Bright, Precious Days (19 page)

“Great fishin',” Jack said, as they parted on the platform at Penn Station.

“It's something special,” Russell said.

“So I hope you're okay with the Briskin thing.”

“I can't say he's my favorite agent. But I'm happy for you about
The New Yorker.
I just would have loved to have seen the story before he sent it out.”

“I needed to do it myself,” Jack said. “I needed it to be mine.”

“Well, of course. All the stories have been yours.”

“But I needed it to be really mine, to sound like me. Sometimes I feel like you're manicurin' my prose. Makin' it yours.”

“I want it to sound like you. You've got a voice—not that many people do. The last thing I want to do is stifle it. I'm just trying to make sure the voice comes through. Clear away the clutter.”

“If you ever saw the trailer I grew up in, you'd know that clutter's part of my deal. I'm just sayin' when you cut three sentences out of a paragraph—”

“It's just a suggestion. You can always ignore it.”

“It's not that easy. You're this big-deal New York fuckin' editor. I'm a hick from the sticks. And I have fuckin' issues with authority figures, in case you haven't noticed.”

“I'm sorry. I guess I didn't know you felt that way.”

“Don't get me wrong, Russell. I'm grateful as hell for everything you've done.”

“That sounds like the prelude to a kiss-off.”

“No. I just need you to let me be myself.”

“I thought I had.”

“You've been great, man. You believed in me when nobody else did.”

“I still do.”

They hugged awkwardly.

“Okay,” Jack said. “We good?”

Russell nodded. He felt mournful; it was the end of something. But there was nothing to be done. He had often imagined that someday his children would make him feel this way—that all his efforts to launch them into the world would be appreciated but, in the end, unwanted.

“Share a cab downtown?” Jack asked.

“Sure,” Russell said, realizing that for perhaps the first time in their association he had no idea where Jack was staying or with whom.

The next day he got a call from Steve Israel, a rare book dealer who'd been a class ahead of him at Brown. Steve had turned his English lit degree into a lucrative business. It amazed and occasionally irritated Russell that selling first editions of Hemingway and Joyce had enabled Steve to buy a brownstone on the Upper West Side.

“Yesterday I got a call I thought would interest you,” he said. “Bookseller in Nashville says he has the original manuscript of Jack Carson's short story collection, heavily annotated with your notes.”

“Where the hell did he get it?” Russell asked.

“I was a little suspicious, but he claims he bought it directly from your boy. Apparently, he needed some quick cash.”

“Oh Jesus. What do you think the guy paid?”

“I can tell you what he wants—five thousand.”

“That sounds a little high.”

“Not if Jack wins the National Book Award, which I hear is possible. Plus, the extent of your annotation makes it a historically interesting document.”

“Well, I don't need the fucking thing.”

“I just thought I'd tell you it was out there. And I wanted to offer you first crack. Let me just say, as a friend, that he faxed me some pages and I found them fascinating. You have a reputation as a real blue pencil guy, but some people might find the extent of your work…well, almost a form of coauthorship.”

“What are you saying, Steve?”

“I'm just wondering if you want this floating around out there. Or if
he
does. Carson is on his way to becoming an important American author and skeptics might say this calls his achievement somewhat into question.”

“That's bullshit.”

“Just trying to give you a heads-up here, Russell.”

“If I hadn't known you all these years, I'd say it sounds like you're trying to blackmail me.”

“I can't even believe you'd use that word, Russell. I could sell this thing for a handsome profit with just one phone call. I called you first because I thought we were friends. And because I'm telling you I think you should consider getting this off the market.”

“I'm sorry, I'm just a little upset. It's nobody's fucking business how I edit, but obviously I'd rather not have this in circulation.”

“Well, if you're lucky, it will find a private buyer who just sits on it until Carson's really famous.”

“Steve, let me think about this and ring you back. I've got to take this call.”

“Suit yourself,” he said.

