The Editor. Steven Rowley
talk, often past each other, somehow unable to convey meaning. It’s fantasy, I suppose. Putting two characters in tight quarters. Eventually they can’t avoid saying the things they desperately need to say.”
She scribbles a thought on her pad. Scribble is the wrong word; I doubt she’s careless with anything. “And that … fantasy, you call it …”
“I wasn’t going to get my actual mother in a room for any length of time.”
“That led you to write a novel.”
“I didn’t set out to. I considered myself more a writer of short stories. I thought I might have one published in The New Yorker one day, like many of the writers I admire. Updike. Cheever. Mavis Gallant. Dreamed I might, not thought.” Ugh, thought has an element of presumption. I bite the inside of my cheek to slow myself down. “So, one of the early chapters in the book? The one after the service? With the argument over pie? That’s the one I wrote first. When I finished it, I imagined this, finally, was my New Yorker story. And then I showed it to a friend, who encouraged me to write more.” I pause here, expecting her to interject; she looks at me, poised and unblinking. “I realize now how unsatisfying it would have been as a short story. That it was inherently … incomplete.”
“What a delightful note to receive as a writer. More.”
I smile at her like a child asking for juice.
“And you. Are you …” She checks her notepad. “Russell?”
“The character in the book? I’m not not Russell.” Check yourself, James. Now is not the time to be cute. “He is a version of me, I suppose, in that we are both seeking and searching—yearning to understand.”
“I would love to know more about the mother.”
“What would you like to know?”
“What would you like to tell me?”
Afraid this is some unanswerable riddle, a test I’m doomed to fail, I revert to her previous question. “If you’re asking if she’s my mother, she would say no.”
“Has she read the manuscript?”
“No.” As soon as it comes out of my mouth I realize just how harsh it sounds on its own, so I say it again, softer this second time. “No.” And then, because it’s a point of contention between us, I add, “Not even once.”
Jacqu—Mrs. Onassis taps her pen twice on her notepad. “Why not?”
“I wish she would. I suppose she’s afraid of what she’ll see.”
“I saw something quite lovely.”
My eyes are growing wet. Mortifying. It’s a little early in the year to pass it off as allergies; I blink twice in an effort to stop it. “I thank you for saying so, but it’s almost beside the point. She doesn’t want to be written about.”
Mrs. Onassis sets her pen down. “Well, your mother’s in good company there.”
“I suppose so,” I say, smiling so that she knows I understand she’s referring to herself.
“So why did you choose to write about her?”
“I’m not sure I did. Choose. I thought I would have endless stories. Deep, complicated, rich narratives that had profound things to say. I started a half-dozen novels centered on characters I thought would jump right off the page. But after numerous starts and stops they all seemed kind of flat in comparison to the most complicated character I knew.”
“Your mother.”
“My mother.” I glance down at the pad between us and it reminds me of the terror of blank pages. “So, desperation, I guess?”
Mrs. Onassis raises an eyebrow. “Well, I think you’ve observed her quite eloquently. I admired her.”
I look down at my nails and am embarrassed to see it’s been a while since I’ve cut them. I quietly move to sit on my hands.
“Since I’m not asking her, I’m asking you—is she your mother?”
“Absolutely.” And then, since I’m also deeply protective of her, I add, “A carbon copy. One that I can place just outside our relationship and stretch and mold and make malleable. Get inside. One that serves the novel, I hope. And one that I can possibly come to understand.”
Mrs. Onassis makes additional notes and I wonder if she’s writing down what I’m saying, which fuels my self-consciousness. Are these thoughts worth recording? When she looks up she asks, “One you can come to set free.”
Your mother’s in good company. Sitting across from someone so well known, I can’t help but conjure a slideshow of every image I have of her, that every American has. The iconic moments, the idyllic portraits. Any one of them is imposing; together they are irrepressible. I try desperately to clear them from my mind—to focus on the woman in front of me—but in person she’s no less an artfully framed photograph: stoic, quiet, still. The exotic bird, caged for voyeurs like myself. Have I done that to my mother? Cataloged her in snapshots? Confined her to a lifetime of observation? “One I can come to set free. I like that.”
A man with a beard and wide tie opens the door, startling us both. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jackie. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
“That’s quite all right,” she says, and the man quietly closes the door. It’s all so normal—he calls her Jackie, he sees her every day, they probably sit in staff meetings—I want to call after that man just to make sure he knows who his coworker really is.
I take advantage of the interruption. “May I ask you a question?”
“I would be happy if you did.”
“Why am I here?”
Laughter. It’s almost indescribable, the feeling of making her laugh. Like somehow all is right with the world, even if this laugh is at my expense.
“Are we speaking existentially?”
“No, no. Despite how my question sounds. I’m genuinely asking.”
“Why are you here, as opposed to another author?”
“Why my book?”
Mrs. Onassis flips back the pages that are folded over the binding of her legal pad and sets her pen down on top of it. “Well, books are a journey. And I’m always excited to embark on a journey I haven’t taken before. So I wanted to meet you, James.”
“Thank you.”
“I found your book to be very mature for a first effort. I have some ideas, if you are open to hearing them.”
“Of course.”
“Ideas that would strengthen the work and amplify the book’s central themes. It’s a wonderful setup, and there’s work to be done on the ending, but we can fix all that. In short, I would like to acquire this novel for publication. It is my sincere hope that you’re willing to work with me.”
And just like that, I’ve completed the slow climb to the top of a roller coaster. I’m about to experience the first drop and people all around me are clutching their hats and sunglasses and screaming in both fear and exhilaration and my mouth is open to scream as well, but no sound comes out. The feeling is so intense I have to look down to make sure my chair hasn’t collapsed again.
“James?”
I close my mouth in a vain attempt to appear sane. “It would be an honor to work with you.”
“Would you like to take some time to think about it?”
“Should I think about it?”
“My father always advised me to sleep a night on important decisions.”
“My father had no such