Authors: Brea Brown
“You just wanted to say ‘rectify.’”
“It
is
a delightfully disgusting word,” he admitted.
“But I'm serious! Otherwise, we can never go back there again!”
“I’m okay with that,” I said callously, finally deciding on
the vanilla custard with caramel and bits of pretzel mixed in.
“Oh, my gosh. We’re criminals,” he’d whispered, but he
promptly ordered a banana and butterscotch concoction and stopped trying to
convince me to go back to the restaurant to pay.
Unfortunately, the place was practically on the Indiana
University campus, so we walked past it all the time. Every time we did, Gus
would cross himself and say, “Hail Mary, full of grace…” even though he’s not
Catholic and doesn’t know any of the words after that part.
I was blasé about it at the time, but I’ve been paranoid
about it ever happening again. I figure you’re only allowed one of those in
your life, and that’s only if it’s not malicious.
Now I stare at the cash on the table and sigh as I
contemplate my current situation. “I can’t help it,” I declare. “I’m
disappointed by how everything’s gone so far. The publishing process, that is.
It’s a lot less glamorous than I thought it would be. I thought it would be
fun,
at least. But this is bordering on miserable.”
“Motherfucker…” Gus even manages to make one of the most
vulgar curse words sound silly, like something a sweet Southern granny would
say after burning her finger on the cast-iron skillet while making cornbread.
“I can’t believe you’re going to let that ninny ruin this for you!”
“I’m not!” I protest.
“Yes, you are! You said it’s not as great as you thought it
would be, and you specifically mentioned
him
as the reason. And that
sucks!”
I jut my chin out. “Well, I can’t make the changes he wants.
I didn’t write a single word today! It’s hopeless.”
“After one frustrating day, you’re declaring it ‘hopeless’? Really,
Jayne? Really?”
“I don’t see how it’s going to get any better. I’m not going
to wake up tomorrow or the next day and magically be able to do it.”
He scrubs his hands through his hair, and tiny, fine stray
pieces, stragglers from the fresh haircut he got on his lunch break, settle onto
his shoulders. “That’s right, because it’s got nothing to do with magic. You’re
going to figure out how to write without your blankie and your candle and your
silent apartment. And then you’re going to turn in a brilliant finished
product, and Lucas Dickweed Edwards is going to sit up and take notice.”
“You’re crazy. I know what inspiration feels like, and it’s
nowhere to be found now.”
“Well, you’ll find it. You’re going to see something on TV
or hear something on the radio or overhear a conversation on the bus or in the
park or in line at the coffee shop, and it’s going to click. You know that’s
how it goes.”
His cell phone rings then. After a perfunctory look at the
display, he answers. “Maman!” Then he rattles off a string of French so quickly
that I can’t make out a single recognizable word.
Finally, after what seems like an interminable monologue, he
stops and then only says, “Oui,” or “Non,” occasionally.
Then he
abruptly says, “Je t’adore, aussi. Au revoir, Maman!”
After pressing the button on his phone to hang up, he explains
unnecessarily, “My mom,” and as if the interruption never happened, he cocks
his head and jumps back to our previous conversation. “You know I’m right.”
“I
don’t
know, Gus,” I tell him honestly before voicing my deepest fear: “I think I’ve
lost it. Maybe what I’ve written so far was all I have to give. Maybe that’s
it; I’ll never be inspired again. Maybe I
am
a flash in the pan, like
he
said.”
Gus levels a glare
at me. “First of all, who uses the term, ‘flash in the pan,’ anymore? Second,
why are you being so insecure? Your book is one of the best things I’ve read in
a long time. A lot better than most of the stuff out there on the bestsellers lists.
And I’m not saying that because you seem to be fishing for compliments; I mean
it.”
A knock at the door
prevents me from objecting to his accusation. As he pays for the food with the
money I gave him, I try to figure out how much I can tell him about my fears
without betraying the truth behind the misgivings. With a disappointed sinking
in my stomach, I realize I’ve already said as much as I can.
