Shriver (27 page)

He set his story on the podium in front of him.

The audience seemed to be holding its breath. Someone took a flash photograph, raising bright white spots on the yellow writing paper. Shriver rubbed his eyes.

“I'm going to read something new,” he announced. He looked down at the pages. There at the top, obscuring the title, a perfectly round bloodstain, and next to it, a smear of chocolate. The words underneath, so clear just moments ago in the car, began to blur, little blue raindrops rolling across the paper. His heart slipped from its place behind his ribs to somewhere lower, below his large intestine. He looked up. Each face in the audience was as sharply defined as that of a Vermeer model. He saw Delta Malarkey-Jones in the fourth row, a proud smile on her face. He saw Edsel Nixon a few seats away, his pale, smooth countenance like that of a child. He saw Cassandra, in a tight tank top, her eyes blinking seductively. He saw Basil Rather and Ms. Brazir, and, just behind them, Gonquin Smithee. He saw Zebra Amphetamine, a lonely dark face in a sea of pale skin. He saw Teresa Apple, in a clingy sweater top, her bosom high and almost accusatory. He saw Dr. Keaudeen, her taut face made even tauter by her blinding grin. He saw Charlevoix and Sue St. Marie, their twin beehives thrusting upward to block the views of the people sitting behind them. He saw the willowy brunette cheerleader, standing radiant and tall in the back. He saw all those who had requested autographs over the past two days, clutching their
books to their chests. He saw Detective Krampus, inscrutable as ever, enter the ballroom through the door.

Standing in the very back, far enough away that Shriver wasn't sure he was seeing correctly, he thought he could make out his old friend Vinnie the doorman, and, next to him, Blotto. In the delivery boy's arms lay a small black-and-white animal, its tail flapping contentedly. Shriver blinked and they were gone.

He looked down again at his papers. They were covered in blue ants, marching off the podium in revolt. What on earth was he going to do? He glanced up at Simone in the front row. Her head cocked to the side, she looked up at him with an expression of intense concentration, as if the next words he spoke would decide for her the future. Shriver felt panic spreading across his face like a rash. Simone's eyes widened as she took this in. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. She appeared to consider rushing up onto the stage, then thought better. Instead, she held out her hands, subtly, as if to say,
Take it easy, hold on, you will be all right
.

He shut his eyes. He saw his room: the bed, the white walls, the portrait of Tina LeGros, the mahogany bureau. Mr. Bojangles lay nearby, his black fur rising and falling with his steady breathing. And there, on the ceiling, the water mark. Then, he spoke:

“ ‘The watermark appeared on my ceiling on the rainy day my wife walked out on me,' ” he said in a clear, strong voice. And he went on from there, seeing the water mark as clear as day, and remembering, word for word, all he had written just a few days ago while lying on his bed.

The applause seemed to last forever.

Shriver, his tongue as dry as cardboard, the glass of water long empty, stood with his hands gripping the sides of the podium as if he might otherwise fall backward. Before him roiled a sea of clapping hands and upturned faces. Edsel Nixon applauded. Delta Malarkey-Jones applauded. Even Detective Krampus applauded. Jack Blunt was clapping, also, and Mr. Cheadem, the agent, smiled broadly as he brought his meaty palms together. Still, Shriver avoided glancing over at Simone. What if she was not clapping? What if she was clapping only halfheartedly, her eyes cast down toward the floor?

As the applause finally started to thin, T. Wätzczesnam appeared at his side, a tight grin on his face.

“Well done, old boy,” the cowboy said into his ear. Leading with his elbow, he edged his way to the microphone. “Thank you, Mr. Shriver,” he announced. “That was truly wonderful. Now, if there are any questions . . .”

Dozens of hands shot up into the air. T. happily took charge. “Yes?” he said, pointing to a young woman in the third row.

“That was great,” the woman said. “So different in tone from your novel. It's as if it were written by a different person!”

“Thanks,” Shriver said. “It was.”

“What have you been doing these past twenty years?”

