Mayor Hershott was handed the microphone, and we got back to the night’s festivities. I wanted dinner.
-
Chapter Fourteen
I thought something had happened when Mom called in a panic. Like Granny had died or worse. “Get down here now,” Mom said. That’s all she said. No explanation. No why. Just “get down here.”
So I did.
I rode my bike, sat it up against the brick building, and walked inside. Mom was dealing with a guest who was adamant about something, so I didn’t get why I had to come down here right then. When Mom had a moment free, she told me—scratch that—she asked me, “Guess who’s staying here?” I hated guessing. But I played along. The governor? An actor? The president? No was the answer to all of those.
“Who, then?” I asked.
“The author.”
Now, you’re probably thinking, Why get so excited about the author?
That guy, Boudreaux Beauchamp, was sort of, could be described as, a recluse. Howard Hughesing[41] it. But he was here, staying in our little town, in Mom’s hotel.
“He wants to meet you,” a tiny man carrying a clipboard and a red pen said behind me. “I’m Mr. Beauchamp’s assistant.”
“Get out of town,” I said.
“I wish.”
“Wait—why does he want to meet me?” I asked.
“Your mother has been pestering Mr. Beauchamp all day.”
How embarrassing.
“He’d like to do so now,” the assistant said.
I looked bad. I had ridden the hayride a couple of times with Max and fallen off once getting off. (It took real skill to fall going upstairs, and trip over completely nothing—I had that skill.) I smelled. I’d gone home and was just about to hop in the shower when Mom called and told me to get my butt down here. So I did. Smelly. Hair a rat’s nest. And dirt under my fingernails. I was pretty.
Boudreaux Beauchamp sat in the corner, away from the commotion. The crew had just arrived back from setting up the lighting on the downtown square. Tomorrow was going to be a night shoot. Who knew what they were filming. You know how Hollywood liked to rewrite literature.
“Mr. Beauchamp,” the assistant said, then yelled since Mr. Beauchamp was an eighty-year-old man who was hard of hearing.
“I heard you the first time,” he said (so apparently, he wasn’t hard of hearing), closing his notebook and laying his fancy fountain pen beside it.
“Sit,” the assistant whispered, and I did. Afraid of him and Mr. Beauchamp.
Mr. Beauchamp sat in front of me, his legs crossed, one hand on his knee, the other laid flat on the tabletop. Every so often, he lifted his hand and clicked the tabletop with his long fingernails as if he were playing the piano, and I watched as he tapped his index finger three times before he picked up his complimentary cup of coffee—black—and took a long sip.
“I’m trying to read you, Laura Ratliff,” he said, watching me.
I pulled my sleeves down over my wrists. “What do I say?” I asked.
“You’re hard to read.”
“Do you think that’s a good thing?”
“What do you think?” he asked.
Honestly, I didn’t like how he answered my question with a question.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly.
He picked up his pen and tapped it on his notebook. “So, Laura, what’s your story?”
“Are you writing a new book?” I asked, smiling.
“Maybe.”
Beauchamp hadn’t published a new book in years. He was becoming like J. D. Salinger[42] or Harper Lee.[43] Withdrawn from public life—a recluse—cutting off all contact with people. Until one day he appeared in the pages of Vanity Fair.[44] He was sitting under a lamp. A shadow from his hat sort of made a mushroom-like cloud shadow on the wall. He was the nukeman, or so many had dubbed him. He was the author that killed millions and left millions wanting more. He left the end of Eve of Destruction pretty vague. It was one of those endings that you throw the book across the room and curse the author for leaving such an unsatisfying conclusion. In the Vanity Fair article, Beauchamp admitted to the world he had been writing, and Hollywood would be filming, one of the most beloved novellas. Finally.
It is time in this nuclear climate to finish this story for a new generation to become disillusioned with the world.[45]
I scooted closer to the table and asked, “Are we finally going to find out what happened to—”
He raised his hand for me to stop.
“I’m not going to answer your questions about what I’m writing,” he said.
I guess I pouted because he grabbed my hand and squeezed.
“There, there,” he said, patronizing me. “But I will tell you the title, and you can form your own conclusions. Forecast for Extinction,” he said, leaning back on his chair. “Pretty good, don’t you think?”
There were so many ways the story could go, but he wouldn’t tell me. In fact, he went back to taking notes.
“Brunette, sixteen, pretty blue eyes—pretty green eyes,” he said, peering over his reading glasses and staring at me. “You’d be a perfect character.”
“A mutant, you mean, because the bomb went off and everyone died when the bomb went off. Remember? You wrote it,” I said.
“I do. I remember every godawful word.”
“Don’t say that. It’s one of my favorites.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why did you stay out of the public eye for so long?”
“Nothing else to say.”
“Nothing else to say? Says the guy who’s writing a sequel to Eve of Destruction.”
He smiled, taking another drink of his complimentary coffee, and snapped his fingers for his assistant to come. “You know, Laura, your mom mentioned that you want to be a writer.”
“She did?” That was news to me.
He nodded.
“Well, to be honest, I like to write comics as a hobby. My friend Max and I are creating one.”
“Is it about nuclear war? Because there’s a market,” he says, smirking.
“It’s about superheroes.”
“You have your niche. Do you want my advice?”
“Sure,” I said, leaning forward.
“Don’t—chuck it.”
That was helpful.
“Honestly, what’s the point?” He snapped his fingers again for his assistant, who dug in his pocket for a flask and poured.
“If you want some good stuff, I can hook you up,” I said, leaning back on my chair.
“You’re a child,” he said.
I took offense to the word child.
“Okay, I’ll take the good stuff. And I assume in return you want details,” he said.
“I was just being nice, but—”
“Everybody wants something from someone,” he said. “I’ll answer your question.”
“I would like to know what happens after—”
“After?” he asked.
“After.”
“I don’t know, but don’t worry,” he said.
41
Howard Hughes was an eccentric man, a recluse who wanted to be alone. He locked himself in a room for four months eating nothing but chocolate bars, drinking milk, and peeing in empty bottles. Oh, and he was obsessed with green peas.
45
Excerpt from Hamilton Stewart’s article, “Boudreaux Beauchamp, Obscure Author,