don’t know if you remember me, but I remember you! We were on the same dorm floor. Different ends of the hall. I had brown hair and was very slightly overweight. My room was 315.
I got your address (obviously) from Susan Davis. She told me you’re a book doctor. What an unusual job. I’m sure you meet a lot of fascinating people.
By now, you’re probably wondering why I’m writing. Well you’ll never believe this. I was a sociology major, so I’ll bet this seems unlikely, but I wrote a novel. It’s based on a true story. I don’t feel I can do it justice with a plot summary. (Remember those from book report days? I read in my How to Query Handbook that people still want them. Can you believe it?) But maybe helping with plot summaries is one of the things you do. The working title is Go Figure, and it’s the story of my life. (It sounds like it could be a book about keeping track of your money I guess. But it isn’t.) Speaking of money, I really don’t have any idea what a book doctor costs. Do you charge like a medical specialist? My ex was an ENT doctor. Can you give me an estimate? Or do you have to see the patient first. Ha Ha. Should I just send it to you?
Yours for the lavender and white!
Debbie Altman
Harbinger Singh quickly replaced Debbie Altman in Arlette’s mind. Though she wasn’t sure why.
4
polka dots
Arlette and Jake had plans to see a performance artist named Night Shade do his monologue downtown. They’d intended to meet for dinner first, at one of the few restaurants that Jake liked, called Double Spring Roll on Spring Street and West Broadway. Arlette, for reasons she couldn’t name, felt angry at Jake as she waited for him. When he arrived, handsome and distant, smiling at her in his familiar way, she responded a little too loudly. “It’s much too trendy in here. It’s too art-directed.” She spoke as though he were to blame.
“You sound like Mia Farrow in that bad Woody Allen movie,” he said. “where she falls in love with Joe Mantegna and turns into Mother Teresa.” He smiled at her. “You’re the one who always says that righteousness is dangerous.”
“I’ve been in an odd mood all day,” she said. “I keep repeating ‘Life Is a River, Life Is a River,’ as a way to relax, but it just sounds like a book title.”
“I hope you haven’t been working on some self-help book,” Jake replied. “You know, I’ve always thought self-help was a Christian idea. Jews don’t have the notion that they can be redeemed. We try to understand what we can, we make attempts, like Freud did, or Marx, or all the Talmudic scholars. We study, instead of repent.” He looked pleased with himself.
“You think in such superior male terms,” she replied. “And you know how I feel about the whole ‘chosen’ syndrome. It’s awful.”
“What’s with you? Did something happen?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Truly nothing.”
“I thought a new writer was meeting you to talk. You always like that.”
“He did, and I do.”
“Who was it?” Jake asked. “Maybe that’s the problem here. Maybe you’re mad at him.”
“A tax lawyer. That’s all. And he’s writing a book, or says he wants to. They all say that. He doesn’t seem to know what it’s about.”
“So far, so good,” said Jake. “You like people who want to write books. I thought you believed it was all about the effort. The process. That people who don’t try are the problem.”
“I don’t try, and he does.” She looked straight at Jake, and could feel herself start to cry. “I judge instead,” she said. “And find myself lacking.”
“Looking at what in particular?”
“All of it,” said Arlette. “Start to finish. A to Z.”
“If this is about Night Shade, just tell me,” said Jake. “Because we don’t have to go. We can stay here all night. Night Shade is just an interest of mine. Besides, he’s performing through Thursday. We could go somewhere else. Or just go home,” he added. He looked around the restaurant at the large black-and-white blowups of noodles on the wall, and suddenly understood she wanted to leave.
“We have no home,” Arlette said, more resigned than angry now. “We have chosen not to make one, out of some idea of mutual convenience. Neither one of us wants to compromise. What would happen, for instance, if you used a white towel? Or lived in a space with unbearable chairs? Stuffed, for example. Semivintage.”
Jake looked stunned. He leaned across the table to grab Arlette’s hand, but she wouldn’t let him. His face, usually handsome and clear, a strong face, looked frightened. “Did this tax guy say something particularly upsetting?”
“No,” she exhaled. “Only that he wanted to write a book. It wasn’t what he said. It was who he was.”
“Well you’ve heard what he said a thousand times. Maybe more. Has it ever bothered you before?”
“No,” she said. “I will help him. It’s not that. I don’t know what it is.”
“Do you want to go to graduate school? Maybe we should take a vacation. I’m tired myself,” said Jake. “We can go to Maine. Or is that too Waspy? Montana’s supposed to be beautiful. We’ve never been west. How about the Caribbean? We can get a cheap flight to Jamaica. And then there’s Costa Rica. So many people have said it’s paradise.”
Jake was not usually so concerned with her moods.
“I’m not so happy myself. I’ve lost my point of view,” he said, “which is ironic, given that it’s the name of my series.”
“I wonder if I ever had one. I’ve become a nature documentary, without the beautiful scenes of pollinating bees.”
“Well, at least it’s not your job, anyway.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, and reached out for his hand. She felt endlessly conflicted about herself and Jake. Her moods often shifted wildly.
“Does this mean we can actually eat? All I’ve had today is a thousand cups of coffee.”
“Yes,” she said, “but I don’t think I can stand Night Shade. Not tonight. The idea of hearing a transvestite painted blue ranting about racial injustice is too much for me today. We can try tomorrow, if you like.”
“I’m glad to have an evening with you.”
“As long as you don’t deconstruct it,” Arlette smiled, for the first time that evening. “No grammar of story, if you know what I mean.”
“What would a perfect evening together be? You tell me.”
“I wish I knew. But imperfect is good enough. Only dinner. And a story or two. The usual back and forth.”
“All right,” said Jake. “You