“Not much.” There was some laughter. More hands shot up.

“Is this the beginning of a new novel?” a man asked.

“I hadn't thought about it,” Shriver said. “Maybe it is.”

“Do you write your first draft on a computer or by hand?” someone asked.

“I don't own a computer,” Shriver said to the amazed crowd.

He answered their questions for almost an hour, and at the fifty-nine-minute mark he began to relax. He was getting away with this. These people
still
thought he was the real Shriver. He could say almost anything and they would buy it.

Finally, T. stepped in and said, “We have time for just one more question.”

An arm, sheathed in black leather, rose up from the throng. “I have a question.”

He stood up—Vlad, the waiter/student. He was dressed all in black, and Shriver now made the connection: it was Vlad who'd been following him everywhere. His heart pinballed around inside his rib cage.

“Your story,” Vlad said, “is about a man deserted by his wife, who also takes their young son, and the man's distress at the loss.”

He paused. After a moment, Professor Wätzczesnam stepped up to the microphone. “We all heard the story, young man. Do you have a
question
?”

“I'm wondering,” Vlad said, after some thought, “how autobiographical is this story?”

The room became absolutely quiet but for the soft hum of the microphone.

“How
true
is it?” Vlad went on, as if to fill the void.

Shriver looked at all the faces in the room, all the eyes
focused solely on him. He looked at Simone in the front row, who seemed to be holding her breath. Then he glanced down at the story he'd written, and the words were as clear as the minute hairs on the back of his cat-scratched hand:
The water mark appeared on my ceiling on the rainy day my wife walked out on me.

The audience started to stir, waiting for Shriver's answer. Finally, he leaned into the microphone and said, “Any good writing is true. Even when it's made up.”

A few audience members murmured, then there came the sound of general approval. Simone grinned and T. clapped Shriver on the back. Vlad nodded and sat down, and Shriver thought, Yes, perhaps I really
am
a writer.

T. approached the microphone and announced, “Mr. Shriver will now be signing books, so you can get a little one-on-one time with him out in the lobby.” There was more applause, and Shriver smiled and waved until the audience members finally stood and started filing out of the ballroom.

“Well, Shriver,” the cowboy said, “you are certainly Big Man on Campus.”

“You really think so?” He looked around for Simone, who had left her seat.

“There's a boatload of people out there waiting for you,” Edsel Nixon said from the bottom of the platform stairs.

“Have you seen Simone?”

“I'm sure she's around here somewhere.”

Out in the lobby, a long line snaked around the corner, each person clutching a copy of
Goat Time
to his or her chest. Many others mingled around the book table. But Simone was not among them.

“This way,” Edsel said, escorting Shriver over to a small table and chair.

“Mr. Shriver!”

Donald Cheadem rushed over, accompanied by Jack Blunt.

“Well done,” the agent said, grabbing Shriver's hand and pumping it. “If only my father had been here to see that!”

“Thank you.”

“Listen—since I took over the business, and since I've been the one depositing your checks for the past ten years, I feel I can technically lay claim to being your agent. And I would love to get together and discuss this story of yours. Is there more?”

“Uh, I'm not sure.”

“Well, I'm certain we could get a significant book deal, if there is. And then there's the ancillary rights—”

“Ancillary?”

“If we play our cards right we might even get you on
Oprah
.”

“Really?” Shriver said, getting excited. “I
love
Oprah!”

“Let's figure it out, shall we? Can we meet for dinner?”

“Tonight?”

“No good? How about breakfast first thing tomorrow?”

“I don't know . . .”

“Or we could meet back East. At my office. Or at your apartment. Wherever you'd like.”

“Yes. That would be fine.”

“Excellent! Here's my card.” He handed Shriver a business card:
Cheadem Agency, Donald Cheadem Jr.
“You promise to call me?”

“Okay.”

“Oh!” Cheadem laughed. “You don't have a telephone, do you? Well, we'll work something out.” He pumped Shriver's hand again before starting off.

“What just happened?” Shriver asked.

