chapter fourteen
“I MISSED YOU,” RICK SAID, giving me a bear hug. He was tan and even blonder from his time in Costa Rica.
“Did you get a lot of writing done?” I asked.
“Tons. It was really quite therapeutic. It’s too bad you couldn’t join. How were things over here?”
“I’m completely exhausted,” I said. “I need a vacation from vacation. I don’t know how you make writing seem so easy—this book’s killing me.”
“Just wait until you start your second book. That one’s the real killer.”
“Second book? Ha! Let me finish this one first.”
We were in my office, prepping for the start of the spring semester. Rick had another pile of applications to read for his writing workshop, and I was belatedly trying to finalize my syllabus. Usually I liked nothing more than writing up syllabi—it was like ordering a nine-course meal of all my favorite dishes—but now I was feeling uninspired and burned out.
“What do you think if I call my nineteenth-century novel class ‘Scribbling Women: The Rise of the Female Author’?” I asked Rick.
“You want my honest opinion?”
“Of course!”
“No offense, but I wouldn’t want to take that class.”
“Why not?” I asked, hurt.
“Well, for starters, I’m a guy. It sounds like it’s all about gender and feminism.”
“Well, it is.”
“You’re not thinking like a nineteen-year-old undergraduate. A nineteen-year-old undergrad doesn’t care about scribbling women, or the rise of the female author, or anything other than what time the class meets and if it requires too much reading and writing.”
“Really?” I protested.
“What does Larry call his Oscar Wilde class?”
I thought for a moment. “I think he titled it ‘Girls Gone Wilde’ the last time I checked.”
“There you go. Take it from me. Sex sells.”
I sighed and turned to my computer, taking a break from my syllabus to scroll through the posts on my favorite celebrity blog. I clicked on a new blind item, posted under a big pink question mark:
Has she had enough?
They were longtime sweethearts, the golden couple. He’s an actor who’s finally broken through, playing against type in a big Hollywood blockbuster. She’s a civilian, but in some ways bigger than he is because of her Family. Think Rockefeller, not Corleone. There were rumors that the two of them were taking a break, a “conscious uncoupling,” as it were. Discretion was key. He had certain urges. She looked the other way. She assumed he was like one of the characters he’d once played, the one whose family she knew from summering on the Cape.
Except he swings both ways. He likes them young and he likes them buff, though he’s not overly discerning. She’s fine being his beard, so long as he keeps his s—tight. But he’s getting reckless. Maybe it’s the fame going to his head, maybe the relationship has just run its course. The only problem is that he needs her more than she needs him. She could walk at any time and be fine, but he’s got two sequels lined up and an image to protect. She’s given him an ultimatum. Three strikes and you’re out.
Hint: Not Bradley Cooper
I gasped.
“What is it?” Rick asked.
“Read this,” I said, pointing to the screen. “Can you tell who it is?”
Rick glanced at the item and shrugged. “Am I supposed to know?” he asked.
“It’s Jack Lindsey. I mean, it’s obvious.”
“I can’t believe you read that crap, Anne,” Rick said, turning back to his reading. “Don’t you know those tabloid rags just make stuff up? You have a PhD—you should know better.”
“Some of these gossip blogs are really well written,” I protested. “And they’re right, a lot of the time!”
“So if they wrote that Bigfoot was discovered on Mars, you’d believe them?”
“That’s ridiculous. These blogs focus on celebrities.”
“OK, so if they wrote that Tom Cruise was gay, you’d believe them?”
“Tom Cruise is gay.”
“What about John Travolta?”
“He’s gay, too.”
“Christ, do you think everybody is gay?”
“Not everybody. Just Jack Lindsey. And Tom Cruise. And John Travolta. And Bradley Cooper. And—”
“OK, stop,” Rick said. “You’re just proving my point.”
I ran over to Larry’s office to show him the post. As soon as I walked in, I noticed that his Keanu Speed poster was no longer on the wall, replaced by a poster of Jack in his Jane Vampire getup.
“You broke up with Keanu?” I cried.
“It was time,” Larry said, sorrowfully. “I told him I think we should see other people.”
“You’re heartless!”
“We’re just on two different paths right now. You know, if you really love someone, sometimes you just have to let them go.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Keanu is such a better actor than Jack.”
