“You’re right,” I say, but in my head, I’m steeling myself for the possibility that my window of opportunity has closed for good. That I might never talk to Ben again.
On Friday afternoon, after a long lunch with one of my favorite agents, I hunker down to read a few unsolicited manuscripts, otherwise known as slush because most are sloppy, uninspired muck. They are so dreadful, in fact, that most houses and editors won’t even accept them. It’s just not worth the time or limited editorial resources. To this point, in thirteen years of reading slush, I’ve only brought one manuscript to editorial meeting, and it was shot down in about six minutes flat.
Ben once asked me why I bothered with those kinds of odds. “You don’t buy lottery tickets or gamble,” he said, “so why do you read slush?”
I explained to him that it wasn’t entirely rational. I told him that part of it stemmed from my deeply rooted neurosis that developed in my junior days, a sense of wanting to be thorough, cover all my bases. You never knew where the next great novel could be lurking. But beyond that, I told him that I just liked the idea of slush.
“How so?” he asked me as he skimmed a particularly brutal query letter over my shoulder. “You like the idea of boring storylines and scads of grammatical errors?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I told him. “It’s just that slush is so democratic . I like the idea of giving a shot to the struggling writer. I like the idea of the underdog overcoming the odds and achieving greatness.”
“Well, it’s a good thing for me you feel that way,” Ben said, kissing me. “Because I sort of came from the slush pile of blind dates.”
I laughed and told him that was very true. “Just look what I would have missed if I had blown off that date.”
From that day on, whenever Ben wore mismatched socks, or burned toast, or did anything haphazard, I’d call him my slushy husband. It was one of our many inside jokes.
So it is very fitting that Ben finally e-mails me as I am perusing a few slush manuscripts that Rosemary screened for me as the most promising of the dismal lot. I glance up when my notifier dings, and am shocked to finally see his name in my in-box. My heart races, and I sit there, my mouth slightly agape, paralyzed with fear. Something about his bolded Benjamin Davenport looks so ominous. Or maybe it’s the no subject that follows. I am suddenly convinced that his words will be terse and grim: I don’t see any point in getting together; I have nothing to say to you .
A full hour passes before I work up the nerve to open his e-mail. I read his three sentences twice, searching for meaning: Next week is hectic. How about after Thanksgiving? Does Monday work for you ?
Nothing. I can glean nothing from his e-mail, but it certainly doesn’t seem promising that he bypassed my name or any sort of soft closing. And I simply can’t believe I had to wait four days for three ambiguous sentences. But by and large, I feel relieved. It’s better than what it could have been. I still have a dash of hope as I send my response: Sure. Pete’s Tavern at 12 ?
As New York’s oldest pub in continuous operation, Pete’s is a bit of a tourist trap, but Ben and I never minded. We spent many a late night cozied up at the bar, so as soon as I hit send I worry what he’ll think of my sentimental choice of venue. But his response comes nearly instantaneously. See you then. Have a good-Thanksgiving .
Highly doubtful , I think as I scratch a big red reject across one writer’s treasured manuscript.
Later that night, as I’m returning home from work, I spot Maura and Zoe scurrying along the sidewalk toward Jess’s apartment. Maura is holding Zoe by one hand and carrying her Dora the Explorer sleeping bag and monogrammed canvas L.L. Bean bag in the other. Both of Zoe’s pink Keds are untied, the laces dragging behind her on the damp pavement. When she finally sees me, she squeals, “Aunt Claudia!” as if I’m famous. Zoe does wonders for my self-esteem.
“Hey, Zoe!” I call out. “Are you coming to spend the weekend with me?”
“Uh-huh!” she yells back. “And Mommy said I can stay up as late as I want and eat whatever I want.”
I look at Maura to make sure this is accurate. My sister shrugs wearily. She looks drawn and forlornlike she doesn’t have the energy to fight about bedtime and sugar cereals. I wonder if this is the beginning of the divorced-parents “pay off your kids” phenomenon. All kids know that the only fringe benefit of having parents who split up is that you can play on mom and dad’s guilt, exhaustion, and competitive spirit to extract maximum benefits from both camps. I remember how my own Christmas presents doubled in number and value after my mother left.
Zoe lets go of Maura’s hand and scrambles toward me. I bend down to double-knot her laces. Then I kiss her cold, rosy cheek and whisper in her ear, “Guess what I got you?”
“What?” Zoe says excitedly.
“Pop-Tarts!”