Chapters (60)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Personae
- I: Early Days
- One. Control
- Two. Doubt
- Three. Fate
- Four. Same
- Five. Fine Arts
- Six. In Loco Parentis
- Seven. Settling
- Eight. Neighbors
- Nine. Prospects
- Ten. The Lucky
- Eleven. Instruction
- Twelve. Same
- Thirteen. This Is a Pipe
- Fourteen. This Is Not a Pipe
- Fifteen. The Reason
- Sixteen. That Person
- Seventeen. Predictably
- II: Writing Teacher
- Eighteen. Early Poems
- Nineteen. Motivation
- Twenty. Allegory
- Twenty-One. Grief
- Twenty-Two. A Portrait
- Twenty-Three. Veils
- Twenty-Four. Soft Power
- Twenty-Five. Lists
- Twenty-Six. A Break
- Twenty-Seven. Elsewhere
- Twenty-Eight. Custom
- Twenty-Nine. Parity
- Thirty. Fortune
- III: Volta
- Thirty-One. Images
- Thirty-Two. A Very Interesting Young Man
- Thirty-Three. Letters
- Thirty-Four. We Prefer to See Ourselves Living
- Thirty-Five. Love
- Thirty-Six. The Iceberg
- IV: Your Best Reader
- Thirty-Seven. A Novelist
- Thirty-Eight. In Advance of the Broken Arm
- Thirty-Nine. Their Penultimate Encounter
- Forty. Détente
- Forty-One. Worlds
- Forty-Two. Recognition
- Forty-Three. Persistence
- Forty-Four. And Then
- Forty-Five. Mingling
- Forty-Six. You
- Forty-Seven. Persona
- Forty-Eight. Est et Non
- Forty-Nine. The Author
- Epilogue
- Afterword: The Libertine
- Acknowledgments
- About the Authors
Loudermilk makes use of a brass knocker.
Now there are footsteps. The door is opened by Marta Hillary.
“Marta,” Marta Hillary says, extending her hand to Harry. She has either actually forgotten their initial meeting or is letting him know she will be willing to.
Harry allows his hand to be held, stroked by small fingers.
“You must be Harry. Troy has told us so much about you. Your work sounds absolutely fascinating.”
Harry blinks. “Yup,” he mutters.
Marta laughs. “Don’s just in the kitchen. He’s dying to see you, Troy. He says you’re going to keep up with him. I know you’ll do your best.”
Loudermilk hefts the bottle of scotch. “Apologies!” He mugs regret.
Marta Hillary laughs again. This time Harry thinks he catches something, a part of the laugh that is not really laughter. Harry tries to hear this part of the laugh more clearly, but as soon as his mind inclines toward Marta Hillary the unusual part of the laugh dissipates, and the laugh is nothing more than the most generic of cues, some sawdust.
Marta Hillary is looking at Harry. “Why don’t you go ahead?” she says. A hand flicks up. Marta indicates a hallway.
Now Marta Hillary is gone. They’re alone.
The house is not modest. It’s in the colonial style, as if to spite its midwestern setting. The floors are a light wood, bare and highly polished. The walls are eggshell. A formal stair ascends to a second-floor landing. The look is Americana, updated for the now-vanished 1990s: Shaker chairs, Hudson-school scene, plus brushed-aluminum side table. Harry thinks they pass a priceless abstract expressionist silkscreen on their way into the kitchen.
Here they find Don Hillary tied into a red apron, ministering to the stovetop. There is an open bottle of port to his left and below him sputtering gravy. Hillary’s face is purple from heat and inebriation.
“You’re here!” Hillary bellows.
Loudermilk does introductions.
“Good! Yes! Great!” Hillary exclaims. Today he is in high spirits. He springs across the room and pulls down a pair of jelly jars that he fills with several fingers’ worth of amber fluid. “There!” He hands the jars out. “Salud!”
Loudermilk sets the gift scotch on a counter. “This is already an unbelievable improvement on Thanksgivings past. I just want you to know that, Don.” He downs some port. He is doing this face loaded with legible appreciation.
“And you brought your old ‘writing teacher’ a gift!” Hillary dances belatedly over to the bottle. “I can guarantee you this won’t go to waste.”
“I would never have believed it would.” Loudermilk grins mildly.
Harry is standing silent in the center of the kitchen floor. He has not touched his drink.