Margot, whose cheeks were already pink from the cold, blushed hard, and Jackson felt refreshed. There weren’t many girls who’d lived in the city and still blushed at so mild a comment.
Margot led him into the house and introduced him to her mother as though they had never met. He was relieved he hadn’t made a pass at her at the Blue Ridge Writers’ Conference, which of course was the only thing that would have been worse than what he had done. She was attractive, though, in that way that aging women with leisure and some financial resources can be when they make appearance a priority.
She was gracious as well, taking his hand between both of hers. “Call me Janelle. I’m glad you’re here.”
“It’s my pleasure to finally be here. I think the world of Margot, and I’ve been working very hard at learning to be well behaved.” Jackson made sure his voice was loud and even, that his hint of apology was in no way servile or obsequious.
After they were seated in the living room with drinks, Andrew Yarborough stomped in. For a moment he looked as though he would retreat, but, caught, he came in and took a seat. Jackson stood and nodded, and the old fellow offered a grunt.
They fumbled their way through the relatively safe subject of sports, and Jackson refrained from making his usual comment that Ivy League football is not actually a sport. After touching on movies and politics, they dipped into an uncomfortable silence.
“I’ve been hearing the highest praise for your new work, sir.” Jackson knew that flattery, even if transparent, was his safest course. “And I think it’s high time for just the sort of measured synthesis you’ve attempted.”
“Attempted? It’s finished, and it’s not an attempt at anything. And, mind you, it’s no mere synthesis either. I take some real stands.”
“Of course, sir, I merely used the word ‘synthesis’ to allude to the comprehensive nature of your project.”
“Buttering me up,” Andrew grumbled even as his body language softened. “Fix me a drink, Janelle. Scotch and soda, I think.”
Margot was seated on a large chair, and her toes barely grazed the floor. “Dad’s career certainly doesn’t need a crown. This will be a jewel in it.”
“That’s an absurd metaphor, my darling, and another reason I think your real future lies in editing rather than writing.”
Jackson wanted to weigh the advantages of defending his girlfriend or siding with her father, but he knew that a quick reaction was likely the best. “Of course I adore Margot’s lyrical prose — and her dedication — but she does strike me as someone with a fine editorial eye. There’s no reason, is there, that she can’t practice both literary activities?”
“Dad wants me to start a journal. He’ll be the editorial board, and I’ll be the editor.”
“Well, that’s a capital idea. Except, of course, there’s a lot of competition, and much of that competition can claim institutional financing.”
“Yes,” honked Andrew, “and institutional kowtowing and tastes. Even the newest, supposedly independent reviews are clamoring to publish Adam Richards so he’ll review the editors’ books on his radio show. Even those without books always assume they‘ll write one soon, so they’ll pass up four great short stories to publish some egomaniacal ninety-page monstrosity by Richards. Or else they’ll publish Don Darlington or some other usual suspect just because.”
“I don’t disagree with you, sir. In fact that’s why I was so relieved the other day to read something really interesting in Putrid City. It was by a new writer named Clarice Aames.”
“I haven’t read it, but Putrid City only publishes New York stories. You know, you can be so avant-garde as to be old-fashioned. Besides, that name. It’s ridiculous.”
They skirmished over the relative merits of a few other journals, Jackson cautious not to mention any publication related to Chuck Fadge.
“Oh,” Margot said as though she’d been stuck with a pin, “I saw that Hinks finally placed that story he was having trouble placing. It’s in the new issue of the MidMichigan Review.”
“It’s harder and harder for him to publish, though,” Andrew said.
As the alcohol and the conversation relaxed Jackson, he felt his guard lowering and relished the edge of excitement, the hint of social danger, that accompanied it. “Speaking of old fashioned,” he commented. “Hinks has trouble placing his stories because they’re bland. Well-crafted pieces of nothing. Nothing at stake. Nothing new to say.”
Margot sank down in her chair as Andrew sat up straighter to more fully inhabit his.
“Then name me a journal publishing stories with something at stake, stories with something to say.”
Jackson knew that he should back down, but he also saw no reason why he should have to suffer an old fool, a man of yesteryear, when the codger couldn’t even trouble himself to be civil. And so he spoke: “Putrid City for one, though, yes, its focus is the city — and not without cause. Swanky’s great, and, unlike the MidMichigan Review, people actually read it.” Jackson ignored the eye contact that Margot sought. “By people, I mean of course young people. And then there’s The Monthly. I’ve got a regular gig with them, not because I need it, but because I respect what they do.”
“The Monthly? The Monthly!” Andrew stood up, his face florid, his cheeks inflating. He looked as though he might, quite literally, explode. “You write for Chuck Fadge? That goddamn fucking, conniving, gay, piss ant?”
Jackson knew he should restrain himself, but he was tired of biting his tongue in deference to the old blow-hard. Something about Yarborough pissed him off so thoroughly that he couldn’t stop himself from pushing back, consequences be damned. “Now, let me get this straight: Which adjective there gives you the most trouble? That he gets laid, that he’s as clever as you wish you were? Or is it that he’s a damned homosexual?”
Margot stood and said, her voice a tremolo, “Please.” The word trailed off, and she lifted her hand in a stop gesture.
“Get out of my house!” boomed the old man.
Pleasantly flushed with liquor and feeling more triumphant than sorry, Jackson apologized to Margot and said farewell to Janelle.
“Let me drive you to the train station,” Margot said.
“Not in my car!” commanded her father.
“Fine,” Margot whispered. “We’ll walk.” Her voice restored to its normal volume, she said, “And I’m not funding your journal, Dad, and I plan to leave home as soon as possible.”
She followed Jackson outside, apologizing.
“Please, don’t,” Jackson said, smoothing her hair, patting her shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It was all him and me. You know men and their pissing contests.”
“But now, well, it’s all so impossible.”
“Walk with me, okay? Let’s talk.” They headed down the hill, stepping around patches of ice, toward the road that paralleled the river. Jackson continued, “I don’t want to damage your relationship with your father. I’d hate to make you choose between your father and me, but do I flatter myself to think you might choose me? You see, I’m old-fashioned enough to believe that a woman worthy of a man’s love is better than he is, that she condescends in giving herself to him — and thus that you might love me in a way that’s better than the way I love you.”
“Your love for me is a bad thing? A low thing?”
“Well, a man’s love is both peculiar and astonishingly common. You’re everything I should want. You’re sweet and cute and smart and kind. It’s that I know that I’m vulgar in comparison, and of course there’s no new way to express love. That’s part of why I didn’t speak of love sooner.”