Mr. Beder Meets His Maker

Cody Bennett

(1) 

On Tuesday morning, on print day, the doorbell clanged and clamored — a tinkling cymbal — and the noise of footsteps in the office awakened Mr. Beder, who had struggled since 6 a.m. to compose his latest op-ed, a paean to rural life, which would run in this week’s paper. 

Margaret! he called out to his secretary. Yoo-hoo, Margaret! Come here!    

He lifted his head, adjusted his bowtie, and buttoned his shirtsleeves. He swigged coffee and matted his dwindling hair, dabbed crustiness from his eyes. On his desk beside his laptop, his iPhone, and his keys, a stack of subscriber cancellations tethered him to deadline, and Mr. Beder, preparing for an imminent tête-à-tête, assumed an air of grand and magisterial significance.  

Margaret knocked as she emerged from the foyer, torn foolscap in palsied hands. 

Who is it? asked Mr. Beder. And what does he want? 

It’s a young man, she said. Hugh Veraaker. He wants to see you. 

Vereker, Mr. Beder corrected her. I’ve no time today, though. Tell him to go. To be gone.   

Mr. Beder brandished his pen and Moleskine, for although he composed on Google Docs such gestures built him up. He scribbled nonsense in the margins, but with dignified technique. 

Margaret returned. Mr. Beder, sir, that boy’s still out there, she said. He’s got him a box. 

Mr. Beder closed his notebook and fastened its elastic bands. He flung down his pen.   

Margaret, please, I’m working. It’s Tuesday, it’s print day, and the threads of this op-ed —  

He wiped his glistening face, handkerchief to skin.  

OK, fine. Fine, whatever, said Mr. Beder, and he marched to meet his fate. Let’s talk.  

The young man slouched in the foyer in a suit of Spanish gray, with uncombed hair and a wispy beard and a bovine indifference in his eyes. His wooden box, secured with a rusty padlock, sat unopened in a chair, and the lock’s brass skeleton key hung limply around the visitor’s neck. 

Well? inquired Mr. Beder. What brings you here to the Arcadian? You may answer.  

I think you know, said the visitor. You know. You didn’t run it.  

Your letter, I’m assuming? answered Mr. Beder. Well, no, I did not. It was too long and too profane, too allegorical. What was your name again? 

Hugh Vereker. My name is ― 

Oh, horse hockey! said Mr. Beder. If that’s your name, then I’m no editor, writer, publisher, nothing. You might be able to deceive Margaret, boy, but you ain’t lying to me.  

The young man snorted contemptuously. 

One “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is worth any number of old ladies, he said. Name’s Mac, Mac Jameson. Pleased to meet you.  

He bowed. Astonished, Mr. Beder reciprocated. 

Pleased to meet you. The name’s Beder, Winterman Beder, sole staff writer, editor, and publisher of this historic periodical, the Semmesville Arcadian, Semmesville, Louisiana, 71241. 

He clicked his heels as if concluding a performance. 

And this is Margaret, he continued. My secretary ― she worked for my father. Say hi. 

Hi, said Margaret. I’ll be in the back. 

She tottered to the copy room, and her joints creaked as she exited. She cracked the door. 

Now, what’s in the box? asked Mr. Beder. Is it your fortune? 

It’s a novel, said Mac Jameson, as he unlatched the padlock to retrieve two stacks of yellowed pages. Volumes I and II. The others are in the car. He offered them to Mr. Beder. 

Others? said Mr. Beder. What others? 

The other 22, said Mac Jameson. It’s the longest novel in existence. 14 thousand pages, two million words. Makes Marcel Proust into a sketch, and War and Peace into a mere skirmish. 

I see, said Mr. Beder, accepting the manuscript. Jemison Pearlgate: A Life as a Shadow.   

He skimmed a paragraph, selected a sentence, and employed a critic’s eye. 

An exquisite reliquary, marvel of flawless craftsmanship, intelligence, bravura, a fleeting melody which languished me and imbued but one desire: to hear it again and again and again. 

