught me off guard.”

“Say no more, Simone. I understand.”

“Thanks.”

They sat silently for a moment. To accumulate courage, Shriver made a fist, the way one makes a fist to pump blood to a vein for a needle.

“Did you . . . ?” he began.

“Did I what?”

“You and . . . ?”

“Me and who?”

“Did you and . . . ?” He couldn't say it.

She tilted her head, trying to understand. Then it came to her.

“Are you serious?”

“I just wondered.”

“Who do you think I am?”

“Well, the way he was acting. And there was that poet you mentioned last year.”

“I wouldn't sleep with him if you paid me.”

“You mean the poet? Or—”

“He was so arrogant. So full of himself.”

“Never mind.”

“I can't believe you asked that. I've
had it
with egomaniacal writers.”

“I understand.”

“You guys with your epic novels and big advances and throngs of groupies and sycophants, you just march out here to the hinterlands and expect everyone to fall to their knees and grovel while you drink and screw your way through the week, and—”

It wasn't easy, because he had to hoist himself up and over the wide armrest that divided the front seats, and then he had to bend his face down toward hers as he balanced himself by grabbing the steering wheel with one hand and the headrest in the other, but he somehow managed it smoothly and swiftly so that she remained off guard even as his lips met hers. Still, she continued talking for a moment, her angry words filling his mouth until they finally softened into a moan that he felt deep in
his own ear bones. Now that he was a writer, Shriver took note of this and other details: the hair standing up on his arms, the tingle where his spine met his skull, the taste of cheap white wine on her tongue, the smell of sweat and powder. He had always dreamed of kissing Tina LeGros of the Channel 17 Action News Team, but this—this was so much better.

Then he heard the car door creak open, and before he could disengage from Simone—for who would ever want to voluntarily pull away from those lips?—a hand grabbed him by his collar and yanked him out of the car and onto the pavement.

Shriver heard Simone scream as fists rained down on his head and shoulders. He squeezed his eyes shut and held up his arms to fend them off.

“Damn you, you son of a bitch,” someone grunted.

“Thaddeus!” Simone cried out. “Stop!”

The punches slowed in frequency and strength, and then stopped altogether. Shriver looked up to see T. Wätzczesnam bent over him, his eyes rimmed red, tears rolling down his ruddy cheeks.

“T.?” Shriver tasted blood. Mosquitoes, smelling food, swarmed around him.

The cowboy collapsed onto his knees and bellowed, “I loved her so much,” as a long glob of snot poured from his nose. “And now she loves
you
.”

“
Loves
me?”

“Oh, don't be an ass, Shriver,” T. said, the words coming out in choked syllables.

By now Simone had run around the huge car and was pounding the cowboy on his ten-gallon hat.

“You idiot!” she yelled while T. made no attempt to defend himself.

“No, Simone,” Shriver said, reaching up and grabbing her arms.

“Oh my God!” she cried out. “Your nose is bleeding!”

She took out his handkerchief from her purse and pushed it against his nose.

“I'm okay,” he told her.

“Look what you did,” she screamed at Professor Wätzczesnam.

“I'm sorry,” the cowboy blubbered.

“I'm fine, Simone,” Shriver said. “You go on inside. I'll be there in a minute.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go on. I promise I'm okay.”

She gave T. one last shove before she turned and walked up the stairs to the Union.

Shriver sat there on the pavement for a few moments while the cowboy leaned into his shoulder, the tears flowing out of him. Finally, T. caught his breath, wiped his nose, and pulled away a little.

“It's not fair,” he said, a tiny note of belligerence returning to his voice. “You get all the kudos for one book that no one has even finished.”

“If it makes you feel any better, T., I don't think I deserve it either.”

“And then you get the
girl
.”

“I deserve that even less.”

The cowboy reached into his pocket and produced his bottle of whiskey. “Ah, hell,” he said. “Let's toast to your success.”

“You toast for me, T.”

“Don't tell me you've climbed on the wagon.”

“For today, anyway.”

“Well then, here's to my beautiful Simone.”

T. took a long swig, coughed, and climbed to his feet. He reached down and offered Shriver his hand. “Come on, Shriver. Let's get your face cleaned up.”

Shriver took his friend's hand and stood.

“Ah, I feel much better now, old man,” Wätzczesnam said, helping Shriver up the steps. “It's been a coon's age since I bloodied a man's nose.”

