Ms. Taken Identity (33 page)

After the break, Katharine comes out in her Dolce & Gabbana dress, graceful, elegant, sexy, and when she perches on her stool
it’s hard not to notice her legs, or chest, or face. She talks about
The Cappuccino Club
being made into a movie, and what it’s like to work on the screenplay version of your own book, and how it feels be on
People
’s best-dressed list year after year, and who she’s been linked with; and it’s funny to see her tossing out names of celebrities
like they’re her friends, when they are her friends. What’s even stranger is to think that in a few minutes, I’ll be leaving
this room where I am, watching them on TV, and I’ll be out there sitting next to them,
on
TV. It’d be like watching an episode of
ER
and seeing Dr. Kovac work on a guy, then they go to the commercial, and when they come back, you’re standing in the room
now, too, handing him a syringe loaded with ten cc’s of epinephrine, stat. Anyway, now they’re getting around to
Catwalk Mama
, because Regis is talking about Katharine being not only a great writer herself, but also a finder of great writers. He holds
up a copy of my book.

“Coming up, you’ll meet the man who just might be able to shed some light on the surprise smash book of the season.”

Megan walks me out on stage, gets a mic hooked to my blazer, and makes sure it’s working. I shake hands with Regis and give
Kelly a quick hug. He’s a funny guy, that Regis. He takes one look at me and barks at Gelman in that Regis sort of way, Will
he
ever
schedule a guest who’s shorter than him? I get myself propped on my stool and take a breath. Kelly tells me she likes my
blazer, so I tell her Katharine picked it out, and the shirt, then the two of them start talking clothes, and Regis gives
me a wink, and it almost feels like I’m back in the studio, minus a few “vavooms.” I just might make this. I just might be
fine. We return to live.

“Okay, we’re back with Katharine Longwell, celebrated best-selling author who you all know, and we’re joined by Mitch Samuel.
Mitch is an acquaintance of the author of
Catwalk Mama
, and here to perhaps shed some light on our mystery writer. But first, Mitch, let’s talk about you. Where are you from?”

“St. Louis.”

“Ah, Gateway to the West. The Cardinals. Italian restaurants on the Hill. Great city. And what do you do there?”

“I teach at the university.” I try not to look at Katharine, since this is news to her, too. “I’m also working on my PhD.”

“On what, may I ask?”

“Chaucer.
The Canterbury Tales
.”

“Oh,
The Canterbury Tales
. You know, Mitch, that’s Kelly’s favorite book. She loves those Canterbury Tales. Talks about them all the time.” The audience
starts to laugh. “Go on, quiz her. Ask her anything about them.”

Kelly makes a face. “At least I wasn’t around when they were written, like Rege was.”

The audience loves that one.

“Now, changing the subject, if I may…” Kelly says, holding up a copy of
Catwalk Mama
. “I love this book. We all do. My girlfriends and I have a theory about the cover. Since there’s no photo of the author,
we’ve decided that the cover photo is actually a photo of the author. A sort of with makeup, without makeup shot. And,
and
, rumor has it it’s also someone you’re related to. Am I right?”

I turn to Katharine.

“Come on, Mitch. No help from Katharine. Can we get a close-up here, with the cover? Do a split screen with Mitch.” Apparently
they do a split screen. “Huh, see the resemblance? Especially the woman in the mirror, glamour girl. Audience, what do you
think?”

They applaud.

“No, honest, that’s not her,” I say.

Kelly tries to soothe me. “Nothing to be ashamed of, Mitch. She’s an attractive woman. I wouldn’t mind having those lips,
that body. Fess up.”

Regis perks up on his stool. “Who are you, Eliot Ness? You got the kid under FBI interrogation? Give him some room to breathe.
He’ll say what he wants to say.” Regis makes a gesture of giving me the floor. “But tell us this much, Mitch. Did she go to
Notre Dame?”

