Sex and Death in the American Novel (26 page)

“She wasn't a main character,” my mother offered, patting the table by his hand. She had that same tone in her voice she used to use on Tristan, a perfect mix of adoration and condescension.

“At some point I had to move on. I had been working on that book for five years. I did what I wanted with it. It was done. As I look back on it now, you're right, maybe I could have worked more on Vanessa,” he said with his hands in the air and an agreeable smile on his face.

“So what's it like speaking in front of all those people?” Alejandro looked around the table. “You guys should have seen him back in school. I had to get him wasted before he got up in front of even ten people and read.”

Jasper uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, taking my hand. “It's hard to explain. At first it is a quite an adjustment. I go from being alone all the time to all these people wanting my time. Then it becomes routine; you meet people, answer questions, more often listen to them talk about themselves.”

“I had something weird happen once,” I offered. “In Portland, there was this guy. When I was reading he was like the only friendly face in the audience, and I kept returning to him when I was reading and talking. I think I gave him the wrong idea. Afterward he wouldn't leave me alone. I had to get the store manager to get rid of him.”

Alejandro made an impressed face and looked at me like he wanted to say more.

“What I've been going over the last day or so,” Jasper said in a soft voice, “is that there will always be people I can't please. Who seem to think that because they have read a book that I wrote that they somehow know me, or that I owe them something. I never leave those things feeling like I gave everyone equal attention, and honestly, I wouldn't want to. Writing books that people read hasn't made me any less of an introvert, hasn't made any of those events less painful.”

My mother rested her hand on his for a moment. “Surely though, there is a certain validation in having people want your time?”

Marion whispered something to her husband.

Jasper spoke as he studied the label on the brown bottle, “Those things are very hard for me. I think everyone is judging everything I say, then later when I sign books or shake hands, sometimes I wonder if they are all humoring me. Or I feel like I am suffocating with them all trying to get something from me, and I just don't have it. Everything I can give anyone I have written down. When I talk, it just doesn't work.”

Jasper and Alejandro shared a complicated look. I couldn't wait until everyone else was gone so I could grill Alejandro about Jasper. Did he play the role, as he did for me, of the sweet bottom, making soft noises as he was penetrated? Did Alejandro take it easy on my love, or was it rough…? And for the love of all that smells good and is holy, how could he have just left school and not written or called afterward? Jasper obviously remembered him fondly and they seemed to be enjoying the reunion.

The rest of the dinner guests looked at each other and smiled, and conversation moved to his last essay in the
Paris Review
. Several people asked him if he knew this or that author or if he'd met any actors. I stood and grabbed his plate, my mother's and mine. They might have known he liked to drink Guinness, but they didn't apparently understand him further than that.

I went into the kitchen and stared out the window over the sink. Craggy branches blew against the night sky, and I wanted to be out there. I was profoundly grateful for my readers who, with the exception of a few jerks who made the wrong assumptions about me, were generous, accepting and interesting people themselves.

Jasper's voice came from behind me. “What can I do?” He placed several empty plates on the counter and rolled up his sleeves.

“No, Jasper, that's—” My mother stood beside him.

He gently took her shoulders and turned her toward the dining room. She made an annoyed sound and gave me a stern look. I glared back: what was I supposed to do?

When she was gone, I took the plates from him and started rinsing them and he loaded the dishwasher. “I don't know how many times she complained about my father's inability to do anything around the house, and here she gets to see what it looks like when a guy actually does and she's freaking out.”

“Where is the dessert?” he asked.

I turned to regard him. “So…wow…”

When he continued to act as if the biggest secret of his life was not sitting in my mother's dining room, I gave up and pointed toward the refrigerator. Inside was a cheesecake made especially for my mother by one of her students who owned a bakery in Coupeville.

Jasper took it out, taking care to keep both hands under the box, and set it on the counter. He scanned the cupboards and I pointed to the one on the far right. He pulled down a stack of small plates and pulled open drawers looking around for the forks.

