Shriver (10 page)

Shriver took a deep sip of whiskey.

“My ears,” he explained. “That last blast of feedback.”

Rather nodded dismissively. Ms. Brazir hung on to his arm, gazing up at the man's bearded chin.

“You didn't miss much,” Rather said with a wrinkled nose. “These yokels don't have a brain between them.”

“Perhaps they were simply stunned by the profundity of your work,” Wätzczesnam theorized.

“Yes,” the playwright said. “Their expressions did resemble those of cows at the abattoir.”

The cowboy glanced over at Shriver and fluttered his eyelashes.

“Where is Professor Cleverly?” Rather asked.

“I hope you know how awful she feels,” Shriver said. “It wasn't her fault.”

“And how awful do you think
I
feel, Mr. Shriver?”

“I'm sure you feel—”

“Let's see how
you
react when someone deliberately sabotages
your
reading.”

“But who would do that?”

“Yes,” the cowboy piped up, “that's quite an accusation, Basil, ol' buddy.”

“I will leave you to your whiskey,” Rather said, walking past them with his nose in the air. Ms. Brazir followed, but not before giving the two whiskey drinkers withering looks.

“ ‘A vile conceit in pompous words expressed / Is like a clown in regal purple dressed.' ”

“Alexander Pope,” Nixon said.

“Damn straight,” the cowboy muttered before weaving off on his increasingly bowed legs.

“I'd better go make sure Professor Wätzczesnam doesn't get into trouble,” Nixon said. “Let me know if you need a ride back to the hotel.” The student then ran to catch up with his wobbly faculty adviser.

Shriver stood near the door sipping at his whiskey. Did this sort of sniping go on at all literary conferences? he wondered. Who knew that a gathering of writers could be such a viper's nest?

After a few moments the door swung open and Simone stepped in, her eyes sweeping past him to take in the whole café.

“He thinks it was done on purpose,” she said, watching Basil Rather across the room.

“By whom?” Shriver asked.

“Does it matter? The man's paranoid.”

“Does he think
you
did it?”

“Who knows? I wish I didn't have to be here.”

She was standing close, using him as a shield. She smelled like citrus and flowers. Looking down at her face, he could not help but peer past to see her freckled chest and the edges of the pale blue brassiere she was wearing.

“Are you having a good time?” she asked.

Was she being sarcastic? Had she caught him glancing at her underwear? No doubt she could smell the whiskey. She probably thought of him as just another booze-drenched writer.
But I'm not!
he wanted to tell her.
I'm not a writer at all!

“Yes,” he answered. “But I'm very anxious.”

“Don't be,” she said in a weary voice. “I promise we'll have the sound problems ironed out before your reading.”

“No, it's not that.”

He wanted to tell her about how he couldn't read the words of his story, how he couldn't even read them to himself, never mind amplified in front of seven hundred Shriver fans. Then he wanted to confess to her the whole abysmal situation, to tell her she'd made a titanic mistake by sending him that invitation, that he was a fraud. To hell with how she would react.

“There's something I need to tell you,” he began, not knowing how to explain it.

“Oh, God, here he comes.” She bravely stepped out from his shadow to meet Basil Rather head-on.

“Professor Cleverly,” Rather said.

“Mr. Rather.” Simone's eyes tilted upward to meet those of the lanky playwright. Behind him, of course, came his mistress.

“Have you found the source of the technical difficulties?” he asked.

“I was assured it was accidental. Something about a power surge.”

“How apt,” Rather snipped. “Whose power was surging, I wonder.”

“I'm told it affected the entire campus.”

“The timing was certainly interesting, don't you think?”

“Who would do such a thing, Mr. Rather?”

“Perhaps there are those who are envious,” he replied, his eyes focused on Shriver. “Where is our friend Ms. Smithee?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“And her sidekick, Betty Crocker?”

Simone narrowed her eyes into steely bullets. “Surely you don't think one of the other writers tampered with the equipment?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Not here.”