I tell you what, said Mr. Beder. I concluded my studies at Ole Miss in 1999. I dabbled in science, journalism, creative writing. I facilitated tours at Rowan Oak and fielded conversations with innumerable authors. I’ll read your book and tell you if it’s any good. What do you say?  

Eh, no, thanks, said Mac Jameson. It is good. I read it, I wrote it. I should know. 

You should know? said Mr. Beder. How? How do you know? Where did you study?  

Nowhere, said Mac Jameson. No credentials. None. None to speak of.  

He swayed and tugged his beard, shaking like an entrapped animal. 

We want competence, Mac Jameson muttered, lifting his fists, and yet competence alone is deadly. No! What is needed today . . . what is needed today . . . is vision! 

He collapsed in the nearest chair ― legs splayed, his breathing labored ― and Margaret, overhearing the commotion, rushed from the copy room and assisted the young man to his feet. 

Oh, he’s fine! said Mr. Beder. He tidied the pages of the book, returned them to their box.   

Are you OK? 

Yes, replied Mac Jameson. He rose. I want to run it in your paper. Serialize it, publish it. 

Oh, no! No. Not in the Arcadian. Short pieces only ― no novels! 

You don’t understand, said Mac Jameson. I need to publish it. Remember Gide? “The rejection of this book remains the most stinging and remorseful regret of my life.” Think of that. 

Think of that? repeated Mr. Beder. Think of what? Is that a threat? 

Mac Jameson locked the box with his key. He grinned and confronted his opponent.  

I am the behemoth. The beast in the jungle, the figure in the carpet. I’ll out-carpet, out-figure, out-beast you. Goodbye. 

He absconded through the front door ― brass bell jangling ― and Mr. Beder, perturbed by the excitement, mumbled platitudes aloud so as to mask the unease in the room, the malaise. 

Interesting young man. Somewhat odd.  

Again, he heard the bell. 

Give me a job? asked Mac Jameson. A job? 

You’re hired! said Mr. Beder, and he smiled, a conquistador on the shore. 

(2) 

In 15 minutes Mac Jameson had finished and saved his work to the desktop and printed it as instructed. He entered Mr. Beder’s office — no knock — where the Arcadian’s editor scrolled in his iPhone, reconnoitering the LinkedIn accounts of former college friends and acquaintances. 

Here, said Mac Jameson. Check this out.  

He pitched him the page, and Mr. Beder breezed through it, rapidly laid it by. 

It’s good, he said. It’s real good for a minor piece. It’s impressive. 

Mr. Beder resumed his duties: editing the church news, posting legal ads, arranging the help-wanteds, the for-sales. 

What about the op-ed? he asked Mac Jameson. You finished it? I mean the main one? 

Uh-huh, said Mac Jameson. I finished it, too. Here it is. 

Mr. Beder snatched it, eyes widening. He coughed and plunked the page with his thumb. 

But how did you? 

How did I what? asked Mac Jameson. What are you asking me? 

I’m asking you how you done it, said Mr. Beder. Rural life, my ideas. You made ‘em pop. 

I don’t understand, said Mac Jameson. It’s hackwork. It’s hardly ― 

Hackwork! exclaimed Mr. Beder. Are you kidding me? These are my thoughts on the page, Mac Jameson. It would’ve taken me days. Nights! You say what has to be said. You say it! 

OK, said Mac Jameson. So I say it. Is that all? 

He slid loose from his suit coat, draped it over the door. Mr. Beder marveled at the work.   

Mac Jameson, it’s the right words at the right time, and in the Arcadian, too, said Mr. Beder. That’s revenue, you understand? That’s ads, that’s acclaim. That’s what we want. 

He jerked the ends of his bowtie, savored the tension. 

But how? he asked him again. Tell me how! 

Tap, tap, tap. 

