Rewrite--Chapter 8

(Paul, Maxey, and Charlotte take shelter; Paul and Groves square off)

Chapter 1—Part One: https://hatcherfictionwriter.substack.com/p/michael-hatchers-unpublished-novel7

Chapter 1—Part Two: https://hatcherfictionwriter.substack.com/p/rewrite-chapter-1b

Chapter 2: https://hatcherfictionwriter.substack.com/p/rewrite-chapter-2

Chapter 3: https://hatcherfictionwriter.substack.com/p/rewrite-chapter-3

Chapter 4: https://hatcherfictionwriter.substack.com/p/rewrite-chapter-4

Chapter 5: https://hatcherfictionwriter.substack.com/p/rewrite-chapter-five

Chapter 6: https://hatcherfictionwriter.substack.com/p/rewrite-chapter-6

Chapter 7: https://hatcherfictionwriter.substack.com/p/rewrite-chapter-7

8.

The doorbell rang loudly enough that it made Kate Henderson jump in the kitchen.

“Damn it. We gotta get that frigging thing fixed, or I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”

“I’ve got it. I think the next thing that screws up is on me,” said her sister, Janet.

9:39.

“You got anybody coming over?” Kate asked. “If it’s Randy, and y’all want some room to get randy, I can clear out.”

Janet giggled. “Screw you, sis.”

Kate got to the door, armed with a steak knife and looked out the door window.

She screamed. Janet tensed up and grabbed a hammer kept in the kitchen for times such as these. And small repairs.

“My God, if it isn’t Charlotte Kinsey… and two scraggly-looking guys with her. Dear Lord, she must have relapsed.”

“Well, open the door,” Janet said. “Poor things!”

Janet and Kate Henderson gasped when they got a full view of the shell-shocked Paul, Maxey, and Charlotte. They were covered in mud and wetter than Biscuit, the sisters’ Pomeranian, after a bout in the tub.

“Hi, Kate and Janet. I would hug you, but...”

“Oh my God, honey. That don’t matter one bit,” Kate said. The sisters embraced Charlotte and said their hellos to Paul and Maxey. “Let me get you guys, um, several towels. Janet, make them some coffee, please, before they catch their deaths of cold. Jesus. I’m just so glad to see you, honey! Come on in.”

_____

Janet brought three cups of coffee to the still-shivering trio. Paul thought it was the best coffee he’d ever tasted—better, even than the Jamaica Blue Mountain Coffee he used to swear was akin to an orgasm in a cup. After a few long, slow gulps of the brew, they related the night’s events: Keith, the gunfire at Phil’s, the car crash, the tire iron cracking Keith’s skull.

The three of them sat on a tan leather couch in the Hendersons’ living room, painted a lilac color. Janet and Kate occupied the brown leather loveseat adjacent to the couch.

Large drops of rain pelted the bay window, which provided them with a view of the perfectly-manicured front yard. The trees swayed this way and that with the wind, keeping time with the jagged streaks of lightning that lit up the sky.

Kate cleared her throat and spoke. “Wow! You guys’ve had quite a night, huh?” She winced as if the obviousness of the question was salt in their wounds.

Charlotte nodded robotically. “Yeah. I’m sorry if I keep going on and on. It’s just…”

“Nah, girl. I’d have lost my mind completely if I were you. You’re good. You’re better than good.” Janet said. “We’re just so happy that you all are okay. Don’t worry one bit, sweetie. We’ve got plenty of room. We’ll fix you guys right up.”

“Thanks,” Charlotte said. “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe us anything, girl. Come on, now. You’d have done the same for us.” Silence settled in. Janet, more uncomfortable with silence than Kate, chimed in.

“Men, am I right? They’re such assholes, all of them. Hope he’s bleeding out right now. No offense about the asshole part, guys.”

“None taken. And, by the way, I don’t blame you, hon. We are a pretty despicable lot, all in all,” Maxey said, a big Jack Nicholson grin twisting up his face. “Anyway, Paul and I will be going to the University of Iowa tomorrow for our class reunion. Thanks for letting us stay tonight, though.”

“Of course,” Janet said, her eyes glistening with good humor. “Even you men are welcome.”

“I might stay longer, if it’s okay with you guys,” Charlotte said. “Just until I figure out my next move.”

“Of course, sweetie,” Kate said. “As long as you want. We’d be glad for the company.”