What started as a
therapeutic writing exercise, a way for me to exorcise my demons without turning
to drugs and alcohol (although trust me, I considered them first), quickly
bloomed into an obsession. Writing it all down was my way of keeping my sisters
and parents alive. It’s how I remembered all their quirks and personalities. As
a matter of fact, one of the few positive comments Lord Lucas Edwards wrote in
the margins of my manuscript was, “Vivid characters. You really bring them to
life.”
Ha! If only!
Before I knew it, I
had a book-length memorial, starting with the day my youngest sister was born
and ending with Rose (me) receiving an offer letter from a publishing company,
promising to make her the next big thing. That’s not how it happened in real
life, obviously, but I wrote that before I knew what a quagmire the publishing
world is, and I never went back to change it, because I liked the fantasy of
the publishing process being effortless and instantly gratifying. I know I’m
doing a disservice to all those aspiring writers out there by not being more
accurate and honest, but even the frankest portrayal winds up glamorizing
things, despite efforts to the contrary. So I didn’t worry too much about it.
Good thing, too, since the real story thus far has been too anti-climactic to
make it marketable.
I took some
creative license in other passages, too. After all, we didn’t lead an exciting
life, for the most part. We were average Midwesterners who lived on a working
farm. While that may be exotic to someone who’s never stepped off the pavement
of a metropolitan area, it was difficult for me to see it with fresh eyes and
pluck out the events that would be interesting to an outsider. They were there,
but I had to dress them up a bit. It’s true that my mom almost gave birth to my
youngest sister in the car, because it was a long drive from our house to the
nearest hospital, but she wasn’t out in the corn field when she went into
labor. I embellished that part. We didn’t even have a corn field.
But then, as other
parts of the story unfolded on the monitor in front of me, I realized I didn’t
need to do anything to make them funnier or juicier or more tragic. They were
poignant and heartrending enough in their original forms, and they wrote
themselves. In those instances, it became important to me that I
not
alter
a single detail.
When I approached
Tullah for representation, I deliberately packaged the book as pure fiction and
said nothing about it being “based on actual events,” because I didn’t want to
become the story. I wanted it to begin and end on the page. I knew all along
that I wasn’t going to tell anyone that this “story” was my personal history.
Anyway, if that
detail gets out at this stage, I’ll really look like a fraud. Everyone will
know that my imagination can’t compete with the facts. I’m a historian, not a
novelist. I don’t create characters; as a matter of fact, two of them created
me.
Nevertheless, I
give Gus a brave smile when he returns to the table with the food. “It’s
nothing a little mostaccioli can’t fix, right?” I say brightly.
Chapter Six
He’s not impressed. Nor is he fooled. Shit. I
should have known that the easy (a.k.a., “lazy”) solution wasn’t going to be
the ultimate solution. And now I’ve wasted days on material that’s going to
have to be scrapped.
When he glances up from his iPad, I try to
deliver a confident, approval-seeking smile, but I know it falls closer to
“grimace” on the continuum of facial expressions. Thankfully, he returns to his
reading too quickly to see it. I think he was mostly checking to see that I’m
still sitting here, that I have the
nerve
to still be sitting in his
presence. Maybe that was a signal that I should leave before he explodes.
But, no,
his
expression—if I had to try
to break it down—contains bemusement, mixed with hints of confusion,
contemplation, and… what is that…? (all the other expressions are getting in
the way)… uncertainty? Yes! As uncharacteristic as it seems, he definitely
looks unsure of himself. And I have plenty of time to study him to make sure
I’m correctly interpreting the look on his face.
Swipe, swipe, swipe. For the third time, he
paws at the tablet resting on his knee to return to the beginning of the
passage I most recently delivered to him. Scratches his head. Pinches his chin
between his forefinger and thumb in the universal gesture of deep thought.
Clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Blinks his green eyes and then
rolls them as if he’s trying to deliver moisture to a pair of contact lenses,
which he doesn’t wear.