I know why he’s saying it. Anyone who knows anything about Regis knows why he’s saying it. He’s a Notre Dame alum and he loves
Notre Dame and he loves to talk about it whenever he can, especially during college football season. But it’s obvious that
William of Gladys and William doesn’t know that, or didn’t hear what was said, because while everyone else is smiling or laughing,
he looks lost, bewildered, swimming in confusion, which, for some reason, bothers me a lot, seeing that old man with such
a helpless look on his face. But Gladys is on top of it, sensing he’s floundering over there (I guess after sixty-five years
with someone, you get to sensing things like that), and she leans over and cups her hand over his ear, and whatever she says,
it works, because his face eases itself and warms. And then, in what I can only assume is a gesture of gratitude for reeling
him in when he was out there alone, he reaches over to her, with a whole lot of stiffness and creakiness, and takes her hand
in his and pats it with the other, which makes her smile even more.

And that’s when I want to cry.

There’s a poem by the Irishman W. B. Yeats in which he addresses the woman he loves and assures her that when she is old and
gray and full of sleep and nodding by the fire and has just about reached the end of her days, she’ll be able to look back
over her life and realize that he loved
her
—and her
soul
—and not anything physical or superficial or fleeting about her. Now, this was written by a twenty-seven-year-old Yeats to
a twenty-seven-year-old Maud Gonne, and it’s easy to say, yeah, sure, you’ll love someone till the end of time, when she gets
wrinkled and her hair is gray and she has lumps and tumors and blemishes and age spots and skin that isn’t so elastic anymore,
when you’re both only twenty-seven and her hair is still thick and strong and dark and she has all her teeth and her skin
is radiant and her hips are fine and nothing is sagging yet, and you get the feeling he just might be saying all that stuff
about loving her soul just to get her in the sack.

But William’s gesture is not that of an amorous young man trying to woo his love. It’s the gesture of a man who
is
old and gray and full of sleep, to his wife who is also old and gray and full of sleep, that says, looking back on everything,
if I had it to do all over again, I would do exactly the same thing and be with you; and the proof is not a three-stanza poem
that rhymes
abba
, it’s in our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and in the way you tie my shoes when I can’t tie them, and
the way I open the door for you, as best as I can, and the way you explain jokes to me when I don’t quite hear them. We’ve
traveled this road together, just about to its end, and there’s no one I would’ve rather traveled it with than you. And then
I think of Marie, and that this is how it was supposed to be for the two of us, not in a week or anytime soon, but someday,
with all our kids and grandkids and wrinkles and bald spots and creaky bones, and I blew it. And now I’m sitting here in front
of all these people, Gladys and William among them, lying, and what the fuck am I doing, and who am I, and when did my life
turn into this…

I’m aware that everyone is waiting for me to speak. I wet my lips. “No, she didn’t go to Notre Dame. In fact, she didn’t go
to any university. And that’s because… there’s no such person as Bradley.”

Kelly looks at her book, like there must be, because here’s her book. “No such person as Bradley? But…”

“Well, there is. But he’s a guy. But he didn’t write the book, even though he thought it was a funny idea. I did.”

Kelly looks like she might fall off her stool. Katharine doesn’t look like she’s breathing. Regis appears to be the only one
who’s kept his wits about him, who sees this isn’t necessarily a disaster.

“Ah, Katharine. Clever girl. You got us all. Championing a book by a mystery author, finally revealing the author to be this
strapping young guy.”

“Katharine didn’t know about it either,” I interject. “She thought my cousin wrote it. My female cousin. I lied to her too.”

Maybe you’ve been someplace where you could hear a pin drop—the symphony, church, a moment of silence at a sporting event—and
you know how quiet that is. That place would sound like a rock concert compared to this. You couldn’t even drop your gaze
in here without it sounding like a clap of thunder.

“I, uh, guess I should just try to explain this, best as I can.” I clear my throat, and the sound startles me. “My name really
is Mitch, and I really am working on my PhD. I’m also a writer. I wrote a novel, a serious novel, that got rejected by everyone.
So I walked into a bookstore where Katharine was making an appearance, and I saw a display of her books, and it made me crazy,
since here I am writing
real
literature and she’s writing chick-lit, and guess who’s in print? So I, um, picked up a copy. The next morning I went to
the coffee shop to read part of it, see how terrible it was, which it wasn’t at all, but I couldn’t see that yet, and of all
people, Katharine shows up and sees me and asks what I think. I wanted to tell her what I thought, right to her face, but
for some reason, I made up this story that I had a cousin named Bradley who was also a writer and wanted to be like her. Katharine
said she’d be willing to look at anything Bradley wrote. That’s when I came up with a plan: if Katharine could do it, why
not me? So I started to write it.”