CORRINE WAS MEETING
Veronica and Nancy at Declan's, the midtown cafeteria of the big publishing houses, literary agencies and TV networks—the kind of place where, if you read
Vanity Fair
and watched
Charlie Rose,
you'd recognize many of the faces in the room, and if you were yourself one of those bold-name faces, you'd know everyone at the surrounding tables. Clean and well lighted, with a bleached minimalist decor, the better to show off its complicated patrons, accented with a few mainly abstract canvases on loan from artists who were regulars. The venue was Nancy's choice; having recently come out of seclusion in Sag Harbor, where she'd been working on a novel, she didn't want to risk not seeing or being seen.

Walking to the table, Corrine passed a network anchor, a network owner, a movie star and three or four assorted journalists she'd run into with Russell.

As the maître d' had informed her, Nancy and Veronica were already seated.

“Hello, hi, sorry I'm late.”

“No, that's okay. We got here early.”

They both seemed nervous, as if they'd been caught talking about her.

“This is such a nice idea,” Corrine said. “We hardly ever do this.”

The other two exchanged a guilty look.

“At least I don't,” she added.

“It's true,” Veronica said, “we really should do this more often.”

“But actually, this isn't necessarily just a casual girls' lunch,” Nancy said, sounding a little stilted.

“No? What is it?”

The waiter chose this moment to ask what kind of water they would like—all three simultaneously calling for tap.

“Was it the nineties,” Veronica said, “when we discovered bottled water? And how it was so cool to order your name-brand water?”

“Whereas now it's just pretentious and environmentally unsound,” Nancy noted.

“So what kind of lunch
is
this?” Corrine asked.

“It's kind of an intervention,” Nancy said.

“ ‘An intervention'?”

The waiter returned. “May I get you ladies anything to drink?”

Corrine and Veronica ordered iced tea, Nancy a Bloody Mary.

“It can't be my drinking,” Corrine said after the waiter left.

“It's more of a relationship intervention.”

“Someone you love reached out to us,” Nancy said.

Corrine felt a tingle of fear at the back of her neck. Her first guilty thought was that this had something to do with Luke, about whom she'd dreamed last night.

“Who are we talking about?”

“Your sister.”

“My
sister
?”

“We think she deserves a hearing. It's been a year, Corrine.”

“She's very hurt and very sorry for what she said that night. Isn't it time to forgive?”

“I can't believe she's using you guys to get to me. And I can't believe you're falling for it.”

“She is your sister,” Nancy said.

Corrine could imagine her staging this, like a scene from one of her books. If she was really unlucky, it might
become
a scene in one of Nancy's books.

“And she's…” Veronica let the predicate hang, unspoken.

“Let me guess:
the mother of my children.
”

“I wasn't going to say it like that. But she did a wonderful thing for you twelve years ago, and surely that counts for something.”

“She wants to know the kids. She misses them. Shouldn't she have that right?”

“I kind of like the status quo. Honestly, it's been much less stressful not having her around.”

“Corrine, let's be honest,” Nancy said. “You're a little insecure about the whole biological mother thing.”

“I resent that.”

“I know you do. That's because it's true. I'm sorry, I love you, but I think you're almost grateful to have an excuse to keep Hilary away from the kids.”

“I am. She's a train wreck.”

“Yes, but that's not what I mean. You're afraid of what kind of relationship might develop.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Is it? Come on, Corrine, this is me you're talking to. I know you.”

Veronica seemed content to sit on the sidelines for the moment.

“Even if you're right about me, there's Russell to consider. He's told me many times he'll be happy if he never lays eyes on her again.”

“Well, I'm sure you could change his mind.”

“I'm not so sure.”

Nancy's phone, which was on the table in front of her, buzzed and vibrated.

“She's here,” she said.

“You
didn't.
”

“Just hear her out.”

“I can't believe you set me up like this,” she said, seeing Hilary coming toward them on the arm of the maître d'. When Corrine saw how sheepish and cowed she looked, she lost her steely resolve, and by the time Hilary got to the table, her face was quivering with the attempt to contain her emotion. Corrine stood and hugged her sister, irritated at her own soppy reaction.

