“Yes,” said the large young man, “it might be a good topic for my publication’s ‘Right Writing’ column. I’ll see if there’s someone I can assign it to.” He returned the cards and pen to his jacket pocket. “Say, Jackson, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in writing for me?”
Doreen set down a forkful of lamb and watched Jackson, fearful, no doubt, that he’d say something rude. As she made eye contact with him he was overwhelmed by fraternal love for this gold-hearted girl.
“I’d love to, naturally,” he said, “but my plate is full just now. So to speak, no pun intended. But I hear ProProse is a tremendous success.”
Whelpdale’s already formidable chest expanded as his posture straightened. “Well, I just hope that it’s helpful. That’s my mission in life: to help us poor sots who pick up the pen for our livelihood.”
Jackson couldn’t help himself. “So, you’re still writing fiction? Got anything coming out?”
Whelpdale was not flapped. “You know me; I’ve always got my irons in the fire.”
“Caff or decaff with dessert?” Doreen injected into the small pause. “And I hope you both left room.”
“Leaded,” Whelpdale said. “I don’t plan to retire early, and I always have room for your desserts.”
Pushing away the appalling thought of Whelpdale coupling with the pretty Doreen, Jackson asked him if he’d read Henry Baffler’s book.
“A work of genius,” Whelpdale exclaimed. “It’s wonderful.”
“Can I borrow it?” Doreen asked.
Whelpdale shook his head.
“You’re right,” Jackson said. “Poor Henry needs every sale he can get. I’m not going to loan mine out either.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” Whelpdale said quickly. “It’s just not the sort of thing Doreen would like reading.”
“Surely you don’t imagine me so feeble-minded that I’m capable of reading only beach novels and chick lit? If it’s a work of genius, I should read it.”
“Of course not. You have a perfect mind! It’s just that by work of genius, I meant that it’s impenetrable. Literally almost nothing happens in four hundred pages. And I can’t stand the thought of you associated with what Baffler calls the ignobly decent — not even on the page.”
Despite Whelpdale’s blatant flattery and the affectation of his manners and gestures — he’s no more a gentleman than I am, Jackson thought — his tone evinced sincere affection for Doreen.
“I’m afraid,” Jackson said, “that the reviewers are with you there.”
“Except for the anonymous reviewer in The Monthly,” Whelpdale said.
Jackson wondered if Whelpdale knew that it was he who had written the review. He hoped not. Real charity is anonymous, but, more important, Jackson wanted Henry to believe a neutral reviewer had really admired and tried to understand Bailiff. “Yes,” he said, “now that fellow understood the literary importance of what our friend is up to.”
“Or else,” said Whelpdale slyly, “he’s good to his friends.”
“Let’s hope the occasional good deed goes unpunished,” Jackson said, filling his mouth with pastry.
Chapter forty-one
Between her uncertainty about her feelings toward Jackson and her trepidation in the face of pending reviews, Margot Yarborough couldn’t say she was happy. No matter which angle she came at the problem of Jackson from, she could not commit to the idea of a future with him. But neither could she determine to give him up.
She decided to take some sort of action about the review journals though, and made a study of their respective styles in order to armor herself. Her editor had been right: about half of the Circus reviews were downright spiteful, and the other half, possibly written by friends of authors or publicists, were kind enough but said next to nothing. The Monthly rarely offered blanket praise or condemnation and, in fact, often said little about the book supposedly under the microscope, instead using the review to launch a more general discussion of some literary passion or pet peeve. The Times was fairly even-handed. It seemed to save its harsh reviews for well-known writers with disappointing new books while reviewing only those debuts that it could praise.
There was a glaring exception to this generality, though. The Times had eviscerated a new book by a first-time author named Henry Baffler. Its comments nauseated Margot: “Let Mr. Baffler remember that a novelist’s first responsibility is to tell a story”; “A reader must want to finish reading the book”; “A pretentious book guilty of the intentional fallacy. Just because one writes about ennui does not mean one should induce it in the reader”; “Here is another of those intolerable objects that prove the sheer wrong-headedness of what Baffler would have us call the New Realism. This book is never interesting, never profitable, never insightful, and hardly ever readable.” The reviewer paraphrased Mickey Spillane’s assertion that no one ever reads a book to get to the middle.
Another publication that had reviewed Baffler’s novel included the sensational story of the young author rescuing his book from flames, noting that it was the news coverage of the rescue that had led to its publication. “We can only wish,” the piece concluded, “that the fire had consumed the manuscript rather than spitting it out into the world.” Others had their fun with Henry’s name, as though describing his book or its publication as baffling was the height of original wordplay.
Feeling devastated for the poor fellow who had written the book, Margot vowed to buy a copy, read it, and write a fan letter to Henry Baffler.
That night she dreamed she was naked in a room, surrounded by crumpled sheets of paper: all viciously negative reviews of Pontchartrain. “It’s not my title!” she tried to scream, choked by newsprint. “They made me call it that!”
But the reviewers were much kinder to Margot than they had been to the unfortunate Henry Baffler. A half-page review in The Times, no less, argued that her novel was a brilliant pastiche of the eighteenth-century American naturalist novel and applauded Margot’s satirical use of the present tense as the cleverest of anachronisms.
Upon her initial read of the review, Margot smiled, nervous but pleased. Lane and Lana both called her, effusive with their congratulations. Yet after successive readings of the review — three and then four — Margot was seized by self-doubt, by the fear of being uncovered as a poser, an imposter. Margot knew that her book was not so much a pastiche as written in the tradition of — even in imitation of — the old-fashioned novels she loved. She had chosen the present tense not as an act of subversive genius but simply because it made the book, with its cumbersome back story, easier to write. It had allowed her to write the lengthy flashbacks in simple past tense, thereby avoiding all those messy participles.
Margot’s lack of confidence in her own good fortune was soon validated. One Friday, exactly a week before her regional book tour was to commence, Lane phoned.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” her editor said. “But one of the large chain stores — I won’t say which one — says it over-ordered first fiction for the spring. They’re cutting quite a few books, and unfortunately yours is one of them.”
“Why mine?”
“Capricious, arbitrary decision on their part. Maybe it’s the southern setting, or maybe some buyer doesn’t like the name Margot.”
“Is it an unpopular name?” Margot asked, trying to understand what the conversation meant.
“It’s a lovely name. I’m just saying that you can’t take it personally.” Lane paused, then went on when Margot didn’t say anything. “I won’t pretend it’s not bad news. At least one copy of your book was slated to go to every one of their stores, and they’d ordered half a dozen copies for a good number of stores in the south and some larger cities.”