The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry: A Novel (12 page)

“Sorry,” Friedman replies, “I’m new to this.”

“Not at all,” A.J. says.

“Would you mind telling me what kind of show you’d like me to put on out there?”

“Right,” A.J. says. “I’ll say a couple of words about you and then I thought you could introduce the book, say what inspired you to write it and such, then you could maybe read a couple of pages and then perhaps a Q and A with the audience, if there’s time. Also, we’re having a hat contest in honor of the book, and we’d be honored if you’d pick the winner.”

“Sounds fantastico,” Friedman says. “Friedman. F-R-I-E-D-M-A-N,” he says as he signs. “Easy to forget that I.”

“Is it?” A.J. asks.

“Should be a second
e
there, no?”

Authors are eccentric people so A.J. decides to let this pass. “You seem comfortable with children,” A.J. says.

“Yeah . . . I often play Santa Claus at the local Macy’s at Christmas.”

“Really? That’s unusual.”

“I’ve got a knack for it, I suppose.”

“I mean—” A.J. pauses, trying to decide if what he is about to say will offend Friedman. “I only mean because you’re Jewish.”

“Right-o.”

“You make a big point of it in your book. Lapsed Jewish. Is that the correct way of saying it?”

“You can say it any way you want,” Friedman says. “Say, do you have anything harder than wine?”

FRIEDMAN HAS HAD
 a couple of drinks by the time the reading commences, and A.J. supposes this must be the reason the writer garbles several of the longer proper nouns and foreign phrases: Chappaqua,
après moi le déluge,
Hadassah,
L’chaim,
challah, and so on. Some writers aren’t comfortable reading aloud. During the Q&A, Friedman keeps his answers brief.

Q: What was it like when your wife died?

A: Sad. Damned sad.

Q: What’s your favorite book?

A: The Bible. Or
Tuesdays with Morrie.
Probably the Bible, though.

Q: You look younger than your picture.

A: Why, thank you!

Q: What was it like working at a newspaper?

A: My hands were always dirty.

He’s more at home when picking the best hat and during the signing line. A.J.’s managed to get a respectable turnout, and the line extends out the door. “You should have set up corrals like we do at Macy’s,” Friedman suggests.

“Corrals are rarely necessary in my line of work,” A.J. says.

Amelia and her mother are the last to have their books signed.

“It’s really great to meet you,” Amelia says. “My boyfriend and I probably wouldn’t have gotten together if not for your book.”

A.J. feels for the engagement ring in his pocket. Is this the moment? No, too Jumbotron.

“Give me a hug,” Friedman tells Amelia. She leans over the table, and A.J. thinks he sees the old man look down Amelia’s blouse.

“That’s the power of fiction for you,” Friedman says.

Amelia studies him. “I suppose.” She pauses. “Only it isn’t fiction, right? It really happened.”

“Yes, sweetheart, of course,” Friedman says.

A.J. interrupts. “Perhaps, Mr. Friedman meant to say that
that
is the power of narrative.”

Amelia’s mother, who is the size of a grasshopper and has the personality of a praying mantis, says, “Perhaps Mr. Friedman is trying to say that a relationship based on loving a book is not likely to be much of a relationship.” Amelia’s mother, then, offers her hand to Mr. Friedman. “Margaret Loman. My spouse died a couple of years ago, too. Amelia, my daughter, made me read your book for my Widows of Charleston Book Club. Everyone thought it was marvelous.”

“Oh, how nice. How . . .” Friedman smiles brightly at Mrs. Loman. “How . . . ”

“Yes?” Mrs. Loman repeats.

Friedman clears his throat, then wipes sweat from his brow and nose. Flushed, he looks even more like Santa Claus. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then throws up all over the pile of just signed stock and Amelia’s mother’s beige Ferragamo pumps. “I seem to have had too much to drink,” Friedman says. He belches.

“Obviously,” says Mrs. Loman.

“Mom, A.J.’s apartment is up here.” Amelia points her mother toward the stairs.

“He lives above the store?” Mrs. Loman asks. “You never mentioned that delightful piece of—” At that moment, Mrs. Loman slips in the rapidly expanding vomit puddle. She rights herself, but her hat, which had taken honorable mention, is a lost cause.

Friedman turns to A.J. “Apologies, sir. I seem to have had too much to drink. A cigarette and some fresh air sometimes settles my stomach. If someone could point me outside . . .” A.J. leads Friedman out the back way.