Mr. Beder, interrupted Margaret. Robbie Dane’s on the phone. He’s wondering when you gonna come by today and pick up his temperatures. He says you’s an hour later than usual, but I said you was coming. 

Oh, God, I am late, said Mr. Beder. I thought we were moving to email with him. I thought —   

Well, Mr. Beder, I highly doubt that, said Margaret. You know he’s special.  

Mr. Beder clutched his keys.  

You fancy a drive? he asked Mac Jameson. A quick one? 

No, I’d rather not, responded Mac Jameson. I’m writing a short story, and I need to work. 

He held Mr. Beder’s Moleskine, the pages dog-eared, a pen protruding. 

Hey! said Mr. Beder. Wait one second! Isn’t that mine?  

But Mac Jameson merely continued cradling the Moleskine and pursed his lips like a castigated child. He twined his fingers through its elastic bands. 

Let me keep it, he said. Please. I must work while I still can. I must. It’s my purpose.     

  Mr. Beder gritted his teeth, disarmed by the strangeness of it all. 

No, he said. No, you’re coming, understand? Your only purpose, your only job —   

He reddened.  

I tell you what, Mr. Beder continued. If you join me, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll publish it. 

You’ll publish it? said Mac Jameson, suddenly intrigued. You’ll publish my short story?  

Mr. Beder reluctantly assented.  

Well, then a deal it is, then, said Mac Jameson. Yes, sir. We have us a deal.   

Good, said Mr. Beder. Then leave your novel, take the Moleskine. Don’t forget your coat. 

They exited to the street, and the bell rang as Mr. Beder closed the door. 

Goodbye! called Margaret from inside. Thoughts and prayers to Robbie Dane! Have fun.  

 

(3) 

They arrived at Robbie Dane’s by noon, strolling past the gaudy colors of a children’s playground and halting in the shade of an extravagant sycamore.  

In the yard, Robbie Dane raked his grass, scraping the ground with the tines of a long-handled yard broom. In a month, leaves would blanket the earth; he hoped to head them off.  

Winterman! he said, sighting his visitors. Woo-hoo! 

Robbie Dane hurled his rake to the ground and slapped his hands off-tempo to an imaginary beat, shifting his corpulence and miming the kicking of heels as if hazarding a dance. 

We’re here for the temperatures, said Mr. Beder, and he talked into Mac Jameson’s ear:  

RD’s a little off, he said. He can’t help it. He can’t. 

Mac Jameson wound his skeleton key necklace around his thumb, bent back the Moleskine’s cover, uncapped his pen. Mr. Beder watched him as he began to write something.  

Woo-golly! interrupted Robbie Dane. Woo-whee! 

Wearing ragged overalls and a cap, he bumbled up the hill and snickered as he hugged Mr. Beder and kissed him sloppily on the cheek. 

Stop it! said Mr. Beder. RD, stop! Now, get off! 

He thrust the older, much bigger man away in an exaggerated pantomime of displeasure. 

Email? said Mr. Beder. Did you get my email, RD? Did you get what we sent you?  

Ooh, email. Email. Um, email’s difficult. 

Robbie Dane followed the wiggling of Mac Jameson’s pen and observed the spellbound face of a craftsman at work. He felt a chilly, no-good thought, and spittle sprang from his mouth. 

Dat kid, my Winterman, said Robbie Dane to Mr. Beder. Dat . . . dat kid . . . . 

He moaned and shielded himself with his meaty hands. He stamped his sneakered feet.  

RD! said Mr. Beder, and he flapped his own arms to divert the man’s attention. Stay calm. 

He smacked Robbie Dane gently, as would a coach. 

Mac Jameson’s a savant, said Mr. Beder. And he’s my assistant, too. Say hi to him.  

Robbie Dane peeked from behind his fingers and glowered, red-faced, at the young man. 

Mac . . . Jameson? RD snarled. Mac . . . Jameson? Mac who? 