“I knew if you just saw each other—” Nancy said.

“Oh, shut up,” Corrine said, sitting back down.

“Hey, sis,” Hilary said. “I like your jacket.”

“It's an old hand-me-down from Casey and I'm sure you've seen it before.”

“Chanel is Chanel is Chanel,” Nancy said.

“Is that Shakespeare?” Veronica asked.

“I think it's Gertrude Stein,” Nancy said. “Well, anyway, Hilary, you look good.”

“I've been on a juice fast the last three days, but the sad truth is, I still look at least a year older than I did when you last saw me.”

She did look older to Corrine. Although still annoyingly pretty and shapely, she seemed to have finally entered middle age—if just barely—having belatedly lost her teenaged aspect, although this perception might have been abetted by her outfit, a white blouse buttoned to the neck under a gray suit with a knee-length pencil skirt, the most sensible and sober ensemble Corrine had seen her sister wear since their Nana's funeral. She was definitely playing the penitent.

“So,” Hilary said. “How's Russell?”

“Nothing changes chez Calloway. You haven't missed much.”

Hilary asked for a Bloody Mary and examined her menu. “What should I order?”

“The Cobb salad is the thing to get,” Nancy said. “They have this huge menu, but for some reason nobody ever orders anything else. If you want to feel like a regular, order the Cobb salad and ask them to hold the bacon, the blue cheese, the egg and the dressing.”

“What's left besides lettuce?”

“Not much. Water and fiber and the sweet smell of self-denial.”

“Actually, that doesn't sound bad,” said Corrine. It was just the sort of thing that drove Russell crazy; she could hear him saying,
Cheese and bacon is what makes it a Cobb salad, goddamn it,
but unlike most humans, she wasn't all that crazy about either, and she hated heavy lunches. She didn't like walking around feeling like a stuffed sausage in the afternoon. When the waiter returned, Corrine ordered the Cobb without the cheese and bacon. She retained the egg, though, and asked for the dressing on the side.

The waiter listened stoically as each of them subtracted ingredients from their salads. “Anything to start?” he asked wistfully.

“Let's get a bottle of wine,” said Nancy.

Hilary seconded the motion; Corrine found herself distracted by the sight of her husband, who was being escorted into the room by Declan, the eponymous host.

“Of all the gin joints in town,” Russell said.

“I hope you're not having lunch with your girlfriend,” Declan said, mugging and winking.

Russell was maneuvering into position to kiss Nancy when he spotted Hilary and blanched.

“Hello, bro.”

“
Hilary.
” An acknowledgment, almost an exclamation, but less than a greeting. He looked stunned.

“You can blame me,” Nancy said. “I engineered this little reunion without your wife's knowledge.”

Russell nodded contemplatively. Polite as he was, he was not ready to pretend he was okay with this.

“I could have sworn you said you didn't come here anymore,” Corrine said, hoping to alleviate the tension. “I know I heard
someone
say he was tired of these uptown power lunch spots and he was going to make the world come downtown.”

“My dining companion specifically requested this venue.”

“Is your lunch date a superficial narcissist?” Nancy asked.

“Wait a minute, what does that make us?” Corrine asked.

“I'm meeting Phillip Kohout,” Russell said.

“Oh my God,” Hilary said. “Introduce me, please.”

“Me first,” Nancy countered.

“I'm sure he'll be delighted to sign a few autographs,” Russell said. “In the meantime, I'll leave you ladies to it.”

“Well, that seemed…fine,” Nancy said, clueless.

“If you mean there wasn't any profanity or violence,” Corrine said, “then yes, it was a huge success.”

“Russell's a gentleman,” said Veronica.

Corrine was tempted to take off her jacket—it was like a sauna in here—but she felt self-conscious about her arms, the flab under her biceps. “God, is anybody else hot?” she asked, fanning herself with the menu.

Veronica exchanged knowing looks with Nancy.

