Page 16 of The Last Book Party

“Everyone?”

“Well, obviously not Ron,” she said, absently flipping through the cards of my Rolodex. “But pretty much everyone else, including Jeremy.”

Mary eagerly shared what she had learned about Jeremy. Most of it concerned his years at Vassar and his postgraduate journey to go trekking in Nepal where, one night in a crowded bar in Kathmandu, he’d learned from an expat doctor about Nepal’s leprosy colonies.

“And—voilà—the inspiration and setting for his novel,” Mary said.

“That’s quite an adventure,” I said, trying to sound less impressed than I was.

Mary leaned in as if she was going to tell me a secret. “And get this—he funded the trip with his bar mitzvah money. Don’t you just love that?”

I admired Jeremy’s courage. I wouldn’t have the guts to spend all my savings on one big trip or travel to Nepal on my own. But as much as I liked his novel, I was still unsure whether his decision to write about a Nepali girl with leprosy was inspired and bold or absurd and presumptuous. I was shy about sharing my own voice and here Jeremy had written hundreds of compelling pages about a girl on another continent, in an entirely different world.

Later that morning, Malcolm called me into his office. Itook my steno pad, although I had a hunch he just wanted to hear some details about the progressive party—who drank too much and whether any surprising couplings came about. But when I sat down in the armchair opposite his desk, I could tell something else was on his mind. In a breathless rush of words, he told me that he was promoting Ron to assistant editor and that rather than promoting me to Ron’s job, he had offered the position to a “brilliant young man” he’d met at a Middlebury alumni gathering.

I was too stunned to speak or look Malcolm in the eye. I fiddled with the wire of my notebook while Malcolm, who had never been anything but complimentary about my work and “perennial good cheer,” justified his decision by pointing to what he suspected was my “creeping ambivalence” about a long-term career at Hodder, Strike. It was true that I had soured on the idea of becoming an editor while also writing on the side. It wasn’t only the competitive atmosphere that put me off, but also the glacial pace of publishing and the need to scrutinize fiction rather than just get lost in it. But the fact that Malcolm had picked up on my doubts about working my way up to editor didn’t make it any less hurtful that I’d been passed over.

Back at my desk, I slipped on the headphones of my Dictaphone and pretended to take notes so that no one would talk to me. I was too upset, convinced that being denied the editorial assistant position was equivalent to being demoted. An hour later, when I met the Middlebury wunderkind, Charlie Rhenquist, I understood that in addition to an uncomplicated eagerness to make a career in publishing, the position apparently required attributes I did not possess: an appealingly lanky male body, smooth golden hair, deep-set blue eyes, glowing references from a summer writing program at Bread Loaf, and enough WASPy self-assurance to wear shiny brown loafers without socks or irony.

I considered quitting on the spot, but knew that the only other jobs I was qualified for were similar positions at other publishing houses. The thought of pursuing the same track somewhere else felt weighty and uninspiring. The truth was, the business of publishing had not complemented my love of books or inspired me to write. Bookstores, once welcoming havens, no longer offered a sense of discovery. Even at my beloved Burlington Book Shop on Madison Avenue, where a sales clerk named Dot never failed to introduce me to “forgotten gems” likeA Wreath for the Enemy, the anticipation with which I entered the store would quickly fade. Looking over the stacks of new hardcovers in the window and on the display tables, I would realize with a sinking feeling that I had either read them already as advance copies or knew everything about them. It was difficult to get swept up in the thrill of a new book when I was privy to the uninspiring stories behind them: the writer’s excessive cocaine use; the rave blurbs a famous author gave to a young novelist he had seduced in an MFA program; negotiations on an advance that had nearly broken down because an emotional agent was going through a nasty divorce. I no longer enjoyed book parties, depressed by celebrating writers who reminded me how far I was from writing consistently and seriously, let alone writing anything someone might want to publish.

I wasn’t sure of my next move but knew it would not be helping Charlie Rhenquist settle into a job that should have been mine. On my way home that evening, on the M104 bus pressed between a large woman who smelled like garlic and a group of boisterous teenage girls singing “I Wanna Dance with Somebody,” I remembered Henry Grey’s offer back in Truro. Might he still need a research assistant?

My mind raced as I walked up Broadway to my apartment. I could escape the muggy city for the rest of the summer. I couldspend my days in a house where creativity bubbled and began, instead of where it ended in the slow, dreary process of editing and marketing. I could get inspired and set myself on a new path—learn from Henry and write more seriously. Maybe I’d see Franny and get a chance to show him that I was becoming a serious artist too. It wasn’t entirely impossible that what had happened between us in June was the beginning of the end between him and Lil.

