Loonglow (7 page)

Afterwards, in quick succession, came a stream of haughty, indistinguishable young men with ponytails of varying lengths, who all seemed quite intent on proving they were not in publishing but rather on the cutting edge of the new wave, whatever that might be.

As Todd, the last of them, showed him the door, Clay wondered if he might do better on his own. Todd slapped him on the back and slipped a copy of a former showgirl's tips on bran into his hand, then slipped away. He certainly could not do worse.

“Enough,” Louey pleaded. “I give. I can't stand any more.”

“Weakling,” said Mia. They lay on the floor in Mia's living room, giggling until their stomachs ached. “Loonlight in Vermont.”

“Loon River.”

“Blue Loon. Loon over Miami.”

“Loonglow.”

“It must have been loonglow,” Mia warbled, “that brought me straight to you.” She sat up, poking Louey. “Look at you—pitiful young creature.”

“While you're so shockingly mature.” Louey was weak from laughing. “I feel like someone else's lunch. How can you have brought me to this sorry state?”

“What kind of host would I be if I didn't?”

Louey studied the patterns on Mia's ceiling. “The kind of host you are, of course. Incomparable and tacky.”

How had she ever found a friend like Mia? Louey wondered. When she and Mia were together, the rest of the world seemed to disappear; they spent so much time convulsed in laughter she forgot that other people, other worlds existed. Her friends scarcely approved, of course, but Louey didn't care; they couldn't bring her the elation Mia did, or the surprise. It struck her as amazing that she'd stumbled upon her, someone who liked her silliness and sarcasm (both of which her friends did their utmost to overlook). She'd never met anyone so unconcerned with commonplace morality, who got away with doing everything she wanted. Mia went haphazardly through life, through attitudes, philosophies: she was an animal, a force of nature, indulging every appetite with no concern for anyone's approval. It seemed to Louey Mia lived on some much higher plane, the way artists lived, or Europeans, concentrating only on sensation, pleasure.

She was an innocent herself where pleasure was concerned. Bandying racy or suggestive comments came like second nature, but the thought of actually doing something with someone terrified her. Once when a boy had asked if he could kiss her, she had blushed so fiercely she could barely meet his eye. Next to Mia, who no doubt took lovers as cavalierly as men were supposed to, she felt no more than a child, a total infant. Yet though she and Mia discussed nearly everything, she was embarrassed to reveal her inexperience.

“Big day Sunday,” Mia said, giving her a nudge.

“Yeah, I'm almost legal.” Louey bent her knees and swung them back and forth against each other, keeping her feet planted on the floor.

“Old bag. Any major plans for the day?”

“Well, I was going to build an atomic reactor, but if you have something you'd rather do, I can always put it off.”

“No, no …” Mia shrugged. “Can't top that.”

“Family will probably tie me up and force-feed me cake. They usually throw a feeble party with people they think are my friends.”

“Must be why they didn't invite me.” Mia pretended to be hurt. Louey snorted. “How about spending the day with me?” Mia went on. “I'll even put on clothes.”

“The glitter scuba gear?”

“You name it.”

“What a lucky girl I am,” said Louey, sitting up.

“Here she is!” Louey announced at Mia's door that Sunday. “God, the applause is deafening.”

“Your birthdayship.” Mia bowed her head and let Louey inside. “You seem in half-good spirits.”

“And why is that, do you suppose?” She ignored the glee on Mia's face, walking into the house. “How many mortals get a chance to rack up seven decades of pure hell?”

Mia squinted. “You do seem more … wrinkled, somehow.”

“Thank you,” Louey said. In the living room, a bottle of champagne waited. “For me? And here I didn't get you anything.”

“I don't know how you made it until noon without a cocktail.”

“What's keeping you, then, girlie? Wing it here.” Louey plopped down on the couch.

“Women today”—Mia shook her head—“so—ladylike.” She popped the cork and filled two glasses.

Louey began to drink, but Mia stopped her, giving a stern look. “To a twisted piece of work,” she toasted. “Long may you wave.”

