Shriver (28 page)

He and Edsel wandered toward the far end of the lobby.

Shriver and Vlad stood several feet apart, each of them looking anywhere but at the other.

“I don't know what to say,” Shriver managed to whisper.

“I've been wanting to talk to you about it,” Vlad said. “At the restaurant, the readings, after the writing class—it just never seemed to be the right time.”

Shriver's eyes wandered the lobby as if searching there for another way to tell this young man the truth. But there was only one way.

“Son,” he said, and immediately regretted using the word. “I mean,
Vlad
—the thing is, I'm
not
your father.”

“I know what you're saying.”

“You do?”

“But just because you weren't there for me when I was growing up doesn't mean you're not my dad.”

“
No.
I mean, that's not what I mean—”

“It's okay. I don't blame you.”

“But . . .”

While Shriver cast about for what to say next, Vlad stepped up and wrapped his long arms around him.

“I love you, Dad.”

Shriver's arms hung limp at his sides while the boy squeezed him tightly.

“It's funny,” Vlad said. “At first I wasn't convinced you were my father. You just didn't act the way I thought he'd act.”

“How did you think your father would act?”

“Like an asshole. A big shot. Actually, like that other guy who
pretended
to be you. He fit the bill pretty good.”

“Maybe he
is
your father.”

“I considered that. But then I decided that, even if he was, I'd rather
you
were my dad.”

“And if I'm not?”

“Oh, you
are
. I'm convinced of it.”

“I'm very . . . touched, Vlad.”

“That was a beautiful story you read, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“And you're right. It was the truth.”

At the far end of the lobby, Simone emerged from a side door, accompanied by Mr. Wimple.

“So,” Vlad said, “have you read my story?”

“Your story?” Shriver watched Simone say good-bye to the college president, who then exited the building.

“ ‘The Imposter,' ” Vlad said.

Simone's face betrayed no emotion. If she'd just been fired, she wasn't letting on.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Vlad. I've been kind of . . . distracted. But I promise I will read it.”

“I really want to know what you think.”

“Of course.”

Simone saw him and waved, her face still impassive.

“Well, I guess I'll see you at the party,” Vlad said.

“Party?”

“The end-of-conference bash.”

“Oh, right.”

Vlad hugged him again and whispered in his ear: “Accept who you are.” Then he loped off, his long legs striding confidently across the lobby. Shriver watched him go and wondered how on earth—and when—he would tell the boy the truth.

“Are you okay?” Simone asked.

“Life just keeps getting stranger and stranger,” Shriver said.

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“Why? What did Wimple say?”

“He said there's a new position about to open up in the English department.”

“Simone,” Shriver said. “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be.”

“This is all my fault.”

“You don't understand. He didn't fire me.”

“He didn't? Then . . . ?”

“He wants to hire
you
.”

“Me?”

“We need a writing professor.”

“Yeah, but
me
?”

“Why
not
you?”

“What do
I
know about writing?”

“Just everything.”

“But . . .”

“You don't want the job?” She looked crestfallen.

Just when he thought things couldn't get crazier. After three days of wanting desperately to escape this labyrinth, he was now being drawn farther into it.

“I'm just so surprised,” he said.

“Just don't say no yet,” Simone told him. “That's all I ask.”

“Okay.”

She smiled and grabbed his hand. “Come on. We have one more party to go to.”

Shriver didn't move.

“What's wrong?” Simone asked.

“I don't know if I can take another party.”

She laughed. “I understand. No party, then.”

Shriver saw a promising turn in the labyrinth. “Thank you.”

“So what shall we do instead?”

When Shriver woke up, he knew exactly where he was. There was the bright stripe of sunlight between the thick curtains. There, on the wall, hung the painting of a cow in a field. From off in the distance came the now-familiar howl of a freight train rolling across the prairie. He lay in the hotel bed and smiled, remembering his dream. Simone had been here beside him, her skin smooth and warm and lightly filmed with sweat. Her head lay on his shoulder, her yellow hair bunched up on the pillow.

“I remember now,” he had said to her in the dream.

“Remember what?”

“Who I am.”

“Who
are
you?”

That was when he woke up. He couldn't remember what he was about to say to her, but he knew now that it didn't matter. The dream spoke of other, more important things. He sighed and shut his eyes. His flight was scheduled for later this morning. Simone would pick him up and take him to the airport. She was still waiting for his answer about the teaching job.

Last night they had gone out to dinner, just the two of them. No parties, no whiskey, no Shriver fans, no drama. It was the first time he'd really relaxed in days. He'd let go of the need to tell her the truth about himself, that he was not
the real Shriver. He had tried to tell Professor Wätzczesnam, Delta Malarkey-Jones, Edsel Nixon, and no one had believed him. On the contrary, Horace Wimple had extended a formal invitation to join the college faculty, Mr. Cheadem wanted to meet to discuss future projects, and Vlad seemed content to have the father he'd always wanted. He might even go on
Oprah
! As far as Shriver could tell, whether or not he was the
real
Shriver seemed irrelevant now. If he'd gained anything from this ridiculous charade, in fact, it was the sense that he really was a writer. Maybe he could even do it again, write more stories, or even a novel. He could base it on this very experience: a sad, lonely man is mistakenly invited to a prestigious conference, where he falls in love with the event's organizer. He could name his protagonist after himself, just like the real Shriver did. But this novel would end happily, with the beautiful professor and the imposter united.

At dinner, Simone had done her best to make this a reality. She spoke of the charms of campus life, the thrill of teaching, the lure of various local attractions.

“What about the mosquitoes?” he asked.

“That's only for a week or so out of the year.”