Larry clapped his hands over his ears.
“Hey, look,” I said, pulling up the blog post on his computer. “I just read this. What do you think?”
“Oh, fudge,” he said, scanning the article. “It sounds like Jack, doesn’t it?”
“I mean, a lot of the details fit . . . the wife from a prominent family, the Kennedy reference, the sequels—”
“But it says he ‘likes them young and he likes them buff.’ That’s not me. I’m old and skinnyfat.” Larry flexed his bicep for sad effect. “Oh God, what if he’s stepping out on me?”
“OK, hold on, it also says he’s ‘not overly discerning.’ ”
“Oh, great. Awesome. Thanks, Anne. That makes me feel so much better. He likes them young and buff, but he’ll settle for a middle-aged fatty patatty.”
I ignored Larry. “And then there’s the ‘three strikes and you’re out’ reference,” I said. “Jack used to play baseball in college. It’s gotta be him.”
“Wow,” Larry said admiringly. “You sound just like you’re close-reading a poem. Your students would be so impressed.”
“I wonder who’s leaking the info. Do you think it’s someone in his camp?”
“I should text him,” Larry said, reaching for his burner phone.
“Don’t!” I said. “What if your phone’s compromised?”
“Oh my goodness, Anne! You’re worse than Jack. I just want to check in, NBD.”
“You should be careful,” I said. “You never know who might be hacking your phone.”
“OK, Little Miss Paranoid,” he said, putting his phone aside. “I mean, what’s a little gay rumor, anyway? Jack should be thrilled. Every great actor’s been suspected of being gay—it means he’s finally made it!”
*
LARRY HAD MANAGED TO download a bootleg copy of Jane Vampire from the Internet, and for the next several weeks, the two of us watched and rewatched Jane Vampire from a makeshift theater Larry had set up in his living room. He would draw the drapes over all his windows, project the movie onto a blank wall, and pop fresh popcorn that he’d place in a bucket between us. After the third viewing, I tried to beg off, but Larry chastised me. “But it’s research! For your epilogue!” he cried. At our next viewing, he assigned himself the role of closed-captioning assistant, pausing the video so I could record the dialogue while Larry ogled Jack.
“You can press play again,” I’d tell Larry.
“What?” he’d ask. “Oh! You sure you don’t need to see it again?”
“There’s no dialogue in this part, Larry. You can fast- forward it.”
“What?! And skip all the best parts? Absolutely not.”
I soon discovered there was no need for a written transcript anyway because Larry had memorized all the lines.
“Am I hideous, Jane?” Jack/Rochester would say on the screen, and Larry would respond, in a quavering voice, “Very, sir, you always were, you know.”
“You must stay! I swear it!” Jack/Rochester would cry.
“I tell you I must go!” Larry would wail, pitching himself onto the couch and launching into a sobbing soliloquy. “Do you think I am a zombie? An undead being without feelings? Do you think because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have as much soul as you—and full as much heart! Let me go!” He would gaze despairingly at Jack/Rochester on the screen and pantomime stabbing himself in the heart.
“I feel like I’m at The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” I said in the middle of one such performance.
“Keep working on your epilogue,” Larry said, hushing me.
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” I groaned. “I still have to write my acknowledgments, too.”
“You better make them good,” Larry said, his eyes still glued to the screen. “It’s the only part of your book that I’m guaranteed to read, word for word.”
I’d always figured the acknowledgments would be the easiest part of the book to write, a welcome break from the intellectual heavy lifting I’d been doing. Instead, with twenty-four hours remaining until my deadline, I found myself in my office, staring at the empty screen, wondering how not to sound long-winded or trite or, worst of all, ungrateful. I’d pulled several all-nighters to complete the manuscript and felt woozy with fatigue. Taking a deep breath, I began by giving the requisite thanks to my editor and publisher. I thanked all the librarians and archivists who’d facilitated my research and tracked down sources. I thanked the fellowship committee that gave me a small research travel grant. I thanked my department chair and dean. I thanked Ellen Russell. I thanked my father and sister. I thanked all the students who had taken my classes and helped me think through my ideas.
Then, I got to the “good part,” as Larry called it.