“What happened?” Maya asks. Once the Friedman talk had turned out not to be to her interests, she had turned her attentions back to
The Lightning Thief.
She walks over to the signing table and, upon seeing the throw-up, vomits herself.

Amelia rushes to Maya’s side. “Are you all right?”

“I did not expect to see that there,” Maya says.

Meanwhile, in the alley to the side of the store, Leon Friedman is throwing up again.

“Do you think maybe you have food poisoning?” A.J. asks.

Friedman doesn’t answer.

“Maybe it was the ferry ride that did it? Or all the excitement? The heat?” A.J. doesn’t know why he feels the need to talk so much. “Mr. Friedman, perhaps I can get you something to eat?”

“You got a lighter?” Friedman says hoarsely. “I left mine in my bag inside.”

A.J. runs back in the store. He can’t find Friedman’s bag. “I NEED A LIGHTER!” he yells. He rarely raises his voice. “Seriously, does anyone work here who can get me a lighter?”

But everyone is gone, aside from a clerk, who’s occupied at the cash register, and a couple of stragglers from the Friedman signing. A smartly dressed woman of about Amelia’s age, opens her capacious leather handbag. “I might have one.”

A.J. stands there, seething while the woman searches through the purse, which is really more like luggage. He thinks that this is why one shouldn’t let authors into the stores. The woman comes up empty-handed. “Sorry,” she says. “I quit smoking after my father died of emphysema, but I thought I might still have the lighter.”

“No, it’s fine. I have one upstairs.”

“Is something wrong with the writer?” the woman asks.

“The usual,” A.J. says, heading up the stairs.

In his apartment, he finds Maya by herself. Her eyes look moist. “I threw up, Daddy.”

“I’m sorry.” A.J. locates the lighter in his drawer. He slams the drawer shut. “Where’s Amelia?”

“Are you going to propose?” Maya asks.

“No, darling. Not at this particular moment. I’ve got to deliver a lighter to an alcoholic.”

She considers this information. “Can I come with you?” she asks.

A.J. puts the lighter in his pocket and, for expediency, scoops up Maya, who really is too big to be carried.

They go down the stairs and through the bookstore and outside to where A.J. had left Friedman. Friedman’s head is haloed by smoke. The pipe, which droops languorously from his fingers, makes a curious bubbling sound.

“I couldn’t find your bag,” A.J. says.

“Had it with me all along,” Friedman says.

“What kind of pipe is that?” Maya asks. “I have never seen a pipe like that before.”

A.J.’s first impulse is to cover Maya’s eyes, but then he laughs. Had Friedman actually traveled on the plane with drug paraphernalia? He turns to his daughter. “Maya, do you remember when we read
Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland
last year?”

“WHERE’S FRIEDMAN?” AMELIA
asks.

“Passed out in the backseat of Ismay’s SUV,” A.J. replies.

“Poor Ismay.”

“She’s used to it. She’s been Daniel Parish’s media escort for years.” A.J. makes a face. “I think the decent thing would be for me to go with them.” The plan had been for Ismay to drive Friedman to the ferry and then the airport, but A.J. can’t do that to his sister-in-law.

Amelia kisses him. “Good man. I’ll watch Maya and clean up here,” she says.

“Thank you. It sucks, though,” A.J. says. “Your last night in town.”

“Well,” she says, “at least it was memorable. Thanks for bringing Leon Friedman even if he’s a bit different than I imagined him.”

“Just a bit.” He kisses Amelia then furrows his brow. “I thought this was going to be more romantic than it turned out to be.”

“It was very romantic. What’s more romantic than a lecherous old drunk looking down my blouse?”

“He’s more than a drunk . . .” A.J. mimes the universal gesture for toking up.

“Maybe he has cancer or something?” Amelia says.

“Maybe . . .”

“At least he waited until the event was over,” she says.

“And I, for one, think the event was the worse for it,” A.J. says.

Ismay honks the car horn.

“That’s me,” A.J. says. “Do you really have to spend the night at the hotel with your mother?”

“I don’t have to. I am a grown woman, A.J.,” Amelia says. “It’s just that we’re leaving early for Providence tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I made a very good impression,” A.J. says.

“No one does,” she says. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Well, wait up for me, if you can.” Ismay honks the horn again, and A.J. runs to the car.