Hugh Vereker, actually, corrected the assistant. Author of the greatest work since Shakespeare, Jemison Pearlgate: Life as a ― 

Ooh! said Robbie Dane. Ooh-whee! Ooh, dat reminds me! 

He searched his overalls and snagged sheets of folded loose leaf. He saluted his boss. 

Dem’s my temperatures, he said as he provided them to Mr. Beder. I got ‘em! 

And the Arcadian thanks you, said Mr. Beder. Last week’s, right? Last week’s forecast? 

Uh-huh, said RD. Ain’t no predictions there, no, sir. They’re recordings.  

Good job, said Mr. Beder. Good job, RD. Keep it up.   

Yessir, said Robbie Dane sincerely. I’m employed. 

Again, he examined Mac Jameson and was alarmed by the assistant’s strange disposition.   

Excuse me! He tapped Mac Jameson’s elbow. My Winterman’s a genius. You respect him.  

He grinned at Mr. Beder and exposed more gum than teeth. Mac Jameson kept writing.   

Dat’s right, continued Robbie Dane. Yessir, him’s an Oxford man, Mississippi, but right here in Semmesville is his home. Couldn’t shake that Semmesville Arcadian, naw. We loves him. 

RD, enough, said Mr. Beder. Enough of all that. To the porch. 

Robbie Dane mounted his steps and seated himself in a lawn chair within sight of the playground. He saw a mother and a kinky-haired girl in a pink tutu-dress. She ascended the slide, prettily lithe, brushed her kindling-thin legs and her backside, and batted her eyes like a fawn.  

Robbie Dane twitched and clopped his feet like a bull. 

Woo-whee! Dat girl cute! Dat girl cute!  

Mac Jameson was still writing. 

RD! said Mr. Beder. RD, enough of that! That’s enough! 

Dem kids is cute. Dirt on dey behinds. Dey cute li’l panties. Aww! 

What did I just say to you? said Mr. Beder. What did I say? Now, get inside. 

He joined RD on the porch, thanked him with exasperation, and shut him away.  

Your Meals-on-Wheels is coming? Mr. Beder asked. Ain’t that right? 

Yessir, RD said through the screen door. Gonna eat ‘em up. Gonna eat ‘em. 

He laughed heartily and waved goodbye as his two visitors returned to the sidewalk.  

At the car, Mr. Beder gripped his assistant by the lapels of his suit coat, interrogated him.  

What in the hell did you write? Mr. Beder demanded. Now, what does it say?  

Oh, nothing, said Mac Jameson as he broke free. A few ideas is all. It’s just a story.   

He pocketed his pen and swung the Moleskine under his arm. 

Well, whatever you do, ignore what you just heard, said Mr. Beder. It’s not important.  

Mac Jameson shrugged.  

Important, or not important, he said, his eyes glazed, his key like a pendulum swinging between the folds of his suit coat. That’s the question, I suppose. That’s a question. That’s a —   

He tripped as he walked, toppled over into the grass, quaked with inner force. 

That is the question! Mac Jameson exclaimed. That’s the damn question! That’s the one!   

Mr. Beder frowned. 

Of course, he whispered, and he threw up his hands in frustration. Of course. 

Somehow, even as he sprawled face-first in the grass, Mac Jameson still said it best. 

(4) 

Mac Jameson roused himself in a dining room decorated with the mounted heads of hogs and deer and other assorted beasts. He sat at a wooden table spread with leftovers where his editor sampled some of the food ― chicken, potatoes, slices of bread. Mr. Beder welcomed him. 

Good of you to join me, said Mr. Beder, as he unfolded his napkin. Here you go.   

He tendered Mac Jameson a piece of microwaved chicken, scooped him some potatoes, and, placing it all upon a paper plate, eased it across to him. He rapped his knuckles on the table. 

Wakey, wakey!  

Mac Jameson yawned. 

Soup. Give me soup, he said. Thick giblet, crust crumb, liver. 

He shivered and sneezed as if wrenched from the depths. 

Ain’t got it, said Mr. Beder. Have you some bread?  