Kate pivoted her head toward the window as lightning ripped through the sky. Loud booms of thunder followed. A sharp intake of breath and then: “Oh, my God!” Charlotte screamed.

Paul and Maxey scrambled to the window to see if Keith had somehow tracked them down. Kate and Janet went to either side of Charlotte, the two sisters hovering over her like a mama bird.

“I’m so sorry to have scared you, Charlotte.”

Charlotte nodded at Kate. “It’s okay.”

Silence fell on them again.

“Well now, aren’t we the most terrible hostesses?” Janet said, eager to burst the bubble of quietness. “We haven’t offered you guys anything to eat the whole time you’ve been here. I’m so sorry. You must be starved. Kate, do you want to help me get some wine and something to eat for our guests?”

“Of course,” Kate said. “We have some ham left over from a get-together earlier in the week. We could make some sandwiches.”

“Sounds great,” Paul said.

“Just make yourselves comfortable, and we’ll be right back. Oh, we also have some Pinot Grigio. Is that okay?” Everyone but Charlotte was in agreement; Paul noticed she’d flinched faintly at the suggestion. “Alright. Charlotte, you wanna come with us? We can catch up.”

“Sure,” Charlotte said, her voice sounding half-muted to Paul, as if double-wrapped in velvet. The women moved into the kitchen, the sisters’ arms hung around Charlotte’s waist.

After the women left, Paul slouched and let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m with you, buddy,” Maxey said, letting out his own sigh, as if in agreement

Maxey.

And he was right. He was with you—good or bad. No matter what. A real pal. A real man’s man. Even though he threw out a lot of bullshit, being with him was righter than rain.

Paul laid his head down on the sofa arm, eyes closed, head splitting. He would’ve liked nothing more than to melt away into the most infinitesimal speck of nothing.

Maxey moved to the sofa and sat beside Paul, cleared his throat, and placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder, patting him like he was a cherished pet. Paul clenched his eyes shut, as if he were attempting to preemptively dry the tears about to spill.

“I know, buddy. I know,” Maxey said. “Listen, you’re my best pal, and I love you. You’re the most durable relationship I’ve ever had. Even when I’m an asshole, you’re there. You’re always there. I’ve often wondered why you picked me to be your friend. I mean, look at me, I’m just a big old goofball. I’m not a serious person. Totally unserious. When I’m around you, I feel like I should wear a big, red nose and carry a bicycle horn.”

Paul looked back at Maxey, so serious. Moisture had accumulated in the corners of Paul’s eyes; it seemed astonishing to him, but Paul couldn’t recall ever seeing Maxey cry.

“You could’ve been friends with much better people than me. You could’ve cultivated a relationship—I hate that phrase, sounds like you’re growing vegetables, and you know I hate veggies—with someone who could help your career. But you didn’t. You stuck with me through all the batshit crazy stuff. I always wondered why.” Maxey paused as if he wanted Paul to fill in the blanks. “And you know what I figured out? You, pal, are a prince among men. You have that rarest of commodities: loyalty. You’ve got it in spades.”

Paul shifted a bit and sat up.

“You’ve got it, too. I mean, who else would want to hang around with a sad sack like me? Really.” Astonishment ruled Maxey’s face.

“Buddy, you’re not a sad sack. You’re real. Me, I’m just faking my way through. You don’t know how to fake. I learned this for about the five hundredth time tonight. No matter what you say, there’s no escaping it: you’re solid, dude.”

“Well, thank you, I don’t usually feel that way, but thank you. And I want to say something to you, too,” Paul said. Maxey looked expectantly at Paul. “You have taken a lot of shit because of me, too. And you never, not once, shied away. You joke about your novel—the one big over in Norway—.”

“And… Finland. Oh, and Scotland. I always forget about the Scots. But, then again, who doesn’t?”

“The poor Scots,” Paul said. “Anyway, you joke about it, but I know your friendship with me caused Groves and his pack of hounds to tear it to pieces. That bastard has never forgotten what you did for me. You laugh at it, and I know you’re covering something, but the book really is great, and I wish you’d try again. It’s funny, smart. It’s satirical, and, my God, do we need satire today.”

