Fortunate Lives (22 page)

Owen folded himself into one of the chairs across from Martin’s desk, his elbows resting on the wooden arms and his hands
clasped loosely.

“You might want to make some notes,” Martin said, passing a legal pad and a pencil across the desk.

“Oh, okay. Right.” Owen seemed surprised and a little amused, as if Martin were taking some game too seriously, but Martin
pressed on.

“There’s a bunch of straightforward rejections and
then this one acceptance to Peter Hosley.” He held up the paper-clipped essay to show Owen and set it apart from the material
being rejected. “But ask if he’s willing to wait, because we want to use his piece in our summer issue. He might want to send
it somewhere that will publish it before then.” Owen didn’t make a single notation. Martin scribbled hastily across the margin
of the Hosley manuscript, writing down exactly what he had just said. “Now these four only need responses to suggestions,
but be sure to check the letterheads and get the titles exactly right. People are touchy about that.” Martin paused, feeling
better as Owen bent over the yellow pad. “Okay, there are three points you need to be sure to include in each of these letters,”
and once again he paused. He could not help but see Owen numbering the lines down the margin of the page:

1. _____________________________
   
2. _____________________________
   
3. _____________________________
   
4. _____________________________
   
5. _____________________________
   
6. _____________________________
   
7. _____________________________
   

“Just three points. And in whatever way seems most appropriate in each case,” Martin said. Owen glanced up expectantly. “Well.
And they’re not so… rigid… that you need to number them.” Owen nodded indulgently, his pencil poised over the pad. “I mean,
Owen, you can phrase these yourself. I want to make sure that we don’t lose contributions
from these people.” And Owen wrote something on the line he had numbered “
1.
”

“That’s not part of the letter,” Martin said. “If you want to, you can mention something about it, but don’t put it quite
that way. ‘We’ve always appreciated your generosity, etc.’” And as Owen hastily moved on to line 2, Martin hurried on, despairingly.
“Just tell them that we’re glad of their continuing interest, that we try to be unbiased about every political issue, and
that we welcome their further thoughts about… whatever.”

Seeing that Owen had strung out brief notations all the way down to number 7, Martin was apprehensive. He considered how he
could find out what Owen intended to write, because Martin had learned from experience that to ask Owen directly would get
them nowhere. He was slithery under specific questions; one had to approach him sideways. His blond, open expression concealed
a passion for secrecy. Owen would leave for lunch and offer to bring back something for Martin from the deli on Carriage Street,
and Martin would work along at his desk with the pleasurable anticipation of a thickly layered corned beef sandwich. But Owen
would return an hour and a half later with a cold hamburger and fries from the McDonald’s on the other side of Bradford—a
twenty-mile drive. Once Owen had offered to get Martin tickets through a friend for one of the Theater Festival’s productions
that was sold out, but several days later he had shown up with two tickets to a Sunday afternoon reading by Blythe Danner
of the poetry of Marianne Moore in the auditorium of the Freund Museum. If Martin pressed him, Owen became belligerently sulky.

“This is great, Owen,” Martin had said, when he studied the tickets, “but what happened to
Suddenly, Last Summer
?”

“Were you serious about that? Bad Tennessee Williams?”

“It’s not so bad. And the cast…”

“Right! It’s all the cast! They’re fabulous,” Owen agreed. “So I got you Blythe Danner. Her performance is incredible.”

This morning Martin was worried about the message Owen was going to send, and he flexed back in his chair and stretched his
arms up behind his head to relieve the tension in his shoulders. Just as he had reached as high as he could, the door opened
a crack and Netta peered in, looking flustered and anxious.

“Oh, Owen.” Her words were light and whispery as usual, exhaled in relief, and she paused for a moment, smiling. “Hi, Martin.
I won’t bother you. I wanted to say hello while I was here.” Her hair had tightened almost into ringlets in the humidity,
and she looked even more childishly vulnerable than usual. Martin brought his arms back to his desk and his chair snapped
forward.

“How are you, Netta? Have you got your apartment settled? Everything unpacked?” She had filled the entire van and the whole
of his own car with boxes and plants in Cambridge. Martin had driven back to her apartment in West Bradford, and he and Vic
had taken David up on his offer to help her move all her things upstairs. They had unloaded the car in the parking lot, and
left David to unload the van.

