“Well, this is ‘post-cool with no kids’, not ‘uncool with kids’. Different thing, and, anyway, it’s not like things don’t get published just because they’re not thoroughly original in every way.”
“Maybe Jackson could hook you up with Chuck Fadge, help you place something in The Monthly?”
“This isn’t right for Fadge. And I’d rather do things on my own, without begging anyone for help.”
“Jack’s not ‘anyone’. He’s our friend. That’s one of your problems, Eddie.” Though her words cut, there was no edge to her voice. “Only the very strongest men are self-made. You should use any means of help possible.”
“Because I’m weak.”
“Don’t be offended. That’s not how I meant it.” Exasperation tinged her words now, but, still, she didn’t seem angry.
“You’re right. I’m the sort of person who needs all the help I can get. But, really, this piece isn’t right for The Monthly.”
Amanda smiled a victor’s smile and said, “Because it’s unfinished or barely started?”
Eddie didn’t want to answer. The article was barely begun and would never be finished, and they both knew it. He groped for another angle to direct their fight. “Amanda,” he said at last. “Are you always regretting that I’m not more like Jackson? If I had his peculiar talent, we’d likely be coming into a lot more money, I don’t doubt. But then I wouldn’t have my talent. And, frankly, I wouldn’t trade the one for the other.”
“That’s ridiculous. And just to prove it, I’ll never mention Jackson Miller’s name again.”
“Now that really is ridiculous.”
“Then let’s just drop this whole subject. Anyway, my book is nearly done, so maybe I’ll save us both.”
“You say ‘us both’ instead of just ‘us’. As though we aren’t a unit, as though our fates are separate.”
“Really, Eddie! I might as well have married a goddamn poet.” Now obviously furious, she left the room.
Eddie knew that their union was chewing its own foundation, even that it was for the best, in the way that the inevitable often seems like it’s for the best. Yet he also believed that money, if he was the one who earned it, could still save the marriage. He believed that if he could publish a successful book, he could win back Amanda’s love. He gave up the short-lived idea of writing articles and began to consider ideas for a new novel. As much as Amanda would like to be rich, she valued prestige above wealth. She would choose Eddie over Jackson, even if Jackson’s book was a bestseller, so long as Eddie had the more important reputation. If he could be short-listed for a major prize, Amanda’s heart would be back on his side. Again he weighed a historical novel. Maybe the Hobbema book wasn’t a bad idea. He vowed to read the literature from the Frick the next time Amanda was out of the apartment.
Chapter twenty
A full week after the initial phone calls suggesting that his novel would soon be at the center of a bidding war, Jackson Miller still lacked a firm offer. He began to revise his expectations. His initial plan had been to pay off his debts, leave Doreen with a few extra months rent, and buy and furnish his own place. Perhaps also a home in the country or, better still, in Europe. After those interminable six days, he would have been relieved to just pay off most of his credit card debt, square things with Doreen, and buy some Italian shoes and a really good steak.
Even with his cell phone in his pocket and set to ring loudly as well as vibrate, he felt anxious away from his home phone and his email, which he checked hourly even though he knew that good book news always arrives by phone. He limited his calls to his agent to once a day, but this was not an easy discipline. For the first time in his life, his confidence felt brittle, like dry earth that could be washed downslope by sudden rain.
It was during the night of the fourth day of this misery that he re-read Margot’s email about the sale of her book over and over. For a moment, a short but whole moment, he felt only happiness and respect for her. In the next moment, he felt angry that she still hadn’t set a date for him to visit. Then he decided that what he wanted more than anything was to sell his book for stacks of money so that he could sweep Margot off her feet — her pedantic asshole of a father be damned — and take care of her so that she could write her little books and mother their children and keep him from becoming the awful person he knew he was capable of becoming.
“I’m worried about your mental health,” Doreen told him on the fifth day.
After telling Doreen to go to hell, he phoned Amanda, who wasn’t home. He told himself that was a good thing, that she would only get him into trouble with his friends, with himself, and with the world.
On day six, his agent sounded annoyed when she said, “There’s no need to check in. You know that I’ll call you the second I hear.” Later that day, she offered to give the editors a deadline. “I can call this thing in,” she said. “There’s some risk, but the outcome will probably be the same either way. They either want the book or they don’t.”
Jackson asked her to hold off, promised to calm down, and drank himself nauseous. He didn’t make any phone calls the next day, which he spent on the stained futon sofa, sipping ginger ale and nibbling saltines to cure his hangover and nourish his self-pity. On Monday, recovered fully from the hangover if not the self-pity, he phoned his agent. “Let’s call it in, risk be damned.”
“That’s my boy. I’ll set the deadline for Thursday. I’ll call you Thursday at five with the good news.”
That night he was back at the vodka when Margot phoned. “I’m having lunch with my editor and my agent tomorrow. I thought we might take a walk or something after.” Her voice was still hesitant and girl-like, but Jackson thought he could hear something new: the lilting confidence of success.
“If you can squeeze me in,” he said and heard her tinkling laugh.
“Doreen,” he was saying even as he hung up. “You still dating that lawyer?”
“Must you call him ‘that lawyer’ every time? I might start thinking that you’re jealous.”
“My sincerest apologies. Of course he has a name. Calcium or Limestone or something, isn’t it?”
“Dolomite. Mark Dolomite. I wasn’t so sure at first — just thought it would be nice to go out with someone who has real furniture and new clothes and a job he goes to every morning. I thought it would be a refreshing change.” She gave him a pointed look. “But now I quite like him. He’s not witty, exactly. You know lawyers. Their brains are, well, specialized.”
“The intellectual version of the tennis forearm on a scrawny body?”
“But he’s sweet and really a lot of fun.”
“You know me, I don’t judge a person by looking into his heart but by looking at his bookshelves and CD collection.”
“Gotcha. You’d approve of his music. He listens to a lot of the same awful music you do.”
“What about his bookcase?”
Doreen sighed. “He doesn’t have one. Why are you asking anyway?”
“Does he have books?”
She shook her head.
“Doesn’t he even read books on the airplane?”
“Magazines, most likely. Why are you taking such an interest?”
Jackson stood behind the futon sofa and massaged his roommate’s shoulders. “Well, dear, I was wondering if you might stay over there tomorrow night.”
“You slut!” she exclaimed, but her relaxed shoulders suggested only feigned interest.
“Not like that, not this time. This is a nice girl, and I’m serious about her.”