“Finally, I must express my especial gratitude to the following people,” I wrote. “First and foremost is my beloved colleague Lawrence Ettinger. For years now, Larry has been my trusted confidante, TV buddy, and friend. Without his faith in me, I would have given up on this project long ago, and I owe to him my career and, more importantly, my sanity.” I pondered what I’d written for a few minutes. It didn’t quite capture my relationship with Larry, but it would have to do. I forged ahead. “Last but not least, I’d like to express my gratitude to Richard Chasen, who came into my life at exactly the right time.” I hesitated, then added, “You helped me believe I could be a writer.” The last sentence was borderline cheesy, but in the end, I decided to keep it.
Satisfied, I sent the manuscript off via e-mail to Ursula Burton. I felt light-headed with relief. My part was complete. I’d handed in the manuscript, fulfilled my end of the book contract, met Steve’s stipulations. While there was still copyediting and indexing to complete, for all intents and purposes, the bulk of the work was done. In about a year, I would have a physical copy of the book in my hands.
I locked up my office and headed over to Rick’s office around the corner, feeling simultaneously elated and exhausted.
The door was closed and I could hear Rick murmuring to someone inside. I knocked briskly, and a minute later, Emily appeared at the door, lugging her tennis rackets and school backpack.
“Emily!” I said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m taking Rick’s workshop again this semester,” she said, smiling happily.
“She couldn’t get enough of me,” Rick joked, appearing at the doorway behind her. “I don’t usually accept repeat students, but she did such fantastic work last semester that I made an exception.”
Emily blushed at the compliment. “I’ve been working on some short stories,” she said. “Rick’s been helping me polish them for submission to some journals.”
“I think she has real potential to get into a top MFA program,” Rick told me. To Emily he said, “Professor Corey was the one who insisted I accept you into my workshop last semester. She called you a superstar. I’m glad I listened to her!”
Emily beamed. For a second, she reminded me of a child basking in the approval of her parents.
“Heard anything yet from grad schools?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Emily said. “I should know sometime next month, I think. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything!”
Emily excused herself to run to practice, and I followed Rick into his office, settling into his leather couch. His shelves were overflowing with books, so much so that he had books stacked in leaning piles on the floor and some even balanced on the arms of his couch. Every day, it seemed, publishers were sending him galleys, hoping he’d agree to blurb some new young author. The rest of Rick’s office was filled with an assortment of toys and gadgets that helped him “get into a creative mindset.” There was a soccer ball in one corner, an acoustic guitar leaning against a meditation stool, and a modified skateboard-scooter that Rick liked to use to get around campus. I picked up a book that had toppled facedown onto the floor and placed it carefully back on one of the stacks.
“I just sent in my manuscript!” I announced. “Let’s celebrate!”
Rick looked distracted by something on his computer. He raised a finger up while he scanned the screen, then looked up. “What was that?” he asked.
“I just finished my book,” I said, deflated by Rick’s tepid response. “I sent it off to your friend Ursula five minutes ago.”
“Right,” he said. “Kudos! That’s wonderful news. Sorry I’m so spacey—I just got an e-mail from my agent. He needs me to fly out to New York ASAP.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, just more crap having to do with our good friend President Martinez. Despite my best efforts, it appears I’m no closer to landing a permanent position here at Fairfax. My agent’s trying to light a fire under his ass. He just lined me up an interview with NYU and wants me there pronto. Maybe the prospect of losing me to another school will get Martinez to finally come through with a real job offer.”
“NYU?” I said, crestfallen. “That’s so far away from here.”
“It’s gamesmanship, Anne. Don’t worry. We’re playing a game of chicken, but he’ll blink. I know it.”
I felt a fresh surge of resentment toward Adam. I knew he didn’t like Rick, but this was ridiculous. It wasn’t just Rick’s life he was playing with—it was mine. I’d worked so hard the past few months, writing into the night, focused single-mindedly on finishing my book, and now it all felt pointless. What had I been working for anyway? If Rick ended up leaving Fairfax . . . I felt my lip start to tremble.
Rick gave me a kiss. “Don’t look so gutted,” he said. “I promise it’ll be OK. Now come on—let’s go grab a bite to eat.”
