Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Other Stories

advance, he realized that she was a player, and he began to treat her with a new respect. He had even offered her a raise, in case she was thinking of quitting. But she wasn’t going to quit. She quite enjoyed her work. Besides, it was so amusing now to see him stand up for her when she came into his grubby little office.

“We’ll need a picture of you for the front page, love,” he said in his most civil tones. “Would you mind if Denny took your picture, or is there one you’d rather use?”

Jackie shrugged. “Let him take one. I just had my hair done. So I make the front page as well?”

“Oh, yes. We’re devoting the whole page to Erma Bradley’s suicide, and we want a sidebar of your piece: ‘I Was the Last to See the Monster Alive.’ It will make a nice contrast. Your picture beside pudding-faced Erma.”

“I thought she looked all right for forty-seven. Didn’t the picture I got turn out all right?”

Ernie looked shocked. “We’re not using that one, Jackie. We want to remember her the way she was. A vicious ugly beastie in contrast to a pure young thing like yourself. Sort of a moral statement, like.”

HAPPINESS IS A DEAD POET

THE FIRST THING Rose Hanelon did at the Unicoi Writers’ Conference was to commandeer the reservation clerk’s typewriter and change her name tag from GUEST AUTHOR to NOBODY IN PARTICULAR.

It wouldn’t work for long, of course. By the end of the welcoming reception, the conference organizers would have introduced her to enough novices for word to get around, and she would spend the rest of the conference listening to plot summaries of romance novels (surely superfluous, since romance novels had only one plot), dodging poets carrying yellow legal pads, and trying to look sympathetic while housewives explained why they were only on chapter one after four years.

You had to go, though, she told herself, as she took the green-tagged room key and trudged off in search of an elevator. Agents and editors often turned up at these conferences, apparently under the delusion that a weekend’s confinement in a motel outside the state of New York constituted travel. These people could be useful. She always waited until two days into the conference to talk business with them, because by then they had been so steeped in novice-babble that she seemed brilliant by comparison.

Rose did not get the opportunity to feel brilliant as often as she thought she deserved, which was perhaps another reason to attend these regional conferences. Being hailed as a literary lion by Writer’s Market junkies compensated for the well-bred scorn she endured more or less regularly from the college English department, to which she did not belong. She and several of its faculty members sniped at each other with less than good-natured derision over their respective literary efforts.

The opinion in Bartleby Hall was that Rose was not worthy of serious consideration as a writer, because she wrote “accessible” fiction. That is, she used the past tense, quotation marks, and plots in her books, rather than venturing into their literary realm: experimental fiction of the sort published by the “little” magazines. These tiny subsidized (sometimes mimeographed) journals paid nothing, and were read chiefly by those planning to submit manuscripts, but they counted for much in prestige and tenure.

Rose didn’t have to worry about tenure. She was the college director of public relations (the English gang pronounced her job title as if it were something she did with no clothes on). For her part, Rose professed not to want a job teaching semicolons to future stockbrokers, and she often said that the English department would give a job to a Melville scholar any day, but that they would never have hired Herman Melville. Still, the steady trickle of disdain ate away at her ego, and she often threatened to write a “serious and pretentious novel” just to prove that she could. So far, though, time had not permitted her such an indulgence. The time that she could steal away from her job, her dog, and her laundry was spent producing carefully plotted mystery novels featuring a female deputy sheriff. Her works had not made her a household name, but they covered her car payments and inspired an occasional fan letter, which was better than nothing. Certainly better than writing derivative drivel for years and then not getting tenure.

This weekend’s conference was as much as she could manage in the way of career development. She could practice her lecturing style and sign a few books. Besides, the setting was wonderfully picturesque: a modern glass-and-redwood lodge on Whitethorn Island in Lake Adair. The choice of site was an indication that the conference organizers believed the myth about writers craving solitude. Apparently it had not occurred to them that the likes of Emily Dickinson wouldn’t be caught dead at a conference in the first place. Rose often wished she were rich enough to be temperamental, but since this was not the case, she had learned to cope with the world. The place looked pleasant enough to her, and she had quite enjoyed the boat ride over. All in all, Rose was feeling quite festive, until she remembered what writers’ conferences tended to be like.

It was a regional conference, devoted to all types of writers, without regard to merit or credentials. All that these people had in common was geography. Rose had decided she needed the practice of attending such a small, unimportant conference. If it went well, she could work up to an important event like an all-mystery convention. Being nice to people was not a thing that came naturally to Rose Hanelon, despite her job title. Public Relations at the university simply meant generating puff press releases for anyone’s slightest achievement and minimizing the football scandals with understatement and misdirection. Even a curmudgeon could do it. Thus her need to practice charm. After a few minutes’ observation of her fellow attendees, Rose began to think that she had set herself too great a task for her annual venture in celebrity.

The other guests waiting for the elevator were smiling at her, having noticed that the name tag of NOBODY IN PARTICULAR had the gold star for PROGRAM GUEST. They glanced at each other, trying to guess what this dumpy little lady with the bobbed hair and rimless spectacles could be an expert in. She did not look benevolent enough to be in Children’s Books. Children’s book editors were popularly supposed to resemble Helen Hayes or Goldie Hawn. Perhaps she was an agent. No one knew what an agent would look like.

Rose in turn noticed that the gawkers’ name tags were pale pink, signifying aspiring romance novelists. Would-be mystery writers had name tags edged in black, and western writers had a little red cowboy hat beside their names. Rose wondered what symbol would indicate the poets. Not that a mere notation on a name tag would be warning enough, she thought sardonically. Amateur poets ought to be belled and cowled like lepers, so that you could hear them coming and flee.

This thought made her smile so broadly that one of the pink tags actually ventured to speak to her. “I see you’re one of our program guests,” said the grandmotherly woman in lavender.

Rose nodded warily, edging her way into the elevator. The doors slid shut behind them, turning the elevator into an interrogation room until the third floor, at which stop Rose planned to bolt.

“Are you an editor?” the plump one asked breathlessly.

“No.” Editors were like ghosts: all novices talked about them, but very few had actually seen one. “I’m a writer,” she admitted, noting that her stock with them had dropped considerably.

The novices exchanged glances. “Not… Deidre Bellaire!”

“No. Rose Hanelon.” And you’ve never heard of me, she wanted to add.

Their faces looked blank, but at least they did not begin to thumb through their programs in search of her biography. The elevator creaked to a stop and Rose hoisted her bag out into the hallway.

“A published writer!” the lavender lady called after her. “How wonderful! Well, we’re here to take Deidre Bellaire’s workshop in writing romance novels. Tell me, what’s your advice for writing a romance novel?”

“Try sticking your finger down your throat!” said Rose, as the metal doors closed behind them.

Jess Scarberry eased through the front doors of the hotel, balancing a small canvas bag, containing his weekend wardrobe, and a large leather suitcase, containing sample copies of his mimeographed poetry magazine The Scarberry Scriptures and 137 assorted copies of his own books-softcover, $5.95. Scarberry liked to call each volume a limited edition, which indeed they were, since he could only afford to print a few hundred copies at a time, and these would take years to sell.

He looked the part of a poet, Walt Whitman variety, with his short gray beard, well-worn Levi’s, and chambray work shirt. A man who gets his inspiration from the land, his appearance seemed to suggest. But if Jess Scarberry heard America singing, the tune was “How Great Thou Art,” directed admiringly at himself, in a chorus of feminine voices.