"I
could never be with a man from Texas. They're
so bold. Besides, it's too close to Mexico."
I
looked up at the woman and smiled politely, lifting the book for her to take.
"That's
the opening line from Chapter 12," she said as if I didn't know.
"I just love that line."
"Well,
thank you."
"Where
did you come up with that? Or do you remember?"
She
was in her mid-thirties, a little too much make-up, a little too much fluff in
the hair, a camera in one hand and my novel in the other.
I
looked past her at the line of people that went to the door, then out into the
mall.
"I
heard it in an airport, actually," I said, holding my hand out to the next
woman in line, who handed me a copy of the same book.
"Really?"
the camera-wielding lady said. "It
does sound real, not like an invention or anything."
The
bookstore assistant stepped up. "You'll have to move along so we can keep
the line going. Mr. Cameron has
many other people to attend to."
I
had already cracked open the still-fresh hard cover of the next-in-line,
preparing to ask what name I should put down, when the camera-wielding lady
said: "Can't I take a picture?" Her
voice had just enough whine to it for me to imagine a fully-formed pout
attached.
"There
are a lot of people waiting who have been here for quite a while --"
The
assistant was cut off.
"I
have been here quite a while, waiting for this, and I don't see what the big
deal is over a little picture."
Welcome
to Celebrityville, Mike, I thought.
I
looked at the woman whose book I held, and smiled.
"Excuse me for just a moment," I said.
Then I turned to Camera Woman, still smiling.
"Shoot."
She
was pouting, I saw. And it
deepened.
"Can't
I be in it?"
I
looked at the assistant who jumped right in, bless her heart.
"Mr.
Cameron is not here for a photo opportunity, but for a book signing.
Cameras are not allowed in here, and there's a sign outside that says
so."
"What
sign?" she asked with a slight twinkle in her eye that said she had seen
it.
I
decided not to make it an issue. The faster we get the woman her photo, the faster we get her
out of there. So I stood.
"Come
around here, and I'm sure Cyndi won't mind snapping the picture for you."
The
woman beamed, shoving the camera at poor Cyndi and hurrying around the table to
stand next to me before Cyndi could open her mouth to object.
I put my arm around the woman's waist and smiled.
The woman smiled. Cyndi put
the camera to her face and pressed a button.
A second after the flash went off, Cyndi moved in, taking the woman by
the arm and ushering her away, camera and book in tow.
I
sat down, picking up my pen.
"Sorry
about that. Who should I make this
out to?"
"Joann,"
the woman said, quickly spelling it.
I
scribbled a few words of thanks, and passed the book back to her.
The lady thanked me and moved on.
The
next book hit the table. It was a
paperback copy of A World Of Hurt, my first novel.
I looked up smiling. Then
the smile faltered.
It
was Melissa.
I'm
sure the shock showed on my face.
"Hi,"
she said, uncertainly.
"Hi,
Mel." I managed to get the
smile back on. "What are you
doing here?"
"I
came for directions." Her voice held the caustic tone that had always accompanied
her sarcasm.
I
let my polite smile slide into a grin. "Really."
The
uncertainty returned to her face. "Can we talk?"
Then she was aware of all the people around her.
"Maybe later?"
I
checked my watch. "This ends
in about an hour. Do you want to
stick around until then?"
She
pretended to think this over. "Okay. Should
I meet you here?"
"Sure."
I touched the cover of the book. "Want
me to sign it?"
Melissa
shook her head, taking the paperback away and leaving.
*
* *
It
had been six years since I last saw Melissa, the day after the divorce papers
had arrived in the mail. She had
showed up to get her copy. I had
asked her in an almost off-handed way when she was going to pick up the rest of
her stuff. It had been a year since
she left, and most of it was still there. Only some of her clothes had been taken.
"Fine,"
she had said, suddenly angry for no reason I could see.
"I'll take care of it." Then
she walked out.
An
hour later, the man she had denied having the affair with called and told me
that "Melissa doesn't want to talk with you ever again.
If you want to talk with her, you'll have to talk with me."
His
words sent me into a version of Vietnam Vet Syndrome, but instead of flashing
emotionally back to a war, I was vividly recalling the fifth grade. I
had the urge to tell him that my dad could beat up his dad.
Instead, I told him that since I'd had the locks changed and she didn't
have a key to the apartment, she would have to call before coming over if she
wanted to get her stuff. Then I
hung up.
She
never called, and a couple of years later I gave her stuff to Goodwill.
I never knew where she was, or what happened to her.
For all I knew, she could have won the lottery, moved to Venezuela, or
died in a car accident. Or all
three. I had no idea.
Until
now.
While
our marriage had fallen apart over the imaginary affair (imaginary on my part,
she insisted), we managed to keep the separation and divorce as pleasant as
possible. If "pleasant"
is the right word. The yelling and
screaming happened before I asked her to leave.
After that, it was like the surface of a lake early in the morning:
Smooth, calm and cold.