“Ditto.” A little embarrassed by the attention, Louey took a sip. Mia deposited herself on the couch next to her, curling her bare feet under her. Champagne on an empty stomach made Louey light-headed, and she leaned back, surprised to find that Mia's outstretched arm was resting on the couch behind her. She took another sip. The warmth of Mia's arm behind her was oddly comforting.

After a long pause, Mia rose to pour them more champagne.

“Trying to get me drunk, wench?” Louey said, but Mia didn't answer, sitting down. Louey drank, wondering why her words hung in the air. “So,” she said at last, “where are the parents?”

“Ditched 'em. Sent 'em on a cruise around the world.”

Louey laughed and Mia jumped up as if she'd just remembered something. “What?” prodded Louey.

“Cake!” said Mia, going to the kitchen. A minute later she came back, a mass of birthday cake cupped in her hands. “There's cake!”

“I see that,” Louey noted. “Make that piece yourself?”

“Of course I did,” said Mia, shoving the bulk of the confection into Louey's mouth before she had a chance to protest.

“Thanks so much,” she sputtered, laughing. Mia reached to push a piece she'd missed into her mouth and Louey raised her hands in protest, gulping, “Special birthday feeding?” Mia laughed. Louey wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Mia interrupted. Before Louey knew what was happening, Mia had bent to lick the crumbs from her mouth. Louey's skin went hot. “That better?”

“Uh—thanks,” Louey said; she felt the touch of Mia's tongue as if it were still lapping at her lips. Her mouth felt strange.

Before she knew it, Mia had begun kissing her. Mia's mouth was nibbling at hers, teasing her lips apart; she couldn't seem to breathe. Her mouth fell open. Mia slipped her tongue inside, darting and retreating, branding every corner of her mouth. How could Mia be kissing her? “Is this some—?” she started.

“Yes,” said Mia softly, looking down at Louey's breasts. Louey's heart was pounding as, without warning, Mia unbuttoned Louey's shirt, pulling it away from her body and slipping her hands inside. Louey started, unable to stop shaking. Fingers stole across her bare skin, making her feel chilled and burning at the same time. Mia kept staring at her breasts, plucking, hardening the tips to points; then Mia pulled her own shirt off and moved in close to brush against her, tantalizing. Louey tried to breathe, to swallow; she was trembling so fiercely she thought Mia would stop and throttle her. She couldn't seem to keep her eyes from closing. “There's more in the kitchen, if you want,” Mia murmured in her ear.

“More?” Louey tried to clear her throat.

“More cake,” said Mia, skimming lips against her neck, making her shiver.

“Uh, no, that's—” But Mia had fastened her mouth to Louey's, kissing her so deeply Louey was stunned flat against the couch. She tried to move away, to talk to Mia, but Mia's mouth kept coming down on hers, silencing her. Mia's hands stole over her as Mia kissed her almost lazily, breathlessly—and then she was kissing Mia back, her hands were sweeping over burning skin, she was unraveling, nearly faint—how could she be kissing Mia? The champagne must be getting to her. Mia shifted, swaying so the tips of both her breasts teased Louey's again, dizzying, then Mia's hands were at her, stroking lightly, everywhere. “Oh—” Louey exhaled as Mia reached between her legs.

The next week Louey left for her first semester of college.

Sitting in a plush reception area, Clay studied the voluptuous Hispanic woman who manned the phones, keeping out the unwelcome intruders Regent Books seemed to encounter hourly. He gathered from the other visitors that her name, fittingly, was Cookie. The receptionist caught him sneaking a look and shook her head, giving him a bewitching flash of teeth.

“Mr. Lee?” A young man with a defiantly new-wave blond haircut hovered suddenly before him.

“Yes,” he said, rising to his feet.

“Thanks for waiting; sorry to keep you. Will you come with me, please?”

Clay was led to a comfortably disheveled office with two outstanding features: a gorgeous view and barely any room to move. How could anybody function in so small a space? he wondered, particularly since every inch seemed to be crammed with books, papers, piles of orange- and green-bound galleys, flagged manuscripts wherever he turned. How could she breathe? And with an utterly breathtaking view, at present gleaming with the sunny weather, how could she do any work at all?

