Potboiler

Paul’s parents were spending the night in the hotel before driving home in the morning. Pfefferkorn had quietly paid for them to be upgraded to a suite.

“They’re super,” Paul said. His tie was gone and his jacket pockets bulged with the bride’s shoes. “You’re the man, Dad.”

There was a silence.

“Well,” Paul said, “the chamber of consummation awaits.”

Embarrassed, Pfefferkorn looked away.

“Go on,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said. “I’ll meet you up there.”

“But I want to carry you across the threshold.”

“Then wait for me outside.”

“A man can only wait so long.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

Paul smiled and strode off.

“Sorry about that,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said. “He’s hammered.”

She pulled out a chair and sat, and together they watched as the hotel workers began to disassemble the dance floor.

“I hope it’s okay he called you Dad.”

“As long as I can call him Junior.”

She smiled and took his hand. “Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I know it turned out to be more than you expected.”

“It was a bargain,” he said.

A section of parquet was carted away.

Pfefferkorn felt he should say more—offer a piece of advice, perhaps. But what could he say that would not ring hollow? She knew better than anyone what a disaster his own marriage had been. For many fathers, it would have been easy, and sufficient, to say I love you. To Pfefferkorn this was unthinkably trite. If one could not express something in an original way, one ought not to express it at all, and so he never did. There were other, older reasons for his silence. Forced to be both mother and father, he had done neither job well, and during his daughter’s adolescence, when she started throwing his mistakes back at him, he had responded by lacquering his heart, one thin layer at a time, until it was impenetrable. He saw himself without any other option. If she had ever understood how frightened he was of losing her affection, he would have forfeited his already tenuous authority. Even now, he found himself skirting emotion by resorting to practicalities.

“Always come to me if you need help.”

“We’ll be fine, Daddy.”

“I’m not saying you won’t. Life costs a lot more than it did when I was your age. You’re young but that doesn’t mean you should suffer.”

“Daddy—”

“Say you will, please. For me.”

“Okay,” she said. “I will.”

“Thank you.”

More parquet was lifted.

“I want you to know how proud I am of you,” she said.

Pfefferkorn said nothing.

“I’ve always believed in you. I knew you had it in you. I’ve always known it would happen for you, and now that it has, I’m just . . . so happy.”

Pfefferkorn felt mildly sick.

The final piece of the dance floor was removed.

“It comes apart so fast,” his daughter said.

There was a silence. Lights began to blink off.

“I think that’s a sign,” she said.

He let go of her hand.

“Have a good night, Daddy.”

“You too . . . Sweetheart?”

“Yes?”

He paused. He understood that she was leaving him, and that this was his last chance to tell her anything.

“Careful he doesn’t drop you,” he said.

33.

Pfefferkorn met his agent for lunch.

“Great party.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve been to my fair share of Jewish weddings, but that was one of the best, if not the. Love that hora.”

“It’s a fun time.”

The agent’s salad arrived, layered in a tall vase. He worked his fork down inside and stabbed a quantity of lettuce. “So, then,” he said. “Back to the grind.”

Pfefferkorn nodded, buttering his roll.

“How’s that coming, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“It’s coming,” Pfefferkorn said.

“I understand completely,” the agent said. “I’m not trying to rush you.”

Pfefferkorn chewed.

“This is an organic process. You’re a writer, not a vending machine. You don’t push a button and bang, out it comes. Although you might be interested to know how excited everyone is. I talk to other editors, I go to Frankfurt, all I hear is, what’s Harry Shagreen’s next move. It’s up to me, of course, to shield you from all that, so you can work.”

“Thanks.”

The agent held up a hand. “You never need to thank me for doing my job.” He tilted the vase to get to the bottom of his salad. “So you’ve been making progress, though.”

Pfefferkorn regretted not having ordered an appetizer. He had finished his roll, and now he had nothing to put in his mouth. He took a long sip of water and wiped his lips on his napkin. It was starchy. “I’ve had a few thoughts,” he said.

“That’s good enough for me,” the agent said. “I’m not going to ask you anything else.”

“It’s all right,” Pfefferkorn said. “We can talk about it.”

The agent put down his salad fork. “Only if you want to.”

Pfefferkorn had spent the previous few days preparing for this moment, but now he felt unequal to the task. He took another sip of water. “It seems to me,” he said, “that the crux of the issue is the relationship between book one and book two. Last time we had both a nuclear threat and a biological one. So the question is, how do you top that?”

“Exactly. How.”

“There’s the pat answer, of course. Come up with something even more threatening.”

“I like it already.”