Jules breaks in, “that’s where I usually put the keys.”
“Now he keeps them in his pocket,” Tina goes on. “But when I have to use the car and he’s not home, it’s a problem.”
“Why don’t you have a spare set?” Patricia asks.
“That’s a good question. We did, but we think Stella tossed them in the trash,” Tina chuckles.
“In the trash?” Patricia says, shocked, giggling. “What a little scoundrel!” Thomas is truly bored. Jules grumbles off and on. Then Stella howls, alarmingly loud, and they all get to their feet and run in separate directions. “Where are you?” Tina shouts nervously, and of course Stella’s in the bathroom. She’s lying in the bathtub, her legs splayed along the sides of the tub, red-faced, screaming piercingly. Evidently she’d crawled up onto the edge and slipped in head-first. They console her and babble. Stella bawls heartrendingly on her mother’s lap and they all look only at her. Chubby red cheeks, bright shiny eyes, a sweep of curls and ears fine as tiny, rose-pink shells. They wipe away her tears—even the tears seem cleaner than an adult’s tears. A large bump has begun to form on her forehead. She rubs her eyes and suddenly stops howling. She’s caught sight of some candles on a low shelf, and decides she absolutely has to go investigate; her little body squirms and fidgets to get down. Tina lets go of her only to stand up immediately and follow her. “No, no, no. You’ll burn yourself. Hot. Stella will burn her fingers.” Then Patricia rushes in with ladles and plastic bowls and energetically shows her how she can drum on the bowls. “Music!” Instantly and eagerly Stella’s absorbed in a new activity, but only for a moment. Thomas glances at Jules, who fills his wine glass to the rim and chugs it down greedily. “Great wine,” he mumbles. His eyebrows have grown bushier. He has gray hairs. But his eyes are the same, ice-blue and insistent. He’s a few years older than Thomas.
They eat fruit and drink coffee. Tina takes Stella into the bedroom to put her to bed. It takes a long time. Meanwhile Jules talks, not surprisingly about literature, his voice gravelly and sloshed. “The biggest problem at the moment must be this tendency to write autobiographies purporting to be novels. It bores me more than words can say.” Jules is an incarnate fan of the Big Story. How a younger man can be so conservative is beyond comprehension. He’s not really old-fashioned in any other way. For many years he was an editor at a large publishing house, but he lost his job when Stella was a baby, and now he earns his living teaching at a couple of universities. Is he bitter? Old fashioned? No, Thomas thinks, and observes Jules, now withdrawn, rubbing his nose. He stayed home with Stella when she was a baby, for seven months. It’s only when it comes to literature that he’s conservative. But is he? Or does he just not buy into all the fads? In the exact same way that he himself insists on selling paper in a virtually paperless era, even displaying his wares in the old dark cases? Does it make him conservative? Is he conservative? Jules has stopped rubbing his nose. Tina returns, blinking at the light, an almost victorious expression on her face. “She’s asleep!” It’s now 9:30. With a sigh, she sits.
“You truly belong to the old world, Jules,” Patricia laughs.
“You can say that again,” Tina says, draining the last drop of her coffee. “What are you all talking about?” She’s an economist with a full-time job; she earns a lot of money, much more than Jules. Jules was fired because he was too selective. Too passionate, but his “passion” wasn’t the kind that brought the publisher a lot of revenue—he rejected nearly all of the manuscripts that fell into his hands. It was said that he worked against his own self-interest. But, as he slumps across the table now, he appears gentle and nearly transparent. Patricia says something about poetry and images. Then she talks about a novel she read that made a lasting impression on her. It was both autobiographical and very moving. Jules shakes his head. “Not my thing.”
“But have you read it?”
“Certainly not. Nor will I ever . . .”
He turns toward Thomas, his eyes swimming: “Tell us a funny story, Thomas. How’s it going at the store? Do you and Maloney get drinks after you close? Do you make good money?” Thomas begins loudly rattling off all sorts of stuff. He grins hysterically at things that aren’t especially funny. He gets to his feet to illustrate how Peter and Annie walk. He’s filled with an energy he can’t control, and now he mimics Annie’s voice. Patricia looks at him, aghast. Thomas is standing in the center of the room. Then, just as quickly as the mania had come over him, his bubble bursts; exhausted, he sinks into his chair. I’m myself again, he thinks, relieved. And then: Myself? Who? Patricia continues to stare at him. Thomas figures that they’ve gotten past the literature portion of the evening amazingly fast, which means they’ll soon be talking about recipes. But in this he’s wrong. Because Patricia says: “Thomas’s father just died.” And Jules and Tina turn and gaze at him quizzically. “Oh, no,” Tina says, covering her mouth with her hand.
Later, Jules nevertheless returns to the subject of autobiographical literature. “People have got to stop their naval-gazing bullshit and write real stories. What the hell is wrong with fiction? The idea that it’s truer and more real to write about yourself is nothing but the unreflective extension of individualism and the childish self-centeredness of our stunted generation. We’ve let ourselves be stunted. There’s no will, rebellion, or idealism in us. No solidarity. And now, apparently, we feel the need to spew our self-absorbed, narcissistic, self-pity over literature as well. It’s enough to make you vomit!”
“What do you mean by ‘self-absorbed, narcissistic, self-pity’?” Tina asks, glancing at Thomas, who shrugs. But before they get an explanation from Jules, Patricia begins to speak. “Maybe fiction is old-fashioned, maybe the novel as a form isn’t especially interesting anymore. We see the same thing happening in the visual arts. The personal vision, the private story, the individual finds a greater truth, and so does the recipient—”
“The recipient? Oh, SPARE ME! I’ve just answered your question! It’s not at all true, and those goddamn private stories belong in a fucking diary or on some tasteless reality TV show!”
“But Jules, at least listen to what she’s saying . . .” Tina looks tired.
“Besides,” Jules continues, undaunted, “everything you’re saying was disproven long ago. I’m talking about the novel as a form of art. As a concept. The great novel. The autobiographical tendency shows that today’s ‘literati’ don’t dare trust fiction, don’t dare trust art as a creative power, they don’t understand it and so don’t bother with it. They just say it’s unusable because it’s not ‘true’! It’s too damn dull, narrow, and populistic! And completely spineless!”
“Autobiographical works can also be great literature. You’re the one who’s old school. Why this focus on the great story? What kind of crap is that?” Patricia raises her voice. “How can you rule out the possibility that the novels you love include autobiographical elements? Of course they do! And those writers who say they’re writing autobiographical stories can be lying. No one knows that. But does it even matter? Anything that’s presented in an interesting way is valid. What matters is the form. The way the material is shaped. How it’s used. That’s what makes art! For example, the book I read,” Patricia says, pointing angrily at Jules, who immediately interrupts her: “Obviously novelists can draw on their life experiences, but to insist on it as if it were a fucking hallmark! No, you’re confusing things, believing it’s so fucking modern.” Swaying in his seat, Jules reaches for his glass. “You’re a lemming, Patricia!”
“C’mon, Jules. You can’t say that,” Tina says feebly. She lowers her head in shame and picks at her napkin. Patricia shakes her head obstinately and drains her glass. Thomas admonishes himself: You’ve got to say something. Your silence is painful.
“How
