to end it. He talks on and on. I shake his hand. He kisses me. I
walk on, alone.
*
140
The meetings go on for months. I go to his office. He keeps me
there. Everyone leaves. He tells me sexy stories, his lovers, his
adventures. I have my list out. He talks about writers. He
gives me books. He talks about himself, endless. It is dusk. It
is dark. There is a sofa in his office. He brings me over there. I
don’t sit down. I keep standing. I am formal. We walk out
together. We walk several blocks together. He does not acknowledge any of my moves to go. Finally, I go to shake his hand.
He pulls me. He kisses me. I walk on, alone.
*
It is dark. It is night. We walk several blocks together. It is
time for him to turn off to his apartment. I don’t shake his
hand. I start to move away fast, almost running, and say
good-bye once I am moving away. He grabs me and pulls me
and kisses me. I walk on, alone.
*
I dread the meetings, always four hours, six hours. Every smile
is a lie. He publishes my book with some money behind it, a
token of his esteem like a fine piece of jewelry would be. The
book is savaged. I am humiliated, ashamed. It keeps him away.
It is the one good thing. He could probably have me now. I am
too ashamed to pull away. He could wipe his dick on me now.
Why not?
*
He bought the next book before this savaged one was published. It was a token of his esteem, like a fine piece of jewelry would be.
I work feverishly to meet my deadline. I have one year. He
leaves me alone. I am desperate for money. The landlord sets
up a new exhaust system for the restaurant downstairs. The
windows are closed. I am still cold all the time but the windows
are closed. I am afraid I will suffocate, that the air is still
poison, but I am too cold to open the windows. Sometimes the
new exhaust system doesn’t work and I get sick so I am nervous
and afraid each day but the windows are closed. Sometimes
they are opened for a week at a time because the new exhaust system doesn’t work but most of the time the windows are closed. Each day I beat down the humiliation of the last
book to work on this new one: it is like keeping vomit from
coming up. I work hard. A year passes. I finish it. He
141
has called to assure me of his love but he leaves me alone.
*
Then the rats come. Just as I am finishing, the rats come.
There are huge thuds in the walls, heavy things dropping in
the walls, great chases in the ceiling, they are right behind the
plaster, chasing, running, scrapping. The walls get closer and
closer, Edgar Poe knew a thing or two, the room gets smaller
and smaller. I am up each night and they are running, falling,
dropping, chasing, heavy, loud, scampering, fast. They are
found dead in the halls. The landlord says they are squirrels.
*
Night after night: they drop like dead weight in the walls, they
run in the ceiling, the walls close in, the ceiling drops down,
plaster falls, they are running above the bed, they are running
above the bath, they are running above the sink, the toilet, the
sofa, the desk, they are in the walls, falling like dead weight,
we put huge caches of poison in great holes we make in the
walls, we plaster the holes, sometimes one dies and the stink
of the rotting carcass is inescapable, vomitous, and still they
run and chase and fall and pounce: they are overhead and on
every side. I am scared to death and ready to go mad, if only
God would be good to me.
*
I live like this for months. The publisher has promised to publish a secret piece of fiction only he has read. He read it months before, in the privacy of his love for me. Now I have submitted
it officially. He has promised me, money, everything. I am
entirely desperate for money. I am so afraid. He knows about
the rats. He knows how poor I am. He knows I am ready to
leave the sleeping boy, who sleeps through the jumping and
chasing and great dull thuds. I am, frankly, too desperate and
too tired to love. I am too afraid. The boy sleeps. I do not.
This constitutes— finally— an irreconcilable difference.
The editor tells my agent he must talk to me about structure:
ideas he has for the piece of fiction: this means he will publish
it, but he has these ideas I must listen to.
I call to make an appointment at his office.
He insists on dinner.
There is dinner, coffee afterward: a restaurant, a coffeehouse. He talks and talks and talks. I drink and drink and 142
drink. I am waiting for the ideas about structure. He orders
for me. He smothers me with talk. I drink more. I ask in the
restaurant about his ideas about structure. He ignores me and
keeps talking. I drink. He talks about sex. He talks about his
life. He talks about his lovers. I say: well we must get absolutely
sober now so I can hear your ideas about structure. We go to a
coffeehouse. He talks. He talks about how he has to love an
author. He talks about the authors he has loved. He talks about
someone he is involved with who is writing a noveclass="underline" he talks
about visiting this author and that author and what they drink
and how they love him and how they want him. I say I want
to hear his ideas about structure. He tells me he is going to
buy a beach house, a house by the ocean, where I can come to
live and write. He says he has found it. He says it is right on
the ocean. He says he can picture me there, working, undistracted, not having to worry about fumes and rats and poverty. He tells me that as long as he has a home I have a
home and that this home, on the ocean, is very special and for
me. He knows it is what I have always wanted, more than
anything: it is my idea of peace and solace. I say thank you but
I had a rather strange childhood always being moved from
home to home because my mother was sick sort of like an
orphan and I am not too good about staying in other people’s
houses. I ask him about his ideas about the structure of the
novel. He says that his involvement with the work of an author
and his involvement with the author are indistinguishable, he
has to love them as one. He tells me about the house he is
buying right on the ocean where I will go and work and finish
the novel. He tells me he sees me in it working. I ask him
about his ideas about structure. He tells me that he wants me