“Oh…” She paused and lapsed into serious consideration. “I’ve left a lot of things in boxes, you know? I start to unpack them
and then I end up just sort of walking around the box. Don’t you think that unpacking takes real concentration?” She had stepped
farther into the room and was leaning against the open edge of the door, looking at him inquiringly. “I mean, it’s sort of
an increase in the momentum….”

Martin had only meant to inquire politely, but Netta was pensive and endearingly trusting in giving away strange little intimacies
of her life in the innocent assumption that people wanted to know these things.

Martin felt callous in the face of her ingenuousness. “I do think so,” he said, trying to think about it seriously. Netta
was so earnest that he wanted to protect her from the discovery that most of the questions people asked her, or many of the
comments they made in passing, were merely social niceties. “I know what you mean. Taking on possessions
is
a kind of responsibility… making room for their emotional weight. Well, remember when I told you about how desperate Dinah
felt when my grandmother’s…”

“No, no, Martin.” Netta, suddenly severe, brushed her hand through the air to dismiss the idea. “I’m not talking about
owning
things!” Her gaze had turned almost fierce, and Martin was baffled but at the same time not especially interested.

“Oh,” he said. “I didn’t understand that.”

Netta remained in the doorway for a moment, then smiled at him forgivingly and turned away. “I’ve got to get Anna Tyson to
day care. She’s waiting in the car.” And Martin didn’t have to reply, because she had already left the room and Owen followed
her.

Martin heard her say something to Owen, her feathery voice too light to catch, but he heard Owen’s reply. “I left a message
on your machine. Maybe the tape was full.”

“Owen.” Netta’s voice was strained as she drew his name out into a sort of sigh. “I told you you could stop by. You don’t
have to call. You did know that, didn’t you?” Martin didn’t hear Owen’s reply, but there was a long silence, then Netta spoke.
“Do you want to meet me for lunch at the Union? David Howells said he would come over tonight to help me with all this unpacking,
but we could use your help, too. Or you could come over later.”

Owen didn’t answer her, and the two of them moved away from the door. Netta’s words were indistinct, but they formed the sound
of a short, soft plea. A moment later Owen’s chair creaked as he sat down, and there was a long pause before Netta spoke.
Her voice was unusually clarified
and flat. “I’ve got to go. I left Anna Tyson in the car.” And Martin heard the office door close behind her.

Even though
The Review
office was in the basement, it wasn’t cool, it was only marginally less hot, and Martin decided not to phone but to drive
out to the Hofstatters’ to talk over the excerpt from the manuscript he was reading. He gathered the chapters together and
left his office, and Duchess climbed wearily to her feet, raising herself leg by leg, and ambled after him, but he was intercepted
on his way out by Owen, who stopped him with an agitated flutter of the green marked pages.

“I’ll read you this little bit, Martin. I mean, I really don’t think you can let this out of the office,” Owen said. “We’re
sending these letters out all the time. We’re sending these letters out to
writers
. It’s embarrassing….” Owen’s consternation, his proprietary distress, was unnerving, and Martin realized that it would be
easier to hear him out than to argue that Owen should take it up with Vic. Martin nodded at Owen to go ahead and read to him
from a letter Vic had left for Helen LaPlante to type.

“Okay, okay!” Owen was agitated, scanning the pages for what he wanted. “Here! Now what do you think? I could hardly believe
it.” And he held up a page and began to read aloud:

“This particular story is, in substance and also in style, reminiscent of much of the work of Alicia Smith, who is widely
published and whom we’ve published often. While there is much about this piece that is fully realized and compelling, we think
that it’s not quite strong enough to stand on its own as a piece of fiction. We do hope that you will think of us again and
let us see more of your work.”

Owen broke off for a moment to glance at Martin with a conspiratorial smirk. Martin thought briefly that Owen
was
mean
, in the way that word had summed things up in childhood, but the thought was transient, and he listened patiently as Owen
continued:

“We hope you will understand that due to the dynamics of a small magazine such as ours, which only publishes six to eight
stories annually, we try very hard to maintain diversity.”

