A Good Man Is Hard to Find
1953 / Flannery O’Connor
Family trip goes awry. It’s Amy’s favorite. (She seems so sweet on the surface, no?) Amy and I do not always have the exact same taste in things, but this I like.
When she told me it was her favorite, it suggested to me strange and wonderful things about her character that I had not guessed, dark places that I might like to visit.
People tell boring lies about politics, God, and love. You know everything you need to know about a person from the answer to the question, What is your favorite book?
—A.J.F.
The second week of August, just before Maya starts kindergarten, she gets a matching set of glasses (round, red frames) and chicken pox (round, red bumps). A.J. curses the mother who had told him that the chicken pox vaccine was optional as the chicken pox is indeed a pox on their house. Maya is miserable, and A.J. is miserable because Maya is miserable. The marks plague her face, and the air conditioner breaks, and no one in their house can sleep. A.J. brings her icy washcloths, removes skin from tangerine slices, puts socks on her hands, and stands guard at her bedside.
Day three, four in the morning, Maya falls asleep. A.J. is exhausted but restless. He had asked one of the clerks to grab a couple of galleys from the basement for him. Unfortunately, the clerk is new, and she had picked books from the to be recycled pile, not the to be read pile. A.J. doesn’t want to leave Maya’s side so he decides to read one of the old, rejected galleys. The top one in the pile is a young-adult fantasy novel in which the main character is dead. Ugh, A.J. thinks. Two of his least favorite things (postmortem narrators and young-adult novels) in one book. He tosses the paper carcass aside. The second one in the pile is a memoir written by an eighty-year-old man, a lifelong bachelor and onetime science writer for various midwestern newspapers, who married at the age of seventy-eight. His bride died two years after the wedding at the age of eighty-three. The Late Bloomer by Leon Friedman. The book is familiar to A.J., but he’s not sure why. He opens the galley and a business card falls out: amelia loman, knightley press. Yes, he remembers now.
Of course, he has encountered Amelia Loman in the years since that awkward first meeting. They have had a handful of cordial e-mails, and she comes trianually to report on Knightley’s hottest prospects. After spending ten or so afternoons with her, he’s recently come to the conclusion that she is good at her job. She is informed about her list and greater literary trends. She is upbeat but not an overseller. She is sweet with Maya, too—always remembers to bring the girl a book from one of Knightley’s children’s lines. Above all, Amelia Loman is professional, which means she has never brought up A.J.’s poor conduct the day they met. God, he’d been awful to her. As penance, he decides to give The Late Bloomer a chance, though it is still not his type of thing.
“I am eighty-one years old, and statistically speaking, I should have died 4.7 years ago,” the book begins.
At 5 a.m., A.J. closes the book and gives it a pat.
Maya wakes, feeling better. “Why are you crying?”
“I was reading,” A.J. says.
SHE DOESN’T RECOGNIZE the number, but Amelia Loman picks up on the first ring.
“Amelia, hello. This is A. J. Fikry from Island. I wasn’t expecting you to answer.”
“It’s true,” she says, laughing. “I’m the last person left in the entire world who still answers her phone.”
“Yes,” he says, “you might be.”
“The Catholic church is thinking of making me a saint.”
“Saint Amelia who answered the phone,” A.J. says.
He has never called her before, and she assumes this must be the reason. “Are we still on for two weeks from now, or do you have to cancel?” Amelia asks.
“Oh no, nothing like that. I was just planning to leave you a message, actually.”
Amelia speaks in monotone. “Hi, you’ve reached the voice mail of Amelia Loman. Beep.”
“Um.”
“Beep,” Amelia repeats. “Go ahead. Leave your message.”
“Um, hi, Amelia. This is A. J. Fikry. I’ve just finished reading a book you recommended to me—”
“Oh yeah, which one?”
“That’s odd. Voice mail seems to be talking back to me. It’s one from several years back. The Late Bloomer by Leon Friedman.”
“Don’t go breaking my heart, A.J. That was my absolute favorite from four winter lists ago. No one wanted to read it. I loved that book. I still love that book! I’m the queen of lost causes, though.”
“Maybe it was the jacket,” A.J. says lamely.
“Lamentable jacket. Old people’s feet, flowers,” Amelia agrees. “Like anyone wants to think about wrinkly old feet let alone buy a book with them on it. Paperback re-jacket didn’t help anything either—black and white, more flowers. But jackets are the redheaded stepchildren of book publishing. We blame them for everything.”
“I don’t know if you remember, but you gave The Late Bloomer to me the first time we met,” A.J. says.
Amelia pauses. “Did I? Yes, that makes sense. That would have been around the time I started at Knightley.”
“Well, you know, literary memoirs aren’t really my thing, but this was just spectacular in its small way. Wise and . . .” He feels naked when speaking about things he really loves.
“Go on.”
“Every word the right one and exactly where it should be. That’s basically the highest compliment I can give. I’m only sorry it took me so long to read it.”
“Story of my life. What made you finally pick it up?”
“My little girl was sick, so—”
“Oh, poor Maya! I hope nothing serious!”
“Chicken pox. I was up all night with her, and it was the book nearest to me at the time.”
“I’m glad you finally read it,” Amelia says. “I begged everyone I knew to read this book, and no one would listen except my mother and even she wasn’t an easy sell.”
“Sometimes books don’t find us until the right time.”
“Not much consolation for Mr. Friedman,” Amelia adds.
“Well, I’m going to order a carton of the equally lamentably jacketed paperback. And in the summer, when all the tourists are here, maybe we could have Mr. Friedman in for an event.”
“If he lives that long,” Amelia says.
“Is he sick?” A.J. asks.
“No, but he’s, like, ninety!”
