bones’?”
“It means it has a lot of potential,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said.
“What’s wrong with it the way it is?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it, but it’s somebody else’s taste. That’s the way it always is. There’s always going to be some work.”
Pfefferkorn, a lifelong renter, wondered where his daughter had learned these things. “If you say so.”
“I’m thinking we could knock out this wall. You know, like an open kitchen. Don’t you think it would be fantastic for parties? Of course, we’ll need to change the countertops.”
“Of course.”
“So you like it.”
“I like that it makes you happy,” he said.
“It does. It really does. Can’t you see us raising a family here?”
It was the first time she had ever spoken of children. He had always made a point of saying nothing. The choice was hers. Hearing her raise the subject on her own filled him with an indescribable mix of emotions.
“I think it’s a lovely house,” he said.
“Me too,” his daughter said.
“And,” he said, his head tingling with the excitement of a man about to push in all his chips, “I want to give it to you.”
His daughter’s eyes widened. “Daddy. That’s not why I—”
“I know,” he said.
“But we can’t—I mean, Paul won’t allow it.”
“That’s your job,” he said. “You work on him.”
“Daddy. You really mean it?”
He nodded.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, oh, oh.”
“Sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m just so happy.” She put her arms around him. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Of course,” he said again, less confidently this time. “Eh. Sweetheart?”
“Yes, Daddy?”
“I forgot to ask about the price.”
She named a number.
“Mm,” he said.
“Trust me, it’s a steal, even at asking.”
“Mm-hm.”
She released him. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
She embraced him again. “I love you so, so much.”
Pfefferkorn tried to remember what he was due to be paid for the delivery and acceptance of his next novel. He tried to calculate whether it would be enough to pay for the entire house or whether they would need to take out a mortgage. He didn’t know the first thing about real estate finance. Whatever the case was, he couldn’t afford anything unless he turned in a book. The present word count stood at ninety-nine, including the title and dedication pages. He wondered if making an outlandish offer was his subconscious’s way of motivating him to get to work. Or perhaps he could not bear to see his daughter disappointed. With the wedding, he had set a high standard, one he now felt compelled to meet and exceed. He pulled away so she wouldn’t feel his heart starting to pound.
“Daddy? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look a little green,” she said. “Do you want to sit down?”
He shook his head. He managed to produce a smile. “Question for you,” he said.
“Yes, Daddy?”
“When I’m old and pissing my pants, where’s my room going to be?”
“Stop.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re going to put me in a home.”
“Daddy.
Stop.
”
“Never mind, then.”
40.
Pfefferkorn’s success had at once heightened and undercut his stature as a professor. On the one hand, demand for his creative writing classes had grown, with long waiting lists established. With so large a pool available to him, he had the ability to control the composition of the class. However, he tended—stupidly, he thought—to admit a disproportionate number of literary types. These were the very students who tended to be snobbish about his work, comporting themselves with disdain, as though he could not possibly teach them about real literature when he had made a fortune writing trash. Even his good reviews provided grounds for scorn, signaling the death of critical integrity. The fact that his first novel had been literary fiction did not impress anyone. Nobody had
“It means it has a lot of potential,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said.
“What’s wrong with it the way it is?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it, but it’s somebody else’s taste. That’s the way it always is. There’s always going to be some work.”
Pfefferkorn, a lifelong renter, wondered where his daughter had learned these things. “If you say so.”
“I’m thinking we could knock out this wall. You know, like an open kitchen. Don’t you think it would be fantastic for parties? Of course, we’ll need to change the countertops.”
“Of course.”
“So you like it.”
“I like that it makes you happy,” he said.
“It does. It really does. Can’t you see us raising a family here?”
It was the first time she had ever spoken of children. He had always made a point of saying nothing. The choice was hers. Hearing her raise the subject on her own filled him with an indescribable mix of emotions.
“I think it’s a lovely house,” he said.
“Me too,” his daughter said.
“And,” he said, his head tingling with the excitement of a man about to push in all his chips, “I want to give it to you.”
His daughter’s eyes widened. “Daddy. That’s not why I—”
“I know,” he said.
“But we can’t—I mean, Paul won’t allow it.”
“That’s your job,” he said. “You work on him.”
“Daddy. You really mean it?”
He nodded.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, oh, oh.”
“Sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m just so happy.” She put her arms around him. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Of course,” he said again, less confidently this time. “Eh. Sweetheart?”
“Yes, Daddy?”
“I forgot to ask about the price.”
She named a number.
“Mm,” he said.
“Trust me, it’s a steal, even at asking.”
“Mm-hm.”
She released him. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
She embraced him again. “I love you so, so much.”
Pfefferkorn tried to remember what he was due to be paid for the delivery and acceptance of his next novel. He tried to calculate whether it would be enough to pay for the entire house or whether they would need to take out a mortgage. He didn’t know the first thing about real estate finance. Whatever the case was, he couldn’t afford anything unless he turned in a book. The present word count stood at ninety-nine, including the title and dedication pages. He wondered if making an outlandish offer was his subconscious’s way of motivating him to get to work. Or perhaps he could not bear to see his daughter disappointed. With the wedding, he had set a high standard, one he now felt compelled to meet and exceed. He pulled away so she wouldn’t feel his heart starting to pound.
“Daddy? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look a little green,” she said. “Do you want to sit down?”
He shook his head. He managed to produce a smile. “Question for you,” he said.
“Yes, Daddy?”
“When I’m old and pissing my pants, where’s my room going to be?”
“Stop.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re going to put me in a home.”
“Daddy.
Stop.
”
“Never mind, then.”
40.
Pfefferkorn’s success had at once heightened and undercut his stature as a professor. On the one hand, demand for his creative writing classes had grown, with long waiting lists established. With so large a pool available to him, he had the ability to control the composition of the class. However, he tended—stupidly, he thought—to admit a disproportionate number of literary types. These were the very students who tended to be snobbish about his work, comporting themselves with disdain, as though he could not possibly teach them about real literature when he had made a fortune writing trash. Even his good reviews provided grounds for scorn, signaling the death of critical integrity. The fact that his first novel had been literary fiction did not impress anyone. Nobody had
Similar Books
