The Mentor (12 page)

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Emma says, wrapping her arms around the pad.

“You’re making me very curious.”

Oh good
. “It’s nothing,” Emma says, returning to her chair.

Charles’s questioning eyes bore into her. “It’s an awfully important nothing.”

“Oh, all right. Really, it’s just something I wrote, am writing … I don’t know.”

“So you’re a closet writer, too.”

“I guess. Not a very good one. Now can we change the subject?”

“Let me see it,” he says.

Emma pretends she’s considering it.

“Let—me—see.”

And so she does. Charles begins reading. Emma feels goose bumps break out on her arms and neck. Without taking his eyes off the page, he settles into the armchair. The room grows very still. Emma is at a loss as to what to do with herself. He’s reading so intently. She walks as quietly as she can over to the window. Across the street, a cat crouches in the gutter devouring a scrap of food. The New York night feels full of promise, a sea of warm hope delivering Emma from her pain, carrying her to her fate. She turns. Charles is still reading, bathed in the soft lamplight, his lips slightly pursed. He flips a page, and then another. Finally Emma can stand it no longer.

“May I have it back, please?”

He cuts her off with a brusque “shhhhh” and keeps reading until he reaches the end. He looks up at her. “Is this part of something longer?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“You guess?”

“There’s more. There’s a lot more.”

“Would you let me see it?”

“Charles, you don’t have to—”

“Read anything I don’t want to. I know that, Emma. But I want to read more of this.”

Emma goes to her dresser and takes out the pages she’s been writing for so long now. All but the most recent are neatly typed. Her book, her story, her life. She feels the weight of the pages in her hand and then, hesitantly, gives them to Charles.

“Do you mind if I take these home tonight?”

Emma shakes her head.

As they finish their tea, Charles, leaning forward in his chair, tells her about showing his first novel to his writing teacher at Dartmouth. Of how he didn’t sleep for two days while she read it. Emma nods and smiles but finds it hard to pay attention.

“Walk me downstairs,” he says.

It’s cool out; the rain has stopped. Charles cradles the stack of papers and hails a cab. He squeezes Emma’s shoulder and says, “See you in the morning.”

Emma watches the cab pull out into traffic and disappear up the street.

It’s going to happen
.

Anne is propped up in bed, going over a licensing agreement with a small Vermont furniture maker. She’s having a hard time concentrating. The numbness is gone from her stomach; there’s just a tiny point of tenderness where the needle went in. For a five-hundred-dollar surcharge the company doing the DNA testing agreed to expedite her tests; she’ll have the results in about ten days. She reaches for another disgusting peanut butter cookie and picks up her bedside phone and dials.

“Hello.”

“Kayla, it’s me.”

“I hate you. I spent eighteen hundred dollars today on your goddamn website.”

“Isn’t it great?”

“It’s amazing! Just what I need—a whole new way to shop. You’re a genius. And where did you find those gold-leaf tiles?”

“Deepest Brooklyn.”

“Wow. But I’m canceling the whole order if you don’t tell me what’s bugging you. Right now.”

Anne puts her paperwork on the bedside table. She lifts off the covers and sits on the edge of the bed.

“I’m pregnant … and Charles may not be the father.”

There’s a long pause.

“Sorry. I was picking my jaw up off the floor. Tell me
everything
.”

And Anne does, spewing out the whole story. When she’s done she feels better than she has in months.

“That motherfucker Farnsworth,” Kayla says.

“No, Kayla, that’s too easy. I could have stopped it.”

“He shouldn’t have put you in that position. But that’s a moot point. What are your thoughts about the baby?”

“Even if it is Farnsworth’s, I don’t know if I can go through with an abortion. There’s a life growing inside me.”

“What about
your
life, Anne? If it’s Farnsworth’s, there’s a chance you’ll hate the baby. Think about the ramifications of that. You know I’m still a little conflicted about my own abortion, but at the same time I know I did the right thing. I’ve never doubted it for a second. It wasn’t the right time and it wasn’t the right man. The same may be true for you.”

“But it is the right time. I want a child.”