“Who said life doesn't have a second act?” Edsel Nixon said.

“Well,” Jack Blunt said, lingering behind, “I suppose I'm on the long list of boneheads who owe you an apology.”

“Not at all.”

“I'd like to make it up to you, if I could. How about that interview?”

“You've got your story, Mr. Blunt. Let's not get too greedy.”

“I'll pin you down one of these days, Shriver.”

“I don't doubt it.”

The reporter started off.

“Oh, Mr. Blunt,” Shriver said. He pointed to the man's cockeyed toupee. Blunt reached up and adjusted it, then followed Mr. Cheadem out the door.

Shriver went on to sign books for more than an hour, only half listening as each person complimented him and asked that he make the inscription out to Frank or David or Jane. He mechanically opened the books and signed his name with an increasingly indecipherable flourish, all while thinking only of Simone.

The second-to-last person in line handed him a copy of
Goat Time
.

“Please make it out to Caleb,” the tall man with a cap and bushy mustache said.

“Caleb?”

The man winked and pulled the mustache partially from his face. The other Shriver!

“What are
you
doing here?” Shriver glanced across the lobby to where Detective Krampus stood chatting, notebook in hand, with Gonquin Smithee.

“I might ask you the same thing,” the man replied.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Shriver said, realizing he did not sound very convincing.

The man leaned down and said, “Don't worry. I'm not going to make any trouble. I just wanted you to know there's no hard feelings.”

“Is that so?”

“Let's just say the better man won,” the imposter said. “You're pretty good at this.” He opened the book to the title page. “Your signature, sir.”

Shriver wrote,
To Caleb
, and signed his name.

As he went to shut the book, he came upon the book's epigraph, two italicized lines alone on the page:

Now that I'm enlightened, I'm just as miserable as ever.

—Japanese monk

“Thanks,” the man said when Shriver handed back the book, and he quickly headed off.

Shriver stood and tried to get the attention of Krampus—
The imposter
, he wanted to shout,
he's getting away!
—but the detective was still busy talking with Gonquin. The fake Shriver had disappeared into the crowd anyway, and what did it really matter?

He turned back to see one last person in line: Vlad. The boy smiled bashfully, and seemed so sincere, his face so open, that Shriver wondered how he could have assigned such dark motives to his actions.

“So, Vlad,” Shriver said, “that was
you
following me around?”

Vlad nodded reluctantly, as if admitting to a misdemeanor. “Did you get the story I left for you?”

“I did,” Shriver said. “Twice.”

“Sorry. I just wanted to—I don't know—
connect
.”

“Connect?” Shriver said. “I thought you were out to kill me.”

“Kill you?”

“I know. Crazy, isn't it?”

“I just wanted to meet my father,” Vlad said. “And show him my work.”

“Yes, and about your story . . .” Shriver shook his head, as if to get rid of a ringing sound in his ears. “Wait. Did you say—?”

“It's true, Mr. Shriver,” Detective Krampus said, appearing from behind the student. “I never was able to track down your ex-wife, but I did manage to locate some relatives of hers, and though they were reluctant to reveal it, they told me your son was enrolled at the college here.”

He gestured toward Vlad, who grinned and swayed on his long legs.

“Vlad is your son?” Edsel Nixon, suddenly beside Shriver, asked. “What a crazy coincidence.”

“Not really,” Krampus said. “Young Vladimir here was on the conference committee. He was the first to float Mr. Shriver's name as a guest writer. And that's where they got the photograph—from Vlad.”

Shriver stared at the boy. He could detect a vague resemblance to his younger self. Tall and thin, with jet-black hair and a prominent nose. Is that why he'd looked so familiar?

Then it came to Shriver: This was not
his
son. This was the son of the
real
Shriver!

He tried to speak, but the words collided in his throat.

“This must be a very emotional moment for you,” Krampus said.

“I . . . I . . .”

“We understand,” Krampus said. Then, to Edsel Nixon: “Perhaps we should leave these two alone for a moment.”