A.J. laughs. “Well, Amelia, I’ll see you in two weeks, I guess.”
“Maybe next time you’ll listen to me when I tell you something’s the ‘best book of the winter list’!” Amelia says.
“Probably not. I’m old, set in my ways, contrary.”
“You’re not that old,” she says.
“Not compared to Mr. Friedman, I suppose.” A.J. clears his throat. “When you’re in town, maybe we could have dinner or something.”
It isn’t at all uncommon for sales reps and booksellers to break bread, but Amelia detects a certain tone in A.J.’s voice. She clarifies. “We can go over the new winter list.”
“Yes, of course,” A.J. answers too quickly. “It’s such a long trip for you to Alice. You’ll be hungry. It’s rude that I’ve never suggested it before.”
“Let’s make it a late lunch, then,” Amelia says. “I need to catch the last ferry back to Hyannis.”
A.J. DECIDES TO take Amelia to Pequod’s, which is the second nicest seafood restaurant on Alice Island. El Corazon, the nicest restaurant, is not open for lunch, and even if it had been, El Corazon would have seemed too romantic for what is only a business meeting.
A.J. arrives first, which gives him time to regret his choice. He has not been to Pequod’s since before Maya, and its decor strikes him as embarrassing and touristy. The tasteful white table linens do not much distract from the harpoons, nets, and raincoats hanging from the walls, or the captain, carved out of a log, who welcomes you with a bucket of complimentary saltwater taffy. A fiberglass whale with tiny, sad eyes is mounted from the ceiling. A.J. senses the whale’s judgment: Should have gone with El Corazon, matey.
Amelia is five minutes late. “Pequod, like Moby Dick,” she says. She is wearing a dress made out of what looks like a repurposed crocheted tablecloth over a vintage pink slip. She has a fake daisy in her curly blond hair and is wearing galoshes despite the fact that the day is sunny. A.J. thinks the galoshes make her seem like a Boy Scout, in a state of readiness and prepared for disaster.
“Do you like Moby Dick?” he asks.
“I hate it,” she says. “And I don’t say that about many things. Teachers assign it, and parents are happy because their kids are reading something of ‘quality.’ But it’s forcing kids to read books like that that make them think they hate reading.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t cancel when you saw the name of the restaurant.”
“Oh, I thought about it,” she says with mirth in her voice. “But then I reminded myself that it’s just a restaurant name and it probably won’t effect the quality of the food too, too much. Plus I looked up the reviews online, and it sounded delicious.”
“You didn’t trust me?”
“I like to think about what I’m going to eat before I get there. I like to”—she stretches out the word—“an-ti-ci-pate.” She opens the menu. “I see they’ve got several cocktails named after Moby Dick characters.” She turns the page. “Anyway, if I hadn’t wanted to eat here, I probably would have invented an allergy to shellfish.”
“Fictional food allergy. That’s very devious of you,” A.J. says.
“Now I won’t be able to use that trick with you.”
The waiter is dressed in a puffy white shirt that is clearly in conflict with his black glasses and fauxhawk. The look is pirate hipster. “Ahoy, landlubbers,” the waiter says flatly. “Try a themed cocktail?”
“My standard drink is the old-fashioned, but how can a person be expected to resist a themed cocktail?” she says. “One Queequeg, please.” She grabs the waiter’s hand. “Wait. Is it good?”
“Um,” the waiter says. “The tourists seem to like them.”
“Well, if the tourists like them,” she says.
“Um, so I’m clear, does that mean you do or you don’t want the cocktail?”
“I definitely want it,” Amelia says. “Come what may.” She smiles at the waiter. “I won’t blame you if it’s terrible.”
A.J. orders a glass of the house red.
“That’s sad,” Amelia says. “I bet you’ve gone your whole life without having a Queequeg despite the fact that you live here and you sell books and you probably even like Moby Dick.”
“You’re obviously a more evolved person than I am,” A.J. says.
“Yes, I can see that. And after I have this cocktail, my whole life’s probably going to change.”
The drinks arrive. “Oh, look,” Amelia says. “A shrimp with a little harpoon through it. That is an unexpected delight.” She takes out her phone and snaps a picture. “I like to take pictures of my drinks.”
“They’re like family,” A.J. says.
“They’re better than family.” She raises her glass and clinks it to A.J.’s.
“How is it?” he asks.
“Salty, fruity, fishy. It’s kind of like if a shrimp cocktail decided to make love to a Bloody Mary.”
“I like how you say make love. The drink sounds disgusting, by the way.”
She takes another sip and shrugs. “It’s growing on me.”
“In what restaurant based on a novel would you have preferred to dine?” A.J. asks her.
“Oh, that’s tough. This won’t make any sense, but when I was in college I used to get really hungry when I was reading The Gulag Archipelago. All that description of Soviet prison bread and soup,” Amelia says.
“You’re weird,” A.J. says.
“Thank you. Where would you go?” Amelia asks.
“This wouldn’t be a restaurant per se, but I always wanted to try the Turkish Delight in Narnia. When I read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe as a boy, I used to think that Turkish Delight must be incredibly delicious if it made Edmund betray his family,” A.J. says. “I guess I must have told my wife this, because one year Nic gets a box for me for the holidays. And it turned out to be this powdery, gummy candy. I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed in my entire life.”
“Your childhood was officially over right then.”
“I was never the same,” A.J. says.
“Maybe the White Witch’s was different. Like, magical Turkish Delight tastes better.”
“Or maybe Lewis’s point is that Edmund didn’t need much coaxing to betray his family.”
“That’s very cynical,” Amelia says.
“Have you had Turkish Delight, Amelia?”
“No,” she says.