“Amazing,” Herb breathed beside me.
“Yes,” I said.
“And all that stuff that happened in Rhode Island? All that's true?”
“It's all true,” I agreed.
“Come on,” Roger called. “We've got a lot to talk about.”
I started moving, but then Herb caught my arm. “I almost wish old Iron-Guts wasn't dead,” he said. “Can you imagine how something like this would blow his mind?”
I didn't respond to this, but I was thinking plenty, most of it having to do with Tina Barfield's note.
Back in Roger's office again, Roger behind his desk, me in the chair beside it, Sandra in her chair, Bill and Herb once more sitting on the carpet with their legs stretched out and their backs to the wall.
“Any questions?” Roger asked, and we all shook our heads. Someone reading this diary—someone outside of these events, in other words—would no doubt find that incredible: how in God's name could there be no questions? How could we have avoided spending at least the rest of the morning speculating about the invisible world? More likely the rest of the day?
The answer's simple: it was because of the mind-meld. We had come to a mutual understanding few people are able to manage. And there's also the small fact that we have a business to save—our meal-tickets, if you want to get down and dirty about it. Getting down and dirty seems easier for me since Ruth kissed me off—perhaps the prolixity will go next. I can hope, anyway. I'll tell you something about the fabled meal-ticket, since I'm on the subject. You worry when you're in danger of losing it, but you don't become truly frantic until you're in danger of losing it and you realize it could possibly be saved. If, that is, you move very quickly and don't stumble. Fatalism is a crutch. I never knew that before, but I do now.
And one more thing about the “no questions” thing. People can get used to anything—quadriplegia, hair loss, cancer, even finding out your beloved only daughter just joined the Hare Krishnas and is currently spare-changing business travelers at Stapleton International in a pair of fetching orange pajamas. We adapt. An invisible, telepathy-inducing ivy is just one more thing to get used to. We'll worry about the ramifications later, maybe. Right then we had a pair of books to work on: World's Sickest Jokes and The Devil's General.
The only one of us to have problems getting with the program was Herb Porter, and his distraction had nothing to do with Zenith the common ivy. At least not directly. He kept shooting reproachful, bewildered glances at Sandra, and thanks to the mind-meld, I knew why. Bill and Roger did, too. It seems that over the last half-year or so, Mr. Riddley Walker of Bug's Anus, Alabama has been waxing more than the floors here at Zenith House.
“Herb?” Roger asked. “Are you with us or agin us?”
Herb kind of snapped around, like a man who's just been awakened from a doze. “Huh? Yeah! Of course!”
“I don't think you are, not entirely. And I want you with us. The good bark Zenith has sprung one hell of a nasty leak, in case you haven't noticed. If we're going to keep her from sinking, we need all hands at the pumps. No frigging in the rigging. Do you take my point?”
“I take it,” Herb said sullenly.
Sandra, meanwhile, gave him a look which contained nothing but perplexity. I think she knows what Herb knows (and that we all know). She just can't understand why in God's name Herb would care. Men don't understand women, I know that's true... but women deeply don't understand men. And if they did, they probably wouldn't have much to do with us.
“All right,” Roger said, “suppose you tell us what, if anything, is being done with the General Hecksler book.”
To Roger's delight and amazement, a great deal has been done on the Iron-Guts bio, and in a very short time. While Roger and I were in Central Falls, Herb Porter was one busy little bee. Not only has he engaged Olive Barker as the ghost on The Devil's General, he's gotten her solemn promise to deliver a sixty thousand-word first draft in just three weeks.
To say that I was surprised by this quick action would be drawing it mild. In my previous experience, Herb Porter only moves fast when Riddley comes down the hall yelling, “Dey's doughnuts in de kitchenette, and dey sho are fine! Dey's doughnuts in de kitchenette, and dey sho are fine!”
“Three weeks, man, I don't know,” Bill said dubiously. “Stroke aside, Olive's got this little problem.” He mimed swallowing a handful of pills.
“That's the best part,” Herb said. “Mademoiselle Barker is clean, at least for the time being. She's going to those meetings and everything. You know she was always the fastest on-demand writer we had when she was straight.”
“Clean copy, too,” I said. “At least it used to be.”
“Can she stay clean for three weeks, do you think?”
“She'll stay clean,” Herb said grimly. “For the next three weeks, I'm Olive Barker's personal sponsor. She gets calls three times a day. If I hear so much as a single slurred s, and I'm over there with a stomach-pump. And an enema bag.”
“Please,” Sandra said, grimacing.
Herb ignored her. “But that's not all. Wait.”
He darted out, crossed the hall to the glorified closet that's his office (on the wall is a poster-sized photo of General Anthony Hecksler which Herb throws darts at when he's bored), and came back with a sheaf of paper. He looked uncharacteristically shy as he put them in Roger's hands.
Instead of looking at the manuscript—because of course that was what it was—Roger looked at Herb, eyebrows raised.
For a moment I thought Herb was having an allergic reaction, perhaps as a result of some skin sensitivity to ivy leaves. Then I realized he was blushing. I saw this, but the idea still seems foreign to me, like the idea of Clint Eastwood blubbering into his mommy's lap.
“It's my account of the Twenty Psychic Garden Flowers business,” Herb said. “I think it's pretty good, actually. Only about thirty per cent of it is actually true—I never tackled Iron-Guts and brought him to his knees when he showed up here waving a knife, for instance...”
True enough, I thought, since Hecksler never showed up here at all, to the best of our knowledge.
“...but it makes good reading. I... I was inspired.” Herb lowered his face for a moment, as if the idea of inspiration struck him as somehow shameful. Then he raised his head again and looked around at us defiantly. “Besides, the goddam loony's dead, and I don't expect any trouble from his sister, especially if we bring her into the tent to help with the book and slip her a couple of hundred for her... well, call it creative assistance.”
Roger was looking through the pages Herb had handed him, pretty much ignoring this flood of verbiage. “Herb,” he said. “There's... my goodness gracious, there's thirty-eight pages here. That's close to ten thousand words. When did you do it?”
“Last night,” he said, looking down at the floor again. His cheeks were brighter than ever. “I told you, I was inspired.”
Sandra and Bill looked impressed, but not as impressed as I felt. To the best of my knowledge, only Thomas Wolfe was a ten-thousand-a-day man. Certainly it overshadows my pitiful clackings on this Olivetti. And as Roger leafed through the pages again, I saw less than a dozen strikeovers and interlinings. God, he must have been inspired.
“This is terrific, Herb,” Roger said, and there was no doubting the sincerity in his voice. “If the writing's okay—based on your memos and summaries I have every reason to think it will be—it's going to be the heart of the book.” Herb flushed again, this time I think with pleasure.
Sandra was looking at his manuscript. “Herb, do you think writing that so fast... do you think it had anything to do with... you know...”
“Sure it did,” Bill said. “Must have. Don't you think so, Herb?”