Homer’s Happy Day

Something amazing was happening. Homer Kelly had become a star.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” said his editor. “I mean, it’s like a meteor falling on your head. That book of yours is number one on the Times bestseller list for nonfiction.”

“But Luther, it came out three years ago,” crowed Homer happily. “This is just a reprint of a boring old scholarly work. There isn’t a ripped bodice in it anywhere.”

Luther chuckled. “Well, who knows the ways of Providence? Sometimes it casteth down; sometimes it raiseth up.”

“Having often been casteth down,” cried Homer, “I’m grateful to be raiseth up.”

“Watch it,” scolded Luther, who was a stickler for grammatical perfection. “Thou shouldest not mess around with tricky old verb forms like that.”

They argued gaily for a while about eths and ests, thees and thous, and then Homer cackled a jolly good-bye. He wanted to jump up and down, but he was afraid the floorboards would snap under his six and a half feet of flab. Instead, he bounded out the door and hollered at his wife, “Number one, I’m number one.”

Mary looked up from the shallows, where she was boot-deep in pickerelweed, and shouted back, “That’s crazy. It’s just ridiculous.” But she, too, was laughing as she slopped out of the water.

Homer hurtled down the porch steps and hoisted her off the ground. “You know what a bestselling writer gotta have?” he chortled joyfully. “He gotta have champagne. We’ll just make a little trip into town.”

It was a happy day. “I deserve it,” said Homer smugly, raising his glass. “I’ve been in the wilderness too long.”

“You certainly have,” said Mary.

“And the strangest thing has been happening in our department. Have you noticed that all the new grad students are mere babies? The other day, I swear I saw one of them sucking her thumb.”

“It’s not that they’re younger, Homer dear; it’s just that we’re older. But honestly, this is such a wild stroke of luck. Whatever got into all those people, going into all those stores and buying a book about the spread of old New England churches?”

“I’ve become chic, that’s it,” bragged Homer, pouring Mary another glass. “Everybody’s got to have my Hen and Chicks.

“They won’t read it, of course,” said Mary, laughing. “It isn’t exactly a page-turner.”

“Well, who the hell cares?”

After lunch, Homer hauled the battered aluminum canoe down to the water’s edge for a celebratory paddle, but his phone buzzed as he shoved off. He put it to his ear, yelled, “Just a sec,” and stuck it in his pocket while he poled the canoe away from the shore. Afloat at last, he pulled out the phone. “Okay, here I am.”

It was Luther again, more excited than ever. “Listen, Homer, we’ve got to follow this up; we’ve got to strike while the iron is hot. How’s the new book coming along?”

The breeze was mild, the river placid. Homer was appalled. “The new book? Christ, Luther, it isn’t anywhere near ready. I haven’t done the work. I’ve got to go to all those churches and talk to people.”

“I seem to remember it’s got a cute title. What is it? I forget.”

“Oh God,” groaned Homer, seeing the heavy labor of the next few months appear before him like a cloud over the river. “I’m going to call it Steeplechase.

“Oh, right, that’s great. Steeplechase, meaning chasing around after churches. Really catchy. Well, get to work, Homer. Throw it together. Like I said, we’ve got to strike while the iron is hot. People will gobble it up, a peek through the keyhole at all the dirty linen hidden away under all those pious steeples. You know what I mean, Homer, an overview.”

“An overview?” Homer’s voice was hollow.

“The title alone will do the trick. Think of the book clubs; think of the advance sales. An overview, that’s all we want, Homer, a godlike view from above.” Luther laughed and shouted, “Get to work, Homer. Steeplechase! Tarantara!”