1. A Familiar Face

As the Wyndhams were finishing dinner in the cozy little kitchen at the back of their Stag Harbor “cottage,” the grandfather clock in the hallway struck eight. Damon, waiting until the last chime sounded before adding milk to his coffee, cheerfully commented that, at that very moment, a man was being lethally injected in Texas.

“Did you really need to tell us that?” asked his sister, Chloe, with sincere distress.

“And with so much glee?” protested his other sister, Liana, always on the lookout for an opportunity to censure him.

“Who is it?” asked his mother, Marguerite, looking at him with furrowed brow as if it might actually be someone she knew, like Uncle Willy or her third grade teacher. She was what you might call a worry wart.

“I don’t know. I happened to hear it on the news yesterday. But there’s definitely some comfort that it’s not me.”

“That’s a selfish way to look at things!” Liana exclaimed. She was only seventeen, but sometimes she talked like a school marm. Thankfully, her strong features were softened by a luxurious chestnut mane of hair and a smile which, unfortunately, did not show itself very often.

“Well,” Damon said, “seeing that the fact just popped into my head, I don’t see how I could’ve used it more fruitfully. Should I denounce the brutality of a society that sanctions such things or should I wring my hands in sympathy for the poor man whose DNA will probably prove he’s innocent after he’s dead? Neither of those displays will do anyone any more good than they would do me. I prefer to regard the event with a spirit of gratitude – things are bad for me right now, but not so bad as that. Here I am seated in the bosom of my family having a delightful dinner with coffee as good as can be expected outside of Starbucks. (Do try boiling the milk, Mother.) Anyway, I don’t feel spontaneous comments such as that require justification. There’s too much apology in the world today.”

Damon was twenty, lanky but well-built in the way of someone who is naturally so, and evidently spent a lot of time indoors since he was a bit on the pale side. If left to its own devices his blue-black hair might have resembled Superman’s; instead it was short and spiky as a cactus. He was clean-shaven (at least until the afternoon when his beard began to show) and had no piercings or tattoos. He wore quietly fashionable clothes that bore expensive labels but had been through the wash cycle a few times.

“At least a man sentenced to death,” Damon continued, “has the satisfaction of knowing he has brought society to its last resource because he is a man of such fatal importance nothing can subdue him but the supreme effort of law. In a way, you know, that’s a kind of success.”

“In a way,” repeated Liana sarcastically.

“Let’s talk about something else,” pleaded Chloe, smelling a conflict coming on.

“How about my friend, Richard Cantwell,” Damon said, smiling, “who’s down in the dumps right now. I’m afraid he’s the kind of person to resort to an overdose when faced with adversity.”

“But why?” asked Chloe, concerned as usual for the underdog.

“He can’t get anything done and his wife is a pusher.”

“She’s not a drug dealer?” Chloe asked, aghast.

“No, a people-pusher.”

“Is he ill?” asked Marguerite, who was always on the lookout for fellow invalids.

“Overworked, I suppose. He’s not one of those writers who can pump out bestsellers. Under favorable circumstances, he could produce a fairly good book once every two or three years but the failure of Good at Heart demoralized him, and now he’s struggling to finish his next novel. His marriage won’t survive another failure.”

“The enjoyment with which he anticipates it!” murmured Liana, glancing at her sister.

“That’s not accurate,” said Damon. “It’s true I envy Richard because he persuaded a beautiful woman to believe in him and share his risky lifestyle, but I’ll be very sorry to see him go to the dogs. He’s my one good, writer friend. It just irritates me to see a person tempting fate. After his first novel, A Pleasing Delusion, got a decent advance he expected to receive future payments in geometric proportion. When I hinted that it might not keep up, he smiled condescendingly, probably thinking I was judging him by my own deficiencies. Which I wasn’t. In this business, you have to be cautious. (Pass me some of that angel food cake, Chloe.) I’m stronger than Richard -- I can keep my eyes open and wait.”

“Is his wife supportive?” asked Marguerite in her half-absent way. Although still a young woman, she bore herself like an invalid since she suffered from a host of difficult to diagnose ailments.

