She embarked on a quiet errand, stopping at a grocery store, then driving to an address William had texted her. The house was a duplex with olive-green siding and a deep front porch with student stuff on it: bikes, a grill, a plaid couch. It was near the train tracks behind mechanics’ shops and take-out restaurants, the cold air smelling of grease. Sam took a photo for William and wondered what his readers would say if they only knew about his humble grad school lodgings, so in contrast to what he had become. She was a little surprised there was no plaque or marker,William Corwyn Slept Here, or offerings like the stuffed rabbit on its spike. She felt a terrible nostalgia for the William she would never know, a beautiful young man full of energy and ambition so great he would apparently hurt others for it, whether he intended to or not. She pictured him drinking beer on that couch, hosting readings, lying in bed with Becky and listening to the trains pass a block away. Sam got out of her Jeep, walked up to the cement porch, bisected by a tectonic crack,and laid her bouquet of supermarket flowers on it.For you, Becky, she said silently, but it was really for both of them, for all of them, for who they had been in their youth.
She slept badly that night and woke feeling as though she’d been beaten in her sleep. She got coffee from the campus convenience store and hit the road, saying “Thank you” to Harrington and Zahra as she left, though Sam wasn’t sure she was grateful she’d come or not. She drove past dairy farms, the sun winking in and out, the snow tired in the fields, the two-lane road winding through small towns. After an hour she reached the interstate and stopped at a gas station. It had started to flurry.
Sam got fuel and more caffeine, used the bathroom. Back in her Jeep she checked the forecast, squalls on and off all the way to William Island, then sat and sipped her convenience store coffee and looked through the windshield at the highway. She had taken it north to William’s house in November. She could, if she turned south, drive straight to Boston.
Sam was deeply troubled by what Zahra had told her about William, and saddened. She hated thinking of him being a bully in workshop. Of course, there had been a lot of bullies in workshop. Sam herself had been told she should choose another profession, that she was not a natural writer, that her stories were improbable, trite, clichéd, worthless. She didn’t think the others had meant anything personal; it was just a kind of survival instinct. They all knew how slim the odds of making it as a writer were, that their instructors would never provide anything as plebeian or useful as connections, that an agent could glance at your query describing the book it had taken you three or five or ten years to write and pass in thirty seconds, or an editor could read the first page, toss it, and go out for lunch. The writers were scrambling to get out of the slush pile and kicking others in the face as they did it. The fewer of them there were, the better the chances.
William’s behavior had been the norm. It was distasteful, reprehensible, but it was not a dealbreaker. And his workshop was decades ago. Even Zahra had pointed out how he must have changed, the Darlings a testament to how much. He used his own invaluable time to pay it forward. To help less fortunate writers. He certainly had been unfailingly supportive of Sam.
And yet.
There was something bothering Sam, something more than William’s workshop behavior, something on the tip of her brain.
Mireille:Perhaps you can find out his secret, how he writes all these female-centric blockbusters.
Zahra:William was especially ruthless because he had no real story. He was a copycat. He was zero at the core.
Sam remembered what she’d thought the first time she went to hear William read: What writer switched genres with every book? No writer. Except William.
And whydidhe write only from the female point of view?
Sam scoffed. This was ridiculous. OfcourseWilliam wasn’t stealing women’s stories for his novels. Surely Zahra hadn’t meant to imply that. Zahra herself had exonerated William, saying nobody had found anything wrong with his conduct beyond the usual workshop douchebaggery. And bullying Becky.
But:We thought their pairing very strange, Zahra had also said.
And there was—had been—Cyndi, hunched in her hoodie:He reached out to help me with my fiction novel! I was so surprised! I mean, somebody like you, I could understand him talking to. But me, why?
Zahra:I guess he found his own voice after all. And it was feminine.
Had he, though? Or had William found somebody else’s voice? Many somebodies? Female somebodies? That he had handpicked and curated? Culled from lectures, conferences, his own support group? Women who were isolated, by profession and also maybe by personality? The shy ones? Each writing in a different genre? Women who, if they then saidWait, that’s my story!would be scoffed at and disbelieved,who didn’t have the resources or reputation to confront a monolith like William Corwyn?