Mac Jameson accepted a slice. Whose house is this? he asked. Whose place? 

It’s mine, said Mr. Beder, but first it was my Daddy’s. His aesthetic. It’s a bachelor pad, and Margaret’s up the street. She does the laundry, cleans, brings me food sometimes, like this ― 

But how did I get here? interrupted Mac Jameson. Tell me that. 

You passed out, said Mr. Beder. And then I dragged you. 

For how long? asked Mac Jameson. For 20 minutes? 

For an hour, said Mr. Beder. I knew you’d wake up eventually. Seemed probable.   

He spooned potatoes smothered in gravy, primly swallowed them, and cleaned his lips with a cloth. He ate his chicken with a fork. 

I assumed it was your nerves. Dehydration or something. Was I right? 

Mac Jameson didn’t answer; he scanned the room. 

Cats, he said, cats, monkeys, but Mr. Beder, impatient for something a little less cryptic, prodded him with his foot. 

I asked you what happened, he repeated. Was it a trance? 

Maybe, said Mac Jameson. Not seizures, not epilepsy. It’s overstimulation, accumulation of detail, a visionary state . . . .   

I suppose it’s medical, then, said Mr. Beder. A condition? 

Oh, no, said Mac Jameson. It’s the art. The trances lead to the words. I had small mini-spells throughout the novel, but the big one ― the best one ― the best one’s coming. 

He simpered pleasantly, silenced himself, and prompted Mr. Beder to lean towards him. 

Tell me about that best one, he said. Tell me the story. 

The bait bobbed between them, but Mac Jameson refused. 

Can’t. Nah. Nah, I would talk it away if I did. It’s a secret. 

He dropped his bread on the floor, swiftly picked it up, and twitched as he nibbled it. 

Like my Daddy with the Arcadian, said Mr. Beder. Revealed nothing in advance. Unlucky. 

He slid his plate aside and left untouched two pieces of chicken as he pontificated aloud:  

Well, Mac Jameson, if I was you I would want the critique. I would want to get better, to grow more proficient, to take into confidence somebody who’s credentialed, somebody who ― 

Credentialed? scoffed Mac Jameson. Credentialed? Mr. Beder, what is that? What is ‘credentialed’? What do you mean? What do they know, and what do you know? It’s nothing.  

He wriggled involuntarily, anchored himself, and clinched the table as ballast. He scarfed his bread, but rapaciousness persisted within him like Prader-Willi inside the genes of afflicted children. He seized from across the table the last bit of Mr. Beder’s chicken, and he devoured it. 

Wait! Wait a minute, said Mr. Beder, a stickler for etiquette. That was my —  

Oh, Mr. Beder, you had no say in the matter, Mac Jameson said. But I am sorry! 

He cackled as if possessed and was bathed in a maddening aura. 

Mr. Beder, don’t you understand? said Mac Jameson, as he gnawed his stolen drumstick. You, the rest ― you have nothing: it’s an illusion, a dumbshow for your entertainment. Can’t you see it’s all being invented and composed as we speak? Nothing’s tangible, nothing’s true. La fin.     

He ate his bread and chicken and piled the bones in a mound upon his plate. He licked his hands like a cat-eyed apparition and ran them through his beard and searched for loose scraps. 

For once, Mr. Beder could not conjure a response, not even the ghost of one. 

Nice meal, said Mac Jameson. Thank you, thank you. Sincerely.  

He gazed unhurriedly upon the room, and Mr. Beder, mystified still, gazed intently upon Mac Jameson, upon this, both his fantasy and his nightmare, upon this strange and frightful love. 

(5) 

Outside they heard a voice, a stentorian wheeze like the sharp, punctuated exclamations of a crow: Winterman Beder! Winterman!  

Aw, durn, it’s the Judge, said Mr. Beder. Ugh.  

The Judge? asked Mac Jameson. Well, who is that? 