“And the twenty-below winters?”

“You get used to it.”

He could see that she knew he was only pretending to resist.

“Where would I live?”

“I already have a place for you.”

“I have a cat.”

“Oh. I'm allergic to cats,” she said. Then, “But I suppose they have pills for that.”

She told him how much he would be paid. It wasn't so much, she explained, considering that he was such a celebrity,
and that his teaching there would increase the college's profile dramatically, but it was all the college could afford. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing that he would be making money on the back of some other man—the real Shriver, wherever
he
was—but the feeling did not last long.

After dinner, Simone drove him to the hotel.

“I think I'm going to sell this damn car,” she said. “My ex bought it, and I've always hated it. Time to start a new chapter.”

“I know what you mean,” Shriver said as he went to twist his wedding ring around his finger. “Oh my God!”

“What is it?”

“My ring. It's gone!” His finger was bare.

“It fell off?” Simone asked. “Just like that?”

Shriver shrugged. “I never even noticed.” It must have been all that oil the cheerleader had applied. He held up his left hand, surprised by the sense of freedom he felt. He waved his hand around. It seemed . . . lighter.

“It must be a sign,” Simone said.

Shriver wondered when it had fallen off. It could have been anywhere—the hotel, Edsel's tub, the parking lot where T. ambushed him. Wherever it was, he didn't care.

At the hotel, he asked her if she'd like to come in for a drink.

“It's so late,” she said. “And it's been a long, weird day.”

He was sure she could sense his disappointment.

“Besides,” she said, “how else am I to lure you here for that job?”

They both blushed.

“I want to thank you,” Shriver said after a moment.

“For what?”

“I feel like you saved my life.”

“Aw, no. I just gave you a reason to leave the house.”

“You say that as if it's a small thing.”

She leaned across the wide armrest and kissed him. Again, a jolt of electricity sparked up and down his vertebrae. Then she pulled back.

“I'll pick you up at nine,” she said.

He climbed down from the vehicle amid a swirl of mosquitoes. He stood there unbothered while they attacked him, and waved as Simone drove off.

In the lobby he heard raucous laughter coming from the Prairie Dog Saloon. Gonquin Smithee, Basil Rather, and Zebra Amphetamine called to him from their stools.

“Shriver!” the playwright yelled. “Where've you been?”

“We missed you at the party,” Gonquin said.

“Join us for a nightcap,” Basil demanded.

“It's very late,” Shriver said.

“C'mon!” Zebra said. “Just one!”

“Please,” Gonquin said. “One last snort before we all head off in different directions.”

“Well, okay. But I'm going to have a ginger ale.”

He stayed up for another hour, laughing with the three writers as they recounted various events at the conference.

“Here's to Shriver!” Basil Rather said, hoisting a glass of wine.

“To Shriver!” the others chimed in.

He was surprised to find that he would miss them. How long had it been since he'd missed anyone? Twenty years, at least.

“Where is Ms. Labio?” he asked Gonquin.

“Oh, she left town. Said she couldn't bear to see me betray ‘the cause.' ”

“Which cause is that?”

“I dunno. The full-scale demolition of the patriarchal construct?”

“Hey,” Basil said. “You know what I'm going to do when I get home? I'm going to reread
Goat Time
. And this time I'm going to read the whole thing!”

When the bar closed they headed to their rooms, all four of them crowding onto the elevator, where they suddenly became quiet. Shriver, the only one staying on the second floor, said good-bye when the doors slid open, and wished them all well. Gonquin Smithee gave him a hug. Zebra Amphetamine did also. Basil Rather extended his narrow, long-fingered hand.

“See you at the next conference,” Gonquin said as the doors started to close. “There's always another one right around the corner!”

When he got to his room, Shriver remembered he did not have his key. He laughed, and went back down to the lobby, where Charlevoix—he was pretty sure it was Charlevoix—had a new one waiting for him.

“We were able to change the lock,” she told him. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No problem. It was an adventure.”

When he finally got back into his room, he found a copy of
Goat Time
on the desk, perhaps left by Gonquin, or one of the others who had partied there the other night. He carried it to the bed and lay down. He opened the book to chapter one. He read the first page, then read it again. The words, which had scrambled and melted when he tried to read it two days ago, cohered into decipherable symbols, but still he could make no sense of them. It seemed to be about an angry young man on an airplane, but he wasn't sure about that. There were a lot of big words and fancy metaphors. Half the page was italicized. And yes, it was written in the second person. Maybe I'm just not smart enough, he thought. Well, he'd have to smarten up if he was going to continue pretending to be the
real Shriver. He made one more stab at it, but his eyelids soon grew heavy, and he fell asleep.

/

By the time the telephone rang, Shriver was up, bathed, and dressed.

“Good morning,” Simone said on the phone. “I'm downstairs.”

“On my way.”

He slipped into his dry but wrinkled jacket and grabbed his bag. At the door he turned back. He took in the paintings, the old TV, the raggedy carpet. Through the window he could see a train bisect the prairie. On the bedside table sat
Goat Time
. He was about to retrieve it but then thought better. Maybe twenty years ago it would have meant something to him, but now it failed to move him. He opened the door.

In the hall, just outside the door, he found a small jar labeled “Sunflower Oil.” Attached was a note:

Dear Mr. Shriver [the “i” was dotted with a heart],

I hope this will keep you relaxed.

xo

P.S. We lost the finals, but that's OK. We made it to the end—that's what counts!

/

Shriver found Simone in the lobby talking to the clerk. In a pair of faded jeans and a white blouse, she looked like a country girl, ready for anything.

“Hi,” he said, hoping for another kiss.