Now
she's back, and she wants to talk.
Oh
good.
*
* *
The
signing was supposed to be over at 8 P.M., but when 8 came, there were still ten
or twelve people in line, so I finished up with them, seeing Mel standing by the
door, waiting. I thanked the
bookstore staff, chatted with them for a few minutes, and headed up to the
front.
"There's
a little café at the end of the mall," I said. "Would
you like a cup of coffee?"
"Sure."
We
started walking in that direction.
"You
look good," I said, which was the truth -- though she looked pretty much
the same as I remember her, only her hair was cut shorter and she had gained 20
pounds.
"Thanks."
"You
married?"
"No,"
she said. "Not anymore."
She walked with her head down, watching her feet move. "You?"
"Just
over a year now."
That
brought us into a silence.
We
reached the cafe and took a booth.
"Are
you hungry?"
She
shook her head. "But you can
order something if you are."
I
was, but I wouldn't.
"What's
you wife's name?"
"Suzanne,"
I said as the waitress approached. We
both ordered coffee.
"Any
kids?"
"Not
yet."
She
smiled, and I remembered what that smile meant -- it was an amused grin mixed
with naughtiness.
"And
you?" I asked, pulling the rug out from under that smile.
"No,"
she said, looking away.
There
was a whole issue there, and she wanted to avoid it.
Good for her, since it was my issue, and I would have given her a real
reason to not want to talk to me ever again.
"So
now you're a best-selling author," she said, trying to be as pleasant as
possible and not succeeding very well.
I
smiled and nodded. The first book
was not a bestseller by any means. The
second wasn't either, but sold well in paperback.
The latest one, though, took off right out of the starting gate, without
anyone having an explanation as to why. I
could care less why. I'm just glad
it did.
"Your
dream come true." She said this with a tone that said: You got yours but I
didn't get mine. As if this
were a contest.
"It's
been fun." I fiddled with my
napkin. "What are you
doing?" I said this carefully,
not wanting to bring up the imaginary affair with her boss, but curious how it
turned out.
"Jeremy
ended up filing for bankruptcy. Then
I worked for Davis Halpern."
"Another
lawyer?"
She
nodded. "Corporate,
mainly."
The
waitress showed up with our cups. The server didn't seem happy that all we were ordering was
coffee. It was a café.
What did she expect?
"So,"
I said as Mel took a couple of Sweet N Low packages and ripped them open,
"what's up?"
She
stirred in the sweetener, looking thoughtful.
"I need money."
Back
at the bookstore, while I was signing copies of Left Twisting, I
considered the various reasons Melissa would suddenly want to talk with me.
1)
She missed me.
2)
She wanted to congratulate me.
3)
She needed money.
I
pretty much figured Mel did not miss me, and congratulations could have been
handed out in the bookstore. Besides,
Liz had warned me "When you start making money, everyone becomes your
friend." In her third decade
as an agent, Liz had seen it all before.
I
let my disappointment show, but I didn't say anything.
"I'm
out of work, and the unemployment benefits are up."
"I
thought you worked for a lawyer."
"I
did until he ... fired me."
I
read between the lines. Until he
broke up with her.
I
reserved my right to remain silent.
She
spoke in barely a whisper, clearly embarrassed.
"I'm
desperate. I'm about to get
evicted."
I
had changed since she left. I
learned a lot about me and the world in general.
I discovered how to live on my own, by myself.
I found peace, and then I found love.
I had recovered, healed, and started fresh.
The man I was ten years ago when we got married and the man I am today
are two different people.
Melissa
hadn't changed at all. Only her
hair was cut shorter and she had gained twenty pounds.
One
of the two things I had learned since Mel left was that you can't change people
-- sometimes, they can't even change themselves.
Maybe it will take a trip to rock bottom before they realize the
necessity to take another course. And
when people take the path to failure, let them fail.
They know the road back.
The
other thing I learned was that when you know what the right thing is, you do it.
When you have the opportunity to help, you help.
If you can do good, you do it.
The
problem I faced was whether I would be giving her a helping hand, handing her a
new map to hell.
"How
much?" I asked.
Her
eyes met mine. "Let's
negotiate."
I
blinked at her. "Negotiate?
What do you mean -- negotiate?"
"I
mean I have a figure in mind, and let's see if you'll meet it."
I
shook my head. "You must think
I'm rich or something."
"No.
But you will be."
"Oh,
I see. So now you're psychic.
What happened, did you get hit on the head?"
She
gave me a flat, tired look that I remembered quite well.
It said Shut up, you're not funny.
As
I sipped my coffee, I considered getting up and leaving -- and sticking Ms.
Destitute with the tab. Then my
more reasonable side caught up, which I really should have ignored.
"What
is the figure you have in your mind?" I asked.
"Half."
I
laughed. I didn't mean to, but it
was funny. "Half?
Half of what?"
"Half
of whatever you make."
