still wrote his novels (his writer’s block had finally ended) with a favorite fountain pen on expensive Italian paper.
I had bought Bentley countless drinks and meals on the foundation. Then, five years ago, Bentley stopped drinking. I didn’t begrudge him one meal or even a drink. His company, when he wasn’t plastered, was well worth the time and money I’d spent on him. And tonight I was happy to spring for a New York sirloin if Bentley would read “Boston Tech” before he ate his salad.
“Read it now,” I said.
“Right here?”
“Yes. I’ll just sit here.”
“And stare at me?”
“Not that I don’t find you fascinating, but I’ll do some work.” I pulled a sheaf of stories out of my bag.
I snatched glimpses of Bentley as he read, but he didn’t notice me. He was absorbed. He was always absorbed when he read.
When he looked up, he immediately ordered a cup of coffee.
“You liked it?” I asked. Bentley’s taste had always been important to me. Even though I trusted myself more than when we began, I still needed to know what he thought just to be sure. Our food had come and it sat uneaten in front of us. Bentley put down the story and picked up his knife and fork.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“Just okay?” Was I going insane? Had I lost my judgment? Did I want to discover a new writer so badly that I couldn’t see straight?
“It’s better than okay,” Bentley said, and smiled crookedly. He finished his salad and started in on his steak. I stared at him. “Call him.” He smiled.
“Bastard,” I said.
He continued to chew without paying much attention to me.
“You think I have to read the rest of the stories?” I asked.
“That’s up to you, Jane. I’m not your father or your guru. You’re almost forty years old.”
“I’m only thirty-eight.”
He shrugged and took another bite of his steak. His bites were huge and he chewed each piece for a long time.
“You know what it reminds me of,” he said. I knew. I took a bite of my own steak. “It reminds me of that first time, the time with Max Wellman. I mean, we’ve seen other good stories since, but this is better than most. You know, when I read Max’s story all those years ago—‘Hook, Line, and Stinker’—I was so envious, I could have spit.”
I swallowed.
“What about this one?” I asked.
“I’d like to find this Jack Reilly and beat the hell out of him.”
“Excellent,” I said.
Chapter 7
I sat up most of the night reading the rest of the stories. By morning I was sure that I could call Jack Reilly and tell him that he’d won this year’s fellowship.
I waited until I got into the office. Tad wasn’t there. He had an early class. I took a sip of my coffee and picked up the phone. This was my favorite part of running the foundation. I loved calling people with good news. I dialed the number on the last page of the story only to receive the message that the number had been disconnected. No forwarding number was given. I held the phone to my ear and listened to the electronic message over and over again.
I knew I was more disappointed than I should have been. It was only a story, but I couldn’t lose Jack Reilly, not after he’d entered my fantasy life, which at the time was none too rich. The rational thing to do would have been to go to the next story, but I wasn’t interested in the next best.
Maybe this time, with the discovery of Jack, I’d even let myself be interviewed. The two of us would be interviewed together from the house where he would be working, the house with a view of the ocean and the bay. Maybe Max Wellman would be flipping through
I had to find Jack Reilly. Maybe he was my second chance. For all I knew, he was twenty years old, gay, or married. Still, when my imagination took hold of something, it wasn’t likely to let go until the fantasy had played itself out.
Tad came in while I was still staring at the phone.
“Jane?”
“His phone’s been disconnected,” I said.
“Whose?”
“Jack Reilly’s.”
“On to the next.”
“I don’t want the next person. I want Jack Reilly.”
“Jane, you look feverish.”
“I’m going to find him. You want to come?”
“Cool—an adventure.” He grabbed his jacket.
My car was garaged at a place on Beacon Hill, about three blocks from our house. I didn’t use the car often. There wasn’t much need for it in Boston and parking was always a problem. Our house didn’t have much garage space. When it was built, cars weren’t an issue.
I took the story and put it in my bag. I was now seeing everything through the eyes of Jack Reilly, a man I didn’t even know. The bag looked dingy.
“I’m going to have to change my clothes,” I said. I was wearing one of my usual outfits, black wool pants, a gray turtleneck, and black sneakers. It wasn’t that I had no fashion sense exactly, it was just that I didn’t care.
I remembered once going into the old Ritz with Priscilla before it was renovated. We had tea and I noticed that the arms of the chairs in the lounge were worn. The furniture was good and expensive, but shabby.
“Old Bostonians like that,” Priscilla had said. “It makes them feel comfortable. The Ritz has a tattered grace.”
I was like the old Ritz. I had a tattered grace. I was indifferent to what was modern and fashionable. I liked fine things, but I was happy to keep them until they crumbled in my hands.
“We can shop on the way,” Tad said.
“I can go home and take something out of my closet.”
“No you can’t,” he said. “Let’s shop on the way. We’ll take a cab to Newbury Street and walk from there.”
“You don’t think I have anything appropriate?”
“Jane, I’ve known you for six months and I’ve never seen you wear something that would be appropriate for anything other than a funeral.”
What I was wearing was not appropriate for a funeral. I’d never wear trousers to a funeral. I was embarrassed to think that I was so somberly and carelessly dressed that a young man would notice it. Still, I figured he was doing me a favor. We stopped at Alan Bilzerian’s, a boutique on Newbury Street, where I picked up a forest green suit with a crisp white shirt. In the back of the store there was an array of expensive shoes and bags. I checked over the shoes and chose a brown pair of flats that were made in Italy. The price of the shoes could have been used to take a chunk out of the national debt, but I bought them anyway. I had the money because I rarely spent any. My own trust had barely been used and I had never touched the principal. I also got a stipend from the