Oh, fuck. This is torture. I’d rather he rant
and rave and tell me it’s horrible than make me sit here and wait for him to
come up with the perfectly devastating words to say. Because that’s obviously
what’s going on. Any old insult won’t do. Its severity has to perfectly match
the level of my writing’s depravity.
I catch myself cringing and then force myself
to relax. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do before a traumatic collision?
Relax, and then it won’t hurt as much.
Finally—finally!!—he deliberately sets the
electronic tablet on the low table in front of our chairs, but instead of
returning to an upright position, he remains bent at the waist, his elbows
resting on his knees as he lets his head hang, seemingly enthralled with
something on the carpeted floor between his shiny shoes.
I refuse to say anything. I’m not going to
play dumb and ask if he likes it; but I’m also definitely not going to
anticipate his wrath and put derogatory words in his mouth.
“So…” he says more like a sigh than a word
after what feels like at least ten minutes of thick, suffocating silence. Now
he turns his head to look at me and smiles.
At first, I’m thrown. The smile is extremely cute.
And it makes me think he actually liked my changes. Then I recognize the pity
in it. Huh? Pity?! I think not! Anger, I can take. But his sympathy (and I
don’t even know what it’s for yet)… I don’t think so.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask
warily, the tension returning to my shoulders. And neck and abs and legs and
every other muscle used to keep me vertical.
Before answering, he shifts his weight back
and forth from his toes to his heels a few times. Then he purses his lips,
sighs for real, and says, “What’s going on here?”
“Here?” I repeat so I can stall as the
following races through my mind:
OhfuckheknowsI’mlyingabouteverythingwell,noteverythingbutsomethings,bigthings.HeknowsI’mnotawriterandthatmystoryisrealrealrealrealreal.Fuckfuckshitdamnhellballs!!!
But on the outside, I’m as calm as the surface
of a lake on a hot, still, stifling day. I have to remain motionless, because
if I move, I’ll start to shake. And sweat. And blush.
He sits back in his chair and places his hands
on top of his head. In this midst of this extremely stressful situation, I
manage to notice that he looks tired. He also needs a haircut. Yep. My world
may be coming apart, but I can see that his hair is feathering out over the
tops of his ears. And for some reason, I care.
“Come on,” he interrupts my musings on his
coif as he curtly gestures with a nod of his head toward the now-idle iPad. His
tone is mild as he asks, “What the hell’s that about, huh?”
This calm, laidback Lucas Edwards is freaking
me out. It’s like dealing with a stranger, and trying to figure out the best
way to respond to him is quickly exhausting me. He’s laying traps, a minefield
of them, surely.
“Ummm…” I hum noncommittally.
“That’s crap.” Again, he nods toward the table
so there’s no misunderstanding.
Okay. Whew. So, I know for sure that he hates
it now. Which is what I wanted, right? I didn’t want him to like the changes. I
wanted him to say, “The old way was better.” Still, his blunt assessment
stings. I
know
it’s crap; I intended it to be crap; but only I can say
it’s crap.
I lift my chin. “If you say so…”
“Oh, I do,” he says, making a sound that takes
a while for me to realize is laughter.
First pity and now ridicule? Uh-uh!
Instinctively, I find myself defending what I
know to be the worst work I’ve ever done.
“Whatever!”
Okay, it’s a lame defense, one used by every
person under the age of twenty-five when they have no true defense. It’s a
defense I should have outgrown by now. But… I can’t think of anything else to
say.
His expression turns to one of undisguised
scorn. “‘Whatever’? That’s all you can come up with? And here I was thinking
what I read was a well-crafted joke. Now I’m reconsidering. Maybe the person
who retorts with, ‘Whatever,’ doesn’t know how to write any better than that.”
I mentally shake it off, roll my head on my
neck, and take a deep breath. Meanwhile, in reality, I remain frozen, inside
and out. Now’s not the time to get emotional. I still don’t know enough about
what he’s thinking to let down my guard. And I have to renounce my defensive
nature so I can see the plan through.