Judge Calhoun, said Mr. Beder. 26th District Court, retired. My neighbor, and the reason I can never work from home. You’ll see.    

Pop! Pop! Pop!  

A cane hit the glass, the side door. 

Oh, Beder, the Younger! Winterman Beder! Winterman! 

Hold on! said Mr. Beder. I’m coming! But you have to wait.  

He unlocked the door, and the visitor advanced as swiftly as aged legs would allow, his veiny wrists and splotched hands purpled as if from playing in ink. He wore seersucker, a hat, clip-on suspenders, and a watch. In his left hand he held a plastic medicine box. He waved it.  

Winterman, boy, I hardly catch you home these days. You quit the Masons, the church, you never visit me anymore, you never see me. Where have you been lately? Where did you go? 

Judge, I’m just consumed with work, said Mr. Beder. I’ve no time now, I swear. None. 

Mr. Beder hooked his wrist around the Judge’s arm and led him to the dining room where Mac Jameson waited. At the table, the younger man was pressing his pen to Moleskine, assailing his story’s flaws and perfecting his words into something much more subtle, more vigorous, too.    

Mr. Beder debated whether to disturb Mac Jameson at his work.  

A chair, he said to the Judge. You may take a seat.  

Thanks, said the Judge. Good man, Winterman. You are. You took up the Arcadian, you owned it. Your Daddy would be so proud.   

Uh-huh, said Mr. Beder, directing the Judge’s attention to the Arcadian’s newest member. 

Meet my assistant, he said, but the Judge, in spite of erudition and prestige, inclined to bemusement at the sight of this new employee and found it hard to distinguish him from his boss. 

Young man! shouted the Judge. I said, good day! 

Mac Jameson smirked, but remained focused on the page, and didn’t look up.  

Don’t you see he’s greeting you? said Mr. Beder. At least say hi. 

Hi, said Mac Jameson. And how do you do? 

Just great! said the Judge. Life is grand. 

He drummed his fingers upon the lid of his medicine box. 

Pills, he said. Pills. I’ve gotta sort them. Could you help me? 

Mr. Beder emptied the box, removed the plastic bottles and a pill organizer, and distributed the old man’s medicine by the day. He dropped each pill inside its designated slot and snapped shut the lids, then returned the organizer to the Judge. Mac Jameson continued to write. 

Clytie ain’t come this week, said the Judge. Shows up whenever she wants. I pay her, and yet she ain’t here. I hated to ask you, Winterman, and you didn’t have to have done it. But thanks.   

It’s fine, said Mr. Beder. That’ll be fine. 

Hey, there! said the Judge. And what are you writing? What is that? 

Mac Jameson lowered the Moleskine and smoothed the collar of his suit coat. 

A short story, he said. I’m seeking the best: I’ve done the greatest novel, op-ed, letter to the editor, you name it. A short story, though ― now, that is a challenge. But I shall achieve it. 

The old man blinked with tragic wonder. 

Ha! Confident, you are! And so young! But I’m proof that that will fade. Unfortunately.  

He rubbed his jowls with his wrinkled hands. He sniffed. 

Now, what was that name again, son? I said, your name? 

Vereker, said Mac Jameson. Hugh Vereker. 

Vereker, repeated the Judge. I know that name. I said, Vereker. Vereker . . . .  

He ventured palpitating fingers into his shirt pocket and withdrew a piece of folded newsprint he had sheared from the Opinion pages and secured with a clip.  

What’s that? asked Mr. Beder. Is that a ― 

An editorial, said the Judge. A long letter to the editor by one, H. Vereker, Reprobate Symposiast, and entitled, “The World Out There.” It’s good, actually, quite impressive. I loved it. 

Thank you, said Mac Jameson, and he stared at Mr. Beder. Now, do you see? 

But I rejected that! said Mr. Beder. It was too long and too allegorical and too― 

Perhaps too profane? asked the Judge. I thought it was funny. 

Well, how did you get it published? demanded Mr. Beder. Tell me how! And where! 

