“Are you okay?”
She paused a beat before answering. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just stressed.”
“I get it,” I said. “Speaking of stress, I just heard from Jerica.”
“Yes, she brought her manuscript by. I left it on your desk.”
“That’s why she called. How was she?”
“Her usual,” she said. “How’s your father doing?”
“He passed away.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. When it rains it pours, doesn’t it?”
Her response confused me. “Did something else happen?”
She hesitated. “No, just that.”
“Good, because I don’t need any more bad news,” I said. “Oh, before I forget, would you email Baldacci and remind him that production is waiting to get his sign-off on his new box-set design, and publicity’s waiting for his approval on the flap copy.”
“I already did.”
“Aren’t you Ms. Efficient today.”
“I do what I can. When are you coming back?”
“I’m thinking next Monday or Tuesday. Trust me, I’m not staying here a second longer than I have to.”
“No rush. I’ve got things under control. We’re doing fine without you.”
That’s not something anyone wants to hear. “Thanks.”
“So, gotta run. I’ve got a meeting with Natasha. I’ll see you when I see you.”
Lori hung up first, something she never did. Maybe she was finally bucking for a promotion.
I took a shower, then, seeing as how I would be staying in the house for a few more days, foraged through the kitchen cabinets to see what food my father had on hand. There wasn’t much. I made a short shopping list.
Fortunately, Wendy had told me where the car keys were, a detail I was grateful for and, frankly, considering the circumstances, a little surprised she remembered.
I went out and manually opened the small one-car garage and got in my father’s car. My father kept his car immaculately clean; as usual, a pine-scented air freshener hung from the rearview mirror. My father was fairly tall, six feet and a couple inches, and I couldn’t reach the pedals without moving the seat up.
The grocery store wasn’t far. It was almost the same one I went to as a child. I say almost because it was the same location and building but had a new name and different gestalt. The store was now hip, with a large selection of organic foods, exotic fruits, and cheeses. There was also a full half-aisle devoted to Halloween, which was just a few days away—the same day as my father’s funeral.
Halloween was an event in these parts. We’d had an unusually large number of trick-or-treaters on our street. We lived in one of those staid, middle-class neighborhoods where the houses were close together, providing maximum efficiency for trick-or-treating. It seemed like every year more children would come, many from other parts of the valley. Family vans parked all along Parleys Boulevard and almost filled the church parking lot. The combined hordes looked like a Halloween parade.
Our family had a Halloween tradition. My mother would make chili and soft breadsticks for dinner, then my father would take me out trick-or-treating, holding my hand as we walked the length of our street and a few streets east of ours—enough to fill my plastic jack-o’-lantern with candy.
Along with a bag of Halloween candy, I purchased the basics, some rice and vegetables, oatmeal, milk, artisan bread, Greek yogurt, cheddar slices, protein drinks, and some canned chili.
That evening I was chopping carrots for dinner when my phone rang. I answered without checking the number.
“This is Noel.”
“Noel, this is Wendy. I was just calling to check up on you.”
“Thank you. I’m doing okay.”
“Good. Did you get my voice mail?”
“Yes. Sorry I didn’t get back to you. I got distracted by work.”
“That’s okay. I’m about to send the program to the funeral home. Did you want me to add you to the service?”
“No. I’ll just listen,” I said. “Will you be participating?”
“I’ll be reading the obituary. Maybe offering a personal eulogy.”
“I’m sure it will be nice.”
“I hope so. He deserves a nice send-off. I’ll see you Saturday morning.”
“Thank you. See you then.”
Did my father really think I’d want to speak? I don’t know what I’d say. In some ways it would be like eulogizing a stranger.
I went back to making dinner—a fried-rice recipe I’d picked up in Chinatown.
As I sat down to eat, I thought, I could use a glass of wine, knowing it wouldn’t happen. My father never had alcohol in the house. Instead I had a Coke, which I assumed Wendy had left in the fridge since my father didn’t drink soda either.
After dinner, I checked my emails. Still nothing from work. This was highly unusual. There were usually at least two or three group emails every day about some new company policy or a book being dropped.
I went to my father’s bookshelf in the front room and picked one of his favorite go-to books—one I hadn’t read yet. Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. There was a dollar bill in it. My father used dollar bills as bookmarks. I’m not sure where I fell asleep reading. I just remember something about “legs like an Edwardian grand piano,” and “so it goes.”
CHAPTER three
Great editors do not discover nor produce great authors; great authors create and produce great publishers.
—John Farrar
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29
I woke with a feeling of impending doom. Maybe that’s what happens when you fall asleep reading Slaughterhouse-Five. Or maybe it was just my life.
I don’t know why an early morning anxiety attack should have surprised me. I was in a strange bed, I had just gone through a divorce and a death, and I was getting kicked out of my apartment. I was basically checking my way down the official list of anxiety-provoking situations. All I needed now was to lose my job.
I was desperate to get back to New York, if for no other reason than to return to a little routine. And I needed to find an apartment. Put that on the list.
It was already past noon Eastern time when I checked my email. Again, there was nothing from work. There were two possibilities: either my employer was having a party without me, or the publishing house was respecting my privacy in a difficult time and I should regard their silence as a sign of respect. Why was I feeling so insecure?
I made myself a breakfast of oatmeal with craisins.* I thought of going out for a walk, but the kitchen windows were iced over, and I just didn’t have it in me that morning to endure anything that cold. I went back to the couch to finish the Vonnegut book. There were many places where my father had folded the corners or highlighted lines in marker. A few places he wrote HA, HA. My father had a slightly warped sense of humor, but I laughed at each of his notations.
I had been reading for about an hour when my phone rang. It was a 212 prefix, a New York area code, which pleased me. They haven’t forgotten about me after all, I thought. The number belonged to Natasha, my supervisor at the publishing house. I set down the book and lifted my phone. “Natasha, I’m so glad to hear from you.”