remarkable, the way people interrupted their conversations with you to do this sort of thing, without a word of apology. It had become as natural as taking a sip of water.
“So now can we talk about your memoir?”
“Sure. Of course.”
She made an effort to get the review out of her mind. Wasn’t sure she was going to be able to do it.
“The main thing I have to say is that it’s brilliant. I think this could turn out to be the best thing you’ve ever done.”
She reached for a poppy-seed roll. The floor was tilting. They were onboard a ship, and the ship was listing. The national treasure reached for a poppy-seed roll.
“Why?” she said. “Why do you like it?”
“You’re not hearing me. I don’t like it. I love it. I’m sure you’ve needed to write it for your own personal reasons. You’re writing it for yourself, and you have no idea what it will mean to other people. You’ve been thinking you’re writing a memoir, but what you’re writing is the story of your generation.”
The story of her generation. Of course she’d been telling herself much the same thing, hoping other people would see it that way, but now that he was saying it, it sounded glib and superficial.
“You thought you were someone who’d made a home for herself in the cozy little ghetto of feminist literature. But it turned out that wasn’t your destiny. It turned out that your destiny was to write the inner history of your age.”
She had always found it curious, the way that even sophisticated younger people liked to speak of “destiny,” liked to tell themselves that “there’s a reason for everything.” The way they married a quirky individuality with a passive acceptance of things as they are.
Why am I so hostile to this man? He’s bringing nothing but good tidings, and he’s saying nothing but nice things.
Am I, she thought, one of those dreary people who won’t join any club that will have them for a member? She hoped she wasn’t.
“This has been quite a meal,” she said. “I walked in here thinking I was going to have to find a new publisher, and I walk out of here . . .”
“You walk out of here an American classic.”
She made a face.
“That’s what you are,” he said. “Get used to it.”
26
After she said goodbye to Kevin Cleaver, she didn’t know what to do with herself. She wanted to tell her friends, of course, but not yet.
She wandered over to West End Avenue and walked north. At first she thought she wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, but by the time she passed Seventy-ninth Street she realized that she’d walked this way for a reason. Soon she was standing outside the building of a woman whom she’d known a long time ago.
Her name was Simone. She had been Florence’s French teacher at the Bronx High School of Science. She was the first woman who’d taken a special interest in her. Florence remembered Simone once telling her that she thought she was going to have an interesting life.
Florence and Simone had stayed in touch after Florence went to college, but Florence had withdrawn from her sometime after that. During the decade in which Florence had been little more than her husband’s helpmate, she’d been too embarrassed to stay in contact with Simone. She felt too much as if she’d let her down.
Simone had died before Florence started on her writing career; she’d never had the opportunity to be proud of her student’s successes.
Florence stood outside Simone’s building for another minute or two, looking up at what used to be her window.
Thank you.
Then she started back home.
27
“This is a little different,” Janine said.
“All of a sudden my mother is a legend,” Daniel said.
“It’s damned strange,” Florence said. “I’m not really sure I like it.”
“Trust me,” Daniel said. “You like it.”
Florence had come to their apartment. It was Sunday afternoon. The review was still a week away, but word had begun to trickle out. A woman
“So now can we talk about your memoir?”
“Sure. Of course.”
She made an effort to get the review out of her mind. Wasn’t sure she was going to be able to do it.
“The main thing I have to say is that it’s brilliant. I think this could turn out to be the best thing you’ve ever done.”
She reached for a poppy-seed roll. The floor was tilting. They were onboard a ship, and the ship was listing. The national treasure reached for a poppy-seed roll.
“Why?” she said. “Why do you like it?”
“You’re not hearing me. I don’t like it. I love it. I’m sure you’ve needed to write it for your own personal reasons. You’re writing it for yourself, and you have no idea what it will mean to other people. You’ve been thinking you’re writing a memoir, but what you’re writing is the story of your generation.”
The story of her generation. Of course she’d been telling herself much the same thing, hoping other people would see it that way, but now that he was saying it, it sounded glib and superficial.
“You thought you were someone who’d made a home for herself in the cozy little ghetto of feminist literature. But it turned out that wasn’t your destiny. It turned out that your destiny was to write the inner history of your age.”
She had always found it curious, the way that even sophisticated younger people liked to speak of “destiny,” liked to tell themselves that “there’s a reason for everything.” The way they married a quirky individuality with a passive acceptance of things as they are.
Why am I so hostile to this man? He’s bringing nothing but good tidings, and he’s saying nothing but nice things.
Am I, she thought, one of those dreary people who won’t join any club that will have them for a member? She hoped she wasn’t.
“This has been quite a meal,” she said. “I walked in here thinking I was going to have to find a new publisher, and I walk out of here . . .”
“You walk out of here an American classic.”
She made a face.
“That’s what you are,” he said. “Get used to it.”
26
After she said goodbye to Kevin Cleaver, she didn’t know what to do with herself. She wanted to tell her friends, of course, but not yet.
She wandered over to West End Avenue and walked north. At first she thought she wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, but by the time she passed Seventy-ninth Street she realized that she’d walked this way for a reason. Soon she was standing outside the building of a woman whom she’d known a long time ago.
Her name was Simone. She had been Florence’s French teacher at the Bronx High School of Science. She was the first woman who’d taken a special interest in her. Florence remembered Simone once telling her that she thought she was going to have an interesting life.
Florence and Simone had stayed in touch after Florence went to college, but Florence had withdrawn from her sometime after that. During the decade in which Florence had been little more than her husband’s helpmate, she’d been too embarrassed to stay in contact with Simone. She felt too much as if she’d let her down.
Simone had died before Florence started on her writing career; she’d never had the opportunity to be proud of her student’s successes.
Florence stood outside Simone’s building for another minute or two, looking up at what used to be her window.
Thank you.
Then she started back home.
27
“This is a little different,” Janine said.
“All of a sudden my mother is a legend,” Daniel said.
“It’s damned strange,” Florence said. “I’m not really sure I like it.”
“Trust me,” Daniel said. “You like it.”
Florence had come to their apartment. It was Sunday afternoon. The review was still a week away, but word had begun to trickle out. A woman
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