In the Iliad, said the Judge. The Homer Iliad. Little rag out in Homer. Claiborne parish.  

Mr. Beder glared at Mac Jameson. 

In our competition? Mr. Beder exclaimed. You published it there? Are you serious?  

Art’s amoral, said Mac Jameson with a glittering smile. Thieves, beggars, horse swipes. 

The old man held the clipping aloft and read the final line to the group. 

Vera incessu patuit dea ― Goddess, indubitable, revealed in her step ― it’s the best, it’s like Dante, Mr. Vereker, or a modern Canterbury Tales, beyond Semmesville, beyond Homer —    

OK, Judge, we get the picture, said Mr. Beder. We got deadlines, gotta publish. Let’s go. 

They helped the Judge outside, and Mr. Beder locked up the house.  

You wanna know its cost? asked the Judge, waving the newsprint at his younger friend. $1.25, Winterman. You charge me 75¢. Raise your prices, young man, and raise your standards. 

Maybe I should, said Mr. Beder. Maybe. Perhaps you’re right. 

Was worth every penny, said the Judge. Certainly was. 

(6) 

A few hours later, in his office, after having just completed the Arcadian’s last weekly edits, and then shooting an emailed copy of the finished product to the print shop in Ruston mere minutes before the deadline, Mr. Beder roused himself from his laptop as Maragaret walked in.  

Mr. Beder, she said, I know you done sent it. He’s still writing, though. Gonna tell him?  

Not yet, said Mr. Beder. And it’s none of your business. Time for you to head out. Go on. 

OK, said Margaret. OK, but I just thought ― 

Nope, said Mr. Beder. Nope, you go on and skedaddle now. You go on. I’ll walk you out. 

He opened the front door, and the bell erupted in pealing laughter, in clangorous mirth. 

Good night, he said to Margaret. Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.  

He shut the door, locked it behind her. 

Mac Jameson, Mr. Beder said. Mac Jameson, I’m sorry, but I’ve something to tell you.        

You’re not sorry, Mac Jameson said, as he continued writing in his Moleskine. Don’t you understand this is exactly what I expected? No story, no story in your paper, is that right? Huh? 

Well, yes, said Mr. Beder, a bit taken aback. That is right. Art’s amoral, remember? Yeah. 

Mac Jameson nodded with obvious sympathy and fondled the key around his neck. 

At least you’re honest, he said. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll be in New York next week. Look. 

He dipped into his pocket and retrieved from it a crumpled envelope. 

What is that? asked Mr. Beder, immediately suspicious. May I see it? Give it here. 

Careful now, cautioned Mac Jameson, as he handed it over to his editor. It’s history. 

Mr. Beder discarded the envelope and unfolded a coffee-stained letter. 

Well, my God! said Mr. Beder, as he examined the signature. You mean, it’s from ― 

Oh, yes, said Mac Jameson. Yes, indeed. It’s from Gwendolyn Corvick, editor, writer, Professor of Practice, NYU, only the greatest novelist in this country since 1916. You know her? 

Know her? said Mr. Beder. Well, I . . . .  

He recalled the many books that Ms. Corvick had written ― the four bestselling tomes that lined the shelves of the Shreveport Barnes & Noble ― and he pictured again their flashy titles and their cover art, the About the Author flaps, and the lengthy endorsements, their blurbs.      

It appears, said Mr. Beder, that she’s offered you a job. Her assistant? You wrote to her? 

Sure did, said Mac Jameson. Weeks ago, absolutely. Whatever it takes. Whatever the cost. 

Weeks ago? said Mr. Beder. Then this was all . . . it was all . . . it was . . .  what was it? 

He returned the letter to its owner and gagged as if from nausea, and again it seemed he heard the bell, its subtle tintinnabulation compounding into a clamorous din. He covered his ears.  

Oh, Mac Jameson, you’re a weasel, Mr. Beder said at last. A weasel! A fiend! It’s unfair. 

Mac Jameson laughed.   