The one thing missing was the editor herself. The young man apologized again, explaining that she'd been called into an emergency meeting. “But she'll be back before you know what hit you. Would you like some coffee?” Gin, thanks, thought Clay, shaking his head. “Why don't you make yourself comfortable for the next few minutes,” the boy added. Why not? No doubt she would be gossiping about her friends or breaking into song before he knew it.

Clay sat down in a chair squeezed into a corner of the office, putting his briefcase on the floor and gazing out the window. Down the hall a man was screaming he would fire the entire staff, they were nothing but a bunch of useless pederasts. And you asked for
useful
ones, thought Clay. Unable to remain still, he rose and went to the overcrowded bookshelves, which housed a remarkable variety of books. His eyes roved over cartoon collections, esoteric literary novels, oversized photography books, novels whose covers displayed women in pearls getting out of limousines, topical nonfiction, books on rock music. Pasted inside the door was a cartoon called “Poodle with a Mohawk” by someone named Lynda Barry, with the caption “You'll never call him Fifi again.” This might take some readjustment, he thought; it didn't quite fit the editor he'd had in mind. He opened a cartoon book, laughing at a page entitled “Supermarket Hell.”

“Hello?” The door pushed Clay against the shelves precipitously, and a young woman peered anxiously around the corner as he stumbled to regain his footing. “Mr. Lee? I'm sorry—are you all right?”

“Yes,” he stammered. “It's my fault, I shouldn't have been—”

“Hiding?” She smiled slightly.

“Trying to steal everything in sight, if you want to know the truth.” He was astonished to find someone his own age facing him. “I was hoping you'd take a little longer so I could make off with the bulk of your collection.”

“Not that I would have noticed, considering how organized these shelves are.” She motioned for him to be seated. “Sorry to have kept you—my employers keep forgetting that
Monday's
the seizure, Wednesday's the full-fledged psychotic break.” She sighed, shaking her head. He stared; was she teasing him? She looked familiar somehow, but he couldn't think why. “Thank you for agreeing to meet on such short notice, by the way,” she went on, studying him with a puzzled expression, as if she, too, wondered where she had seen him before. “Well,” she said finally, extending her hand, “I'm Louisa Mercer, the woman who holds your fate in her cruel hands. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He shifted in his seat, examining her face as if it would explain the nagging question in the back of his mind. Her eyes were a clear blue, large and questioning, and her skin was fair and porcelain-fine, radiant as a teenager's. In fact, with a face rosy and untouched by makeup, she looked remarkably like a student. Perhaps it was because she was small that she appeared so young, he thought; he towered over her.

“So”—she smiled up at him. Her smile transformed her face: it was unrestrained, as if she were a gleeful little girl unable to disguise her delight at coming upon him. “You know,” she said, frowning abruptly, “you look familiar to me.”

“I get the feeling I've met you before, too.”

“Must have been the Folies-Bergère,” she said, “before you quit, anyway.” Her eyes twinkled. This was hardly going as he'd expected. “So tell me about your manuscript.”

“Not much to tell.” He hated talking about the project; it embarrassed him to hear his voice take on an air of gravity. With her grinning at him, he realized he would rather talk with her about almost anything
but
the book.

As if sensing his reluctance, she changed the subject, firing away questions on a variety of topics and gently mocking his replies. Finally she steered him back to the book.

“Thank you for your note,” he said.

“You write a pretty good letter yourself—piqued my curiosity.” He flushed. “How'd you get my name?”

“
LMP
,” he confessed; the catalogue held names of publishers and editors. “I've met a multitude of editors from personal recommendations, but no one seemed quite right Finally I decided just to pick a bunch of names and take a shot at writing them. You're the first to answer me.”

“Now that's good luck,” she teased. “What editors have you met?”

He told her, watching the expression on her face shift from disbelief to barely contained hilarity. At the final name, she sank her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. “You poor boy,” she said, stifling laughter, “you got the grand tour, didn't you? How did you ever manage to single out that group of people?”

He was almost afraid to tell her how it had begun. “Anyway,” he added, after a brief synopsis, “I decided I would probably have better luck with someone I picked for myself.”