“Not really since she refused to live in his Hell’s Kitchen railroad flat – she insisted on buying an Upper East Side condo. I’m surprised he didn’t hire a car and driver for her! Good at Heart, his next novel, earned less than his first one, and now, even if he finishes his current one, I doubt he’ll find a publisher since Good at Heart was a failure.”

“But can’t his wife work?” asked Chloe. Of his two sisters, Chloe, aged fifteen, more physically resembled Damon but she spoke with a gentleness that indicated a less assertive personality. She wore a wrap dress she’d made herself from a silky, russet-hued fabric which complemented her fair skin and violet eyes.

“Lucinda Cantwell’s grandfather happens to be our rich neighbor, Howard Peck, which has given her Junior League aspirations so she’s a lady who lunches in between charity work.”

“Why doesn’t Howard Peck help them out?”

“I understand he’s pretty tight-fisted. He’s a self-made man so he has no sympathy for under-achievers.”

“Doesn’t Richard have any relatives who could help?” Chloe didn’t notice when Liana rolled her eyes for their mother’s benefit.

“I’ve never heard him mention anyone. I think he’s an orphan. No, his goose is cooked. A man in his position should either marry a hooker or an heiress, and in many ways the hooker would be preferable.”

“How can you say that?” asked Chloe. “You never stop talking about the advantage of having money!”

“Oh, a hooker wouldn’t be preferable for a hustler like me – I need an heiress to soften my edges. But for a guy like Richard who considers himself an ‘artist,’ who’s conscientious about his output, and who’s too sensitive to be a waiter, a hooker would bring in the cash and not be too demanding. If he had no distractions, he could probably earn a comfortable living from his writing. He wouldn’t require extravagances – the quality of his work would be its own reward. As it is, he’s done for.”

“And I repeat,” Liana said, “that you enjoy the prospect.”

“Not at all. If I seem unsympathetic it’s only because my intellect enjoys the clear perception of a fact. Some strawberries, please, Chloe – and the whipped cream.”

“But this is a sad situation, Damon,” Marguerite said. “I suppose they can’t even afford to get away from the city?”

“Not even to Coney Island.”

“What if you invited them to come here for a week?” Marguerite indicated the kitchen, whose bay window overlooked a small garden, and which was furnished with an old farm table and sideboard that she had “antiqued.” She would have dearly loved to furnish her entire home with real antiques had her small widow’s pension allowed her to do so.

“Now, Mother,” Liana, alarmed at the prospect, said somewhat sternly, “you know that’s impossible.”

“I thought we might make an effort, dear, since a small vacation might mean the world to your brother’s friend.”

“No, not a good idea,” agreed Damon. (“For once,” thought Liana.) “You wouldn’t get along with Lucinda, and then if her uncle happened to be at the Peck’s at the same time it could be awkward.”

“Why on earth would that be?” asked Marguerite.

Damon went on to explain all that he had learned from his friend Richard about the Peck family. Trevor and Dillon Peck were the sons of Howard Peck, a millionaire who’d made his money buying and selling New York real estate. Trevor, the elder son, had disappointed his father by showing no interest in the family business. He drifted from being a literary agent to editing books to writing novels and then book reviews and articles for Manhattan publications. Dillon was more than willing to follow in his father’s footsteps, but working with Howard was difficult due to his exacting demands and scathing displays of temper when those demands were not met. Dillon hung in as long as he could and then used his savings to open an art gallery, which greatly displeased his father, who washed his hands of him. When Dillon died of Lou Gehrig’s disease at the age of forty, he left his wife and two children in dire straits.

Howard Peck had little use for his ne’er do well sons nor for their offspring. Never mind that they’d considered themselves tolerably happy -- in his eyes they were failures, and he washed his hands of them. Of late he’d had minimal communications with them. During the past few years, his son, Trevor, had come only twice with his family, and his widowed daughter-in-law had come only once with her family. Sadly, these two families did not get along owing to the enmity of the two wives: Trevor’s wife Sheila and Dillon’s widow, Edwina.

“Goodness!” Marguerite said. “I had no idea when Julia Montcalm told me that Howard Peck’s son and granddaughter were coming that it was such a kettle of fish.”

