depression had become his own, and it was like a fog that had enveloped them both, so ubiquitous and thick as to be imperceptible. Only in, however briefly, getting away from it all—his mother, the house, his job, himself—could he see the fog’s blurred contours and feel its lingering grasp on his person.
———
When Richard woke up, they were clattering over a bridge into Portland, which lived up to its reputation for being both overcast and silly. They drove through a misting rain, down streets slick with the oily tears of a great clown. At one point, they passed a jug band playing on a street corner, then they got stuck behind a peloton that included a man riding an actual penny-farthing. Finally they made the bookstore, a three-story citadel commanding an entire city block. Vance went off in quest of free parking, leaving Richard in front of the display window. A banner strung across the top advertised his appearance and, below it, there was a stand-up thing with his name on it and a stack of his books. There were other bestselling books in the display window, as well, and they seemed to fall into one of two categories: a book by a woman, named something like
Memories of Feelings
or
Still Sisters,
featuring a picture of a house on the cover, or a book by a man, named something like
The Templar Encryption
or
The Revenge of the Magi,
featuring occult imagery dripping with blood. What was his doing there? It had barely grazed the bottom of the list, true, but still. Maybe the reading public had confused him with someone else; maybe they’d heard his book featured serial killing. It did contain some death and mayhem, so there was that. He called Dana and brought her up to speed, with some obvious omissions.
“You’re taking the kid from the college with you?”
“Vance.”
“Why?”
“It’s just for a stop or two. I needed to make it up to him.”
“Mm-hmm, that makes sense. I got an email from the college. Apparently you were in rare form last night.”
“I don’t know if ‘rare’ is the word.”
Dana sighed, and Richard could almost hear her rubbing her temples. In a pattern that had repeated itself with almost every woman he’d known throughout his life, his publicist’s exasperation was somehow deeply pleasing to him; undoubtedly, he knew, it had something to do with a lack of motherly affection, but he just didn’t care enough to figure it out. She said, “Look, please just do the reading tonight and go to sleep, okay? I can’t worry about you constantly for the next two weeks.”
“I’ll call from San Francisco, Dana.”
Vance slumped across the street. Together, they entered the bookstore, where they were greeted by a tall cat-eyed woman who introduced herself as Anne-Marie. Richard relished the momentary satisfaction of having possession of her name, even as it became enshrouded in the perpetually encroaching fog of his perpetually worsening short-term memory. Her dark hair was held back by a mint-green headband, and she smelled, pleasingly, like cigarettes. He said, “I’m Richard. This is Vance.”
“Hi, Vance,” she said. Vance had turned and was gawping at the store around him, which was huge and impressive, admittedly. He wandered off like a goggle-eyed yokel in the big city for the first time, which was, more or less, what he was.
“My assistant,” said Richard.
She surveyed Richard’s condition and said, “Are you all right?”
“Why is everyone asking that lately?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Rough night.”
“Well, we’re very happy you’re here, Mr. Lazar.”
“Say that again, would you?”
“Why?”
“I’ve just heard that sentence so rarely in my life. Especially coming from a beautiful woman’s mouth.”
She laughed. “We’re
very
happy you’re here, Mr. Lazar,” a passable Marilyn imitation. “There’s some food and drink in the green room.”
The green room, so called, was located in the Employees Only rear of the store, which
———
When Richard woke up, they were clattering over a bridge into Portland, which lived up to its reputation for being both overcast and silly. They drove through a misting rain, down streets slick with the oily tears of a great clown. At one point, they passed a jug band playing on a street corner, then they got stuck behind a peloton that included a man riding an actual penny-farthing. Finally they made the bookstore, a three-story citadel commanding an entire city block. Vance went off in quest of free parking, leaving Richard in front of the display window. A banner strung across the top advertised his appearance and, below it, there was a stand-up thing with his name on it and a stack of his books. There were other bestselling books in the display window, as well, and they seemed to fall into one of two categories: a book by a woman, named something like
Memories of Feelings
or
Still Sisters,
featuring a picture of a house on the cover, or a book by a man, named something like
The Templar Encryption
or
The Revenge of the Magi,
featuring occult imagery dripping with blood. What was his doing there? It had barely grazed the bottom of the list, true, but still. Maybe the reading public had confused him with someone else; maybe they’d heard his book featured serial killing. It did contain some death and mayhem, so there was that. He called Dana and brought her up to speed, with some obvious omissions.
“You’re taking the kid from the college with you?”
“Vance.”
“Why?”
“It’s just for a stop or two. I needed to make it up to him.”
“Mm-hmm, that makes sense. I got an email from the college. Apparently you were in rare form last night.”
“I don’t know if ‘rare’ is the word.”
Dana sighed, and Richard could almost hear her rubbing her temples. In a pattern that had repeated itself with almost every woman he’d known throughout his life, his publicist’s exasperation was somehow deeply pleasing to him; undoubtedly, he knew, it had something to do with a lack of motherly affection, but he just didn’t care enough to figure it out. She said, “Look, please just do the reading tonight and go to sleep, okay? I can’t worry about you constantly for the next two weeks.”
“I’ll call from San Francisco, Dana.”
Vance slumped across the street. Together, they entered the bookstore, where they were greeted by a tall cat-eyed woman who introduced herself as Anne-Marie. Richard relished the momentary satisfaction of having possession of her name, even as it became enshrouded in the perpetually encroaching fog of his perpetually worsening short-term memory. Her dark hair was held back by a mint-green headband, and she smelled, pleasingly, like cigarettes. He said, “I’m Richard. This is Vance.”
“Hi, Vance,” she said. Vance had turned and was gawping at the store around him, which was huge and impressive, admittedly. He wandered off like a goggle-eyed yokel in the big city for the first time, which was, more or less, what he was.
“My assistant,” said Richard.
She surveyed Richard’s condition and said, “Are you all right?”
“Why is everyone asking that lately?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Rough night.”
“Well, we’re very happy you’re here, Mr. Lazar.”
“Say that again, would you?”
“Why?”
“I’ve just heard that sentence so rarely in my life. Especially coming from a beautiful woman’s mouth.”
She laughed. “We’re
very
happy you’re here, Mr. Lazar,” a passable Marilyn imitation. “There’s some food and drink in the green room.”
The green room, so called, was located in the Employees Only rear of the store, which
Similar Books