“I'd say I'm glad to be of help, T., but . . .”

“As the poet says, ‘A ruddy drop of manly blood / The surging sea outweighs.' ”

/

The ballroom was at full capacity, with a standing-room-only crowd gathered at the back. People pointed and murmured when they saw Shriver enter. His nose had finally stopped bleeding, but he could still taste blood, along with Simone, on his tongue.

“I'll say a few words first,” Simone said as she escorted him up the steps and onto the stage, “and then Mr. Cheadem is going to introduce you.” Smiling, she gestured toward the chairs on the dais. “Have a seat,
Mr. Shriver
.”

He sat and gazed out upon the throng. On the table was a Styrofoam cup. He lifted it to his nose—water—and drank.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Simone began, “welcome to the final and, dare I say, most highly anticipated event of this year's wildly successful and, well, just plain
wild
conference. I'm very pleased that this special occasion has brought to us a notable personage from the New York literary world, who will be making the formal introduction today. So, please welcome Mr. Donald Cheadem.”

The audience applauded respectfully as the agent ambled toward
the stage. He climbed the stairs, shook hands with Professor Cleverly, then took his place at the podium. Shriver watched Simone return to her usual seat. Next to her sat Horace Wimple, his silver hair reflecting the fluorescent light.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Cheadem began, “I cannot tell you how honored I am to be here today to say a few words about this great man to my left.”

Shriver felt a numbness spread from his toes straight up to the top of his head as Cheadem spoke. Afraid to look at the audience while the agent continued, he stared down at the yellow papers in his hands.

“I've only met Mr. Shriver once in my life, but the memory of it is quite vivid. I was about fifteen years old and spending the day at my father's office—my father being the late Donald Cheadem Sr., Mr. Shriver's first and only agent—when in came this disheveled gentleman wearing a look of great distraction. Much like the expression he's wearing today.”

The audience laughed.

“My father said, ‘Donald, meet Mr. Shriver, the best writer you'll ever know.' Now, coming from my father, that was saying quite a lot. I shook the great writer's hand, then was immediately sent on an errand while the two men talked about the upcoming publication of Mr. Shriver's novel. I never saw the man again until today, but I never forgot my father's pride at having represented him. He even gave me a copy of the manuscript, something he never did, and I read the novel more than once that summer. Can anyone ever forget the great characters in that book—Caleb; his wife, Sarah; Sal the doorman; even that amazing cat of theirs? These people were as real to me as my own relatives and neighbors. Then there were the unforgettable scenes of love and heartache and comedy. My father was especially tickled by Mr. Shriver's
reconstruction of one of his own memories as a private in the army on a troop train headed from New Jersey to San Francisco. Dad had told the story to Mr. Shriver over drinks one night, unaware that it would be immortalized in print soon after. Warning: never tell a writer anything unless you are willing to let it go.”

More laughter.

“So, here we are, twenty years on, my father gone, and after two decades of silence, Mr. Shriver suddenly appears with manuscript in hand. For the life of me, I cannot think of a more exciting event in the world of literature than this reading today. We are witnessing history here, ladies and gentlemen. So, without further ado, please welcome . . .”

Shriver felt his face go cold, while, at the same time, sweat rolled down his spine. He heard what sounded like waves crashing onto a beach, and he looked up to see more than seven hundred faces looking at him, each person banging their hands together in applause. Donald Cheadem, also clapping, stood aside from the podium. Shriver was supposed to stand, but he felt too heavy, and the feeling had not yet returned to his legs. It was like one of those dreams he sometimes had, where he absolutely had to get from here to there to rescue Mr. Bojangles from a rampaging serial cat killer but could not move without the greatest of effort, and then only in slow motion. The applause intensified. He tried to smile, to show his appreciation, as he swiveled in his chair, dragging his leaden legs. He placed a hand on the table and, using what little strength he had in his arms, lifted himself to his feet. More applause. He felt like Lazarus.

Mr. Cheadem shook his hand, then stepped down from the stage and returned to his seat next to Jack Blunt. Shriver leaned against the podium, praying that it would not tip over.
The applause slowly died down. Above the heads of those standing in the back, the photograph of Shriver loomed large on the screen. The window, the living room, the curtains.

“Thank you,” he tried to say, but it came out a wheeze. He cleared his throat and repeated, “
Thank you
,” this time more audibly.