Ulla said, “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to give this to Maurie.” Lucy hoisted PATIENTS PROPERTY onto Ulla’s lap—surprising, always, the weight of paper.
“Christ, Lucy! Send it to him at The Magazine !”
“Which neither accepts, nor rejects, Ulla! Which doesn’t so much as acknowledge receipt.”
“Would somebody come up here and hold my magic stick for me?” The magician held the instrument high out of little Jennifer’s reach. “Birthday boy, I need you to come right up here. Tell everybody your name.”
“George,” said the blissful child.
“George is going to hold my magic stick for me, but not like that ! Hold it straight!” But that stick kept folding away from the little boy, who laughed. All the girls and boys laughed their high, happy, silver laughter and wriggled and got up and sat down and got up again, except for Jennifer who said, “ You’re doing that.” She turned the giant green tie around to expose a pack of cards! A nest of little balls! A white mouse, and the fraudulent string! “You were pulling this!” Jennifer accused the magician, who whipped his tie smartly out of her hand and said, “Do we have any jugglers?”
“Me-e-e,” shouted all the children.
“Lucy! Who acknowledges receipt? Who has the staff? Remember Freddy Wells saying publishing The Reader is like having a retarded child that’s never going to grow up, is never going to take itself off your mind?”
“Freddy Wells! A sweet man,” Lucy said. “Haven’t seen Freddy in—I don’t know how long! Does Freddy still say ‘Ah, well,’ as if it were a sigh?”
“Who can keep two balls in the air at the same time?” asked the magician.
Lucy said, “Shari and I were remembering Shelter Island. Croquet, Scrabble. What a lot of cooking everybody used to do.”
Ulla said, “And in every room there was always somebody writing something. What was the name of the old pest—the old poet—who used to call and read Maurie her latest in the middle, always, of a dinner party—Olivia …?”
“Liebeskind,” said Lucy. “Olivia Liebeskind!”
“Didn’t Maurie publish the story you wrote about her …”
“ ‘The Poet on the Telephone,’ ” said Lucy. “She wasn’t a bad poet.”
“Maurie says it isn’t bad writing that’s the problem, it’s the perfectly good writing that never stops coming down the pike.”
“A nightmare!” said Lucy. “What time is it? I have a meeting in the Cedars of Lebanon cafeteria.” The two old friends kissed each other good-bye. Lucy picked up PATIENTS PROPERTY , called, “Thank you so much!” to the birthday boy’s mother, and went out the door.
The cafeteria had been done over. It had been reconfigured into a horseshoe-shaped food court with ethnic food bars since Lucy had sat here with her cup of coffee and hersandwich waiting for them to bring Bertie back from a test, from another procedure, a procedure gone wrong that had to be done over. Not to worry, said the doctor, We do two or three of these a day. Sometimes Benedict sat with her.
Lucy tried to identify the table at which she had sat writing “Rumpelstiltskin.” Curious not to be able to figure out in which direction she had faced. She was early, was the first. None of the Compendium people had arrived, neither had the Haddads. Lucy didn’t know Salman Haddad by sight and couldn’t, for the moment, remember the Chief of Emergency’s name. She used PATIENTS PROPERTY to bag a table large enough for their number before going to find something to eat.
Where there are so many choices, you tend to eat what you always eat. Lucy got a cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich and sat down and watched the couple standing and waiting for the short Mexican waitress—she was hardly taller than a dwarf—to wipe down the table for them. He held the tray, she carried his jacket. What was it about them that told Lucy the patient they had come to visit was close to neither—her aunt, maybe,
“I want you to give this to Maurie.” Lucy hoisted PATIENTS PROPERTY onto Ulla’s lap—surprising, always, the weight of paper.
“Christ, Lucy! Send it to him at The Magazine !”
“Which neither accepts, nor rejects, Ulla! Which doesn’t so much as acknowledge receipt.”
“Would somebody come up here and hold my magic stick for me?” The magician held the instrument high out of little Jennifer’s reach. “Birthday boy, I need you to come right up here. Tell everybody your name.”
“George,” said the blissful child.
“George is going to hold my magic stick for me, but not like that ! Hold it straight!” But that stick kept folding away from the little boy, who laughed. All the girls and boys laughed their high, happy, silver laughter and wriggled and got up and sat down and got up again, except for Jennifer who said, “ You’re doing that.” She turned the giant green tie around to expose a pack of cards! A nest of little balls! A white mouse, and the fraudulent string! “You were pulling this!” Jennifer accused the magician, who whipped his tie smartly out of her hand and said, “Do we have any jugglers?”
“Me-e-e,” shouted all the children.
“Lucy! Who acknowledges receipt? Who has the staff? Remember Freddy Wells saying publishing The Reader is like having a retarded child that’s never going to grow up, is never going to take itself off your mind?”
“Freddy Wells! A sweet man,” Lucy said. “Haven’t seen Freddy in—I don’t know how long! Does Freddy still say ‘Ah, well,’ as if it were a sigh?”
“Who can keep two balls in the air at the same time?” asked the magician.
Lucy said, “Shari and I were remembering Shelter Island. Croquet, Scrabble. What a lot of cooking everybody used to do.”
Ulla said, “And in every room there was always somebody writing something. What was the name of the old pest—the old poet—who used to call and read Maurie her latest in the middle, always, of a dinner party—Olivia …?”
“Liebeskind,” said Lucy. “Olivia Liebeskind!”
“Didn’t Maurie publish the story you wrote about her …”
“ ‘The Poet on the Telephone,’ ” said Lucy. “She wasn’t a bad poet.”
“Maurie says it isn’t bad writing that’s the problem, it’s the perfectly good writing that never stops coming down the pike.”
“A nightmare!” said Lucy. “What time is it? I have a meeting in the Cedars of Lebanon cafeteria.” The two old friends kissed each other good-bye. Lucy picked up PATIENTS PROPERTY , called, “Thank you so much!” to the birthday boy’s mother, and went out the door.
The cafeteria had been done over. It had been reconfigured into a horseshoe-shaped food court with ethnic food bars since Lucy had sat here with her cup of coffee and hersandwich waiting for them to bring Bertie back from a test, from another procedure, a procedure gone wrong that had to be done over. Not to worry, said the doctor, We do two or three of these a day. Sometimes Benedict sat with her.
Lucy tried to identify the table at which she had sat writing “Rumpelstiltskin.” Curious not to be able to figure out in which direction she had faced. She was early, was the first. None of the Compendium people had arrived, neither had the Haddads. Lucy didn’t know Salman Haddad by sight and couldn’t, for the moment, remember the Chief of Emergency’s name. She used PATIENTS PROPERTY to bag a table large enough for their number before going to find something to eat.
Where there are so many choices, you tend to eat what you always eat. Lucy got a cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich and sat down and watched the couple standing and waiting for the short Mexican waitress—she was hardly taller than a dwarf—to wipe down the table for them. He held the tray, she carried his jacket. What was it about them that told Lucy the patient they had come to visit was close to neither—her aunt, maybe,
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