Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence (20 page)

“In your experience?” he said coolly. Then, “Just leave it alone, Antonia.” This is what he usually said whenever she brought up the subject of a memoir.

All at once, she felt something new gaining traction inside her, a freedom she had not experienced before, the potential to see Henry in a whole different way. She realized now it wasn't that he wouldn't tell her about the accident but that he couldn't, because he had not taken any steps to distance himself from it. He's still living it every day, she thought, and this both saddened and infuriated her. As it appeared to her, he had let the past dictate his present. Rather than exorcise the story by talking about it, Henry chose silence. For now, though, she would let it all go, because this evening was as much his as it was hers. She got up and drew her arms around him, kissing his ears and his neck, tasting the salt of him. Then he was out of his chair and undressing her while the city watched them from its many lighted windows. She didn't care. She cared only about this moment, before they were swept up in the evening. And when he entered her, his body was strong and decisive, and when the first drops of rain fell, he shuddered against her. As the rain came down in torrents, they raced into the apartment, stripping and laughing on the way to the shower. Under the water, however, Antonia felt Henry withdraw as she lathered up his back. He did not return the favor but reached for a towel instead. You vexing man, she thought, yet then he was telling her about all the writers, editors, and publishers who would be at the party, people she hadn't met and had always dreamed of meeting. “Everyone will be there,” he said. She imagined them all shaking her hand and how she'd blush at their praise, forgetting about her father and her uncle, about Henry who remained mute at her side, and they'd ask her about the novel and want to know where her inspiration had come from, and she'd respond to them as candidly as she could and she'd say, “To answer the dead—isn't this fiction's greatest virtue?”

I
N THE TAXI,
they drove east through the park, the water on the drive reflecting the park lights. The town homes and apartment buildings along Fifth Avenue gleamed through the misty rain, the windows sparkling just as Antonia sparkled in her long-sleeved black dress, pearl earrings, and lace choker, her hair wild and loose. She felt wild and loose herself, seated beside Henry, her heart beating with anticipation. Henry kept fiddling with his breast pocket, where, she knew, he had put the pages of his speech. Why was he fiddling? Why wouldn't he look at her? She was about to ask him if something was wrong, when they pulled up to Leland's restaurant, and the moment was lost.

Leland's at last, she thought as she stepped out of the taxi. Leland's—where book deals were made over plates of steaming squid-ink pasta, and writers huddled at the bar, lamenting poor reviews and plotting revenge, where editors came to gloat about their latest best sellers, and publishers called one another out on poaching writers. In his day, Henry had often frequented Leland's, he'd told her, though he didn't understand her desire to have a party there when the city offered so many more interesting venues.

“That place is as pretentious as the stuffed shirts who patronize it,” he'd said. How could he say such a horrible thing about it? “Because those stuffed shirts are my friends and colleagues,” he'd said, “and I've earned that right.”

She took Henry's hand, and together they walked through the doors, but then he let go of her hand to say his hellos, moving away from her, leaving her awkward and discomfited. Yet here she was, among Henry's people, his friends, allies, and enemies. Here she was, in Leland's at last, where she'd been only once before, with Calvin, when they'd sat at the bar and ogled the famous (and infamous) writers and editors. Here she was, losing her awkwardness and her discomfort, taking in the tables set with flickering candles, and there was her novel, propped up on a big table in the center of the room. Some of the servers, dressed in black shirts, black slacks, and white bow ties, carried trays of hot and cold hors d'oeuvres while others circulated with trays of champagne. Then, she was swept up in the smiling congratulations, the handshakes and the hugs. Everywhere she turned, she met another face, a fellow writer, an editor, a publisher, all of them with such kind things to say. She spotted her own agent and editor speaking animatedly at the bar, and she looked for Henry among them but didn't find him.

She did find Calvin, however.

“You made it,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck, kissing him.

“I made it,” he said, kissing her back. “Ernest should be—” But then a short, porcine man interrupted him.

“Antonia Lively,” the stranger said, his big red face made all the bigger behind his black horn-rimmed glasses.

“ 'Tis I,” she said.

