Envy

* * *

The following morning Daniel got up early. He showered and dressed quickly, then packed a few changes of clothing to take to the country before going downstairs. Maxine had been most unhappy to hear about his planned weekend without her and had made her displeasure known. So he was very meek this morning when he asked her if it would be too much trouble for him to have his breakfast in the courtyard.

“No trouble at all, Mr. Matherly. It’ll take me just a few minutes to get the tray ready.”

“Perfect. I can use the time to make a couple of calls.”

He went into his study and placed the first call to a number he now had memorized. He said little during the five-minute call. The majority of the time was spent listening.

Mr. William Sutherland finally said everything he had to say and asked, “Do you want me to proceed, Mr. Matherly?”

“By all means.”

Daniel placed the second call of the morning to Becker-Howe. He wasn’t surprised that even at this time of day, when most New Yorkers were queuing up at Starbucks and crowding subways to get to their offices at a reasonable hour, his call was answered by Mr. Oliver Howe himself.

Howe, rather pompously, had always boasted that he put in a fourteen-hour workday, except on holidays when he worked only eight. Apparently his schedule was as arduous as it had always been, despite his advanced age.

Howe’s publishing career had been launched at approximately the same time as Daniel’s and in a similar fashion. Howe was bequeathed his company from his grandfather within months of his graduation from his university. He and Daniel had remained friendly rivals through the years, and eventually their acquaintance had evolved into a grudging friendship. They held one another in the highest esteem.

“Ollie, it’s Daniel Matherly.”

As expected, his old colleague was delighted to hear from him. After exchanging pleasantries, Oliver Howe said, “I can’t play golf anymore, Danny Boy. Goddamn rheumatism won’t let me.”

“That’s not why I’m calling, Ollie. This is business-related.”

“I thought you had retired.”

“That’s the rumor, but you of all people should know better. The fact is, I’ve run across an exciting proposition that I thought might interest you.”

Daniel emerged from his study a few minutes later without the benefit of his cane. He felt invigorated. He was even rubbing his palms together as he approached Maxine. “Would you please go out and buy some bread at that Kosher bakery I like?”

“They don’t have bread in Massachusetts? Mr. Reed said he was going to have the house stocked with food.”

“I know, but I’m hungry for… you know the kind. With the seeds on it.”

“I know the kind. That bakery is across town. I’ll go after you’ve had breakfast.”

“Noah will be picking me up after breakfast. Better go now. I can serve myself breakfast.”

She eyed him suspiciously, and with good cause. His sudden yen for a particular bread was a ruse to get her out of the house. He had a guest coming for breakfast and he didn’t want anyone to know about it.

Maxine continued to argue, but eventually she huffed out the service entrance, muttering to herself. She’d only been gone a few minutes when Daniel answered the front doorbell and invited his guest inside.

“My housekeeper is out on an errand,” he explained as he led the way to the courtyard. Maxine always set the table for three on the chance that Maris or Noah or both would drop by. Even though Maris was out of town and Noah was due to arrive later, Daniel was relieved to see that she hadn’t broken with habit. He indicated a chair at the round wrought-iron table. “Please sit. Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Daniel poured. As he passed the cream and sugar, he said, “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“It wasn’t so much an invitation as an edict, Mr. Matherly.”

“Then why did you come?”

“Curiosity.”

Daniel acknowledged the candor with an appreciative nod. “So you were surprised to hear from me?”

“Shocked, actually.”

“I’m glad that we can speak frankly with one another, because I know your time is valuable and I’m on a tight schedule myself this morning. My son-in-law is picking me up at ten o’clock and driving me to our house in the country. He invited me to spend some quality time alone with him while my daughter is away.” He lifted a napkin-lined silver basket toward his guest. “Muffin?”

“No, thanks.”

“For bran muffins, they’re not bad. My housekeeper makes them herself.”

“No, thank you.”

He returned the basket to the tabletop. “Where was I?”

“Mr. Matherly, I know that you’re not in your dotage, so please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending to be. You didn’t invite me here to sample your housekeeper’s bran muffins.”

Daniel dropped the pose. Planting his elbows on the table, he clasped his hands together and looked at his guest from beneath his white eyebrows, now drawn into a steep V above the bridge of his nose.

“I would stake my fortune on the probability that when Noah and I arrive at our country place, he will have in his possession a document of some sort that empowers him to conduct business for my publishing house.” He spoke with the brusque efficacy that had always been at his command and on which he had built his reputation for hard and sometimes ruthless dealing.

“Over the course of the weekend, I will be pressed into signing this document.” He raised his hand to stop his guest from speaking. “No. Say nothing. You would do well only to listen.”

Following a long, thoughtful, somewhat mistrustful hesitation, Daniel was motioned to continue.

“Envy” Ch. 20

Key West, Florida, 1988

Todd hadn’t counted on it taking this long.

He was impatient to attain wealth and achieve fame—in that order.