“This isinsane,” Sam said. What if Zahra hadintendedthis, to plant this idea in Sam’s head? Zahra could have had an axe to grind with William all these years—no doubt he’d treated her abysmally too. And Zahra had to be jealous. In Sam’s program, a woman a year ahead of her had won the Pulitzer. Sam had always been so grateful she hadn’t been in that writer’s workshop. She wouldn’t have been able to bear the envy. She might have been so discouraged she wouldn’t have published at all. Look at Zahra: one quiet, well-regarded novel early on, then two that had dropped down the well, a memoir, and some articles. She’d achieved much in her professional life, but nothing like William’s stratospheric, highly visible success. In Zahra’s position, Sam might have wanted to smear William, too, sow discord in his upcoming marriage.
Still.
Sam watched snow spinning out of the gray sky. If she left now, she might beat William back to the house, especially if the weather got worse and delayed his flight. She could greet him with lights on, soup on the stove, a hearty blaze in the fireplace.
She could check out his study.
Or she could drive south. Stay with Drishti. Leave all this trouble behind. Including the Rabbit—in her new confusion Sam had almost forgotten the Rabbit!, who was probably lurking at the house right now, just waiting for Sam to come home alone. Ready to use that blade Sam had seen in her hand. Or bash Sam’s head with a rock and drag her onto the ice, making it look like an accident. Or drown her in the hot tub.He’ll probably chop you up into little pieces and make you into soup.
Sam twisted her beautiful ring. She could see it all so clearly. Marrying William in the backyard. Overlooking the lake. A small wedding, maybe even just the two of them and a judge, Sam in a white sundress, William in his button-down and khakis. Something simple because extravagance was beside the point: All they needed was each other. William leaning forward, smiling, to kiss her.It’s you.
It wouldn’t have to be forever. Sam could just visit Drishti to take a break, get some perspective. That was what a sane person would do.
Sam set her coffee in the cupholder and put the Jeep in drive. Pulled onto the service road. Signaled her intent. At the last minute, she swerved, bumping over the median, and took the northern exit instead. Toward Maine.
The Rabbit
They’re back, both of them. They arrived on the island yesterday evening within minutes of each other, as if they’d planned it. I was so mad! I’d been lying in wait for Sam Vetiver, or rather crouching in the bushes as soon as I heard her Jeep on the causeway, but just as she got out William came bumping up in his fancy car with the chained snow tires. Then I had to listen to “Hi,” and “Hi,” and “It’s you,” and “It’s you,” and “Love,” and “Love,” and all manner of wubba-wubba reunion bullsh*t, including the mother of all f*ckfests that was so loud I could hear it down in the Rabbit Hole with my earmuffs on.
God forbid they’re ever parted from each other for more than a few days. The world will blow up.
I look forward to making that happen.
Meanwhile, this morning, business as usual. William wakes before dawn and makes coffee, he writes in his basement study, he goes back up, they have breakfast. I assume the position, standing on a chair under the kitchen air vent. There’s a smell of pancakes that practically makes me cry, plus plates clanking and silverware clinking as William says, “We’re going to get a blizzard tomorrow,” and Sam Vetiver says, “That’s exciting!” and William says, “Spoken like a true city girl, they can be deadly. I’ll go to Augusta for provisions. Want to come?” and Sam Vetiver says, “I may stay home if you don’t mind, I’ve got some things I want to do here,” andI think, Me too, Sam Vetiver, me too. I’m doing a silent happy dance about this development, final-f*cking-ly she’ll be alone! William says, “Send me your shoppinglist, I know we need lube,” and Sam Vetiver says, “I noticed that, I don’t know what happened to all of it,” and William says “Well, I do,” and then they settle down to eat and are quiet.
Until Sam Vetiver says, “Oh, did you get that photo I sent you?”