“Thanks, Paul, but I’m happy. I might go back to it one day. But right now… I’m good. I’m better than good. I got you, pal, and enough money to do whatever the hell I want. But thanks. I appreciate it.” The sound of the women carrying trays of sandwiches and a bottle of wine quieted Paul and Maxey.

“Alright, guys,” Kate said. “Here it is. Eat all you want. There’s plenty, and my hips don’t need it.”

They sat up talking until past two a.m., the wine easing them into a ceaseless conversation. Like ones Paul’d had with Claire, where it felt like the world opened up to them.

They, except for Charlotte, plied themselves with wine. She and her sorority sisters caught up with each other, all of them slipping into the familiarity of those with a shared history. Maxey regaled them about his literary adventures in Norway… and Finland… and the Scots; he also told them about Paul’s Franklin books. They seemed suitably impressed.

Although she didn’t drink the wine, Charlotte loosened up considerably, sharing stories of wild sorority nights with the Hendersons and their fellow Alpha Gams at Ohio State. Being pretty and a freshman and unable to handle her liquor, she had her pick of any of the frat boys on campus.

And did she ever pick.

After her arrival in Columbus, she threw off the shackles of her Catholic upbringing and celebrated her new freedom with non-stop sex, with whichever boy happened to be there. Danger drew her in, so bad boys it was.

After much experimentation, she finally landed Jonathan Welles, a twenty-one-year-old general studies major, with a concentration in drug dealing. He sold cocaine and heroin and, well, anything really, to teaching assistants so that he wouldn’t flunk out. (After all, his business ventures left little time for studying.)

Charlotte started talking… and talking. Her face grew animated with the telling and cloudier at times, too, every adventure playing out across that beautiful visage. Lovers. Bad boys. Broken hearts. Unbridled excess in everything. Sex. Drugs. Lots of drugs. Rock and roll? Yep. She dated the drummer in a punk band, Zombie Corpse, that played unground clubs all over Ohio. Indeed, she’d checked every box.

Loneliness, too, even though the sex was still there. To her, it was just… sex. And nothing else. Not a melding of psyches or souls. Just cold and mechanical, as she looked back at it now. Just getting off—well, that was mostly for Jonathan. She put on a good show.

And then, after a stretch of time filled with more debauchery than most—pregnant.

Followed by anger and finger-pointing, mostly his, and tears and desolation, all hers. She went off the drugs and drink cold turkey.

Abuse—verbal and physical—all hellacious. One precisely-aimed kick to her stomach after he slapped her down.

No more pregnancy. No more Jonathan. No more apartment. He gave her the weekend to get out.

No police called about the abuse, or he swore he’d make things bad for her, worse than he had already. And she knew he would. She’d heard stories—people who owed him money who just disappeared. She wasn’t saying he murdered them, necessarily. But she wasn’t not saying it.

Anyway, she went back to consuming massive quantities of drugs, enough to kill a horse, but apparently not a 117-pound girl. Until she OD’d, got her stomach pumped, and went to rehab. Got clean.

Moved back in with Mom and Dad. Blow-up with Mom, Dad just a lump sitting there watching his Penguins, Pirates, or Steelers (take your pick), afraid to defend his daughter, his besmirched princess, against his harridan of a wife.

Moved out, roomed with an old high school friend in an apartment for which the term “modest” seemed exaggerated. Got a job at Phil’s.

Then came Keith. When she spoke his name, she half-swallowed it.

“I did love him, you know,” Charlotte said. “I kept thinking there was something in him worth saving. God, how stupid I was!”

“No, honey, no,” Kate said, hugging her tightly. “Would you like to go to bed, Charlotte? You’ve had a hell of a night.”

“Yes, we have. And, yes, I would. Where would you like me to sleep?”

“Here, I’ll take you up,” Janet said.

“That’s okay,” said Paul.

He studied Charlotte. A wounded soul. Just like him. Even Maxey, probably their hosts, as well.

“You rest, I’ll take her,” Paul said. “Where do you want us to sleep?”

“Second door on the left for Charlotte. You’ll be right across the hall. Maxey, you’re the next room down past Paul. Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re okay. All of you,” Kate said.

“Thanks,” Charlotte said. “I love both of you guys.”

“Awww, we love you, too, sweetie,” Janet chimed in. “Good night.”

Paul took Charlotte by the elbow and guided her to the staircase. Paul looked back at the trio, finishing their drinks and chatting.