After the mortgage on his parents’ house was paid off, the profit he’d made on its sale had been a pittance. Each parent had carried a meager life insurance policy, but his mother had used his father’s to bury him, and Todd had used hers to lay her to rest. Once all their affairs were settled, the leftovers that comprised his legacy were hardly worth counting. He barely had enough to finance his relocation to Florida and had arrived in Key West virtually penniless.

The cost of living was far higher than he and Roark had estimated, even though they were living in veritable squalor and eating cheaply. He earned good tips parking cars, but the cash was quickly consumed by rent, gas, food, and other necessities.

And his monthly installments on a pc. He, unlike his roommate, wasn’t fortunate enough to have a great-uncle he had seen only twice in his entire life but who had felt a familial obligation to give his grandnephew an expensive college graduation gift. Roark’s advantage had rankled. Todd had wasted no time in leveling the playing field and acquiring a computer on a lease-purchase plan.

He was bummed over his chronic shortage of legal tender.

He was even more bummed over his chronic shortage of creativity.

Fame, even more than wealth, seemed so elusive as to be out of the question. Writing fiction was hard work. He had dozed through countless boring lectures on the subject, but he was fairly certain that none of his creative writing instructors had emphasized how labor-intensive it was. That had never been a starred point in his classroom notes. That question had never been asked on an exam. True or false, writing is damn hard work.

At least once a week, he and Roark went to Hemingway’s home. The Spanish Colonial estate was their shrine, and they went as pilgrims to pay homage. Todd had always been an admirer, of course. But he was only now beginning to appreciate Hemingway’s greatness.

Talent was something you were born with. Either you had it or you didn’t. But talent by itself was useless. Hours of tedious effort were required to awaken and exercise that talent, to write that riveting “one true sentence” that seemed so damn simple when read.

That simplicity was deceptive. It didn’t happen by accident. Nor was it a skill easily acquired. Writing was demanding, solitary, backbreaking work. A writer mined the tunnels of his brain, using words for his pickaxe. A week’s effort might yield only one nugget that was worth keeping, and you could weep with pathetic gratitude over that.

Todd admired those who wrote and wrote well. But his admiration was tinged with resentment. Hemingway and his ilk were stingy with their talent and skill. One would think that after having spent so much time studying their work, poring over every phrase, analyzing it word by goddamn word, the ability to write like that would rub off, that the brilliance would be contagious. Didn’t desire count for something? But there were days when he couldn’t find even a grain of genius in his own work.

Nor could anyone else, it seemed.

He balled up the written critique he had received from Professor Hadley and hurled it toward the corner of the room.

Roark walked in just as the paper ball landed on the floor several inches short of the trash can. “Hadley was a hard-ass?”

“Hadley is an asshole.”

“Don’t I know it. He raked me over the coals, too.”

“Seriously?”

“Then left me there to smolder. So, what I thought is, tonight being our night off, we should get drunk.”

“Love to,” Todd said moodily. “Can’t afford it.”

“Neither can I. But being a bartender isn’t without its perks.” With that, Roark brought his hand from behind his back and waggled a bottle of cheap scotch.

“You stole it?”

“This piss won’t be missed.”

“You’re a poet.”

“And didn’t know it. Let’s go.”

Todd rolled off his bunk. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

On the beach, they passed the bottle back and forth between them, toasting the sunset, then the twilight, finally the night sky. They continued to toast the heavens until individual stars began to blur and bob and the universe became a little fuzzy around the edges.

“Starlight, star bright, first star… et cetera. Make a wish, Roark.”

“I wish you’d pass me the whisky.”

Todd handed him the bottle. Roark drank, handed it back, then stretched out on the sand and stacked his hands beneath his head. He began to laugh.

“What?” Todd asked as he used his butt to grind a more comfortable depression into the sand.

“Wishes,” Roark replied. “Reminds me of a genie joke.”

“There are hundreds. Which one?”

“This guy finds a magic lamp, rubs it, genie pops out, grants him three wishes. The guy wishes for a Ferrari, and poof! Next morning there’s a shiny new Ferrari parked in his driveway. He rubs the lamp again, genie pops out, says he’s got two more wishes. The guy wishes for ten million dollars and poof! Next morning ten million dollars is neatly stacked on his nightstand. He rubs the lamp again, genie pops out, says he’s got one last wish. The guy wishes for a penis that would reach the ground, and poof! Next morning he wakes up and his legs are three inches long.”

When their laughter subsided, Roark added, “Moral of the story, be careful what you wish for.”

Todd grumbled, “I wish Hadley’s dick would shrivel to nothing and then drop off. If he’s even got one. Which I doubt.”

“Which manuscript did you send him?”

“The historical.”

“You’ve been working your ass off on that book. What’d he say?”

Todd took another swig from the bottle. “The plot stretches plausibility. My dialogue sucks.”

“Hadley said ‘sucks’?”

