After a moment, Fred appeared in the doorway to the sitting room. He shuffled a foot back and forth and gazed at the floor. “You liked it?” he asked after a pause.
Jane put down her book. “The story broke my heart,” she stated plainly. “In the best way. I had reader’s pain from it.”
He furrowed his brow. “‘Reader’s pain’? What’s that?”
“The pain one feels when they must keep reading. My eyes and brain were exhausted, for I had read so much already, but I kept turning the pages for I simply had to know what happened next.”
He smiled. Jane’s heart leapt a little. “There was one thing I did not understand in your novel, however,” Jane said excitedly.
Fred’s face fell. “It doesn’t make sense. My novel doesn’t make sense.”
Jane’s heart fell, too, as she recognized how quickly she had undone all her good work with one imprudent remark. “No, I apologize!” she said quickly. “What I meant . . . oh goodness,” she cursed herself. She of all people should know better than to criticize someone’s work, to offer an opinion, informed or not, with its power to crush. “It shined with brilliance and sweetness. Forget I said anything,” she pleaded. She would soon be shown the door if she continued this way.
“No, please tell me. I’d like to know,” he said. “Something’s not working with it. I feel stuck. I can’t seem to write more.” He searched her face with pleading eyes.
Jane cringed. She chose her words as carefully as she could. She knew their power; she knew she had a nastiness in her, a judgmental nature. “I could not understand why the little boy danced with his mother,” she said. Part of her hoped he asked no further.
“How do you mean?” he asked her.
“It doesn’t matter how I mean. I don’t know anything, I am a stupid woman, I should never have said anything.”
“But you have said something, so please explain what you mean.” He placed his hands on his hips and exhaled.
“In the novel, as it is now, the mother asks the little boy to dance, and he does so.”
Fred nodded. “What’s wrong with that?” he asked.
“It bears false witness to the boy’s character.” Goodness. Jane could not believe the words leaving her mouth. She insulted his story; now she assassinated his characters. She felt like a pernicious word beast, a horrible witch, monstering his little story, which in all honesty, she found beautiful. “Shall we speak more on this another time?” she offered in a weak voice.
Fred laughed and crossed his arms. “No. What do you know about writing?” he said.
“Nothing, for certain,” Jane said. “This is my opinion. I likely misread it.”
Fred nodded. “Even still, go on.”
Jane inhaled and launched her case about the novel’s protagonist as quickly as she could. “The scene with the dance did not ring true. The little boy is angry at his mother, is he not?”
“No, he loves his mother. She’s a great woman.”
Jane nodded quickly. “I agree. The little boy loves his mother,” she said. “She hugs him always and remembers his favorite suppers, she kisses his scabs and mends his clothes even though he never thanks her, she listens to his stories even when the day has exhausted her. But that does not mean he cannot be vexed with her. He blames her for the father’s abandonment.”
Fred sat down in an armchair and was silent.
“I am wrong,” Jane said. “I apologize. I should have said naught.”
“I don’t know,” Fred said. He stared at her and seemed to search her face. “Please go on,” he said, and waited for her to continue.
Jane spoke in her gentlest tone, aware now that this was more than making amends simply to prevent her being forced out into the street. She held another writer’s soul in her hands, and she reminded herself not to crush it. “Even though she listens to him, cares for him, feeds him, the little boy cannot help himself. He rages against his father’s leaving and turns this toward the only person he can, the parent who stayed. On the day in question, it is the mother’s birthday, correct?”
“Yes.” Fred scratched his head.
Jane nodded. “The mother tells her son what she wants for her birthday. ‘I don’t want any presents. I don’t want a cake,’ she says. ‘My wish is for you to dance with me. I shall put my dress and my red shoes on and when you come home from school we will dance to “My Girl.” All I want is for you to dance with me.’ What is it?” Jane said, noticing Fred’s expression.
Fred stared at her. “That’s what she said, verbatim.”
Jane swallowed. She always remembered words this way, as though reading them from a painting in her mind; others had commented on it before, and it embarrassed her. “Beautiful words are easy to remember,” she said quickly, shrugging. “In any case, the boy doesn’t want to dance with his mother. He is emerging from childhood, interested more in skylarking with school friends than in his home life. He feels embarrassed by her sentimental request. He makes excuses that he will be busy at the agreed time, but the mother secretly believes he will come. The clock ticks by and the boy does not appear. He has not honored their appointment. The mother curses herself for weeping at the small thing but cannot stop. She takes off her shoes and prepares for bed. Then, at the last minute, when all seems lost, the boy comes. He runs home and as the mother is trudging to bed, he bursts through the front door. He takes his mother’s arms and dances with her. The mother cries tears of joy and they are a family once again.”
Fred’s face bore a look of pain. “What’s wrong with that?” he said again in a feeble voice.
Jane watched him and inhaled. “I think the boy does