I allow my eyes to flash Katharine’s way, only for half a second. But it’s enough time to see that someone sitting on the
stool I’m sitting on might be strangled before the next commercial break.

“The problem was, I didn’t know how to write about women who were obsessed with shoes and calorie counting and fitting into
a size six and all the bargains at Bloomingdale’s. So I went to a place where there were women who did. A dance studio. But
it wasn’t what I expected. The people were funny and warm and generous. I felt better about myself when I was around them,
and better about life, and a lot of things made sense. Like being thoughtful, and happy, and enjoying life. They became some
of my best friends. One in particular. A hairstylist. Actually, I fell in love with her.”

There’s a gasp from someone in the audience.

“Anyway, the writing got better, and I sent what I’d written to Katharine, and she loved it. And suddenly I was doing exactly
what I wanted: writing a book that would make people smile, spending time with my friends, loving my girlfriend, who became
my fiancée. I was the best version of myself that I’ve ever been. But it was too good to be true. I did something stupid once,
she forgave me. I did something stupid again, and she let me go. But at least I still had my book. Or Bradley did. I could
still cling to that. So that’s why I kept up the ruse, because I didn’t want to lose that, too.”

I can see that William is following what I’m saying without any help from Gladys. I’m glad: I want him to know the truth,
too.

“There’s no good excuse for what I did. I know that. So to all of you, to anyone who may have bought the book or liked the
book thinking it was written by someone else, I’m sorry for cheating you. And I apologize to Katharine. How could I have ever
even thought of deceiving you this way? You’re a beautiful, intelligent, amazing woman, and I’m humbled to have gotten to
know you. And finally, I want to apologize to a woman named Marie. I know I was meant to be with her, spend a lifetime collecting
memories and experiences for the scrapbook of our life. But I wrecked that. I love you and I always will, Marie, and I’m sorry
with all my heart.”

In the movie version of this scene, here’s what happens next: the crowd sits in stunned silence for what seems like forever—dazed,
confused, breathless—then one brave soul stands up and starts to clap (the Lone Clapper, let’s call him), and the Lone Clapper
claps softly at first, timidly, but then he starts to get into the clap, really feel it, then a Second and Third Clapper join
him, and they get on their feet, too, till the rest of the audience sees this trio of clappers and is stirred by them, and
a feeling of relief and release begins to sweep over everyone, and pretty soon they’re all on their feet, cheering, pumping
their fists, wiping tears from their eyes, hooting and hollering and screaming, like an episode of
Oprah’s Favorite Things
, and William and Gladys are crying, and Katharine gives me a “you silly kid” shake of her head, and Kelly hugs her copy of
the book, and Regis gets me in a playful headlock and tousles my hair, and there’s such a feeling of merriment and celebration
and good cheer in the air that it’s starting to look like the end of
It’s a Wonderful Life
where everyone is pouring into the Baileys’ living room and telling George how much they love him and leaving money and pocket
watches, even Mr. Gower and the guy who “busta the jukebox” and the black woman who was saving all her money for a divorce
if ever she got a husband and Violet, who’s decided she’s not going to go after all, then Gelman hushes the entire studio—“Quiet
everyone.
Quiet!
”—and announces a phone call just came through and it’s not Sam Wainwright cabling money—it’s Marie!—and she saw the show
and wants me back, and there’s a priest in the audience and he can marry us over the phone.

Unfortunately, this isn’t
It’s a Wonderful Life
. It’s my life. So even though the audience
does
sit in stunned silence when I finish, it stalls right there. No Lone Clapper, no cheering, no dancing. William and Gladys
do not cry. Katharine does not give me a teasing look. Kelly does not hug the book. There is no good-natured headlock from
Regis. Gelman does not hush the audience (why bother: they’re already hushed). No Mr. Gower or Violet or even Uncle Billy.
Just unbearable, unbroken, unending silence.

Finally Regis stirs. “Okay, then. The book is
Catwalk Mama
. Thank you Katharine Longwell, and, er, Mitch, and we’ll be right back after this.”