Janet, like she was really up to something, looked at Maxey. “So… wanna smoke? I bet you’ve got the good stuff, seeing how big you are in Denmark.” Kate giggled in response.

Paul grinned as he and Charlotte made their way up the staircase. Yep, she’s got him right.

His face continued to glow as he imagined Maxey producing his own stash with a flourish.

“Here you are, ladies, a little Acapulco Gold. The best I’ve ever had, and I’m quite the connoisseur.” A clink of wine glasses, the sloshing of wine. “To friends—old and new.” The click of a lighter.

To Maxey. To Charlotte. To these sisters. To Claire.

A warmth settled in Paul’s stomach, and a smile burned brightly.

And that was okay, he thought.

Very much okay.

*****

October 27, 1994

Iowa City, Iowa

“... and Libby pressed on, forward and forward, until the light died out in her eyes.” Jill Patten closed her notebook, clasped it to her chest, and shut her eyes, a sense of her own self-satisfaction radiating out to the entire class.

The young man, Bradford Groves, sat front and center, perched on top of his teacher’s desk. As Jill finished her short story, which was, in fact, a monument to smugness and pretension, Bradford pretended to nod off, but all the prospective writers in the room knew that it was meant as a mockery of Jill’s self-important blather, he being an expert on self-important blather. A student in the class, Paul Briggs, wondered if Groves had ever read his own stuff.

“I am so sorry, Jill, that I missed the last part of your story. I am sure it was as scintillating as the beginning and the middle,” Groves said, mouth twisted down into a frown. “You left me when you mentioned a vulture for like the sixtieth time. I take it that the vulture was a stand-in for the darkness of society, or maybe a take on the way some people are forever shunted to the lower strata of our socioeconomic system. Or maybe it was just a lazy crutch for a hack writer.” Jill’s face turned red, and she looked as if she were about to suffer a nervous breakdown. “Not you, of course, dear Jill. I said ‘hack writers.’ Are you a hack writer?”

She looked as if she had been asked to explain the space-time continuum. “No, I don’t think so. Oh God, what if I’m a fraud?”

“Well, that’s a chance we all take, I suppose,” Groves said. Jill scurried from the room, slamming the door on her way out, appearing to all as if she might take a header from the sixth floor.

No one dared to move.

“Hey, Grace, hon, why don’t you go check on her? Have a little girl talk.” Grace glared holes through Groves. He didn’t seem to notice. She left before the temptation to murder him became too great.

Groves had, like the rest of them, joined the class as a student, but then the writer-in-residence, Stephen Marsdell, left mid-term because of a reported increase in erratic behavior. True, most everyone in the class would agree that he was eccentric and that he seemed hung over most of the time; he’d only been that way for the last forty years.

But he had also been a literary icon for at least two thirds of his sixty-six years, and Paul felt that Marsdell, a two-time National Book Award-winner as well as a Pulitzer, had earned the right to a few quirks. Besides, Paul didn’t really like Groves much—not at all, really. But he knew where the power lay in the class.

When Paul and his classmates convened for drinks at the Hawkeye Hangar after the day’s final session, Groves was less than understanding. The phrases “old man,” “lost his marbles,” and “pitiful old bastard needs to make way for those who can still hack it” made their way into the discourse.

“Besides, Marsdell, the man that you all revere so much, never liked your stuff, any of it—even mine. You should have heard how he talked about our work. He’d make fun of it in the worst way. He was just a bitter, washed-up hack,” Groves said, looking his tablemates in the eye, so sincere, so damned sincere. “You remember my story, ‘Remnants of Oneself’? The one you all applauded?”

Paul broke eye contact with Groves. Hell, we were just glad it was over. Boring, pretentious bullshit.

“Well, when I went to his office demanding an explanation for his lukewarm reception of my story, the old fart called it ‘boring, pretentious bullshit.’ His exact words. When you are so far out of touch, it is time to go. Past time, I’d say. And I have noticed him asleep in class, his head nodding up and down like a yo-yo.” He pantomimed Marsdell downing liquor.

Paul scanned the table and lit on a guy, broad and stocky, miming masturbation. Hmmm… Max? Alex? Alexei?… No, no, Maxey. Of course, how could I not know his name? Talks all the damn time. But he makes good points. Lots of ‘em. Funny as hell. Little annoying, though.

