Justin Kramon (41 page)

But Earl was polite and unpretentious, and when the pink-faced man asked how he’d gotten the idea for the story he’d read, Earl said, “You know, I think all my stories are a combination of things I’ve lived through, feelings I’ve had, and then a bunch of stuff I think is probably funnier or more interesting or somehow more telling than what actually happened. So for example, with this story, I did grow up in a little brown house with my father. But my father was still alive at the time I wrote the piece. He’d never been a teacher’s assistant. And we’d never tossed a chair down a hill together. Actually, he remarried very happily as soon as I left home. But I felt like I could talk best about some of my feelings about him by setting up the story this way. And I just thought it might be entertaining.”

Earl seemed like he was going to leave it at that. He looked down at the book he’d read from, and smiled in a tight-lipped way. But then he looked back up at the man who’d asked the question and said, “I’ve always felt like there was a lot of loss in my life. Even before anyone I knew actually died. It probably wasn’t much more than the normal bumps everyone gets, but for some reason they hit me harder. I think that’s maybe the best reason I can give for why I wanted to become a writer—to be able to hold on to some things. I moved to France before I wrote this story, and I was away from both my father and a woman I loved very much, and though a lot of bad decisions came out of that time in my life, one good thing was this story. It captured for me that mix of happy memories and very painful regret.” Earl nodded after he said this, like a punctuation mark, or as if to say that he’d gotten out exactly what he meant.

Then the reading was over. Everyone clapped again, and the introducer got up and said that people could get in line to have their copies signed. Earl sat behind a wide pine desk, and as the line filed forward, the introducer asked everyone for the spelling of their names, to make things easier for Earl. Since there were only a dozen people in line, Finny wasn’t sure it was really necessary. When the woman asked Finny for her name, Finny said, “I’m an old friend. I’m pretty sure he knows how to spell my name.”

When she got up to where Earl was sitting, she said, “You were wonderful.”

He smiled at the sound of her voice, in the genuine, unrestrained way she’d always loved about him. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

“I could tell everyone loved the story,” Finny said.

“Half of them are my friends. They’re paid to love it.”

“No, really,” Finny said. “I was crying at the end. It was beautiful.”

“That means a lot to me, Finny.” He reached across the table and touched her arm. “I’ve got your copy set aside. I’ll give it to you later. I want to introduce you to some people.”

Since Finny was the last in line, Earl got up from the table. He thanked the woman who had given the introduction, and she said he’d done a great job, that she’d expect him back when the next book came out.

“Whenever that is,” Earl said.

“Whenever that is,” the woman repeated, and shook his hand.

Earl walked over to the pink-faced man, who was reading Earl’s book through the bottom of his bifocals. The book was a paperback with what Finny recognized as an inexpensive cover, a blurred photograph of a parrot in a cage on the front. Earl grabbed the man by the elbow and said, “John, this is my friend Finny. Finny, this is my agent and sometimes-friend, John.”

The man laughed at this introduction, and patted Earl on the back. “You’ll see what a good friend I am when that novel comes along.”

“You’re writing a novel?” Finny said to Earl.

“Allegedly,” he said, and blushed the way he used to when he was a kid.

“It’s damn good,” John said. And then to Finny, “Make sure you keep up your friendship with Earl so he can buy you dinner when it comes out.”

“Thanks,” Earl said to his agent. “Thanks for coming, John. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” John said, and slapped Earl again on the back in a sportsmanlike way before telling Finny it was nice to meet her and then taking his leave.

Next, Earl brought Finny over to a man in a brown collared shirt, with dark eyes and curly hair that hung over his ears like an unpruned plant. The man had a light beard that grew down his neck, as if he hadn’t shaved in a week. His hands were plunged in his pockets, jingling the coins and keys he kept there. He was standing next to the woman in the blue turtleneck. Finny thought it was nice how Mavis stood back and let Earl enjoy his evening in the spotlight.

“This is Paul Lilly,” Earl said to Finny.

“I know you stayed at my place,” Paul said, shaking Finny’s hand, “but I don’t think we ever got the chance to meet.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Finny said. Paul’s hand was damp from being stuck in the pockets of his wool pants. “And thanks for letting me stay over.”

