Chapter 5

I call Misty about teaching Sunday school and she reminds me that she’s already teaching at the Community Church down the road. “Why not ask Bette? She needs to be around younger people.”

“But she works most weekends.”

“Maybe she’d be able to come in earlier and leave for that hour. Give her a chance to say no, Annie.” I agree.

I hear the ca-chink of the brass mail slot, one of the archaic delights of an old flat, followed by the doorbell. I race downstairs, to see the mail flutter to the floor. All the oversized sales stuff doesn’t fit, so Henrietta, the post woman, rolls them into an old two-pound coffee can set in the foyer I share with my downstairs neighbors. We peruse the coffee can at our leisure, and I consider it a spam filter for snail mail, developed long before the electronic kind.

“Not much for ya today,” Henrietta says when I open the door. She’s still puffing from the three steps up from the street to the foyer, and I realize she rang the bell so I can sign a delivery receipt. She wears her summer uniform and her tanned knees look like the rings of cut trees announcing their age. “Looks like a letter from Spain, though. That’s kind of interestin’. Not one you sent yourself is it, to get the postage stamps you like?” She turns the letter over in her hand.

“Not from Barcelona,” I say picking up the pieces of mail she dropped through the slot.

She waits. I know she hopes I’ll elaborate but I don’t. Henrietta knows a lot about me, but she doesn’t need to know everything.

“Oh, and here’s this big envelope from Denver. Someone with ‘AP,’ “ she says. “Need your signature.” I comply. “I guess I coulda put it in the spam can, right?” She grins.

I snatch it from her. “No, I’ll take it. The rest too,” I say. “Got a little time, so I’ll look through the second-class junk that pays your salary. How does it feel to be a kept woman?”

Henrietta laughs. “All righty, then. Have a good day, and don’t be zipping off to Barcelona without taking me with you, like you did last time.”

“No chance of that,” I say. I hold the letter as though it’s charged with electricity. “No chance of that at all.”

Heading upstairs, I decide not to let myself read either the Barcelona letter or the packet from the publisher until I finish what I’m working on. My intention statement is a little long. I need something I can say to a stranger on a plane sitting beside me when they ask, “What are you working on?” right after I’ve been asked what I do. Lots of times they follow my reply with “I’ve always wanted to write a book.” Do neurosurgeons get that response when they share their occupation? “I’ve always wanted to be a neurosurgeon” isn’t what you’d expect a person to say.

But everyone does have a story, I know that. It’s what I tell the kids I work with on their writing projects, that to call themselves a writer just requires that they write, not that they get published or become famous. “And whatever has happened to you is worth writing down, even if no one else ever reads it,” I tell them, adding how amazed they’ll be learning about themselves just by writing their stories. Like a crime scene investigator of my own flotsam, I discover with each book that the story I’ve chosen to tell turns out to be something different at the end. The story tells itself to me. I learn something about me I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t written that story down.

In The Long Bad Sentence I learned that love can be found in unlikely places. In Don’t Kick Me I discovered how often I did just the opposite of what I said I wanted to do. And with Sweet Charity’s Rose I mined the treasure that some good marriages are made in heaven. I didn’t learn until later that my marriage wasn’t.

Perhaps I’m a slow learner, but kids aren’t. At the preschool where I worked up until Sweet Charity gave me a successful novel, I’d write their words down when they arrived in the morning, two or three sentences, always finished with “The End.”

“My mom put a plastic cup on the end of her fist and snaked our toilet.” (I wish I’d remembered that tip at TMJ4!) There’d be an illustration request. “She had to go to the snake store where they had all kinds of toys and sinks and she fixed it! My dad says we have to stop giving our dog pig’s ears to chew on so he won’t drop them in the toilet. The End.” They’d stuff the pages in their cubbies and loved pulling them out and having me read them again a day or a week later. I could almost see them discovering how words hold memories so they could have room for more imagination to bloom.

Only one percent of anyone, old or young, who says they want to write a book, ever does. Their harpies get too loud, I guess. My hope with the kids I work with is to silence the voices that might get in their way, so they can be what they were created to be: uniquely loved for who they are.