Paul snickered at Maxey, who winked at him.

“Is there something you wish to say, Briggs? Is something funny?” Groves said, his voice cutting through the air like a cat-of-nine-tails.

“No… I mean, well… ” Paul replied.

“Okay. I guess this is really an extension of class for you. About as coherent as your comments in class.” Looking Paul straight in the eye. “Or your fiction, if you call it that with a straight face.” Everyone cradled their beers and tried to avoid making eye contact. Except for Maxey. He looked pissed as hell.

“Hey, Groves,” Maxey said. “Have you ever read any of your own stuff, you ball sack? God, I only wish your shit was incoherent. That way we could at least call it ‘avant-garde,’ instead of ‘whiff of narcissistic bullshit.’ At least Briggs has got things, interesting things, in his books that happen to people we care about, not just uptight people whining about the state of art. Dude, you really have to get a new schtick. Or become a critic because your writing has no soul.

“There’s nothing in it that makes you ponder your own existence, nothing that fills you with wonder like seeing the sun rise, leaving pink trails of vapor in its wake. Nothing in it like making love to a girl and the joy of connecting so deeply with another human being.” Maxey, a look plastered on his face like he was going in for the kill, thrust his finger at Groves. “In fact, there is nothing recognizably human in your stories. It’s just an airy, shapeless mass of words, no form, no meaning. It’s like it was co-written by the thesaurus. I don’t know anyone like any of your characters. No one. Except. For. You.”

By this time, everyone, sensing blood in the water, had ceased any other conversations. This was simply too good. Maxey, solely in the spotlight now, continued. “Your (and our) only salvation is that you haven’t gotten around to novels yet—that we know of. Oh man, the thought of it is just too damn much.” Maxey sent Groves a smile that could only be described as the biggest “screw you” in the world.

“I see,” Groves said, face tight. “And what are your credentials to critique me?”

“I’m human. Yours?”

Groves’s mouth twitched first this way and that way. “Well, I was the editor of my high school literary journal for four years: The Quill and Ink. We were the three-time winner of the Golden Critics Award from the Iowa Circle of Literary Critics: High School Division. I wrote all the winning submissions.”

“Damn, Groves. How dare I question you? Jesus, I feel like a fool. Will you ever forgive me?”

“Bring something to class tomorrow worth reading and I just might. You, too, Briggs. Try to do, uh, better. Fair warning—be ready.”

“Oh, you bet. We will be,” Maxey said, a light shimmering in his eyes. “C’mon Briggs. Let’s work on our submissions so they’ll pass muster with this sack of shit.”

He threw a ten on the table and bowed to Briggs as he shuffled backward out the door. Paul followed him, grinning with an awkwardness that he hadn’t experienced in at least the last ten minutes.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

_____

The two of them spent the rest of the night at Maxey’s apartment smoking pot, quaffing vodka, and polishing up old manuscripts. Writing, editing, critiquing, collaborating. Puffing, puffing, and puffing some more, Paul’s head finally hit Maxey’s couch at three in the morning. He took one deep breath and tumbled into sleep.

He woke up at nine to the smell of pop tarts filling his nostrils. “Quick breakfast, then we gotta go, pal.” Maxey moved with the assurance of someone who was no stranger to late nights. Paul stumbled toward the kitchen.

“Okay. Thanks,” Paul said.

“No, man. Thank you. Thank you so much. You helped me make it so much better. If we had more time, I’d take you to Rosie’s. Now, we can both show that stuck-up bastard who’s who around here.” He grinned, a glittering thing, and slapped Paul on the shoulder, a little harder, perhaps, than he intended to. He pointed to the toaster, pop tarts freshly popped.

They grabbed their pastries, ready to leave, when Maxey stopped Paul.

“Hey, man. I don’t usually say this to dudes, but last night was great. You’ve got a load of talent. You just need to be more confident.” Maxey held Paul’s focus. “You write about stuff people want to read about. There’s something about you. You’re a really good guy. Tonight, more writing? Pizza and beer on me?”

“Sure,” Paul said. “Yeah.”

“Great. Let’s slay that son of a bitch with our lyrical prose!”

Paul smiled broadly and walked out of Maxey’s apartment, toward the University of Iowa Writers Program, toward… life.

*****

The next chapter of Rewrite will be released on Monday, May 11, at 1:34 p.m.