“My mother will never forgive me for letting you wait on her.”

“If my mother were still alive, she wouldn't forgive me for sitting on my ass the entire night.”

I placed the remaining dirty plates and silverware in the dishwasher and started the coffee. As it brewed, the sturdy aroma of musky berries and deep tropical forests hit my nostrils. I leaned against the sink and watched him.

Since he wouldn't talk about Alejandro, I said, “I'm sorry Marion was so rotten.”

He stood beside me and crossed his arms. “That was nothing. One reading I gave in Ann Arbor this guy quoted verbatim what had to be one of the worst reviews I ever got. This was a pretty friendly group.”

I took one of his hands. I studied his knuckles, pink and red contrasting against the white skin. I ran my thumb over them, stopping to smooth down the hairs on the backs of his fingers.

“I don't know why I didn't say this before, but I love you and I don't care about all that big author shit.”

He rested his head on mine and took a breath, long and slow like he could pull in everything about me from the top of my head. When he didn't say anything else I said, “I just thought you should know that.”

My mother's voice rose from the dining room, “The kids are bringing dessert.”

He pressed his lips to the top of my head and pulled away.

“Do you think I am an asshole because I get so annoyed with my parents?”

“No. I understand. Your mom is a handful, but I can tell by the way she watches you,” here he really looked at me, “that she loves you.”

I laughed, “If you're basing that on what you're seeing tonight, just remember I scored a major coup getting you out here. She hasn't gotten to be next to the center of attention in a long time.”

He helped me move the cake from the box to a pretty gold serving platter, and carried the plates and silverware in and set them on the table next to the cake. I poured coffee two at a time, and Jasper came back to bring them out. Last I brought in Mom's china serving dish containing lumps of raw sugar and a tiny silver spoon I knew she would want to use.

At the table she wore the worst look of consternation—each time Jasper came in and out of the kitchen, she gave her friends looks of apology, amazement and disappointment.

Mom served the cake and everyone sat for a minute making noises and agreeing it was the best thing they'd ever eaten. The cake was three layers of dense chocolate cheesecake, the texture of which held the perfect amount of weight against my tongue.

“You make the best coffee, Vivianna.” Susan tipped her head back and sighed.

I held my cup in the air and tipped my head to her. I sipped my coffee, satisfied when I saw Marion's mouth tighten when she drank hers. I loved to make it strong.

“So tell us more about how Jasper was in college,” Cindy said.

“
Huckleberry Finn?”
Jasper said.

“Like you can't remember,” Alejandro said. “The day I met him he talked my ear off about that book.”

“It is a great book.” Jasper extended his hand. “You were the one reading it!”

Alejandro continued, “Later, when I had classes with him, I knew he could write. I mean this dude could put down the words. He'd read this stuff in class and we would all, I mean the whole class would just be like this…” Alejandro demonstrated a slack jawed look of admiration.

“How?” I asked. This might be the one person who could help me get the working side of Jasper.

“We were all handing in this total shit. No description, no rhythm, it was just sort of like: this guy went here, he did this, then he said that and then something bad happens and that's it. Jasper got specific. These colorful images, one word sentences, and these long wandering ones where every other word chimed against the last…he blew everyone away.”

Jasper peeked from behind splayed fingers, clearly embarrassed by Alejandro's praise.

Alejandro leaned forward with his hands between his knees. “Jasper read this thing in class about this kid whose dog gets hit by a car that had everyone, even the guys tearing up. You felt like you were there, you knew how it felt to be this kid and have your best friend die right in front of you. It was so honest, it was so detailed. Everything he did was just like that. If it was funny, it was really funny, shit you just don't think about until someone points it out.” Alejandro raised his brows at me. “You know what I mean?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling shy and grateful at the same time.

A soft smile played across his lips and then he turned to the rest of the table. The energy was back in his voice. “So after that I thought, if he could do that to a room full of dudes who were sober, he would make out like gangbusters if I took him to the campus reading.” He answered the confused stares of the women across from him. “It was a monthly thing, held at a bar near campus.”

