Read Online Compliments of a Friend by Susan Isaacs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Isaacs
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or murder? Xanax in a big, fat antioxidant capsule? A dandy photograph of Stan and Ryn ran on the front page, along with insets of old-money Giddings House and Vanessa’s nouveau-riche-but-somewhat-tasteful Tara. And when you turned to page 47 to continue reading, there was a photo of a Sunrise Antiox Detox bottle with a scattering of large brown gel caps, some of them pulled apart, presumably to show how easy they were to open.
“Good enough for your friend Vanessa?” my friend Nancy Miller demanded that morning.
I held the phone away from my ear as she made one of those hideous Georgia ya-hoo sounds, half yell, half screech.
“I whispered a few words into the shell-pink ear of a reporter pal at the Post. If I’d given it to Newsday, there was a chance it might be handled tastefully; sometimes they’re such prissy fucks. But the Post, bless their darling, vulgar hearts. None of that ‘respected businessman’ shit. ‘Did Sox Heir Slay Ex for Sex?’ ”
“Nancy, thank you! God bless you! I held the paper at arm’s length and smiled at the front page paparazzo-style photo of a sullen Ryn and an infuriated Stan leaving church the previous Sunday. They held their baby, wrapped in a pink blanket, awkwardly between them, as if it were a football hand-off neither wanted to accept.
“Are you okay on the Nelson front, kiddo?” Nancy quizzed me.
“Fine.”
“Being so close to him and not having him even say hello really got to you.”
“He kind of gave me the teeniest nod, but it wasn’t a nod filled with significance, if you know what I mean. Basically, it was your typical, indecipherable cop nod.”
“He really got to you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to do anything profoundly stupid, like call him.”
“No,” I assured her.
“Or fax him Bob’s obit.”
“That’s an elegant idea! God, I wish I’d thought of it. No, no, don’t worry.”
“Hey, aren’t I a good friend?” she asked.
“There’s none better!” I told her.
“No. You’re better. There’s none better than you, Judith. To me and even to that tedious clotheshorse, Vanessa, poor thing. I just don’t want you getting hurt, is all and—”
“Call waiting. Hold on.”
I never got back to her that day. It was Nelson Sharpe.
He said, “Judith,” and then …
But that’s another story.
Afterword
ONCE UPON A TIME I WAS FORCED TO WRITE A SHORT STORY AND …
All right, “forced to write” is an overstatement if your idea of coercion is the muzzle end of a pistol an inch from one of your sinuses. In fact, the mood in that restaurant couldn’t have been more amiable. There we were, way back in the 1990s, my writers’ group, the Adams Round Table, at our monthly first-Tuesday get-together. As usual, we sat around the table, downing tough-guy whiskey or Chardonnay or teetotaler’s club soda. The first two minutes were taken up with publishing news. Then a healthy half-hour was spent on the most urgent writers’ gossip. After that, with plates of pasta or the joint’s weekly special—invariably a flat, flaccid white thing the menu persisted in calling Dover sole specially flown in (we assumed from the Bronx)—each of us took turns speaking about our writing lives.
We covered all the territory. The real downside of first person is the reader knows the narrator’s not going to die, but I tried the omniscient third and, boy, did it suck the big one. Then the next member would relate how Warner Brothers said they were definitely going to option Dead, Dead, Dead, but they never called back and I’m not sure if they’re playing hard to get or, you know, maybe … Could they have lost interest? They really seemed to love it.
As the newest member of the group, I reveled in the congeniality, the shoptalk, the mutual trust. All these terrific mystery and suspense writers: gifted and articulate, some cheery, some morose, and one or two who appeared to have overdone it at some controlled-substance happy
“Good enough for your friend Vanessa?” my friend Nancy Miller demanded that morning.
I held the phone away from my ear as she made one of those hideous Georgia ya-hoo sounds, half yell, half screech.
“I whispered a few words into the shell-pink ear of a reporter pal at the Post. If I’d given it to Newsday, there was a chance it might be handled tastefully; sometimes they’re such prissy fucks. But the Post, bless their darling, vulgar hearts. None of that ‘respected businessman’ shit. ‘Did Sox Heir Slay Ex for Sex?’ ”
“Nancy, thank you! God bless you! I held the paper at arm’s length and smiled at the front page paparazzo-style photo of a sullen Ryn and an infuriated Stan leaving church the previous Sunday. They held their baby, wrapped in a pink blanket, awkwardly between them, as if it were a football hand-off neither wanted to accept.
“Are you okay on the Nelson front, kiddo?” Nancy quizzed me.
“Fine.”
“Being so close to him and not having him even say hello really got to you.”
“He kind of gave me the teeniest nod, but it wasn’t a nod filled with significance, if you know what I mean. Basically, it was your typical, indecipherable cop nod.”
“He really got to you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to do anything profoundly stupid, like call him.”
“No,” I assured her.
“Or fax him Bob’s obit.”
“That’s an elegant idea! God, I wish I’d thought of it. No, no, don’t worry.”
“Hey, aren’t I a good friend?” she asked.
“There’s none better!” I told her.
“No. You’re better. There’s none better than you, Judith. To me and even to that tedious clotheshorse, Vanessa, poor thing. I just don’t want you getting hurt, is all and—”
“Call waiting. Hold on.”
I never got back to her that day. It was Nelson Sharpe.
He said, “Judith,” and then …
But that’s another story.
Afterword
ONCE UPON A TIME I WAS FORCED TO WRITE A SHORT STORY AND …
All right, “forced to write” is an overstatement if your idea of coercion is the muzzle end of a pistol an inch from one of your sinuses. In fact, the mood in that restaurant couldn’t have been more amiable. There we were, way back in the 1990s, my writers’ group, the Adams Round Table, at our monthly first-Tuesday get-together. As usual, we sat around the table, downing tough-guy whiskey or Chardonnay or teetotaler’s club soda. The first two minutes were taken up with publishing news. Then a healthy half-hour was spent on the most urgent writers’ gossip. After that, with plates of pasta or the joint’s weekly special—invariably a flat, flaccid white thing the menu persisted in calling Dover sole specially flown in (we assumed from the Bronx)—each of us took turns speaking about our writing lives.
We covered all the territory. The real downside of first person is the reader knows the narrator’s not going to die, but I tried the omniscient third and, boy, did it suck the big one. Then the next member would relate how Warner Brothers said they were definitely going to option Dead, Dead, Dead, but they never called back and I’m not sure if they’re playing hard to get or, you know, maybe … Could they have lost interest? They really seemed to love it.
As the newest member of the group, I reveled in the congeniality, the shoptalk, the mutual trust. All these terrific mystery and suspense writers: gifted and articulate, some cheery, some morose, and one or two who appeared to have overdone it at some controlled-substance happy
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