Hank paused mid-puff. “I thought that was an urban legend to keep writers in line.”
“Oh hell no, it’s true. They can sue me for it. Or they could, if I hadn’t spent it.”
“Good Lord, girl, on what? Botox?”
“It is called amortgage,” said Sam, more acidly than she’d intended. Hank had been flush when they first met, but for much of their marriage she’d carried their Little House in the Berkshires and their other expenses too. The halfway house where Hank lived now was so filthy Sam peed in the bushes when she last visited, but it was state-subsidized, as were Hank’s groceries. He had no overhead.
“You best get to writing, girl,” said Hank.
“I know. But how? I’ve never been blocked like this before.”
Hank blew a smoke ring and followed its progress toward the light bulb. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
Ding!Sam could practically hear the timer that signaled the end of Hank’s interest. She felt a familiar irritation, more at herself than at him. It was true that she’d spent years of their married life proofreading Hank’s agency contracts, analyzing gallery owner communications, and peering at contact sheets to select the images for Hank’s exhibits. Not to mention all the time in emergency rooms, police stations, counselors’ offices, and Family Day at rehab. But Hank had been kind to her this evening. They were no longer married. He was under no obligation to Sam. And extended attention span was not a recovering alcoholic’s greatest strength.What’d you expect, kid, Sam could hear Drishti saying,you went to a hardware store for bread!
“I’ll tell you one thing, you might have writer’s block, but you look like a million bucks,” said Hank. He made a horny Frenchmanhon hon honnoise, but his voice was wistful when he asked, “Any chance of a visit?” He meant could Sam come to the halfway house, which he couldn’t leave with his ankle bracelet on.
“I’ll check my schedule when I get home,” Sam promised.
Hank sculpted the end of his cigar against his ashtray. “I sure wish I could be there when you land, Ms. Vetiver,” he said to it. “I still love you, you know.”
Sam smiled sadly in the middle of the big empty bed.
“I know,” she said. “I love you too.”
The Rabbit
It’s August 2 and I’m parked in my usual stakeout spot in a thicket across from William’s causeway. From here, with the powerful binoculars I liberated from my bookstore—we carry them for readers who love their feathered friends, bundling them with theGuide to North American Birds—I can just make out the front of William’s house through the trees. But he can’t see me. That’s one of the most important things. The other is that he can’t come or go without my knowing it. Even if I’m asleep, the sound of his tires as he exits the causeway onto the road always wakes me. I know. It’s happened many times.
Yesterday afternoon, for instance, I watched him depart for Portland, where he launched his latest novel,All the Lambent Souls. New books always come out on Tuesdays, I don’t know why, it’s just always been that way. But if you’re a big shot like William, the publisher sometimes allows you to get the jump on your competitors and launch on Monday. That’s what happened with William last night. He drove to Portland’s biggest indie bookseller, introduced his fifth novel to 250 of his closest friends in the church the store uses for large events, ate cake frosted with his book cover—that’s a lot of green icing—and drove home.
My job was to make sure he was alone.
Or take note of who he was with, if he was not.
I was a little surprised he drove all the way back instead of setting off on his tour from Portland. After all, it’s two and a half hours from here. But maybe William wanted to sleep in his own bed one last time before all thosehotel rooms. He’s pushing sixty, after all. Well, he will be in three years. Although age doesn’t seem to have slowed him down much, at least in one crucial respect.
Or maybe a bit. Because he came home alone last night.
I was so relieved. I did stay up a few hours longer, just in case. Sometimes women arrive after he gets home. God knows how he summons them. Via the internet. Or apps. Or it’s somebody he met IRL who prefers to drive herself.
Which is what William likes too. He doesn’t want to have to chauffeur anyone home, especially not from this remote locale.
He doesn’t want them to stay.
These are the throwaways, the ho-aways, women he meets at readings or art galleries and invites back for what he calls a saucy time. I’m always worried he’ll find one of them worthy of more than a night.
But for a while now, they’ve all been discards.
Thank God.
Last night nobody came, and William is waking up this morning alone. I guess he’s conserving his energy for tour. Wise choice. Gotta be fresh-faced and ultra-charming for the readers. William takes his author responsibilities very seriously, I’ll say that for him. The writing life is his priority. It always was.
I hear the distant rumble of his garage door rising and see light flash off his windshield as he drives out and parks. I raise the binoculars and watch him wheel his rollaway to his trunk and lift it in, along with a cardboard carton I know contains packs of breakfast bars—do you think William Corwyn would leave his health to chance on the road by eating vending-machine chips and snacks? No sir! No way. He brings his tour suits out next, two of them, both seersucker. One in case the other gets dirty. These he hangs from the hooks in his car’s back seat. Do you know how many male authors I’ve welcomed to my store for readings who are in jeans and T-shirts? All of them. Do you know how many have had food stains or ball caps or sneakers without laces? Most. Who wears a seersucker suit on tour? Who even owns one north of the Mason-Dixon line?
William Corwyn, that’s who.
He locks his house and performs his final household chore, urinating into the bushes near his front door. Like a wolf keeping other animals away. Then he goes to his car, sits in the driver’s seat, and puts on his sneakers. He’s been barefoot up till now, I know without looking. He never wears shoes here until it snows. How well I remember his feet, pale and flexible and spatulate as flippers. How he said, grinning,Here you go, you might want these, as he picked my panties up from the floor with his toes.