“Leland Dubois,” he said, extending a big fat hand. Of course, who else could this be but the owner himself? Who else would show up to her party in a red satin tuxedo? She thought back to what Henry had told her about the sixty-something-year-old Leland, about his novels—all southern Gothic—which had failed to sell, and how he'd given up writing three decades ago to open his own restaurant. (“Better to serve the cats than wind up as their kibble,” Leland had told Henry.)

“Mr. Dubois,” she said, “I'd like to introduce you to my good friend, Calvin Blanchard.”

Turning a flirtatious eye to him, Leland looked Calvin up and down, then said, “And you, are you also one of this young woman's ilk?”

“Aspiring to be,” he said, smiling. “Before you ask, no, you've never heard of me.”

“I'm sure I could change that,” Leland said, turning to Antonia. “You were about to ask me if have seen Henry. Well, I haven't, but if I know him, he's off on some remote island collecting his thoughts.” He looped an arm through Calvin's and dragged him to meet, as he said, the rest of his ilk.

While lighting a cigarette, Antonia watched them go, then she, too, was swept up in the crowd, everyone wanting to talk to her, as she had hoped and had secretly expected.

H
ENRY, THOUGH, WASN'T
on some remote island collecting his thoughts. He wasn't even in the restaurant. Having stepped out for some air, which had done nothing to relieve his headache, he was now gazing through the windows at all the faces he'd come to know and to love and to hate. He spotted Antonia at the bar, her back to him, speaking animatedly with Leland, who tilted his head up and laughed. How he still loved her in that moment, remembering her face staring back at him on that first day of class, strong and demure at once. Now he wished that he could walk back into Leland's, grab her by the wrist, and lead her away. Away from this, from all of it, he thought, turning from the window, because he couldn't bear another second of it, and he hurried across the avenue. There had to be an ending to this, a release of all the emotions that welled up inside him. She was killing him, this thing with her far too unfathomable, and it had drained him.

He fiddled again with his breast pocket and knew he should go over the pages of his speech. How could he deliver it, knowing what he had learned, knowing that she was betraying him even tonight? He had been so excited by the prospect of introducing her, so proud of what he had helped to create. And though the excitement was still a part of him, there was something else to it now—the thrill of exposing her for what she was, the need to punish her for what she had done, and would do. He looked back at the restaurant, and watched her, his resolve crumbling further, as the rain came down, spotting his glasses. He had just taken them off to clean them, when he heard his name, a woman's familiar voice. It was Catherine.

“Henry, what in the world are you doing out here?” she asked from under her umbrella, which she positioned over his head as he put the glasses back on. Happy to see her, he nearly grabbed her by the arm, wanting to say, “Come with me. Let's get out of here.” He wanted to tell her that he couldn't go through with it, that his love for the girl had done him in, just as she predicted it would. He thought back to that afternoon when Catherine had shown up at his office and had accused him of sending Antonia to her house. He'd done no such thing, of course, and why would he? “It's a pity that it's raining. I hope it doesn't spoil Antonia's night,” Catherine said, but Henry wasn't listening. There was this thing churning inside him, this nameless, mean-spirited thing, and he wanted to be rid of it. He wanted the evening to end, so that he could return to Winslow, to the dry comfort of the cottage.

After resigning himself to what he had started and to what he, too, had become, he finally said, “Let's get out of this damnable rain,” and led her across the street and into the restaurant.

E
VERYONE HAD ALREADY
taken his seat around the tables, as Henry and Catherine stepped into Leland's. When Antonia spotted them, she waved, her face bright and warm, but inside, where no one could see, she was seething. Why was he holding Catherine's arm like that? The gesture seemed too intimate to her, too telling. Then she laughed at herself, realizing how silly she was being. As he took his place beside her and dried his face with a napkin, Catherine came up to say hello. “I'm so glad you're here,” Antonia said. “It wouldn't have been the same without you.”

“If only I had the power to make this rain go away,” she said.

“You just did,” Antonia said, squeezing her hand.