“But do you want
this
child?”

Anne starts to pace around the room. She looks down at the park, its lights twinkling in the dark. What fun it would be to take her little child—would it be a boy or a girl?—to the zoo and the carousel. To share a tuna fish sandwich sitting on a park bench.

“It’s my child as much as the father’s, Kayla. It’s my baby.”

“Anne, it’s your decision and you’re my best friend and I love you and I’ll support you in whatever you decide. But remember that you have choices.”

Anne imagines going to an Upper East Side clinic for the abortion, spending a couple of recuperative days at Canyon Ranch. The
whole thing would be over with and she could get on with her life. It seems like such a simple solution. Especially considering the current state of her marriage.

“I’m speaking to a media buyers’ convention in Scottsdale on Saturday. Why don’t I fly to New York as soon as I’m done?” Kayla says.

An overwhelming sadness descends on Anne. She turns away from the window and sits on the floor, her back against the wall.

“Are you going to our fifteenth reunion?” she asks, knowing Kayla will grasp her need to change the subject.

“Hell, yes, it’s the ultimate gloat fest. All those little blond chippies slaving away on Wall Street and in Silicon Valley. We showed ’em, didn’t we, Turner?”

Anne leans her head against the side of her dresser and closes her eyes. “We showed ’em.”

“I’m six hours away from buying you a big fat martini. Promise me you’ll call if you want me to hop a plane.”

“I promise.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

“I love you, Kayla.”

Anne hugs her knees and rests her head on them. The room seems so big from down on the floor. She starts to hum to herself, some half-forgotten lullaby her father loved.

Then she hears the front door open, followed by Charles’s approaching footfalls. She scuttles into the bathroom, stands up, and grabs her toothbrush. He appears in the bathroom doorway, his eyes shining.

“Hi,” he says, giving her cheek a perfunctory kiss.

“Where’ve you been?”

“I took a long walk.”

“Do you want me to heat something up?”

“I ate.”

“Oh. Where?”

“I grabbed a bite at a coffee shop.”

Charles hates coffee shops.

“I want to do some work,” he says. He takes off his shirt and splashes cold water on his face and under his arms.

“Oh, Charles? How much longer do you think you’ll need that secretary?”

“Hard to say.” He walks over to his closet and puts on a worn denim workshirt.

Anne stands in the bathroom doorway. “But you want to keep her around?”

“It’s nice to know she’s out there staying on top of things.”

“I see.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“I don’t trust her.”

“What’s not to trust? She’s just some highly efficient, highly insecure girl.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“It’s a nice night out,” Charles says.

“Are you on to something?”

Charles nods but doesn’t elaborate.

“Well, that is exciting. Although it’s not easy being a literary widow.”

“Think how much fun it’ll be when I return from the grave.”

Walking down the hallway that leads to Charles’s offices, Emma takes several deep breaths and tries to put a casual, everyday expression on her face. She walks into the outer office and there he is, sitting at her desk, her pages in front of him.

“Do you know the ending?” he immediately asks. He looks as if he’s gotten very little sleep.

“I think so.”

“Don’t tell me.” Charles looks down at the pages for a long moment, then crosses to Emma and takes her by the shoulders. “It’s extraordinary, Emma.”

Emma feels light-headed, as if all the blood has drained from her body and been replaced by a rush of pure oxygen. “You don’t have to say that.”

“How long have you been working on this?”

“About two years.”

“Have you taken writing classes?”

“No.” He’s looking at her so strangely, holding her shoulders
so tightly. “I wrote in school. I won a story contest in the eighth grade.”

“When do you write?”

“Whenever I can.” Emma makes a small move to get away. “Shall I make coffee?”

He gives a little snort, as if coffee is the most insignificant thing in the world. He finally lets go of her and walks across the room, rubbing his hands together. Then he spins around. “I’d like you to finish it here.”

“What?”

“I want you to finish your book here.”

“But the job—”

“Your job description just changed. This would help me a thousand times more than all the answered letters and returned phone calls in the world. I want these two rooms to be charged with electricity, with creative fire.” He gestures to her manuscript. “This is the whole fucking ball game.”