“Why can’t Howard Peck get his sons’ families to be friends?” asked Chloe. “You said he’s on good terms with both of them.”

“I don’t think he cares.” Damon scooped out the last of the whipped cream and licked it off his finger. “Five years from now,” he said, “if Richard is still alive, I’ll be able to help him out with his mortgage payments.”

Liana’s lips twitch ironically, letting loose one or her rare smiles. Chloe laughed.

“O ye of little faith!” Damon exclaimed. “Richard is an old-fashioned, impractical ‘artist’ but I’m a creature of twenty-first century technology. He can’t or won’t make concessions – he can’t supply the market. I – well, right now, you may say I do nothing, but that’s a misperception since I’m learning my trade: literature nowadays is a trade. Aside from the occasional genius who succeeds by cosmic force, a successful writer is a successful tradesman. He thinks first and foremost of the market; it gets flooded with one kind of writing, he’s ready with something fresh and new. He knows many sources of income, and he’ll get payment from many quarters – none of your impractical selling to a middleman who makes all the profit. Look, if I’d been in Richard’s place, I’d have made a mint out of Good at Heart. I’d have networked with people in the media, the movie industry, bloggers, you name it. Richard can’t schmooze, he’s behind the times. He still uses a typewriter for God’s sakes! He peddles a manuscript as if he lived in the golden age of Maxwell Perkins. But the literary marketplace today is quite different – it’s profit-driven and run by men of business, however seedy.”

“It sounds ignoble,” said Liana.

“Not if you want to make money, and I am slowly but surely learning how. It won’t be by writing novels – I’m not cut out for that – which is a shame since there’s good money in it. But I have plenty of scope. In five years, I shall be making pots of money. And to those who have, it shall be given – when I’m making a decent income of my own I’ll be able to attract a woman who also has a decent income so that my wealth will be increased.”

Chloe laughed. “It would be ironic if Lucinda Cantwell inherited a lot of money when Howard Peck died – and that can’t be so very long since the man must be in his eighties.”

“I don’t see that there’s any chance of their getting much,” replied Damon meditatively. “His two sons and sister-in-law will probably get the first helping, and then if it comes to the third generation, his other son has a daughter, and by her being invited here it seems she’s the favorite granddaughter. No, I doubt Lucinda will get much at all.”

“Do you think Richard counted on Lucinda inheriting her grandfather’s money when he married her?” asked Marguerite.

“Richard? No way! If only he were capable of such forethought!”

“How about a game of Scrabble?” Chloe asked to forestall any piquant comment Liana might have been about to make.

The Wyndham abode was a modest, white-shuttered, grey-shingled, two-storied house which had been in Marguerite’s family for generations, handed down from ancestors related to Henry Delmont, the Village of Stag Harbor's first postmaster and second customs collector. Of the seventy American ports from which whalers sailed in the early nineteenth century, Stag Harbor was the first deep-water port in the region so that it was soon filled with people from such far-flung places as Madagascar, the Fiji Islands, Ceylon, and the Sandwich Islands who could be seen mingling on the streets with Algonquian Indians, although today the population was predominately white, Damon noted ironically as he went for his morning run. The windmill on Long Wharf was his turnaround point and its quaintness never ceased to please him. It was off-season so there was little traffic this morning and few pedestrians.

The family had previously used the home as a summer retreat, but Marguerite made it her primary residence after the death of her husband, who had been a veterinarian in New York City. Unable to work due to the lethargy produced by her various ailments, Marguerite had managed to eke out a living on the life insurance and pension left by her deceased husband which terminated upon her death. Liana and Chloe supplemented the family income by working seasonally in whatever trendy tourist trap paid the most and by babysitting. Liana thought she might someday use her musical abilities to give lessons and Chloe hoped to work as a teacher’s aide.

As well as holidays and the occasional weekend, Damon, who now lived in New York City, spent a week with them every September which was his favorite time of the year at the beach, and today marked the middle of his annual visit. The strained relations which invariably made the second half of the week difficult for all of them had already become noticeable.

