she saw me looking. “I’ll live. Let’s go onto the porch.”
I was wearing a turtleneck and a wool blazer—a yearning toward the professorial poise in Arthur, I suppose. It was crisp out—pure, I want to say. When you’re above the exhaust pipes and manholes and dry-cleaner steam, just breathing the air, New York City can smell as clean as a lungful from a ski lift in Vale. It’s a fairly short period, though, a week or two at most, after the garbagy musk of summer and before the burnt chestnut chill of winter.
Arthur brought out three dining room chairs, and we sat. I set the stack of pages on my lap. It was maybe three inches thick. The center of the top page read
The Morels: A Novel
.
“Is this your new book?”
“He wants me to read it.”
“And why don’t you?”
“I will. But not like this. Art thinks I won’t approve and—no way. I don’t want any part of that. You wrote what you wrote. I’m not going to be your conscience or your censor. Do that for yourself. And you know what? Fuck you. For trying to make me play that role. I don’t want to play that role. Anyway, what am I supposed to say? I read it, I don’t like it, I tell you,
Art, don’t publish this. Burn it
.”
“I’d burn it without a second thought.”
“But what about me? I’d be nothing but second thoughts. You’re saddling me with this burden? That’s fair. And like I would ever say such a thing. You know this. You know I would never tell you to do that, so what are you really doing here? You’re forcing my hand. It’s a bluff. You don’t want me to tell you what I really think. You want me to tell you to go ahead, and you know I’ll tell you to go ahead because what kind of supportive wife would tell her writer husband to burn his manuscript? It’s a free pass. You know how I know? Coming to me now. It’s sold, your agent has seen it, he’s gotten a publisher to agree to buy it—this thing is already out of your hands—why not come to me when you were still working on it? When you could have done something about it?”
I thumbed though the pages. On first glance, it appeared to be a string of e-mails. Three hundred and sixty-two pages of e-mails.
“But you don’t understand. That’s not it at all. I’m asking you for help. I don’t know what I’m doing. You give me way too much credit. I’m not in control over what I write. This isn’t some piece for a travel magazine or some restaurant review. It’s not a mystery, it’s not a romance, or what have you. This is—excuse the pretentiousness of saying it—literature. I’m looking for good, for true,for dangerous. This is my mandate, my only mandate. There is no formula. It’s a direction, the vaguest sort of destination, a kind of compass that, if I know how to use it, will show me the way. And here is this thing I found, and I know it’s all these things, but I also know it will hurt you and Will.”
“Art. They’re words. It’s a novel, yes?”
“Technically, yes.”
“There is no technically. It is or it isn’t.”
“I guess that will be the question, won’t it?”
“Look. You can’t please everybody. You can’t. You make sacrifices. You think this is any different than what a doctor goes through? A top surgeon? The procedure develops complications, and he has to miss his son’s graduation. Or I don’t know, at least that’s the way it goes on television, but it sounds about right. These are the trade-offs. This is what happens to a family man with a career. You’re not special. You just have to accept that your wife and son may never forgive you.”
“I can’t do that. That’s unacceptable. It can’t be either-or.”
“You’re such an only child, Arthur.”
“I have half siblings!”
“You want it all, but you can’t have it all.”
“Okay,” he said. He took the manuscript from me, got up, and went inside.
Penelope crossed her eyes at me. “Do you see what I’m dealing with? He turns into a crazy person
I was wearing a turtleneck and a wool blazer—a yearning toward the professorial poise in Arthur, I suppose. It was crisp out—pure, I want to say. When you’re above the exhaust pipes and manholes and dry-cleaner steam, just breathing the air, New York City can smell as clean as a lungful from a ski lift in Vale. It’s a fairly short period, though, a week or two at most, after the garbagy musk of summer and before the burnt chestnut chill of winter.
Arthur brought out three dining room chairs, and we sat. I set the stack of pages on my lap. It was maybe three inches thick. The center of the top page read
The Morels: A Novel
.
“Is this your new book?”
“He wants me to read it.”
“And why don’t you?”
“I will. But not like this. Art thinks I won’t approve and—no way. I don’t want any part of that. You wrote what you wrote. I’m not going to be your conscience or your censor. Do that for yourself. And you know what? Fuck you. For trying to make me play that role. I don’t want to play that role. Anyway, what am I supposed to say? I read it, I don’t like it, I tell you,
Art, don’t publish this. Burn it
.”
“I’d burn it without a second thought.”
“But what about me? I’d be nothing but second thoughts. You’re saddling me with this burden? That’s fair. And like I would ever say such a thing. You know this. You know I would never tell you to do that, so what are you really doing here? You’re forcing my hand. It’s a bluff. You don’t want me to tell you what I really think. You want me to tell you to go ahead, and you know I’ll tell you to go ahead because what kind of supportive wife would tell her writer husband to burn his manuscript? It’s a free pass. You know how I know? Coming to me now. It’s sold, your agent has seen it, he’s gotten a publisher to agree to buy it—this thing is already out of your hands—why not come to me when you were still working on it? When you could have done something about it?”
I thumbed though the pages. On first glance, it appeared to be a string of e-mails. Three hundred and sixty-two pages of e-mails.
“But you don’t understand. That’s not it at all. I’m asking you for help. I don’t know what I’m doing. You give me way too much credit. I’m not in control over what I write. This isn’t some piece for a travel magazine or some restaurant review. It’s not a mystery, it’s not a romance, or what have you. This is—excuse the pretentiousness of saying it—literature. I’m looking for good, for true,for dangerous. This is my mandate, my only mandate. There is no formula. It’s a direction, the vaguest sort of destination, a kind of compass that, if I know how to use it, will show me the way. And here is this thing I found, and I know it’s all these things, but I also know it will hurt you and Will.”
“Art. They’re words. It’s a novel, yes?”
“Technically, yes.”
“There is no technically. It is or it isn’t.”
“I guess that will be the question, won’t it?”
“Look. You can’t please everybody. You can’t. You make sacrifices. You think this is any different than what a doctor goes through? A top surgeon? The procedure develops complications, and he has to miss his son’s graduation. Or I don’t know, at least that’s the way it goes on television, but it sounds about right. These are the trade-offs. This is what happens to a family man with a career. You’re not special. You just have to accept that your wife and son may never forgive you.”
“I can’t do that. That’s unacceptable. It can’t be either-or.”
“You’re such an only child, Arthur.”
“I have half siblings!”
“You want it all, but you can’t have it all.”
“Okay,” he said. He took the manuscript from me, got up, and went inside.
Penelope crossed her eyes at me. “Do you see what I’m dealing with? He turns into a crazy person
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