“No, of course not,” the playwright sniffed. “Not at your precious writers' conference.”

“Now, see here, Rather,” Shriver started. He wanted to belt the man in the mouth, but he was fairly certain that, with his superior height and reach, the playwright could amply defend himself. “Don't speak to Professor Cleverly like that. She's doing her best to make this conference a success.”

Shriver was surprised to see that the playwright seemed a bit intimidated. Then he realized that, as far as Rather was concerned, he had just been upbraided by the legendary Shriver. Who knew literary eminence brought with it a certain amount of authority?

Emboldened, Shriver added, “You owe Simone an apology.”

Rather's face turned pink. “Of course,” he said meekly. “I'm sorry, Professor. It's just that I was a bit . . . thrown off by the whole incident.”

“And I apologize to
you
, Mr. Rather,” Simone said. “I look forward to seeing you at tomorrow's panel.”

Rather nodded, then he and his assistant turned like two dancers in a choreographed movement and, side by side, disappeared through the door.

Simone looked back at Shriver, and he knew, somehow, what it was she needed.

“Yes, please,” she said, accepting the offered cup. She drank greedily. “Thank you.”

“I am at your service.”

The singer had started another tune, an upbeat number with a welcome perky rhythm.

“Trying to be too bad,” he sang, “trying to be too tough . . .”

“It's been a long day,” Simone said.

“For both of us.”

“Yes. I think it's time for me to head home.”

His heart sank. The whiskey, the defeated look on Rather's face, the memory of Simone's pale blue brassiere—all had combined to lift his spirits, and now she wanted to go?

“Can I give you a ride back to the hotel?” she asked.

They ran to her car, zigzagging to throw off the relentless mosquitoes.

“The nightmare continues,” Simone said once they were safely in the massive vehicle.

Though it was a warm night, they had to keep the windows rolled up. But Shriver didn't care about the bugs. He couldn't even feel the bruise on his rump anymore. Illuminated by oncoming headlights and other ambient light, Simone looked incandescent.

“I just want to say,” he told her, “I think you're doing a great job.”

“Oh, I'll be fine. It seems every year there's some sort of controversy.”

“I guess you get a bunch of writers together and . . .”

“Exactly. Last year, for example, there was this poet who did his best to seduce everyone in the department. Women, men—he'd have had his way with a bison if there'd been one on the faculty.”

“Wow. How successful was he?” Shriver asked pointedly.

She hesitated. “He was a seductive character. He was short and I was not a fan of his poetry, but there was something about him. Self-confidence? Cockiness? I don't know.”

Shriver tried to think of something cocky to say but came up with nothing.

Simone braked at a red light. “What is it about writers? Why are they so self-absorbed? Is it because they spend all that time alone? Is it because they're so used to playing God? Is it something in their genetic makeup? I don't get it!”

With each question Shriver's heart wobbled. This woman had obviously been hammered by some blunt instrument.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Simone laughed and said, “Oh, no,
I'm
sorry!”

“For what?”

“Here I am running down all writers, and meanwhile you . . .”

“What about me?” he asked.

“Well, you're sort of the ultimate example of the species.”

Is that how she saw him? As the ultimate self-absorbed writer? Then he remembered that he wasn't a writer at all, and his hopes perked up.

She turned into the hotel lot, pulled up to the door, and shifted into park. The behemoth's engine purred.

“Well, I hope your first day wasn't too terribly traumatic,” she said.

“Not at all.”

“I'm sorry if I burdened you with my personal drama.”

“I honestly don't mind.”

“Tomorrow you're speaking in Teresa Apple's writing class, remember.”

“Have I met her?”

She snorted. “You'd have remembered, believe me.”

“Oh?”

“She'll pick you up at nine or so.”

“I'll be here,” he said, disappointed that Simone would not be driving him in the morning. “Though I don't know what I'm going to tell her students.”

“Just tell them what you know.”