On airplanes or in waiting rooms where the subject of becoming a writer arises, I always smile and encourage the would-be scribes who make their living as real estate investment counselors or ballet teachers. I hope my encouragement doesn’t suggest that how I’ve chosen to make my living can be easily done by any Dawn, Dick, or Mary. But I believe that any Dawn, Dick, or Mary can write a story if they persist, if they have courage, if they have enough duct tape.

“I’m writing a story set in Spain about a woman who falls in love during the International Police and Firemen Games and who wants to do the right thing for herself and the man she loves,” I tell John. There. I have my intention statement. I’m inspired. Now I can read my letters.

I open the letter from Spain, knowing it’s from the real Jaime. He’s the only person from Spain who has my address. My hands shake. The stationery is tan and the script is beautiful, almost calligraphy. But it’s written in Spanish. I can’t read a word! I’m relieved. I don’t have to deal with this, at least not now. I’ll take it with me to Chicago. Kari speaks a little Spanish and will surely know someone who can read it.

I’m giddy with relief so with confidence take on the publisher packet. The large envelope from Denver lies in wait on the small end table, an old baby carriage wheel with Plexiglas over it so I can see to the hardwood floors. It’s the only antique I won in the coin toss between my ex-husband and me over the special items we both claimed. How can I be both unlucky falling into love and then falling out of love as well? My ex got the antique wooden duck, the refinished secretary, the parson’s desk, even the sugar jar that held salt during the Civil War. Well, Stuart has to live with the memories all those antiques would bring him. I only have the Victorian baby carriage wheel table to remind me of the cost of falling in love, an impulsive marriage, an efficient and sad divorce. If only he hadn’t been so charming at that writer’s conference where we met. He talked such a good game and sounded excited for me that I had a contract to write a romance novel, even though he wrote “serious pieces.” I learned later those pieces were seriously flawed and his paychecks rare. But he made me feel wonderful, brought me flowers. My parents loved him. Darlien was a bit standoffish but she was recently divorced and a bit jaded about love. I’d been dreaming of marriage; of kids and a house and a life like Misty had with her sweet husband and child. It turned out to be a nightmare, and I was glad I was awake this time, with Barcelona calling. I wasn’t sleepwalking into love.

I flip open the envelope. I wonder if Irving will be talking about Barcelona Knight or the title I chose. Is he trying to tell me in a subtle way that he’s ultimately in control? Randolph says publishing is a team activity, but every team has star performers who ultimately call the plays. John kneads against my thighs, keeping me in the here and now.

Time to attack the edits.

The doorbell rings. It’s Stuart.

“Hey, babe,” he says.

“Hey, Stu.”

“Thanks for helping me out.” He’s wearing a new-to-me Tommy Hilfiger shirt and pressed khaki pants. “You learned how to iron,” I say.

“Huh?” I point to his slacks. “Nah. Dry cleaner presses them.”

“You take your laundry to the dry cleaner?”

“You got the washer and dryer.”

“And you got the car. Can I count on you to help repair the washer if it fails? After all, you used it too.”

“Don’t be selfish, Annie. Do you have the cash or not?”

What are those phrases again? Thank you but I think I’ll pass. It’s too late for that. He’s sucked the energy from my soul. I hand him the three hundred dollars deciding I’ll stop payment on the check I sent and open the door so he’ll leave.

“I wish we could be friends,” he says.

“Friends don’t keep asking for money,” I tell him.

“Hey,” he says and squats down to pet John, who has curled around his legs.

Traitor, I think, but then Stuart was always good to John. Maybe I should have him watch him while I’m in Chicago. No. He’d want to stay here and we’d have to talk and I’d end up sending him money for more than cat food.

“I’ve got work to do,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Me too,” he says. I don’t believe him but he leaves and I sink onto the couch, relieved.

I suppose it’s a mark of my creativity that I wrote about our romance in such a way that Sweet Charity’s Rose did well. Looking back, our relationship was filled with more thorns than roses. I’d created the ideal romance novel for AP. That’s fiction for you.

I head for the refrigerator.