As soon as I got home, I called my parents to float the idea. My mother was wary, but relieved I was finally leaving Hodder, Strike, which hadn’t led to either a romance or a promotion. “Let this be a transition to something better,” she said, making me promise to send out applications for a new job in the fall. “It’s time to get more serious about your future.”

My father, on the other extension, said, “Relax, Nancy, she’ll figure it out.” I pictured him in his plaid pajamas, robe, and slippers, a book by his side for his nightly reading of a single chapter before bed. Once I assured him that I could find someone to sublet my room in the city, he told me he looked forward to having me on the Cape during his August vacation. I appreciated my father’s readiness to welcome me home, though I knew his lack of concern about my quitting came in part from his benign sexism and unspoken belief that some industrious young man eventually would come along and provide for me.

My plan seemed like a good one, but the next morning I woke up nervous. I hardly knew Henry. What if his offer had been complete fluff? What if he was as cranky with me as he was with Malcolm? Was I willing to move back in with my parents, even if it was only for the summer? What if the job did nothing for my writing? Or I couldn’t find a new job before Thanksgiving? By the time I got to the office, I was in such a state that when Jeremy called to speak to Malcolm, I blurted out, “Would it becompletely insane for me to go work for Henry Grey for the rest of the summer?”

“Uh… somewhat insane, yes.”

I laid out my case, but Jeremy was still skeptical.

“Don’t romanticize it. You’ll be isolated and underpaid.”

I was surprised by his reaction.

“You’ll drown in arcane research,” he said. “And be at Henry’s beck and call.”

His resistance to the idea was puzzling. Did he want to keep Henry and Tillie’s world to himself? Was he afraid I might replace him in their affections? The more he objected, the more convinced I was that my plan was a good one.

“Thanks for the valuable input,” I said, my tone making it clear that I wasn’t appreciative. “Please hold for Malcolm.”

While Jeremy was talking with Malcolm, I found Henry’s phone number in Truro in my Rolodex and, my heart beating rapidly, dialed. He was quick to confirm that his offer was serious. He needed a good assistant for at least a few hours each day. With the same blustery wording of his written notes, he promised wages “not quite worthy of the name” and vowed to grant me “full rein to man the chaos” of his office and his mind—as if the only thing that stood between him and future publication was my readiness to proofread his manuscripts and alphabetize his notes. I gave my notice that afternoon.

part three

August 1987

12

Henry’s office was on the second floor of his house, with a view of a grove of silvery locust trees and an edge of the tennis court. The room was cozy and inviting, although disheveled enough to suggest that whoever worked there had more important things to do than tidy up. Oriental rugs on the rough wooden floor were threadbare. Bookshelves that rimmed the room were filled with hardcovers, worn editions of Thoreau’sCape Cod, thePeterson Field Guide to Eastern Birds, a three-volumeEncyclopedia of Ancient Battles, and what looked like new copies ofWorld’s FairandStones for Ibarra. There were shelves of paperbacks, everything fromMoby-DickandThe MoonstonetoRich Man, Poor ManandWar and Peace.Half-read books were left open, facedown, on a tired-looking wingback armchair, on the small table beside it, and on the floor. Illegible notes were scribbled on legal pads and slips of paper scattered over every surface but the desk, which was the only orderly spot in the room. On it was a black Underwood typewriter, flanked by a pile of blank white paper held in place by a large dried starfish, and a ceramic bowl filled with smooth, dark rocks.

I picked up a few of the rocks, which were all vaguely heart-shaped. Had Henry collected them? Probably Tillie had slipped them into her pockets on morning walks on the beach and then dropped them in the bowl for Henry to discover later. The gesture was in synch with the first chapters of Henry’s memoir, which I’d read at Hodder, Strike, surprised to discover that the stodgy and self-aggrandizing writer whom Malcolm groused about having inherited was also funny and endearing.

In those chapters, Henry described how he and Tillie had begun exchanging gifts after they’d met at a party in Greenwich Village in 1959. Henry lived on the Upper West Side at the time, and Tillie downtown. They loved surprising each other with pencil sketches of the other sleeping, rewritten versions of sappy Hallmark cards, a transfer ticket from the bus inserted into a book on a particularly relevant page. Henry’s marriage proposal, only a few weeks after they met, came in the form of a broken necklace that he found while walking down Broadway one afternoon to get a haircut. Once a whole word, all that remained of the necklace was a thin gold chain attached to two cursive letters,da, perhaps from the woman’s names Linda or Hilda, but now spelling, in English letters, the Russian word for yes. When Henry dropped to one knee and said simply, “Da,” Tillie had understood what he was asking. She repaired the chain and wore the necklace two weeks later when they went to City Hall to make their pairing official.

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