“But, Charles …”

He crosses back to her and lifts her chin. His voice becomes low and intimate and warm, like … like a father’s. “Listen to me, Emma. When I was just about your age, someone helped me. I’d like to give it back. I don’t want you to think too much about what I’m going to say—I just want you to keep on doing exactly what you’re doing—but you have a gift, a wonderful gift.”

Emma feels a sudden urge to lay her head on his shoulder and have him stroke her hair. She wants him to take care of her, to guide her, to make the world a safe place, finally, at least for a little while.

“What do you think? You and me, these two rooms?”

Emma nods.

“Good. Let’s get to work.”

Charles and Emma are walking across Central Park on their way to the movie theater. After a week of nonstop work, he’s insisted they take the afternoon off, feels it’s important for her to see
Rashomon
. He leads her along his favorite path, the one that winds through the Shakespeare Garden, planted with flowers mentioned in the plays, and then up a hill to Belvedere Castle. There’s a courtyard beside the castle and they lean against its low stone wall and admire the view of northern Manhattan and the little lake that sits below, beside an outdoor amphitheater where Shakespeare is performed on summer nights.

“Next year we’ll go to one together,” he says.

“Won’t that be a midsummer night’s dream,” Emma says and then wishes she hadn’t.

Charles smiles. “Come on, we don’t want to miss the beginning of the movie.”

Emma loves sitting beside Charles in the dark theater—the forced intimacy, their shoulders touching, the large bag of popcorn
they’re sharing. She’s enthralled by Kurosawa’s artistry, by the story, the
stories
, he’s telling. Charles is like a little boy showing off a treasured possession.

“He uses the camera like a paintbrush—it’s masterful.”

Emma notices that nearby moviegoers are shooting him glances. Normally, she would have been mortified, but with Charles she doesn’t care. She’s never seen him so adorable. When she looks over, his eyes are dancing in the screen’s reflected light.

“Every single frame has a purpose, just as every sentence should. You have to direct the reader’s eye!”

“Shhh!” someone hisses.

Emma laughs nervously. Charles is momentarily chastened. They watch the film unfold in silence for a few minutes and then Charles can no longer contain himself.

“This is the kind of control I want you to work for. By the way, your rewrite of the first chapter is brilliant. I’m going to show it to my agent.”

“Hey, c’mon,” someone admonishes.

“All right, all right,” Charles grumbles.

Emma sinks down in her seat, charmed by Charles’s enthusiasm, embarrassed by his outburst, and stunned by his statement. Nina Bradley is going to read her work! In the darkness, Emma smiles to herself.

After the movie, they ride uptown in a cab. It’s Emma’s first taxi ride, and it feels luxurious, almost decadent. Outside the window the city passes by as if it too is a movie, unfolding for her personal pleasure. Charles has turned to face her and has an arm on the seat back. He keeps touching her lightly, on her knee, her shoulder.

And then, in a quiet, serious voice, he says, “Emma, the story you’re telling—that young boy, his abusive mother—where did it come from?”

Emma doesn’t turn to him, but keeps looking out the window as she speaks. She’s been expecting this question. “There was this woman who lived with her son above the stationery store downtown.
She was clearly disturbed. They were always dressed in dirty clothes, he was skinny and sad. Everyone in town talked about them, made fun of them behind their backs. One day I saw the two of them sitting at the lunch counter in Woolworth’s. She was talking to herself while he sat there eating his grilled cheese sandwich, trying to pretend everything was normal. But there were tears in his eyes.”

“Most writers put a lot of themselves into their first books,” Charles says gently.

“I’m probably no exception. After my father left, my mother started drinking and taking pills. I’m sure I saw myself in that little boy.”

They ride in silence for a few blocks. Emma can feel Charles studying her as she looks out the window.

“Is your mother better now?”

“Yes, she is.”

“You’ve gotten inside the boy’s head. But don’t back away from the horror of the situation. The mother may be sad, but ultimately she’s a monster.”

“But I want her to be a human being first.”