After he’d showered and breakfasted, Damon had a tête á tête with his mother in her sewing room where she was working on some new curtains, and then left the house to visit an internet café and check his email. Shortly after his departure, Liana went to check on her mother who was now reclining on a chaise longue looking peeked.

“Damon wants more money,” Marguerite said after she and Liana had sat in silence for a few moments after discussing the measurements of the new curtains.

“Why am I not surprised. I hope you told him he couldn’t have it.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Marguerite replied in a feeble, worried tone.

“Let me deal with him. There’s no money to spare and he knows it,” Liana said grimly, setting her features in sullen determination. There was a brief silence.

“What’s he to do, Liana?”

“To do? How do other people do? What do Chloe and I do?”

“You don’t earn enough to support yourself, dear.”

“Oh, well!” Liana exclaimed. “If you begrudge us our room and board–”

“Don’t be so short-tempered. Of course I don’t begrudge you anything, dear. I only meant that Damon does try, you know.”

“It’s ridiculous that he doesn’t earn as much as he needs. And to hear him bash his friend Richard who works hard all day, every day. Why should we have to pinch pennies so he can wallow in idleness? You always sacrifice our needs to his!”

“He’s not idle, Liana. He’s perfecting his art.”

“You should call it his ‘profession,’ or better yet, his ‘hustle.’ What does he mean by ‘perfecting,’ anyway? How do we know he’s perfecting anything? At this rate, he’ll never be self-supporting, and these days, there’s no shortage of thirty-ish ‘men’ who are content to mooch off their parents. If we had more money, I wouldn’t say anything, but we can’t live on what he leaves us, and I’m not going to let you try. I’ll tell Damon that he’s got to support himself.”

Another silence, and a longer one. Marguerite furtively wiped a tear from her cheek.

“It seems very cruel to refuse,” she said after a while, “when another year may give him the opportunity he’s waiting for.”

“Opportunity? What opportunity?”

“He says that it always comes if a man knows how to wait.”

“And the people who support him starve meanwhile! Just think, a bit, Mother. Suppose anything were to happen to you? What becomes of Chloe and me? And what becomes of Damon, too? It’s the truest kindness to compel him to earn a living. He gets more and more incapable of it.”

“You can’t say that, Liana. He earns a little more each year. But for that, I’d have my doubts. We must be fair to him, you know. I do have faith that he’ll succeed and when he does, he’ll pay us all back,”

Liana began to bite her nails, a disagreeable habit Marguerite had given up trying to break her of.

“Then why doesn’t he live more economically?”

“I really don’t see how he can live more cheaply in New York—“

“The cheapest place in the world.”

“Nonsense, Liana!”

“I know what I’m talking about. I’ve read articles in magazines. He could live very well on a couple of hundred a week, including his clothes.”

“But he has told us so often that it’s no use to him to live like that. He must go places where he must spend a little or he makes no progress.”

“Well all I can say is,” exclaimed Liana impatiently, “it’s very lucky for him that he’s got a mother who willingly sacrifices her daughters for him.”

“That’s what you always say. You don’t care how unkind you are!”

“It’s the truth.”

“Chloe never talks like that.”

“Because she’s afraid to be honest.”

“No, because she loves me too much. I can’t bear to talk to you, Liana. The older I get and the weaker I get the more insensitive you are to my feelings.”

This clash of tempers lasted for several minutes, revolving around the same issues but achieving no resolution before Liana flung herself out of the room in disgust. Scenes of this kind had been taking place more and more frequently as her teen-aged daughters grew older.

At dinner that evening, Liana was rather more caustic than usual, but this was the only sign that remained of her stormy mood. Damon resumed the conversation of the previous day.

“I was thinking,” he said, “that you girls could write something. I’m convinced you could make money if you tried. There’s a tremendous market for Young Adult novels right now. Why not patch one together?” Seeing their astonished faces, he added, “I’m serious!”

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” retorted Liana.

“I’m not good at fiction-writing, especially something for teen-aged girls, but you two would be naturals. These books sell like hot cakes, especially the series. And there’s no financial outlay so you wouldn’t be risking anything. If you’d put your mind to it, I’m sure you could be a success.”