“This is Shana, Paul’s girlfriend,” Earl said, presenting the woman in the blue turtleneck. It took Finny several seconds to process what Earl had said, and so she stood there, probably with a blank look on her face, as Shana smiled and held out her hand. Shana. Not Mavis.

“Nice to meet you,” Finny finally said, and shook hands.

“So, what are you up to?” Paul asked Earl.

“I’m going to catch up with Finny tonight, since we haven’t gotten to do that in forever. But let’s get lunch tomorrow. Are you guys still up for that?”

Paul and Shana said they were. They congratulated Earl, told him what a great reading it was, and then headed off, clutching their copies of
Calling Across the Years.

“By the way, where’s Brad?” Earl asked Finny.

Her lie flashed in her mind—business trip, out of town—and suddenly the whole story seemed foolish to her. She simply told Earl, “Things didn’t work out with Brad. But it’s for the best. Where’s Mavis?”

“She couldn’t make it,” Earl said, pressing his lips together in a way that told Finny there’d been an argument about it. “Work again. She’s very busy.”

“Oh,” Finny said. “That’s too bad.”

“But you’ll still have dinner with me, right?” He looked at Finny hopefully.

“Only if you bring my copy.”

“Deal,” Earl said.

They decided to walk west, since Earl knew the neighborhoods better in that part of the Village. He only had a small messenger bag, and Finny just had her backpack with a change of clothes. Earl said he wanted to take Finny somewhere special. And then Finny said he was wrong about one thing: she was taking him.

“Like your agent said, you can treat when your novel comes out,” Finny said.

“Listen,” Earl said, “if you want to have dinner again with me in the next decade, I think you’re safer not to place your hopes on my novel.”

“John said it was great,” Finny said. “I think he would know.”

“What he liked was the part I sent him a year and a half ago, before my mom died. I haven’t been able to write a word since.”

“You will,” Finny said, looking at him. “You just need time. You’ve been through a lot. Once you and Mavis settle somewhere new, I think it’ll be what you need.”

“Thanks,” Earl said. “It’s nice to hear that.”

They were walking along the south side of Washington Square Park now. The arch, on Finny’s right, was illuminated, and the cement pit in the middle of the park was full of people. There were hippies with dreadlocks strumming out-of-tune guitars and singing. There were crowds of skateboarders, and college students. There were the drug dealers in trench coats, riding bicycles, holding open the flaps of their jackets to display their merchandise to passersby. There were couples holding hands or kissing on park benches. There were the chess men along the southwest entrance to the park, sitting over their dirty boards, saying, “Want a game? Want a game?” Squirrels and rats scurried across the paths, or scampered into garbage bags. Since her time with Earl in the city, Finny had always had an affection for this part of New York.

“So where should we eat?” Earl said as they turned south on MacDougal, toward the noisy bars and falafel shops and pizza parlors, the music and the drunk people staggering out of restaurants.

“I don’t know,” Finny said. “What kind of food do you feel like?”

“Anything,” Earl said. “To tell you the truth, I’m actually not that hungry yet. I was so nervous, I don’t know how much my stomach can take. But I want to get you something good.”

“You know,” Finny said, “I’m not that hungry right now either. Why don’t we walk and see how we feel?”

So they walked. They turned right and headed over to Sixth Avenue, walked north on Sixth past the IFC theater; the bright windows of the sex shops; the mannequins with breasts like torpedoes; the newsstands; the men holding brown paper bags of pornography, ducking into the entrance for the orange line. They turned left on Tenth, headed toward the river, past the bistros and coffee shops. It was still warm, and the streets were busy and well-lit from all the open stores. A stream of cars flowed past them.

“Oh,” Earl said. “Here. Before I forget.” He opened his bag and took out a copy of his book, handing it to Finny. “But promise me,” he said, while his hand was still on the book, “that you won’t look at what I wrote until we say good night.”

“Why?” Finny said.

Earl still had his hand clamped over the book. “Because I’m shy, and I have a tendency to be corny. Looking over all these old stories stirred up a lot of memories. So please indulge me.”

“All right,” Finny said, and put the book in her backpack. “Anyway, what’s Mavis so busy with at work?”