“That won't take long.”

She laughed, almost reluctantly, and feeling as though he'd hit a bull's-eye, he opened the door and climbed down onto the pavement.

“Thank you, Mr. Shriver,” she called down to him.

He turned back. Simone's face was lit a rose color from the hotel's neon sign. “For what?”

“For what you said back there, to Mr. Rather.”

“That was my pleasure.”

She gazed down upon him from her high perch. “And sorry about that crack about writers,” she said.

“Writers are trouble,” he told her.

“Yes, they are. Truth is, I kind of forgot you were one of them.” She blushed and quickly added, “Good night.”

“Good night, Simone.”

He slammed the door and she roared off, leaving him in a mini-twister of exhaust and swirling mosquitoes. As he ran inside he wondered if he should have asked Simone in for a nightcap at the saloon. Had she wanted him to? She seemed to be softening toward him. It had been so long since he'd had to read the subtle signals of a woman, he felt like a man raised by wolves. He wondered if someone was waiting for her at home, and was surprised at how sad that thought made him.

As he made his way through the lobby, Shriver spotted Gonquin Smithee sitting by herself on a corner stool in the Prairie Dog Saloon.

“Good evening, sir,” the clerk called out to him from behind the front desk.

He paused to take in the beehive hairdo, the lean face, the gum chewing.

“Are you still here?” he asked.

The clerk's face crinkled in confusion, then she grinned.

“Oh, you probably mean my sister, Charlevoix. I'm Sue St. Marie.” She pointed to a homemade name tag.

Shriver stared, amazed at the resemblance.

“I'm three minutes older,” she said, “in case you're wondering.”

Just as Shriver was walking away, the clerk called out, “Oh! I almost forgot. There's a message for you.”

“For me?”

“You
are
Mr. Shriver, correct?” She handed over a folded sheet of paper.

He opened the note:
I'm in bar. —GS.

For a moment he considered meeting with the poet but decided there had been enough drama this evening and headed to the elevator.

As he waited, he heard high-pitched laughter from the arriving car. The doors opened and half a dozen teenage girls fell out, dressed in bathing suits with towels tossed over their slender shoulders, the braces on their teeth flashing. Among them was the girl he'd seen before, the willowy brunette. She smiled coyly as she passed by, then ran to join her friends on their way to the pool.

Shriver boarded the elevator and rode to the second floor. There, he inserted the key to room nineteen. Again, the key would not turn. Then he remembered to turn it to the left. He heard a click, and he pushed open the door. He switched on the light and sat on the edge of the bed. Outside a train crept by, its wheels clanking rhythmically.

He rose and went into the bathroom. He flipped the light switch, but the room remained dark. He'd forgotten about the burned-out bulb. Oh, well. He would take a bath anyway. He searched in the dim room for the faucet and turned on the
bathwater. He poured in some of the bubble oil provided by the hotel. If only his old friend Mr. Bojangles were here, he would not feel so lonesome.

As he started to take off his jacket, he remembered the story he'd written and removed the pages from the pocket. He sat on the bed near the lamp and looked down at the words on the page.

“The Water Mark.”

His eyes were tired but they seemed to be working properly as he read the first few lines.

“The water mark appeared on my ceiling on the rainy day my wife walked out on me. At first it was just a spot, approximately the size of a quarter, directly above the bed where I lay weeping. Listening to the rain fall, I watched the water mark grow, ever so slowly, to the size of a baseball. After a few hours, the mark was as big as a honeydew melon. By the time it got dark outside, the water mark had elongated to roughly the shape of a two-foot-long oval. All night I lay there, wide awake, wondering what the water mark would look like when daylight started creeping in the next morning—”

Then came a sharp knock on the door. Startled, Shriver threw the pages onto the bedside table and stood up.

“Who's there?”

“House detective!”

“
What?
”

“Please open up, sir.”

“What's the problem?”

“We've had a complaint from one of the cheerleaders, sir.”