IT’S NOT IN HERE stares at me, my sign below the light. Maybe it’s true that when I seek my fridge even though I’m not hungry, it’s to soothe self-criticism. What have I just been telling myself? Oh yes, about my lackluster book, my editorial dither, a failed marriage, and Jaime’s letter bringing up old issues I hope are long passed.

I close the refrigerator, pick up the letter. The stamp brings back memories of making a trip to the ornate old post office by the port of Barcelona. Even mailing a postcard was an adventure. Spain is a lovely country. But that alone won’t be enough of a reason for someone to invite Miranda into their lives. I have to work on Irving’s concerns.

The pages of my edited manuscript bleed red. I scan his comments, tears coming to my eyes even with the occasional compliment he’s written in the margins. How can I be so far from what he thinks will make a good story? I’m so not in tune with my life, so how can I make beautiful music with words?

I’ll wait until I’m on the bus to Chicago and think about it then.

I call Kari about getting the tickets for the five of us and to suggest that I give myself two months max to accomplish getting the books into Oprah’s hands. I’ve already thought of a couple more things I can do in Chicago in addition to Kari’s dog plan. Each will take time. “Are you up for a house guest for a month or so?”

“Not a problem, hon. It’ll be fun to have you. It’s not every day we have a celebrity to share our condo with.”

“I’m not really a celebrity,” I tell her.

“Sure you are.”

“Maybe a little fish in a big, big pool,” I say, remembering the dentist.

“You’re in the pool,” Kari says. “That’s what matters.”

“So tell me about the dog thing.”

“When you get here, we’ll go to the pound and get a dog that you can take to this groomer who used to work for Oprah. It was such a quirk that I even got his name, but it must have been for a reason. Everything happens for a reason, right?”

“I’m not exactly sure my landlord allows dogs. A cat is okay, but he was even a little reluctant about John until he met him.” I stroke my cat’s back and gently tug at his arched tail.

She hesitates. “We own the condo, so having a dog isn’t a problem. That’ll give you time to convince your landlord before you return. About the tickets? I think they only let you ask for four at a time.”

“I’ll stay home,” I laugh.

“Don’t be silly. Misty might not want to be away from Norton for a weekend. Or Ed,” she added. “I’ll check to make sure all the girls can all come. We can ask for two of us as one party and the other three as another. We’ll work it out. We have to remember to bring IDs.”

“Really, like we’re going in to Canada?”

“A driver’s license will do. Or your passport. It’s for security.”

How hard it must be to have security needs like that surrounding your every move. I feel a little sorry for Oprah. Maybe fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

That portion of the plan settled, I ask Bette if she might take over my Sunday school class. “Boy. I’m not sure I can get off. But I’ll ask. It would be fun to be around kiddos. Sometimes I feel pretty isolated here,” she tells me. “I love the residents, but kids and other people … I mean guys my own age, are really rare in this place. I’ll check. And hey, I’m sorry about your maintenance thing.”

“I did place my books and brochures in a bunch of offices. And I got to tell someone my name and that I wrote a book. I don’t think he took me seriously though, when I could also fix the toilet.”

“Kari’s plan with the dog will work better,” she said. “And I’ve sent off the police cap sponge cakes and cookies that look like badges. I made this really delicious chocolate frosting and wrote The Long Bad Sentence around the edge of the badge, just like the names of correctional facilities. I wrote it on the bill of the police cap. I took photos and we’ll post them on Facebook. You should be hearing any day now from reviewers saying they’ll review your book.”

“You’re more successful than I am of late.”

I arrange for Bette to care for John, take in the paper, and check the mail. I stop by Misty’s to say a firsthand good-bye; I pack my necessities, buy my bus ticket online.

