Potboiler

Seized by a romantic impulse, he pulled back the comforter, put on his dressing gown, and padded downstairs to the terrace, along the way swiping a handful of pebbles from a potted bamboo. His plan was to throw them, one by one, at Carlotta’s window, waking her and perhaps arousing a third bout of lovemaking. Once outside in the cold, he felt ridiculous. Even if he successfully determined which of the many darkened windows was hers, he would probably end up breaking the glass.

He scattered the pebbles and sat down on the flagstone, gazing out at the silvery lawns. The night was splendid, the air sweet as nectar. The soothing gurgle of fountains came from points distant. Even a stray chew toy seemed artfully placed, a charming visual blip there to remind the viewer that this was a home, not a museum. Carlotta had called the house grotesque, and while that was partially true, there was also a kind of seemliness to it, a sense that if mansions had to exist, they ought to be just like this. It was probably for the best that Bill had been the one to get rich, as Pfefferkorn’s own relationship with money was characterized by that mixture of desire and contempt that comes from never having enough.

Growing up, he hadn’t felt jealous of Bill. For one thing, the gap between them hadn’t been so glaring. Bill’s parents never faced ruin, as Pfefferkorn’s often did, but neither were they the Rockefellers. Moreover, having Bill for a best friend enabled Pfefferkorn to thumb his nose at middle-class morality while still getting to ride around in a Camaro. He didn’t need money to feel on an equal footing with Bill, because he had his own form of power. Of the two of them, he was the intellectual. He was the Writer.

This paradigm held for so long that he continued to hide behind it long after it had proven false. It didn’t matter how many rejection notices he got or how many best-seller lists Bill made. There was one Writer, and it was him. It had to be thus, because otherwise he had no way to exist in their friendship. He quarantined those parts of his brain that whispered No, he’s the writer, you’re a failure, and as a result he had no concept of how much resentment he had stored up until one night, six years back, when Bill called to say he was coming into town and wanted to get dinner. Pfefferkorn hemmed and hawed. He claimed to have a mountain of papers to grade.

“You have to eat,” Bill said. “Come on, Yankel. We’ll get steaks. On me.”

Looking back, Pfefferkorn was hard-pressed to explain his reaction. Had he been struggling to figure out how he would pay his credit card bill? Had he just gotten off the phone with his agent? Whatever the reason, all the venom came spilling forth.

“I don’t want dinner,” he said.

“What?” Bill said. “Why not?”

“I don’t want dinner,” he said again. In a way, it was worse that he wasn’t yelling. “I don’t want anything, I don’t need anything, just enough already.”

“Yankel—”

“No,” Pfefferkorn said. “No. No. Enough.” He was up and moving now, pacing around his kitchen, squeezing the phone so tightly that he could feel the plastic housing starting to come apart. “Christ, you’re arrogant. You know that? Did you ever bother to ask yourself if I liked that name? No, you just assumed. Well, here’s news: I don’t like it. I can’t stand it. It drives me up the goddamned wall. You drive me up the goddamned wall. Just—leave it alone. Leave me alone.”

There was a silence. Hurt seeped over the line.

“All right,” Bill said. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

There was another silence, longer and more ominous.

“Fine,” Bill said. “But listen, Art. Ask yourself this: you’re sure you can’t think of anything I have that you want? Anything at all?”

“Go straight to hell,” Pfefferkorn said and hung up.

Nine months passed before Bill called to apologize. Pfefferkorn made his own grudging apology as well. But the repercussions had been serious and long-lasting. Pfefferkorn had not been to California since. For his part, Bill still sent first editions, and he still inscribed them touchingly, but otherwise communication between them had all but atrophied. Pfefferkorn had concluded that it was sad but better this way. Few friendships were meant to last a lifetime. People changed. Bonds disintegrated. Part of life. So he had told himself.

Now, however, he saw the entire mess as a nauseating victory of pride over love. He began to shiver. He pulled the dressing gown around himself. It was Bill’s, far too big for him. Carlotta had loaned it to him. He wrapped himself tighter still and rocked in the moonlight, weeping without sound.

Some time later he stood up, intending to go back to bed. But again he changed his mind. He headed for the office path.

17.