*
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, RICK flew to New York for his interview. Carrying a heavy winter coat over his arm, a cashmere scarf draped around his neck, he looked intrepid and dashing as he left for the airport. Even though it was dawn, I got out of bed to wish him good-bye, padding outside in my pajamas and watching him load his bags into the waiting taxi.
“Good luck,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”
“I’m coming back, you know,” Rick laughed. “I’m going to New York, not some war zone.”
“I know,” I said ruefully. “I just wish I could go with you.”
“You’re not missing anything,” Rick said. “I’m sure it’s just going to be some dog and pony show. Besides, how could I give up all this?” He swept his arms around to include me, his charming rental house, and the San Bernardino Mountains turning peach-colored in the early dawn light. I watched his taxi drive away, feeling desolate and abandoned.
With my manuscript finally submitted, Steve had forwarded my new employment contract to HR, and I stopped by their offices to sign the final paperwork. I’d finally been converted from contingent faculty to tenure track, and with my book’s publication, I’d be eligible for early tenure and lifetime job security. Staring at the executed contract, signed by Adam and Steve, I could hardly believe the document was real. I wasn’t going to be unemployed in the fall. I had a career. I had a book. My life was falling into place, except for one important thing. I shoved my copy of the contract into my bag.
I want more cookies, I said to myself.
Impulsively, I decided to walk past Adam’s office to see if he was in. The president’s office occupied the entire east wing of the administrative building, through grand walnut-carved doors with the Fairfax motto, “Veritas et Virtus,” etched in gold on the lintel. The waiting room was empty and the receptionist had stepped out for lunch, and I was about to leave when I saw that Adam’s door was ajar.
“Hey,” I said, knocking tentatively on the door and peeking in. “Do you have a minute?”
“Come on in!” Adam said, smiling and pushing a pile of papers to one side. “I’m just working through lunch.”
I’d only seen Adam’s office in the PAW. It was bigger and more corporate than I expected, with glass plaques arranged on a side table and shelves of what looked like law textbooks lining the walls. All of Adam’s framed diplomas, embellished with gold seals and ribbons, hung above the shelves. Sitting across from him, I felt like a student who had just been summoned to the principal’s office.
“I just signed your contract for next year,” Adam said, reaching over his desk to shake my hand warmly. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “And listen—about New Year’s . . .”
“Don’t think of it,” Adam said. “I just hope you weren’t feeling too awful the next day.” He gave me a knowing look.
I laughed nervously, then took a deep breath. “I came by because, well, I had a favor to ask. I was hoping you could help with Rick’s situation.”
“His situation?”
“Yeah,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “NYU’s trying to poach him, but I know he really wants to stay here at Fairfax. I don’t know if you can do anything to help him stay . . .”
“Hiring decisions aren’t up to me, unfortunately,” Adam said, his manner suddenly formal. “Has he talked to the dean?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But he says his agent’s been in discussions with you—”
Adam frowned. “His agent?” he said cagily. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Listen—I know these things are confidential. I just wanted to say that whatever your personal feelings about Rick, I hope you won’t let them cloud your judgment. He’s an incredibly talented, respected writer—any school would be lucky to have him.”
“Perhaps, then, you should have Rick come speak to me directly instead of communicating through you,” he said crisply.
I stared at Adam. “Just so you know, he didn’t send me here,” I snapped. “This was my own idea. In fact, he’d probably kill me if he knew I was talking to you.”
“So he didn’t send you?”
“No! He’d never ask me to do anything like this. He’s way too modest.” I stood up abruptly. “Forget it. I thought we could discuss this in a reasonable way, but clearly I was wrong.”
“Stop—Anne—I’m sorry if I offended you,” Adam said, leaping to his feet. “I just wanted to be clear on why you were doing this.”
“I owe a huge debt to Rick,” I said quietly. “He went above and beyond to help me get my book published. I know you don’t believe me, but he’s a really good person. He’s allowed me to have a writing career—and a life.” I felt my throat tighten painfully.
Adam was looking at me thoughtfully. “I see,” he said. “That changes things.”
“You’re going to lose him if you don’t make an offer soon,” I said weakly.
“Let me think through some options,” Adam said. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.” He walked me to the door and then reached out to shake my hand.
“And you don’t have to worry, Anne,” he said. “I’m perfectly capable of separating the personal from the professional. You have my word.”