“I’ll drive you,” Darlien tells me when I call to say good-bye. I can picture her. She stands nearly six feet tall. A dragonfly tattoo flies up over her back and nuzzles her attractive neck. I’m too terrified to have a tattoo and nearly fainted watching Darlien get hers. She wears contacts of various colors. My amber eyes change only by looking larger behind my thick glasses. Darlien moonlights as security for the Packer games when they play exhibition football games in Milwaukee Stadium. That’s where she met all three of her husbands. She loves the moonlighting best, though she claims it’s for other reasons than meeting potential husbands, like getting to watch Packer games for free. “Even when we lose,” she told me once, assuming first-person status the way all Packer fans do, “the fans act more orderly than most of the guests at my wedding receptions did.” She’s munching on potato chips. How she can stay so thin and eat so much junk food is beyond me.

“Was it your second reception where the paper reported ‘among the injured were’?”

“Very funny.” Her tone inspires me to get up to clean John’s litter box, holding the phone with my chin.

“I won’t be able to take you until after the weekend, though. The Pack’s playing an exhibition game, and I’ll want to be there for that.”

“I’m taking the bus,” I tell her. “You can drive the girls once we get the tickets arranged.”

“Really,” Darlien said, “there’s no need for you to take the bus—sometimes unsavory people —”

“Unsavory? Just because we don’t care to stand in line at the airport for hours or take off our shoes for total strangers doesn’t mean there’s a thing wrong with us bus travelers,” I said. “I like bus travel. I can read, relax —”

“You can’t take John with you very well.”

“Plot, plan, even work on revisions.” I ignore her interruption. One has to learn this if one intends to survive an older sister. “Bus transportation is very supportive of writers.”

“Yeah. They provide villainous characters of remarkable originality.”

“My books don’t have villains,” I say.

“Maybe that’s why they don’t sell so well.”
Her words sting.

“They have conflict and they struggle about the meaning of life. That’s just as good.”

“Hey, I’m just telling you what you’re always telling me.”

“I can say it. I don’t expect my sister to. Besides, John isn’t coming along. My downstairs neighbors said he can have the run of the entire two stories, and Bette said she’d come by with food and keep the litter box clean. I’ll only be gone a month, so John’ll be all right until I get back. It’s better not to disrupt his environment.”

“Did you ever dream you could just go off for a month to write? I’ve been thinking about our goal for you. Maybe we’re off the mark here. You have a good life. You don’t need to be famous or produce a bestseller. Why not just enjoy being able to do what you love?”

“Getting into this makes me assess the value of my work. And besides, dreams change. It’s good to have a new goal.”

“Have you heard from your editor yet?”

“It’s too complicated to go into. Let’s talk about mom and dad.”

Our parents are farmers in western Wisconsin, where my dad still milks cows. Sometimes he works as a trucker hauling fertilizer to fields. That means mom takes over the milking while he’s away. It’s what they do, adapt. I’ve watched my mom change tires, fix fences, sew up wounded cows. She always finds a way to get it done. Maybe that’s how I managed to get my characters out of predicaments. Farming is good fodder for the writing life.

“Mom was asking about the Spain trip,” Darlien says. “She wondered if you’d met anyone there.”

“What’d you tell her?” I clean the litter box while I listen. The white puffs of scent-robber that tickle my nose sometimes smell worse than John’s gifts.

“That you’d met this one guy, Jaime, and spent a fair amount of time with him. But I didn’t know if anything had come of it. I mean, I don’t really know if anything has. So I didn’t want to mislead her.” She hesitates. “Has anything come of it? Besides inspiration for the book I mean?”

“His English wasn’t very good and my Spanish is even worse. So we just … we were just … are just, friends. You can tell her that.”

“I don’t know why you’re being so secretive if nothing came of it.”

My hands feel sweaty and I have trouble closing the bag containing John’s ejects while still holding the phone with my chin. I dump the remains in the garbage, head to the bathroom to wash my hands.

“What did you do, Annie?” Darlien persists. “Before we flew back home?”

“There’s nothing to tell. We went to Florence, visited Lisbon, came back. Jaime’s happy as a policeman in Spain. He was, is, a good guy. That’s it.”

“So you’ve heard from him?” Darlien asks. “You haven’t let this one slip away. I’m just asking for Mom. Has he written to you?” She clears her throat. I don’t want to answer. “Well, just so you know, he wrote to Mom and Dad.”

I drop my sister via cell phone into the toilet, right where my love life lives.