“What?” Corrine said.

“It's not actually hot,” Nancy said.

“I'm practically freezing,” Hilary said.

“Well, I'm hot.”

“It's…the change,” Nancy said.

“What change?”

“Hot flashes?”

“What? No way,” Corrine said, even as she wondered. She
had
been getting hot recently, especially at night, waking up in a sweat, and her period was two weeks overdue.

“Are you having trouble lubricating?”

“Lubricating?”

“You know, sexually.”

“For God's sake,” Corrine said. “I'm just a little warm.” It seemed as if there was a pause, a dialing down of the volume in the room, as heads turned toward the entryway, where Phillip Kohout was shaking hands with Brian Williams. Escorted by the solicitous Declan, he stopped at several tables to shake hands and kiss cheeks.

“I wouldn't mind sharing a cell with him,” Nancy said.

“He's shorter than I expected.”

“Aren't they always.”

As he was passing, he caught sight of Corrine and said, “My God, it's true,
everyone's
here. Corrine, you're a vision.” He dipped in to squeeze her shoulder, and then, when this move wasn't rebuffed, he kissed her cheek.

“And you, Phillip, are a flatterer and a clichémonger.”

“Please, Corrine,” Nancy said. “Is that any way to talk to a war hero?”

“Ms. Tanner, I don't believe I've had the pleasure,” he said. “But of course I'm a big fan of your work.”

“Well, likewise,” she said. “And I admire your courage.”

“It doesn't take much courage to get captured, I'm afraid.”

Much as she was remembering how much she disliked him and his smarmy charm, Corrine didn't forget her manners. “Phillip, this is my friend Veronica Lee and my sister, Hilary.” Only belatedly did she realize she hadn't afforded Hilary the courtesy of a surname, but Phillip's reaction made it clear he didn't require one.

After politely shaking Veronica's hand, he clutched Hilary's as if she were in imminent danger of falling out of her chair.

“How is it that Corrine never told me she had a sister?”

“When it comes to her intellectual friends, she's basically ashamed of me.”

“Perhaps there's another reason she's kept you hidden.”

“It's true,” Corrine said. “I'm quite protective of my little sister's innocence.” She couldn't quite believe that no one laughed at this.

“Well, if I promise to get her home early, perhaps you'd allow me to take her out for a drink. Only if she's of legal drinking age, of course.”

Corrine was afraid she was going to vomit right here at the table before this grotesque insipidity was terminated with Hilary's giving him her phone number.

“Farewell, fair ladies,” Phillip said before sliming off to Russell's table.

“Isn't he the charmer,” said Nancy. “He actually looks cuter in person.”

“How is it that he's single?” Hilary asked.

“I think he was married, briefly,” Corrine said.

“What's happened to Dan?” asked Veronica.

“Well, actually we're not together anymore,” Hilary said. “I loved Dan—I mean, he's a great guy and all—but ultimately it just couldn't work. Our backgrounds were just too different. Look, we try to pretend we're a classless society, but we're not, and his guilt over his divorce really dragged our relationship down. Last I heard, he was about to move back in with his ex-wife, which is fine with me. Though it makes me kind of wonder, you know, what was the point of our whole relationship.”

“From his point of view,” Nancy said, “I'd guess he probably got some excellent sex.”

“I've already gotten two drunken late-night booty calls,” Hilary said. “But it's over. I've moved on, and he will, too.”

Corrine already knew about the split but wanted to hear Hilary's take. She found her little sister's snobbery kind of amusing, this idea of some great class divide between them. If anything, Dan, with his Queens College degree, was far better educated than Hilary, who dropped out of horsey Hollins after freshman year, though it was true she'd attended some of the country's more prestigious boarding schools—all of which eventually requested that she leave. Corrine had always believed Dan was a decent man, not to mention a steadying influence, and she was sorry he was gone. He was also the breadwinner, which raised the question of how Hilary was supporting herself—the answer to which was usually synonymous with whomever she was sleeping with.