The Editor. Steven Rowley
my mother?”
“Even if it has nothing to do with the book.”
I think about this and how not to further betray her. She’d already be horrified if she were a fly on the wall right now. Do I tell Jackie my mother resents me for her being alone? That she took my side once, and it cost her her marriage? That even though it was the right thing to do, in the moment she probably didn’t envision how long life would be in the wake of it? That we’re barely on speaking terms right now? “I don’t think my mother got much of what she wanted out of life.”
“She has her children.”
“That’s true, but hardly anything else.”
“Does anyone? Get what they truly want.”
The question strikes me as odd, borderline offensive, even, from someone who has lived such a fascinating life. I need more alcohol for this. “Well, no. I would imagine that’s rare. But I also don’t think she was given the tools to ask.”
“That’s true for a lot of women our age.” Jackie steps in front of her desk to hand me my drink. She stands and leans elegantly with her legs crossed and one hand on the desk, looking like the perfect line sketch a fashion designer might make while dreaming up patterns for clothes. “I feel for her.”
“That’s good. As a reader, I hope that you would.”
“I’ll try over the course of our working together not to sound like your analyst. Writing it, I’m sure, was therapy enough.”
“If I hadn’t written it, I think I might have gone insane. Or become a Republican. Something horrible.”
Jackie laughs in such a way, not heartily but genuinely, that I want it to be my validation forever. “You remind me of my son.”
I can feel my face turn beet red, so I look down at my feet. They look cloddish in large, heavy shoes, the opposite of her narrow, elegant heels. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Acknowledge that I have difficulty accepting compliments, then lay the biggest one of all on me and expect me to be okay.”
Jackie waves her hand over her drink, wafting in some of the aroma. “Perhaps this round is too sweet.”
“Deflection!” This is the rum talking. “Are you not comfortable with compliments either? Could this be something we have in common?” I take a victory sip.
She shakes her head. “You didn’t compliment me.”
“The heck I didn’t.”
“A compliment for my son is a compliment for me?”
I nod enthusiastically, and I can tell this pleases her. She moves behind the desk to retake her seat. “He failed the bar exam multiple times, which I’m sure you know if you read the Daily News.” I can feel her utter sense of pride in him, as if this were self-depreciation.
I sink back into my chair and chuckle. I do remember the headlines: “The Hunk Flunks.” That must have stung. But, still. I can’t believe how much fun I’m having. I can’t believe how much my outlook has changed in a matter of weeks. I can’t believe that this is my life now. It feels resurgent, sparkling with possibility, like I’ve made some sort of comeback from an exile I hadn’t deserved.
“I think my lunch lady is working,” I confide.
Jackie sips from her cocktail and her eyes sparkle with thousands of secrets. “I think mine is too.” When she finishes, she sets her glass down and holds out the silver tray to collect mine. Another magical moment ended too soon, and we’re on to something new. “Now,” she says. “Let’s get down to work.”
When I land at Boston’s Logan Airport, I have only a few minutes to collect my bag and race to catch the shuttle bus to Cape Air’s small terminal for the flight to Martha’s Vineyard. The Cape Air plane is disconcertingly puny, what my father would have called a puddle-jumper. There are seats for ten passengers, five on each side of the aisle, plus a jump seat for the crew. The flight attendant places us according to weight to balance the plane; this is done discreetly as not to offend, but the end result is obvious. I’m seated across the aisle from a woman who indubitably comes from money, and I wonder if she knows Jackie, if they are neighbors on the island or on the board together of some local environmental organization to save the eroding dunes. We smile politely and say hello, but she doesn’t ask my business, which disappoints me because I’m dying to volunteer the information: I’m going to visit my editor.
Three weeks ago, Jackie sent the latest draft of my manuscript via courier marked with her edits. As mild and polite as she can be in person, taking careful consideration of my feelings as both an artist and someone younger and less experienced in the publishing world, she was just the opposite on paper. Paragraphs, sometimes pages, were crossed right out with margin notes that screamed CUT! VERGING ON MELODRAMA! TRITE! And then other parts were circled; UNDERWRITTEN! SHALLOW! GIVE THE READER MORE! My heart sank as I flipped through the pages; I had thought the latest draft addressed many of her original concerns from our earlier talks, but there were still a number of sticking points—particularly with the ending. I gave myself a week to calm down. When I reached her via phone to discuss her notes, she informed me she was working from her home on Martha’s Vineyard and invited me up to work through them.
So here I am, onboard what’s basically an enclosed hang glider, waiting for runway clearance to take flight.
The midsummer morning is warm; the sun beats off the tarmac and through the plane windows, heating the entire cabin. It feels like we are ants under a child’s magnifying glass—at any moment we might burst into flames (this is not an image you want while sitting in a fuselage). I roll up the sleeves of my linen shirt as the two outboard propellers start to spin. I look back to see if there’s an indication we might receive drink service, but signs do not point to yes. We pick up speed down the runway and take off over Boston Harbor before banking to head south toward Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. This is the smallest plane I’ve ever been on, and I’m amazed at how you feel every rippling current, how your stomach rises and falls with each dip and change in air pressure. I have a magazine in my messenger bag, but I don’t have any interest in even pretending to read it—the view out my window of the Massachusetts coastline is far more interesting. The ocean is an emerald green, in contrast with the sparkling aqua-blue swimming pools that dot the shore—they seem almost Caribbean by comparison. I’m finally offered a small bottle of water, which I take but don’t drink; there’s no bathroom on board and my bladder is already full.
My mother and I have spoken only once since I told her about Jackie. I called her when I cut myself shaving and the bleeding wouldn’t stop. I felt lightheaded (more from queasiness than blood loss), and without really thinking I picked up the phone; that’s how ingrained it is to always want your mother.
“I’m bleeding,” I said when she answered.
“From what?” My mother’s trademark detachment rang through.
“The ear. Not the ear. Just under the ear. The part where the earlobe connects to the jaw. I don’t know what that’s called.”
“Domino, down.” My mother’s dog yipped and then stopped, probably silenced with a treat. “I meant, what did you do.”
“Oh. I cut myself shaving.”
I could tell from her silence she wondered what it was I thought she could do from two hundred miles away.
“Anyways.