I
was still smiling, wanting to laugh more. "Do
you have any idea how much I've made this year?"
She
shook her head, her smile matching mine.
"$60,000.
That was my advance. I was
able to quit the warehouse to devote full time to my writing, but I'm not
floating in money. My first royalty
check is due in the next couple of months, which may push me into the hundred
grand range, but only by an inch or two. I
have a lot of old bills to pay off, a couple of car loans, a new mortgage, and
we need new furniture to fill the new house -- and you want half?"
I laughed again. "Half of nothing is still nothing."
"Then
I'll take half of the royalty check."
I
continued to smile, looking around the café.
I wanted to say I'll think about it just so I could leave, but I
felt compelled to argue. How vain we are.
Mel
leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her arms flat.
"Then
I'll take half of the next one, and the one after that, and the one after that.
And I'll keep taking them until you're dead and can't write the checks
anymore."
I
began to feel an intense burning right behind my eyeballs.
The smile I had worn evaporated into a hard stare.
If looks could kill, I'd be serving twenty-five-to-life.
"No,"
I said, coldly. "I don't think
so."
Her
smile did not change. "Oh yes
you will. And you'll do it happily
and without question. You see, this
is how I figure it --"
She
wrapped her hands around her coffee cup and looked thoughtful again.
"--
I made you."
I
stared at her, allowing the depths of her delusions to sink in.
If this is what she thought, then I was right.
I should have left.
She
made me. I could have laughed real
hard at that one.
She
made me.
I've
heard about women who work long hours while their men go to college and get
degrees, and then when they graduate, the men get big, high-paying jobs and come
home one day to tell their wives they want a divorce.
The women end up with nothing after sacrificing all they had for the men
they loved.
That
wasn't our marriage.
Melissa
worked. I worked.
We both contributed to the rent, the bills, the groceries.
Neither of us went to school. There
was no big career looming on the horizon when I showed her the door so she could
play imaginary house with her boss. I
didn't start writing until after she left -- and then only as a way to kill the
boredom and loneliness I had.
"And
how do you figure that?" I
managed to say this with a calm voice.
"In
this book --" She held up the
copy of A World Of Hurt, and read from the back cover.
"-- after the horrible death of his daughter, Stephan Lydon
discovers his wife's affair and uncovers the tragic past and present that
reveals the loss of his little girl may have been more than an accident -- and
the end of his marriage was more than a selfish act of lust."
I
always hated that blurb. It told
too much of the plot.
I
sipped my coffee and waited. This
wasn't my game, and I wasn't going to play.
At best, I'd be referee.
"The
wife has the affair with her boss," Mel continued, slamming the book down
on the table with a whack. The
coffee cups jumped slightly. Her
sarcasm turned into snide. "Isn't
that convenient?"
I
shrugged.
"Then
in your second book -- what was it called?
The Death Of Me? I
think that's it. The male character sells the belongings of the philandering
wife who left him for her lover."
She
glared at me for a moment.
"You
sold my stuff?"
"No.
I gave it away."
She
glared some more. She did that real
well.
I
gazed back, waiting her out.
"Without
me," she said, "you wouldn't be where you are now."
I
nodded, agreeing. "I'd be at
home, relaxing."
"You
used my life -- and our time together -- as stories in your writing.
You then earned money from those stories.
I was half of those stories, and I deserve half of the money."
I
really shouldn't have, but I laughed again.
"This
isn't funny."
"I
made no money on those books. I got a $5,000 advance on World, and that was it.
I got $7,500 on Death, and I've seen some royalties on the
paperback, but not anything that would pay for a swimming pool.
The real money I've made has been on Left Twisting, and that
novel, you may know, has nothing to do with affairs or bosses or selling
furniture." I leaned in as far
as the table would let me. "It has nothing to do with you."
"But
without the other two books, you never would have written the third."
She leaned in just as close. "Without
them, you'd still be putting price tags on shoe boxes."
I
sat back, feeling tired and disgusted. My
hand hurt from all the books I signed. I
was hungry. And my head was
starting to ache after listening to all this crap.
I
placed my palms on the table. "Well,
this has been lovely, Mel. You've
brightened my day. I hope you've
had as good of a time as I have, but I really have to go."
I
slid out of the booth and stood. I took out my wallet and found $45 -- two twenties and a
five. I put the five on the table.
"Keep
the change," I said.
"You'll
regret this, Mike."
I
leaned down and smiled at her, trying to use what little energy I had to not
scream at this woman.
"Why
will I regret it, Mel? If I don't do what you say, then what will you do?
Huh? What will you do?
Show up at my next signing?" The
smile hurt. I was now beyond angry
-- but still in control.
She
looked up at me, her face plain, her eyes blank, her whole body expressionless.
"No,"
she said, very calmly. "If you don't do what I want, then I'll tell," she
said.
It
took a several seconds, then my phony smile faded.
I
knew what she meant, and I knew she meant it.