Earl looked down. They were stopped at a corner, next to a Starbucks, waiting for the light to change. There was a large brick building on the opposite corner, which Finny took to be a school. Its windows were dark.

“She’s just very absorbed in her work,” Earl said. “It’s become kind of an issue between us.”

The light changed, and they crossed the street, headed toward the school.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Earl said. He seemed to be thinking about something. Then he said it again. “Yeah. I was just very disappointed that she couldn’t make it for this trip. This is a big moment in my life. It wasn’t the way I expected it to happen. I’d hoped I’d have some big book deal, and we’d be rich. But it just didn’t go like that. I got the sense that once she realized how small it was, she was disappointed.”

“Earl,” Finny said, and put her hand on his arm, “you should be proud of this. The stories I’ve read are some of the best I’ve ever seen, no matter how much you got paid for them. You can’t let yourself worry about that stuff. You just need to write.”

He was looking forward, and Finny took her hand from him. She wondered for a second why he wouldn’t turn to her, but then she realized his eyes were wet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted us to have a nice evening together.”

“This
is
nice,” Finny said.

They were coming up on the water, and across from them was the West Side promenade, where joggers pounded across the brightly lit pavement, men and women on roller skates performed twirls and danced to unheard rhythms, homeless people pushed shopping carts and dug in the cluttered trash cans. They crossed the West Side Highway and sat down on a cement bench that wrapped a little swath of green garden, watching the people and the sloshing water, the gray clouds bunched like frosting on a cake, the distant lights of New Jersey. Finny put her backpack in her lap.

“Why didn’t it work out with Brad?” Earl asked.

“He wasn’t the right person for me,” Finny said. “I was fooling myself into believing he was. But he wasn’t.”

“Why? What wasn’t right?”

“Almost everything. He didn’t care about me. He only thought about himself.”

“What did you like about him in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” Finny said. “It’s hard to say. I think maybe I just felt like I needed to find someone. Like it was time. But I don’t think that anymore. I’ll be okay by myself. In fact, I’m making a career move.” She didn’t know what made her say it, but the moment she did, she knew it was true. She’d call Julie in the morning.

“Move to what?” Earl asked.

“I worked at this women’s magazine one summer. Not the typical kind, but sort of counter to that—a lot of pieces about how screwed up everyone is. My kind of thing. It was fun. I feel like I might have something to add.”

“I think you’d have a lot to add.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Earl glanced at Finny, then back ahead of them, like a driver checking his rearview mirror. “Mavis is leaving me,” he said. “She’s moving in with the French scholar. Jean-Pierre. Like something out of
Les Mis
.”

“Jesus,” Finny said, looking at Earl. “I’m sorry.”

“Like I said,” Earl went on, “she needs something bigger than me.”

“That’s a dumb thing to say,” Finny told Earl. “It sounds like this might be for the best.”

Earl shrugged. They both looked at the water, the heavy clouds above it.

“You remember the old vineyard?” Finny asked him.

“Of course,” Earl said.

“Well, that’s where I went that night. When your dad was dying. Before I came and met you. I went back to the old vineyard.”

“How was it?”

“Pretty much the same,” Finny said. “Except for everything looked smaller. I think I like the memory better. Nothing’s the same when you come back to it.”

“I know,” Earl said. “I like the memory, too.”

Finny asked Earl what his plans were now that Mavis was moving out, and he said he wasn’t sure, it was all up in the air, he’d have to see. He just wanted to settle somewhere and start writing again.

Then it seemed they ran out of things to say. They sat for a few more minutes, not talking, until Finny mentioned she was tired.

“It was a long day,” she said. “I should probably get some sleep.”

“Oh,” Earl said, “sure. Sure. I don’t want to keep you up. I know you’re busy.”

Finny didn’t say anything to that. She saw that somewhere along the way it had been decided they wouldn’t have dinner together, though neither of them mentioned it. The moment had simply passed.

Now Earl offered to walk Finny back to her hotel. But she said no, she was fine. The hotel was on the West Side, and she’d walk along the promenade, where it was safe on a warm evening. He protested, but she assured him she’d be okay by herself. She told him to call next time he was in the States.