Page 50 of On Fire Island
Ergo, Elizabeth’s Alfred Nobel moment.
“I realized that no one would have anything good to say about me after I die.”
“That’s not true,” Ben piped in.
“Really, what would you say about me?”
Ben laughed. “I would say Elizabeth Barnes—”
“Liz!” she interrupted.
“OK, Liz Barnes came out to Fire Island after my wife passed and held my hand.”
She smiled. “Thanks. As nice as I am trying to be, Ben, we still have to talk about your future.”
“You could have called me on the phone for that.”
“Yes, I could have—if you would ever answer.”
He smiled and got his thoughts together to answer her now. Apparently Ben had been thinking about his future more than I realized.
“You’re not going to like this, but sometimes I wonder if it would be best for me to bag the whole novelist thing and go backon the road for the newspaper again. I loved being a sportswriter when I had nothing to hold me close to home, and reporting on what’s going on in a ball game would be a hell of a lot easier on my broken heart than dreaming up stories.”
He smiled at her, channeling the boyish charm. “What do you think, Liz?”
She laughed and spoke like the old Elizabeth. He actually appreciated the lack of BS and ass-kissing that had been everyone’s MO with him for months. It was getting to be a bit much.
“I bet we could get you your own column now,” she said, in a tentative but surprisingly supportive tone.
His eyes widened with hope. It was short-lived.
“How close are you with book three?” she asked.
He downed the rest of his wine—in vino veritas—and spoke calmly.
“I don’t even have the island.”
“I can get you another six months, but unless you want to return your hefty advance, I can’t get you out of it, Benjamin, I’m sorry.”
Between apartment renovations and the cost of my private room on the fancy floor of Sloan Kettering, our savings were depleted. He couldn’t afford to give back the hefty advance he had received for the third book.
She put her hand back on top of his and brought back the new, softer Liz voice.
“And we have to discuss another editor.”
Ben visibly flinched.
“I’ll have it for you in six months,” he conceded. “But no editor and no proposal. I’m just gonna turn in the completed manuscript. Can you arrange that for me?” he asked, still without a clue what he’d be writing about.
“Probably, considering the circumstances. But please, just start. Maybe try and embrace the pain instead of fighting it; it may be cathartic.”
They walked to the four-o’clock boat, where the new arrivals happily disembarked. The crew released the rope to let Elizabeth and the others on. Before she left she reached up for Ben’s shoulders, pulled them down toward her, and kissed him gently on the top of his head. When he stood back up straight she was gone. He watched her ascend onto the ferry.
And when he returned home, the trike was sitting right back in front of our house again.
twenty-nine
Sicily
