The Lacuna
Page 109
“Well, in that case there’s nothing to be done. This is just more of the usual, we could have expected it. I should have thought, before I asked you to go with me.”
She began slitting envelopes open. Her hair was in a net, her wool sweater buttoned to the throat; she looked ten years older than when I’d seen her last.
“At least it can’t get any worse now. We’re walking away from the wreck,” I said. “It’s just what happens.”
“What happens?” she asked, in a curiously snipped tone.
“Del árbol caído todos hacen leña. From the fallen tree everybody makes firewood.”
At that she looked up. “Mr. Shepherd, where did we fall?”
February 14
Dear Shep,
What’s tickin? Be my valentine? Oops—you’re taken! I read all about it in the papers. Well, hats off to you pal, I’ve thought of bagging an older pigeon for myself. She wouldn’t ask for a lot in the boodle department and it throws everyone else off the scent. But the hell you yell. One of the hearts you cracked north of the Mason-Dixon was mine. Did I have to read about it in the Echo?
When are you coming to New York? The new job at the museum is steady, mostly sweetening up the top cats for cash. I’ve got an apartment in the Lower East Seventies now, very voot. Kerouac was spotted in the neighborhood, and Artie Shaw plays in a joint on the corner. But forget about bebop, keep your eye out now for a potent lad named Frankie Laine. Tell him Tom-cat sent you.
Are you the only news in Asheville these days? Howzabout that old girl Zelda, think she’d marry me? I hear she resides in one of the white-coat joints there in your fair city. Did Scott come around on visiting days, when he was still kicking? You need to cut me in on the juicy stuff. Or are you riding so high on the rocket to fame, you can’t throw your old pal a saludo? From now on I’ll just have to read Star Week to find out what’s oop-pop-a-da with Harrison Shepherd.
Dig you later,
TOM CUDDY
March 11, 1948
Dear Tom,
It’s strange you asked about Zelda Fitzgerald. She died in a fire two nights ago. It started in the hospital kitchen and went up the dumbwaiter shaft into her room, a freak tragedy. There’s no guessing what the national presses will say, but I’m cutting you in on the scoop as you asked. I heard about the dumbwaiter from the fire marshal himself, this morning at the tobacco stand where I get the morning papers. Highland Hospital is just at the top of my street. Zelda and I have been neighbors for years, but I haven’t given her much thought. Now I feel like a bum. It could have been any of us in that hospital, Tom.
The rest of my news is not such a bring-down. I am coming along very well on the new book, and have signed a motion-picture package on the last one. Most definitely, I am not married, or involved in any secret romance. Those stories are completely invented. The Violet Brown in question is my stenographer. She wears cotton gloves indoors and unless some terrible accident has deceived us, never has shared a coffee cup that touched my lips. She accompanied me on the research trip to Yucatán, so the gossip-marketers must have learned about it and fallen in love with their fantasies. Believe me, the lady is chaste. This latest run of stories has been very troubling, harder for her than for me. I’m constantly stupefied that anyone believes the nonsense that runs in the papers. And yet they do, time and again. Tommy, you ought to know I am not one for marriage, any more than I was one for the army, back when you and I were ducking bullets for the National Museum. So put your poor cracked heart back together, soldier. I didn’t snub you from any wedding list.
I have no plans for New York soon, but you should visit here. Asheville has changed since the war, we are said to be a tourist destination, first rate. Out on the Tunnel Road they have a brand-new contraption that will wash and wax an auto with the driver still in it. We have instant coffee here too, and lady drivers. Are we voot? You shall have to come and see for yourself. Until then I am, as you may have heard,
Still single,
SHEP
March 22
Dear Shep,
My friends are all green that I am hep to Shep, especially when I told them about your movie package. Holy Joe, congrats on that. Could you find a tiny role for me? I’ll be the lad in the loincloth sitting on a rock, smoking a herd of Camels during the battle scene, trying to sneak a gander at Robert Taylor. Lord and Butler, that fellow is cuter than snappers. And pointing the finger at anything pink now, I see in the papers.
Please advise: a friend here seems to be in that kind of hash. He works in radio but has the looks for television—Puerto Rican, a Latin dreamboat type. With brains, even, this boy reads, and very impressed I know you, by the way. Up until last year he was a steaming romeo. Now he can’t get hired for anything. He was mixed up with the Communists ages ago, and it’s a gestanko scene for those cats now, people are even getting deported. It happened to a Negro lady I knew from the museum, a writer who reviews our shows for the Harlem papers. I didn’t even know she was foreign. Evidently her family came from Trinidad in the ’20s when she was a tiny tot. So one day this lady is typing her story on Negro artists, then the FBI knocks on her door and she’s cooling her heels on Ellis Island, next stop Trinidad. You can see why my Puerto Rican pal is worried. You’re a foreigner too. He says to ask if you know some cat in the higher-ups who could help him out.
The hell you yell, Asheville has instant coffee now? I might have to come and review the action myself. The boss sends me out on the trail to beat the gums with the richie riches, so they’ll loan out their Picassos for our big shows. Lately he’s been scobo for the Vanderbilts. So wipe your feet on the mat, cat, I might be headed for your roost.
Later,
TOM CUDDY
April 23
Dear Mr. Shepherd,
Your news is extremely welcome. All of us at Stratford and Sons are pleased to know your novel is moving forward at a clip. I’ve read the chapters you sent, and find them in every way up to the standard we expect from our boy Shepherd. This may be your best to date. This contract explains the terms we discussed by telephone. The late summer completion date you suggest will be very suitable. You’ll hear soon from our sales department to discuss the title, dust jacket, and so forth. They are determined to include an author photograph this time, so please give the request a fair consideration. I’m afraid your title, The Name of This Place, does not strike us as quite the ticket. I believe Cataclysm of the Empire has a good ring. But we have time to sort that out.