“Better to say, ‘abandon your mind to it.’”

“There you go! You’re sharp enough! Always have a quote or a quip!”

“And please, why are you suggesting we take up such an inferior kind of work?”

“Inferior? Oh, if you can be a Margaret Atwood or Joyce Carol Oates begin immediately! I was only suggesting what seemed practical. But I don’t think you have genius, Liana. People have got that ancient prejudice so firmly rooted in their heads – you mustn’t write except at the dictation of the Holy spirit. I tell you, writing is a business. Check out a dozen or so popular Young Adult books from the library and study them to discover their essential points. come up with a few ideas of your own, the go to work diligently, so many pages a day. there’s no need for divine inspiration – that belongs to another sphere of life. We talk of literature as a trade, not of Hemingway, Joyce and Faulkner. If I could get that in Richard’s head. He thinks I’m a philistine most of the time. What the hell—” seeing his mother’s look he amended, “I mean what the heck is there in typography to make sacred everything it deals with? I don’t advocate pornography, just good, coarse, marketable stuff for the world’s vulgarians. Just give it a thought.”

Liana rolled her eyes and Chloe giggled.

“We smart people are entitled to supply the mob with the food it likes. We’re not geniuses so if we sit down in a spirit of long-eared gravity we’ll produce only commonplace work. Why don’t we use our wits to make money? If I had the skill I’d produce novels out-trashing the trashiest that ever sold a million copies. but it requires skill and to deny that is a gross error on the part of literary pedants. To please the vulgar you must incarnate the genius of vulgarity. My talent doesn’t lend itself to addressing the bulkiest multitude – I plan to write for the upper middle-class intellect, the people who like to feel that what they are reading has some special cleverness but who can’t distinguish the difference between diamonds and zirconia. That’s why I’m so slow in getting started. Every month I feel more certain of myself, however. That last thing of mine in Pavement was a bull’s eye – it wasn’t too flashy, it wasn’t too solid. I heard two guys discussing it on the train.”

While Damon was speaking, Marguerite kept glancing at Liana, trying to get her to appreciate the significance of his words to no avail. Right after dinner Liana nailed Damon while he was smoking in the garden with a look on her face which warned him of what was coming.

“I want you to tell me, Damon, how much longer you plan to count on Mother for support. I mean exactly – tell me how much longer it will be.”

Damon looked up at the darkening, tree-fringed sky and reflected.

“I’d say a year, to be on the safe side.”

“Better to say your favorite ‘five years’ instead.”

“No, I’m serious. In a year, if not before, I’ll be able to re-pay my debts. You don’t believe this but I have the honor of being a pretty shrewd customer -- I know whereof I speak.”

“And suppose something happened to Mother before that time?”

“I’d manage.”

“You? What of Chloe and me?”

“You would write Young Adult novels.”

Liana left him in a huff, disturbing the rustic silence when she slammed the screen door on her way back into the house.

The next morning, Damon, having completed his morning run, had stopped for a coffee and bagel on Main Street. He sat on a bench outside on the sunny side of the street in order to further enjoy the Indian summer day with a thoughtful smile on his face. Now and then he stroked his stubbly jaws with thumb and fingers. Occasionally, he became aware of the few people who passed and surveyed them from head to foot. Two people who were advancing in silent companionship caught his eye. The one was a man of fifty, grizzled, hard featured, slightly bowed in the shoulders who sported a straw fedora and a seersucker suit. With him was a young woman who looked to be Damon’s age who wore a slate-colored dress with a lacy white cotton cardigan pushed up to her elbows, ballet flats and no jewelry. Her short curly auburn hair was visible beneath the daffodil yellow sunhat she wore. She wasn’t beautiful but she was striking in part because of the grave expression on her peachy-creamy face. Her gate was gracefully modest and she seemed to be enjoying the salt air.

As they passed Damon thought they looked familiar but couldn’t place them. The man glanced at him, and Damon wondered, “Where the heck do I know them from?”

As he was walking home, it suddenly hit him where he knew them from -- the New York Public Library Reading Room.