“It’s just that—your publisher would like you to sign a new contract, but they are entitled to know what you’re working on.”
“And when I have finished a new book—the new book—we shall. I don’t like advances, Thiru. That’s what undercut my second and third novels, that’s what made Dream Girl, and everything that followed, different. I won’t take money up front for an unwritten book. I can’t—”
He stops, fearful that he is about to say the thing he doesn’t want to say out loud: I can’t write anymore. It’s not true. It can’t be true. But given the circumstances of his mother’s death, how can he not worry about receiving a similar diagnosis one day? This thing runs in families.
“Well, the view is really something,” Thiru says, his admiration sincere. “In fact, I’m not sure I could work with such a panorama spread out before me. I like the fact that you can see the working part of the harbor, not just the fancy stuff.”
“This used to be a grain silo,” Gerry says. “The site of the building, I mean.”
“Good thing you’re not gluten intolerant.”
Ha ha, funny, Thiru. Gerry gives him 15 percent of a smile.
His agent peers down the staircase to the darker rooms below—Gerry’s office, Gerry’s study, Gerry’s bedroom. The intention was to make guests almost impossible, with the medium-size bedroom used as his office and the third, smallest one dedicated to the overflow of books that didn’t fit in the study or the upstairs shelves. If Margot should propose visiting—doubtful, someone like Margot would never be drawn to Baltimore—he will be able to tell her there is no proper spare bedroom, only the so-called study with its pullout sofa bed. He hopes it is understood that Margot is no longer welcome in his bed.
“That’s—interesting.”
“It’s called a floating staircase.”
“Oh, I’m familiar with the concept. But wouldn’t it make more sense in an open space, where it could be seen? Rather wasted here. It’s like staring down a mouth. A mouth with big gaps between the teeth.”
“I didn’t design the apartment,” Gerry says. “And I needed something in move-in condition. Most of the furniture was part of the staging and I asked to keep it. The only things I brought from New York were my Herman Miller reading chair, my desk and desk chair, my books, and the dining room set.”
Thiru’s eyebrows, thick and furry, make a perfect inverted V on his forehead, then quickly relax. Gerry decides that Thiru’s teasing is a form of envy. It’s a beautiful apartment and Baltimore, which he fought so hard to escape, feels serene after New York. Maybe this is all he needs to get back to work, a change of scene. A change of scene, no more Margot drama, no more suspense over the quality of his mother’s end of life. He will be able to write again. Soon.
“Anyway, I’ve brought some things that came to the agency—the usual fan mail”—Thiru grins, because Gerry’s mail runs to anti-fans—“and speaking requests, some for quite good money.”
Thiru hands Gerry a manila folder of envelopes. He notices one is addressed in cursive, an undeniably feminine hand, so perfect that he suspects it’s a machine posing as a person. But it’s postmarked Baltimore and the return address is vaguely familiar. Fait Avenue. He’s filled with warmth and then—his mind goes blank, he cannot remember the person, someone who provokes nothing but affection, who lived on Fait Avenue. This occurs more and more, this blankness. He knows, technically, what has happened. His frontal cortex has seized up and will not be able to provide the information that Gerry wants, not now. Later, when he’s relaxed, it will come to him easily. But for now, the memory is locked, like a phone on which one has tried a series of incorrect passwords. This is not a sign of dementia. It’s not, it’s not.
Thiru insists on taking an Uber to the train station, as Gerry’s new assistant, Victoria, has yet to return from her errands. Gerry doesn’t own a car, unless one counts his mother’s beloved wreck of a Mercedes, parked in his deeded space until the estate clears probate and he can take legal possession to sell it. For himself, he has decided to make do with Zipcars, Ubers, and the occasional water taxi.
“I look forward to seeing what you’re working on,” Thiru says. Again, a perfectly normal thing to say, especially given that Gerry, for almost forty years now, has always been working on something. He’s not the most prolific writer—only seven books total—but thanks to Dream Girl, he doesn’t have to be.