She began slitting envelopes open. Her hair was in a net, her wool sweater buttoned to the throat; she looked ten years older than when I’d seen her last.
“At least it can’t get any worse now. We’re walking away from the wreck,” I said. “It’s just what happens.”
“What happens?” she asked, in a curiously snipped tone.
“Del árbol caído todos hacen leña. From the fallen tree everybody makes firewood.”
At that she looked up. “Mr. Shepherd, where did we fall?”
February 14
Dear Shep,
What’s tickin? Be my valentine? Oops—you’re taken! I read all about it in the papers. Well, hats off to you pal, I’ve thought of bagging an older pigeon for myself. She wouldn’t ask for a lot in the boodle department and it throws everyone else off the scent. But the hell you yell. One of the hearts you cracked north of the Mason-Dixon was mine. Did I have to read about it in the Echo?
When are you coming to New York? The new job at the museum is steady, mostly sweetening up the top cats for cash. I’ve got an apartment in the Lower East Seventies now, very voot. Kerouac was spotted in the neighborhood, and Artie Shaw plays in a joint on the corner. But forget about bebop, keep your eye out now for a potent lad named Frankie Laine. Tell him Tom-cat sent you.
Are you the only news in Asheville these days? Howzabout that old girl Zelda, think she’d marry me? I hear she resides in one of the white-coat joints there in your fair city. Did Scott come around on visiting days, when he was still kicking? You need to cut me in on the juicy stuff. Or are you riding so high on the rocket to fame, you can’t throw your old pal a saludo? From now on I’ll just have to read Star Week to find out what’s oop-pop-a-da with Harrison Shepherd.
Dig you later,
TOM CUDDY
March 11, 1948
Dear Tom,
It’s strange you asked about Zelda Fitzgerald. She died in a fire two nights ago. It started in the hospital kitchen and went up the dumbwaiter shaft into her room, a freak tragedy. There’s no guessing what the national presses will say, but I’m cutting you in on the scoop as you asked. I heard about the dumbwaiter from the fire marshal himself, this morning at the tobacco stand where I get the morning papers. Highland Hospital is just at the top of my street. Zelda and I have been neighbors for years, but I haven’t given her much thought. Now I feel like a bum. It could have been any of us in that hospital, Tom.
The rest of my news is not such a bring-down. I am coming along very well on the new book, and have signed a motion-picture package on the last one. Most definitely, I am not married, or involved in any secret romance. Those stories are completely invented. The Violet Brown in question is my stenographer. She wears cotton gloves indoors and unless some terrible accident has deceived us, never has shared a coffee cup that touched my lips. She accompanied me on the research trip to Yucatán, so the gossip-marketers must have learned about it and fallen in love with their fantasies. Believe me, the lady is chaste. This latest run of stories has been very troubling, harder for her than for me. I’m constantly stupefied that anyone believes the nonsense that runs in the papers. And yet they do, time and again. Tommy, you ought to know I am not one for marriage, any more than I was one for the army, back when you and I were ducking bullets for the National Museum. So put your poor cracked heart back together, soldier. I didn’t snub you from any wedding list.
I have no plans for New York soon, but you should visit here. Asheville has changed since the war, we are said to be a tourist destination, first rate. Out on the Tunnel Road they have a brand-new contraption that will wash and wax an auto with the driver still in it. We have instant coffee here too, and lady drivers. Are we voot? You shall have to come and see for yourself. Until then I am, as you may have heard,
Still single,
SHEP
March 22
Dear Shep,
My friends are all green that I am hep to Shep, especially when I told them about your movie package. Holy Joe, congrats on that. Could you find a tiny role for me? I’ll be the lad in the loincloth sitting on a rock, smoking a herd of Camels during the battle scene, trying to sneak a gander at Robert Taylor. Lord and Butler, that fellow is cuter than snappers. And pointing the finger at anything pink now, I see in the papers.
Please advise: a friend here seems to be in that kind of hash. He works in radio but has the looks for television—Puerto Rican, a Latin dreamboat type. With brains, even, this boy reads, and very impressed I know you, by the way. Up until last year he was a steaming romeo. Now he can’t get hired for anything. He was mixed up with the Communists ages ago, and it’s a gestanko scene for those cats now, people are even getting deported. It happened to a Negro lady I knew from the museum, a writer who reviews our shows for the Harlem papers. I didn’t even know she was foreign. Evidently her family came from Trinidad in the ’20s when she was a tiny tot. So one day this lady is typing her story on Negro artists, then the FBI knocks on her door and she’s cooling her heels on Ellis Island, next stop Trinidad. You can see why my Puerto Rican pal is worried. You’re a foreigner too. He says to ask if you know some cat in the higher-ups who could help him out.
The hell you yell, Asheville has instant coffee now? I might have to come and review the action myself. The boss sends me out on the trail to beat the gums with the richie riches, so they’ll loan out their Picassos for our big shows. Lately he’s been scobo for the Vanderbilts. So wipe your feet on the mat, cat, I might be headed for your roost.
Later,
TOM CUDDY
April 23
Dear Mr. Shepherd,
Your news is extremely welcome. All of us at Stratford and Sons are pleased to know your novel is moving forward at a clip. I’ve read the chapters you sent, and find them in every way up to the standard we expect from our boy Shepherd. This may be your best to date. This contract explains the terms we discussed by telephone. The late summer completion date you suggest will be very suitable. You’ll hear soon from our sales department to discuss the title, dust jacket, and so forth. They are determined to include an author photograph this time, so please give the request a fair consideration. I’m afraid your title, The Name of This Place, does not strike us as quite the ticket. I believe Cataclysm of the Empire has a good ring. But we have time to sort that out.
