He nodded. “What did he say? Did you respond?”
Merritt let out a full-body sigh and began to pull out her phone.
“No,” Whit said. “Don’t do that yet. Here.”
He took off her sodden coat and demanded that she wait for him in the living room while he made a cup of tea. She obeyed, and minutes later he met her at her chair by the fire with a mug ofsteaming, cinnamony tea and a hand towel. She placed the former on the small side table and used the latter to dab at her hair and glasses. They did not speak until she had pulled her favorite blanket over her knees and drunk half of the tea.
“Now,” Whit said, ever so gently from the couch, “what did he say?”
She pulled out her phone slowly, its weight like an antique iron in her hand, and she began to read.
Dear Ms.Pryor,
I hope this email finds you well.
She stopped immediately. “It doesnot.”
She took a breath and read further.
You’ll remember me, I think, from our brief interaction at Willa Barrett-Lind’s charming Halloween party. And, if I recall correctly, you have also been of service at our local bookshop.
Merritt pursed her lips in the slightest of smiles. “He totally remembers me helping him, I was deliberately rude.” She continued to read.
I’m currently writing a story forThe Atlanticabout Graydon Lyons’s SERIOUS GAMES. After months of reporting, I have confirmed my suspicions that this work is aroman à clef. Furthermore, it has been insinuated to me that, of the many graduate students with whom Mr.Lyons has liaised, the most likely source for the novel’s main character is—and I’m sorry there isn’t a more polite way of putting this—well,you.
“Jackass,” Whit hissed.
Would you be willing to discuss this discovery with me? I understand, of course, the sensitive nature of this request, and I do apologize. But such is the world of journalism, which in this case, intersects with the world of literary fiction. I can assure you that, had I known that this Venn diagram would encompass our own little town, I never would have accepted the call of what was once an enticing literary mystery, and which has necessarily transfigured itself into something local, personal, and just a biticky.
Now we come to the most delicate point, which is that, to our mutual chagrin, I’m sure, the publication of this article is a foregone conclusion. As such, I can offer you two options: the first and easiest is to go on the record, telling your side of the story in your own words. I understand you’re a bit of a writer yourself, so I can imagine the appeal this narrative control might offer you. The second option, which brings me no pleasure to mention, isnotto participate, and thereby let the tale of Graydon Lyons be told by classmates, acquaintances, and the man himself should he deign to respond to my interview request.
I would apologize again, but I predict such protestations will grow tedious. Should you wish to discuss the matter further, and I certainly hope you will, Merritt, I can be reached via any of the methods in my email signature. In any case, I remain
Your friend and advocate,
Ian Hoult
Whit had made the full range of angry and incredulous noises during this reading, but Merritt hardly noticed. She knew she had grown pale while reading; her skin felt cold and clammy, sweat beading across her upper lip and a deadened ringing in her ears. She was not prepared, though, to look up and see Whit so red-faced, stone-jawed, fuming.
“I know where he lives,” Whit said, standing up. He was wearing duck boots, and she felt a sudden fear he would run out the door before she could stop him.
“Whit, don’t.”
“I’m serious,” he said, raising his hands and stretching out his fingers, as if preparing to strangle something. “We can go over there—Ican go over there and tell him to stop.”
“No, we can’t.”
“Why not? We can make him see reason. And if that doesn’t work, I can punch him in his greasy little face. I can punch him many times.”
Merritt smiled, glad of the distraction. “Have you ever punched anyone, Whit?”
“Craig Peterson, junior year. Used a homophobic slur about my friend. And Howie Garner in college, also for using a homophobic slur to describe me when I dropped out of pledgeship.”
“You were almost a frat boy?”
“Yes, very nearly.”
“The world is full of so many surprises and delights.”