Owen let his arm drop to his side and shook his head slowly with an air of resigned bemusement, as though he had encountered
an inevitable disappointment. Martin stood for several moments, waiting for him to explain, but Owen seemed to think the letter
spoke for itself.

“I don’t see the problem,” Martin said at last. “That’s sort of a form letter we send to any writer we think has some talent
but who’s submitted a story that’s not very good. And the story’s usually not very good because it’s a pale imitation of a
good
writer who’s established a certain voice.” Martin was pleased at his own kindly patience, but Owen waved the letter over
his desk in agitation.

“Oh, Christ, Martin! ‘… the
dynamics
of a small magazine!’ What the fuck does that mean?” Owen was practically shouting at him. “It’s verbiage! It’s
garbage
! Is it
General
Dynamics? Is it
fluid
dynamics? Someone has to pay attention to what these words mean….”

All at once Martin was overwhelmed with weariness, and he shook his head at Owen, lifting both hands in a gesture of surrender.
Finally Owen wound down. “Owen. Listen! I don’t have the time…. This is hopeless. You just can’t work here. Don’t come here
anymore. I’m sorry. I can’t do anything about this anymore.”

Owen’s whole torso arched in surprise, and he slumped backward in his chair. He splayed his fingers at his temples and ran
his hands back into his hair, flexing his chair with a sigh.

“No, no,” Owen said mildly and with a look of deliberation. “I’m trying to learn to curb my perfectionism. I’m in Miracle
Therapy, you know? I know better than this. I do. I know better than this. Anger is only emotional energy. I’m really trying.
The point is to learn how to be
open
to goodwill instead of suspecting evil and unkindness.” Owen spoke matter-of-factly and with resignation. He gazed up at
Martin composedly, but nothing in the world would have induced Martin to inquire about the nature of Miracle Therapy, and
after a moment Owen continued. “I want you to understand that I mean every word I say when I tell you how sorry I am that
I didn’t channel my anger. I’m only just learning to trust people and to love them. And I have real love for you, Martin.
And for Vic. But I can’t expect either of you to fulfill my need for perfection.”

Martin stood in the reception area and looked back at his own office, which had been a retreat for so many years. It had been
a place where he could suspend melancholy and weed through submissions that might be dull or esoteric to other people, but
that absorbed him entirely. He unwound Duchess’s leash, and she shambled over to him and stood patiently while he fumbled
with the retracting hook. “I’m going out to the Hofstatters’. I won’t be back in the office today.” Martin was defeated, and
he escaped.

When Martin pulled into the long drive that led up through a meadow to the Hofstatters’ house, Duchess, terrified of car rides,
was crowded against him, her head next to his above the steering wheel. The interior of the car was filled with the warm,
tidal scent of dogs in hot weather. Catching sight of Vic in a bright blue shirt down by the pond, Martin pulled over and
parked in the drive, flinging open both the front doors, so Duchess wouldn’t trample over his lap in her desperation to leave
the car. She collapsed in relief on the verge of the drive while Martin let
the car air out. He retrieved the manuscript from the trunk, where he had put it so the dog wouldn’t destroy it in her frantic
scrabbling from the back to the front seat during the drive. Martin was relieved that Vic was sitting out by the pond, because
if Ellen was working upstairs he didn’t want to disturb her.

Ellen’s study was a renovated, low-ceilinged gabled attic at the top of the house. Years ago she had sketched out an arched
window, vaguely Palladian, and taken the drawing to Milltown Patterns in Bradford to have one custom made for herself. Vic
and Martin had installed it at the far end of the room under the peaked roof during weather exactly like this, and they had
scarcely been able to be civil to each other by the end of the day. But Ellen had come upstairs and stood elated in the center
of the room, pointing out to them how the light from the setting sun was broken into elongated squares across the old pine
floorboards. “Mr. Aldenbrook at Milltown Patterns couldn’t understand why I wanted to go to all this trouble. He thought it
would be a lot cheaper to order a regulation plate glass window, but look how the mullions divide the light! This is a wonderful
room.”