Amelia begins cleaning up the bookstore. She starts with the vomit and has Maya round up less objectionable detritus like flower petals and plastic cups. In the back row sits the woman who hadn’t had a lighter. She wears a floppy gray fedora and a silky maxidress. Her clothes look like they could be from a thrift shop, but Amelia, who actually shops in thrift shops, recognizes them as expensive. “Were you here for the reading?” Amelia asks.

“Yes,” the woman says.

“What did you think?” Amelia asks.

“He was very animated,” the woman says.

“Yes, that’s true.” Amelia squeezes a sponge into a bucket. “I can’t say he was completely what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” the woman asks.

“Someone more intellectual, I think. That sounds snobby. Maybe that’s not the right word. Someone wiser maybe.”

The woman nods. “No, I can see that.”

“My expectations were probably too high. I work for his publisher. It was my favorite thing I ever sold, actually.”

“Why was it your favorite?” the woman asks.

“I . . .” Amelia looks at the woman. She has kind eyes. Amelia has often been fooled by kind eyes. “I had lost my father not long before, and I guess something in the voice reminded me of him. Also, there were so many true, true things in it.” Amelia moves onto sweeping the floor.

“Am I in your way?” the woman asks.

“No, you’re fine where you are.”

“I feel bad just watching you,” the woman says.

“I like sweeping, and you’re dressed too nicely to help.” Amelia sweeps the room in long, rhythmic strokes.

“They make the publisher clean up after readings?” the woman asks.

Amelia laughs. “No. I’m the bookstore owner’s girlfriend, too. I’m helping out for the day.”

The woman nods. “He must have been a huge fan of the book to bring Leon Friedman here after all these years.”

“Yes.” Amelia lowers her voice to a whisper. “The truth is, he did it for me. It was the first book we loved together.”

“That’s cute. Kind of like the first restaurant you go to or the first song you danced to or something.”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe he’s planning to propose to you?” the woman says.

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Amelia empties the dustpan into the garbage can.

“Why don’t you think the book sold?” the woman asks after a bit.

“
The Late Bloomer
? Well . . . because it’s competitive out there. And even when a book is good, sometimes it still doesn’t work.”

“That must be hard,” the woman says.

“Are you writing a book or something?”

“I’ve tried, yes.”

Amelia pauses to look at the woman. She has long brown hair, well cut and super straight. Her purse probably costs as much as Amelia’s car. Amelia holds out her hand to introduce herself to the woman. “Amelia Loman.”

“Leonora Ferris.”

“Leonora. Like Leon,” Maya pipes up. She has had a milkshake and is now recovered. “I am Maya Fikry.”

“Are you from Alice?” Amelia asks Leonora.

“No, I came in for the day. For the reading.”

Leonora stands, and Amelia folds her chair and sets it by the wall.

“You must be a big fan of the book, too,” Amelia says. “Like I said before, my boyfriend lives here, and I know from experience that Alice isn’t the easiest place in the world to get to.”

“No, it isn’t,” Leonora says as she picks up her handbag.

All at once, Amelia is struck with a thought. She turns around and calls, “No one travels without purpose. Those who are lost wish to be lost.”

“You’re quoting
The Late Bloomer,
” Leonora says after a long pause. “It really was your favorite.”

“It was,” Amelia says. “ ‘When I was young, I never felt young.’ Something like that. Do you remember the rest of the quote?”

“No,” Leonora says.

“Writers don’t remember everything they write,” Amelia says. “How could they?”

“Nice talking to you.” Leonora starts heading for the door.

Amelia puts her hand on Leonora’s shoulder.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” Amelia says. “You’re Leon Friedman.”

Leonora shakes her head. “Not truly.”

“What does that mean?”

“A long time ago, a girl wrote a novel, and she tried to sell it, but no one wanted it. It was about an old man who lost his wife, and it didn’t have supernatural beings in it or a high concept to speak of, and so she thought it would be easier if she retitled the book and called it a memoir.”

“That’s . . . That’s . . . wrong,” Amelia stammers.

“No, it isn’t. All the things in it are still emotionally true even if they aren’t literally so.”

“So who was that man?”

“I called a casting office. He usually plays Santa.”

Amelia shakes her head. “I don’t understand. Why do the reading? Why go to the expense and bother? Why risk it?”