“Congratulations. I'm so proud of you,” she said, turning to gaze at all the occupied tables, trying to decide where to sit. She spotted Wyatt's former agent, George Marceau, and his former editor, Lacey Blount, neither of whom acknowledged her, which was just as well, because if they had, she wasn't sure she would have been able to control her tongue. She had a few things to say to them, none of it pleasant. For a moment, she felt as if she were caught in the middle of a terrible, raging sea and that the reminders of a painful past were about to wash over her, to drag her down and under. Her chest tightened, and she turned back to Antonia, who seemed to understand and patted the empty seat beside her. “Sit with us,” she said, her words to Catherine a sudden reprieve.

“Thank you,” she said, grateful to have been spared the awkwardness of saying hello to George and Lacey.

As Catherine settled into her seat, Antonia glanced at Henry, who had a stricken look about him, and she wondered if she'd done wrong by offering Catherine a seat. What harm could it do, though? Still, his strange reaction—if he were indeed reacting to this, she thought—made her wonder again what had gone on between the two. But she quickly pushed the thought away. There would be time for that later. Still, Antonia wasn't exactly sure how to feel about this longed-for night now that it had arrived. It was hard for her not to think about her father, wishing that he could have celebrated it with her. It was even harder not to think about her uncle, whom she looked for among the faces that passed by the windows. Was he out there, biding his time? But no, this thought, too, had to be banished for now. Instead, she turned to Henry and said, “You're going to be fine,” because he was fidgeting nervously with his breast pocket again.

Then Lacey Blount, her middle-aged, southern-born, auburn-haired editor, rose and asked the room for quiet. She clinked a fork against her wineglass as the room finally hushed. “Friends,” she said with a slight lisp, “I want to thank y'all for braving the inclement weather and coming out to help me celebrate with Antonia.” She picked Antonia's novel off the table and held it up. “Once in a great while, I find a novel that instantly speaks to me. This novel didn't just speak to me, though. Oh, no, this novel called to me in my sleep.” Everyone laughed, including Henry, which buoyed Antonia. “It never once said, ‘I promise I'll make you a ton of cash.' It never once said, ‘I will be an instant
New York Times
best seller,' though I have a feeling this is exactly what it will become. I cannot tell the future, but I can tell y'all this much: the success of this novel is already written in the reception it has received in
Kirkus
and
PW,
both of which gave it starred reviews.” Lacey took a sip of her wine before continuing. “Here's another juicy little surprise. Just this afternoon, I received word that
The Death of Her
will be featured on the front page of the
New York Times Book Review
.” She set the novel back on the table. “I love this novel, I really do, and I love it all the more because of the young woman who wrote it. She's an incredible talent, she really is, and her novel's just as complicated and beautiful and breathtaking as Antonia Lively herself.” She held her eyes on Antonia and smiled, then turned to Henry. “I told him I wasn't going to do this, but we do have another outstanding writer with us tonight. Wait. I take that back—there are many of you in here, aren't there?” The room burst into laughter. “I've edited Henry Swallow for years and have enjoyed every second of it. Tonight, I want to thank you, Henry, because if it hadn't been for you, I never would have heard of Antonia, and I wouldn't be here now to honor her. Thank you for having such good taste, in books and in women.” And with that, she took her seat to a flourish of applause.

There was nothing left for Henry to do but to rise, which he did. He breathed in deeply to fight back the dread, and as he thanked Lacey and looked out over the room, he realized just how ill prepared he was to meet this moment. He took a sip of wine, then removed the speech from his pocket. Unfolding the pages, he looked down at the words he'd written, these alien words, no longer his own. When he went to speak, the words caught in his throat, and he took another sip of wine, sensing Antonia's restlessness, her irritation. She was waiting, as everyone was waiting, but waiting for what? He knew what they all wanted to hear—how he'd discovered Antonia, how he'd passed her short story on to Dillard Bloom, and how, later, he'd passed her novel on to Lacey Blount. Handed down through the publishing ages, he knew—they all knew—that the story of Antonia Lively was mythical and unchanging. He also knew that they wanted to see him as the savior of letters he had always made himself out to be, though, in reality, he knew all too well that he was nothing more than a man who'd gone to bed with one of his writing students. Most of all, he knew they wanted him to confirm the good they'd done, by him, by Antonia, and by literature itself, just by being there tonight.