Somewhere Between Never and Now

I: Zane “Who submitted the blank page?" We were in a program for gifted students, he and I. Part of the program was a summer course in creative writing. And I took the bus to it and he drove to it in his father's Range Rover, which was green. The summer course was unspectacular except that I was romanced by the university that hosted it; or, not the university but the college town and the ivy hill, all pastel alleys and old brick walls, where the university sat, heavy and ancient. And the class featured a competition - I recall that always. The prize was a packet of gift cards and certificates with which to enjoy the many shops and restaurants surrounding the university. The challenge: From the point of view of a chicken, illustrate a principle of fiction writing. “The blank page is mine," I said. Miles Cooper snickered behind me. He needed a lot of things, Miles Cooper did. He needed to lose the navy jacket with brass buttons, the pleated khakis, and the standard-issue horse-ass brown Oxfords that went with them; he needed to learn how to lose and he needed to learn how to write; but there were two things he didn't need: to shave, and $250 worth of gift cards. I did. Both. “Explain the blank page, please," the instructor said. He was ruddy but thin, a less common combination, affable and warm, and the hard edges of his face were not there from being slim, but from living in the world. “Well," I said, “you said to write something from the point of view of a chicken. A chicken doesn't write. A chicken has no impulse to write, no reason." “And what principle of fiction writing does this illustrate?" I gulped. Miles kicked the leg of my chair behind me, squeaking it. “Well, it illustrates two, I think: One, don't write your characters doing anything against their nature, as it's written…" “Okay…" “And don't write anything that has no reason for happening." “Yes," the instructor smiled. “Yes, I will take the latter as our correct answer, and the former as bonus points. We have a winner!" I was elated. Miles Cooper was not. “What???" he cried out behind me. “That's a scam! It's a trick - he didn't write anything! He didn't even write a damn thing!" “And a chicken wouldn't have, either. Very good work, Zane Davis." II: Faith The second time I saw Zane Davis, he was with poor Walter. Zane was in the writers' retreat I was participating in, at the Casa 1900, a deluxe hotel and cultural center in Cartagena, Colombia, where the Caribbean Sea, beryl blue and high, surrounded the Isla de Tierra Bomba. I noticed him in a bar in the city. “Okay, I'll make you a bet," he said. “If I can tell you which state your father was born in, you buy all the drinks. Deal?" “Well, you won't be able to tell it from my accent, I can assure you," Walter said. “Is it a deal, then, a bet?" “A bet. Shoot." “Your father was born in the same state as me: infancy." Walter leaned back and lifted his arms, his eyes. “That's--!" he started, then relented, “fine. Fine." Zane ordered beers for their table. “Okay. Food," he said. “Food now?" Walter said. “You're going to get the food?" “No, no. Well, maybe. Another bet." “You're not going to get me again. I know you're tricking me now." “So, it's a good deal for you: It's a game you already know and when I lose the bet, I buy us lunch." “I don't think so," said Walter. “But just out of curiosity, what's the bet?" Zane leaned over and looked at Walter's shoes beneath the table, pointed. “That I can tell you where you got your shoes." “You don't even know where I'm from," Walter said. “True, true. Very difficult." “You're going to say 'a shoe store,' or something; my closet, you're going to say." “No. No, not at all." “Screw it," Walter said. It's worth buying lunch just to find out." “It's a bet, then?" said Zane. “Yes," Walter sighed. “It's a bet." “Great," said Zane. “You got your shoes on the floor, just like I do. Arepas, senor! Por favor!" And that was when I started to understand that little lying rakish rogue with the devastating brown eyes and the smile that melted something inside me that wasn't even frozen yet. Zane. Zane Davis. Why was I so captivated by Zane Davis? That's a different part of the story. I'm afraid I haven't even introduced myself yet. But that should start a couple of weeks back… III: Faith “Faith Francesca LaNuit!" “Mother," I said. “Take your feet off of my nice table, my goodness." My mother and father had, about a year before, taken steps to ameliorate the guilt they had been feeling about the neglectful and lonely childhood my siblings and I shared. One of the steps was a monthly family dinner. My sisters and my brother would travel from the remote states to which their spouses and careers had distributed them, and I would drive up from South County, only about twenty minutes. By being the youngest child, I had been in an ideal position to outlast my siblings and inherit the reins of the family publishing business and the seaside mansion in Watch Hill, Rhode Island. My mother and father still owned the house, but I resided there. When my father retired from the publishing empire he'd established, they simplified their lives and moved to a smaller house on the East Side of Providence. A very nice house. I maintained the house in Watch Hill, and ran LaNuit-Kingsley Publishing. Kingsley was my mother's maiden name. “How dare you use my maiden name, mother!" I cried in mock offense. “'Middle,'" my mother said. “What?" “You said 'maiden.' You meant 'middle.' You don't have a maiden name yet. God knows!" “Oh, here we go." What we did at these family dinners, besides eating expensive seafood and suffering from my father's middling taste in wine, was discuss my love life and romantic prospects until I slinked off unnoticed to play with my adored nephews and niece, while they continued. But I didn't usually start it off. And don't you dare say “Freudian Slip." So, here are the highlights of what was said that late afternoon as I awaited my opportunity to steal away to my niblings, which is a dreadful, dreadful word, but the correct one: “Thirty-one years old! You're thirty-one years old!" I was, that's true. “Don't you want to have someone like your sisters do?" Well, not exactly, but yes. “You know you only have a few years left!" Not technically true, depending on your definition of “few." “You're such a beautiful, sweet girl, after all." That was probably somewhat true. If there was some reason to consider me homely or unattractive, my mother would have said “sweet" first, then “beautiful." It's kind of like the whole “such a great personality" thing. “You would have marvelous children." That's true. “I want more grandchildren! I'm getting old!" Both true. “Whatever happened with that nice boy Kevin?" Okay, so. Boy: untrue; Nice: not really true either.; what happened: a nineteen-year-old redhead. Plus his name was “Kevin." “You know your friend Miranda is engaged now, too." I don't know what “too" refers to. Maybe that she's too engaged considering her fiance is an intellectually handicapped nosegay who takes two hours to watch 60 Minutes. By the time they got around to the potential responsibility that my imaginary children would have for the publishing business in the event of my eventual but still hypothetical demise, I was in the other room playing Mario Kart with Brando. Brando is my favorite. Don't tell Raoul or Calliope. We played Mario Kart well into the ashy strands of evening while in the other room my life was planned out through age fifty. We were only interrupted when I got a text message from one of my clients, a milquetoast writer of serial romance named Cooper Miles. “I have a proposition for you. Call when u can."