“I know about the line,” said Davies firmly. “I’ve been in it for an hour. ‘To Krissy, on her birthday, her father’s favorite girl’.”
“They said.”
The boy behind Davies pushed again. “Come on, hurry up!” Davies half turned, stifling a welling rage. Appleton opened the book. His pen moved quickly over the title page while at the next table Dunbar, hands still folded, gave Davies a wry look that seemed to encompass the wait, the importunate boy, his own position as wallflower at the edge of the party. Appleton closed the book, slid it to Davies, and turned to the brother and sister surging up behind.
At least the register lines were moving. Davies had his credit card out, twenty-six forty with tax, then he was moving into the cold, into breathing room, crossing the parking lot — Jesus, it was already getting dark, some cars had their lights on — stopping at his car finally to read the inscription in tight, needlescratch hand: To Chrissie — S.R. Appleton.
Chrissie: oh for Christ’s sake what good was this? No Happy Birthday, no message, even her name misspelled, he stood in line an hour for this? Hadn’t he specifically spelled her name out? Hadn’t he done everything right?
Splinter of a headache pulsing hard in his temple, and back into the store, the heat, he was really sweating now, to the first register by the door: “Excuse me,” loud, trying not to be, “I’m afraid I have a problem. This book I just bought—”
“You’ll have to wait a moment,” the clerk said, and the woman she was serving added, sharply, “There’s a line here.”
“I know there’s a line, I was just in the damn—”
“What’s wrong with your book?” brusque from the clerk.
“Nothing’s wrong with the book, it’s the signature—”
The clerk pointed to the line at Appleton’s table.
“Look,” said Davies, “I’m not going through that again.”
“Well, I can’t do anything about it here,” said the clerk, turning to the next customer.
Appleton’s line was no shorter, a seemingly endless stream of kids. As Davies approached, the nervous girl announced that Mr. Appleton was about to leave but “Everyone past this point,” hand on the stack of books, “will have the opportunity to buy one of the books Mr. Appleton has already signed. Those books are at the front counter — ” and, with the crowd, Davies for a moment turned his eyes that way, then back, to take from the stack before him a second unsigned copy of Appleton’s book. He pulled his credit card from his wallet to display it against the book’s cover, as an earnest of intent, but it was too late, the tall girl was murmuring in Appleton’s ear, he was capping his pen, rising, pulling on his jacket, oblivious to the children still waiting, oblivious to Davies, the crowd dissolving and someone edging past him—“Excuse me”—acne and blond hair, it was the other author, Dunbar.
Davies said pointlessly, “I was in line.”
Dunbar paused. “Oh sure. It’s a madhouse, isn’t it. Seldom a problem for me, but—”
“But don’t you think,” said Davies, with a note of appeal, “don’t you think that if you stand in line, it should count for something? Don’t you think standing in line for a whole hour should—”
“What, didn’t he sign it?”
“He did, but he misspelled her name, it’s Krissy with a K, so I came back for another—” showing Dunbar the second book. “But now—”
“Let’s see.” Dunbar took the book from Davies. Smiling, pen in hand, he opened the book and leaned it against a tall shelf, SELF-HELP. “Daddy’s girl, right? Isn’t that what you said before?”
“Her father’s favorite girl,” Davies said, as if by rote.
“Is it Krissy with a y or ie?”
“With a y,” said Davies. “What’re you—”
“Sometimes you have to play clod to a pebble.”
“You what?”
“Blake. William Blake? Songs of experience? ‘Love seeketh…’ Never mind. Here,” handing the open book back to Davies. “Now it’s right, isn’t it?” To Krissy, happiest of birthdays to her father’s favorite girl. Sincerely, S.R. Appleton. His writing all sprawls and messy loops, nothing like Appleton’s tight hand.
“It’s not, I mean thank you, I appreciate the gesture, but it’s—”
“Not his signature? How will she know?” Still smiling, Dunbar turned to go. Davies couldn’t decide if Dunbar was generous or cynical. All he wanted now was to get out of the goddamned store.
The register line moved more slowly this time, with the crush of disappointed Appleton fans and their presigned books; by the time Davies paid it was almost six. Late again. Well, he wouldn’t give Karen the satisfaction of calling. Anyway, traffic would be lighter now.
It wasn’t. It was past six-thirty when he turned up the dead end street and parked by Karen’s building. The movie had started, the evening’s plan was a ruin. But how could he have known? That the line would be so long, that Appleton would be so — what? Unaccommodating? Unfair?
Streetlight fell palely on the two books, one a mistake, one a lie. Neither was right. So give her neither. But then all his effort would be for nothing — the wait, the heat, the noise, the rude and pushing children — he would have only the fur jacket that was Karen’s idea and he couldn’t bear that. What was he supposed to do? He looked at the building, looked at his watch again, but now it was too dark to see.