We all leaned in, pushing cups away, scooting chairs closer to the table. The banter back and forth was better than any movie. The light in both their eyes, the way each of them gave some and took some, making fun and trying to get the rest of the table to listen to him as he spoke…it was great. Alejandro had livened up everything as surely as if he'd stuck a bomb up everyone's ass. To say I was entranced would be a gross understatement.

Cindy was smiling, but had a look of confusion on her face as if she didn't understand what was so funny about the things they were saying.

Alejandro held both of his hands in the air before Jasper. “Did you ever figure out what was definitively the best version of
War and Peace?”

“You mean what version or what translation?” Jasper said, adjusting his jaw and leaning forward to set his beer on the table.

“Translation. You were arguing for Maude and the rest of us were for Garnett.”

He gave me an apologetic look. I didn't care, he was happy. “Garnett was so Victorian. She changed Tolstoy's voice. Ruined the whole book for me.”

Alejandro looked to Cindy, my mother and me, then looked to the ceiling like his friend was hopeless.

Marion sat at the end of the table with her mouth open, about to speak, but Jasper ran right over top of her. He tapped the table with his index finger. “I would argue that Aylmer Maude understood Tolstoy better as an artist.”

“Wasn't there a new one released that left the French intact, with footnotes so the reader could follow as if they already understood the language?” I said, taking a long swig of wine, happy to have something to offer.

Marion spoke up, “The translation is, in the end, dear, irrelevant.”

I was not to be deterred; finally I could back him up. “It is very relevant. The review I read talked about how this was the first book to be true to the way Tolstoy wrote the book. The closest to reading the original Russian.” I dropped my voice, imitating one of the Dreadfuls. “Like for his
intended
audience?”

My mother gave me a genuine smile. Jasper slid his hand over my upper arm a few times, a wonderful sensation. He went back to his original point, something about the historical context of the book.

“Everyone spoke French, some more than Russian, it was something that would have been taken for granted,” Jasper said lightly and Alejandro nodded.

Cindy jumped on the bandwagon. “Translating all of it into English doesn't matter, especially for the contemporary reader. The tone, however…”

Let them have their fun. French…tone…my mind wandered to a scene in a short story I was asked to write for an anthology. A French nightclub would
fit, ethereal young men grinding on each other, hands groping, walls made of stone, dark rooms, hidden candles lending a red glow to their outlined figures.

I noticed my mother arching an eyebrow in my direction. Her eyes narrowed, but then grew soft. “Sometimes you are so much like your father it scares me.”

“Dude, we are boring,” Alejandro said.

“I don't mind, it is great to see Jasper this relaxed.” I placed my hand on Alejandro's forearm. “Thank you for that.”

“Cada tiempo mi vida.” Alejandro tossed this off playfully. The casual nature with which he went back to looking at Jasper made it seem like my own reactions—gooseflesh and a giddy urge to cover my smile—were overreactions.

Alejandro slapped his thigh. “Here's something Jasper won't tell you about me.”

I leaned forward, affecting a very interested stance, making fun of the way he acted.

“This should be good,” Cindy said and Marion made a sound in agreement.

“In spite of everything I
could
say about dead Russian authors, I am at heart, nothing more than a science fiction nerd.”

“Ew,” I said. “You're not going to start trying to explain the technology behind
Star Trek
are you? He might start foaming at the mouth, Mom. We have to get a towel ready.”

She laughed and gave Alejandro an apologetic wave.

He fixed me with a gaze. “It's true. I am a sucker for anything that will take me away.”

“Can't argue with that, I read
Dune
,” I offered. “Did you know Frank Herbert was from Tacoma?”

We spoke Arrakis, Bene Gesserit, breeding programs, and the Kwisatz Haderach for at least ten minutes. As I talked, Alejandro rested his chin in the soft part of his hand with his forefinger over his lips. He made a low sound in his throat to show he was actively listening.