“Words to that effect.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“He said my dialogue was crisp and well paced, but my plot is predictable and needs punch.” He looked over at Todd. “Maybe we should collaborate.”

“Shit, no. No sharing. I’ve put in a two-year apprenticeship without any remuneration.”

“You sold a short story,” Roark reminded him.

“One lousy short story to a local magazine for twenty-five bucks. It’ll be read in the crapper if at all.” He pitched a seashell back into the surf. “I’m living in an apartment where the roaches are carnivorous and the tenants downstairs are armed and dangerous.”

“But you can’t beat the view. You can, however, beat your meat while taking in the view.”

“There is that,” Todd replied solemnly. “I’ve never jerked off so much in my life.”

“The palm of your hand isn’t sprouting hair, is it?”

“Here’s to nude sunbathing among exotic dancers.”

He raised the bottle in salute, but Roark took it from him and helped himself to another swallow.

“I’m broke all the friggin’ time,” Todd continued morosely. “My car’s got over a hundred and sixty thousand miles on it.”

“Meanwhile, you’re parking Porsches and BMWs.”

“A job you could train a chimpanzee to do.”

“A chimp is cuter. Would probably get better tips.”

Todd glared at Roark. “Are you gonna let me finish this or what?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your pity party.” Roark passed the bottle back to him. “Have another drink.”

“Thank you.” Todd drank and belched a loud, gurgling burp. “When all this hardship pays off, I want the glory to go to me, myself, and I. No offense.”

“None taken. I don’t want to collaborate with you, either. I was joking.”

“Oh.” Todd flopped down onto his back in the sand. “So what did Hadley really say in his notes to you?”

“I told you.”

“Was it the truth?”

“Why would I lie?”

“To make me feel better.”

Roark snorted. “I’m not that charitable.”

“Right, right, you’re a son of a bitch. So maybe you would lie for another reason.”

Roark sat up. “Something on your mind, Todd? If so, why don’t you just say it?”

“You always downplay Hadley’s critiques.”

“I’m not gonna wear a hair shirt over one man’s opinion, which is all his critiques are. I don’t let myself get depressed over them the way you do.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe that explains why you downplay them. On the other hand, you might be trying to throw me off track.”

Roark shook his head in bafflement. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Forget it.”

“Like hell I will. First you accused me of lying and then you provided me with a shitty motivation for it. I take exception to both.”

“And I take exception to your thinking you’re a better writer than me.”

“Than I,” Roark corrected.

“Fuck you!” Todd surged to his feet, but the earth tilted drastically and threw him off balance. He landed back in the sand.

Roark grabbed him by the shoulders and brought him around. “Why would I deliberately mislead you about Hadley’s critiques?”

Todd flung his hands up and threw Roark’s off. “To get the jump on me. You can’t stand the idea of me getting—of my getting—published before you.”

“Oh, like you’d be thrilled if I sold a manuscript ahead of you.”

“I’d rather have my guts ripped out up through my throat.”

For several moments the narrow distance between them was volatile, teeming with molecules of hostility ready to spark. Todd made his hands into fists in anticipation of an attack.

To his surprise, Roark started to laugh. “You’d rather have your guts ripped out up through your throat?”

Todd tried not to smile, but he lost the battle and soon he was laughing, too. “In the heat of the moment, not to mention my inebriation, that’s all I could think of to say.”

“I don’t recommend it for your book.”

“Point taken.”

They stared at the oceanscape for several minutes, then Roark said, “I’m done for the night. Think we can make it to the car?”

Todd took satisfaction in Roark’s being the first to cave. “Fuck, man, I don’t know. I’m wasted.”

Roark threw his arm across Todd’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. They made it to the parking lot, although it took a while because they stumbled often and stopped frequently. Their drunken efforts made them weak-kneed with hilarity. Neither was in any condition to drive, but Roark got behind the wheel because he was slightly less drunk than Todd.

It was past noon the following day, as they medicated their hangovers with burgers and fries, that Todd resumed the conversation. “You know, a little rivalry could be good for us.”

Roark groaned. “Don’t start that again. I don’t consider you a rival, Todd.”

“Bullshit. Of course you do.”

“How could rivalry possibly be good for us?”

“It makes us work harder. Admit it, when you see me writing, there’s no way you can shirk off. If I’m at my keyboard, you can’t sit down and watch a ball game on TV. I’m the same. If you’re writing, I feel guilty if I’m not writing, too. If you put in seven hours a day, I’ve got to put in at least that much. That competitive edge is what drives us.”

“I’m driven by nothing except a desire to write good fiction.”

Todd waved his hands in the air. “Saint Roark. Glory and hallelujah.”

“You’re pissing me off.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll drop it.” He took a bite of his cheeseburger. “Anyway, the point’s moot. I’ll be offered megabucks for The Vanquished before you even complete your book. Then we’ll see who’s green with envy.”

“That is not going to happen.”

Todd laughed. “Oh, man, I wish you could see the malicious glint in your eye. You just won my argument for me.”