You must forgive me, he said. It’s a disease, a beauty born from madness. Cruel demons, wielding the whip, and slave drivers spurring me. I can’t fight it, you understand? Never could.    

He tucked away his letter and closed the Moleskine. 

New York is far, he continued. A long, hard drive. I’ll finish this later. Where’s my box? 

But Mr. Beder had already blocked the door. 

No, never, I can’t let you, he said. You must take me with you, Mac Jameson. It’s penance. 

Penance? said Mac Jameson. I’ll give you your penance! and he pushed him. 

Oh, you are a beast! exclaimed Mr. Beder. You’re a monster!  

He raised his fists and struck Mac Jameson in the chest and continued to pummel him. 

Fool! replied a winded Mac Jameson. I’m the leviathan, the cockatrice, the fiery serpent!  

He strained to breathe and collapsed heavily upon the floor, gesticulating wildly and emitting a throaty gargling sound, a rattling squeal which surprised and distracted his opponent.  

My God, that sound! said Mr. Beder. That sound, that sound! It consumes me. 

See, it’s the big one, said Mac Jameson. The big one, the best one. The best one’s here. 

He flinched and faded into one of his trances. 

Help me, Mr. Beder! Help me! Please help! 

I am helping! said Mr. Beder. I’m helping as best as I can! I am helping! I am! 

He hefted Mac Jameson and whisked him into his office. He laid him down. He waited. 

Mac Jameson? he whispered. Mac Jameson, are you still there? Hugh Vereker? 

Yes, came a voice from the beyond. Yes, yes, yes. I’m right here.  

(7) 

Daylight dwindled and a ponderous nightfall emerged, cloaking within darkness the town of Semmesville, stroking with adumbral fingers the Arcadian’s office, and closing its long, stippled curtain upon a day of sweat and toil, upon the work of human hands, upon its pleasures.  

Mr. Beder propped Mac Jameson against the wall and opened the Moleskine to the last scribbled page and to the final fragmentary passage of his tale. He handed Mac Jameson a pen.  

Here, Vereker, he said. You must finish it. 

Soon, the voice replied, inscrutably gruff. Quite soon. 

Mac Jameson scratched out lines and scrawled his pen across the page, struggling for a faultless performance and for the fulfillment of his imagination’s ends, for its transcription.  

Water, he pleaded. Give me some water. 

Not yet, said Mr. Beder. No, not yet. Are you done, Mac Jameson? Are you finished? 

Almost, came the articulated reply, but in a peculiar accent, more guttural. Perhaps. 

Mr. Beder wrung his hands and rocked on his heels. He clicked his tongue nervously. 

This is all too weird, Mr. Beder said. It’s too much. 

He heard a snicker, a howl of merriment from below.   

Too weird? Too much? came the slavering voice. Too much for you, Mr. Beder? Hahaha! 

Mr. Beder returned to his chair, to his laptop, and to Mac Jameson’s box. 

Vereker, I know you’re laughing at me. You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? Aren’t you? 

Ooh-hoo! came the voice’s response. Ooh!  

Mr. Beder reclined in his chair and strove with haughty effort to adopt a critic’s demeanor, to attire himself in the habiliments of the learned. He folded his hands in his lap.   

Oh, and I know what you are writing about, too, he said. It’s the only reason you would come to this podunk town, it’s the only thing that makes sense when you think about it. To be published in the Arcadian ― are you kidding? I’ve known it from the beginning, Vereker: I knew! 

Hahaha! replied the unwavering voice. Hahaha!  

Mr. Beder contorted his face as if in torment. He appeared mad, his mind unraveling.  

A grand joke, it all was, he sputtered. A joke, you see? And at my expense! 

He sank lower in his chair and pulled his legs into his seat and curled into a ball. 

I need sleep, sleep. New York is so far, so far, and the Arcadian’s done. Goodnight.   

His head drooped, his eyes closed, and the world went black. He awakened to the sun burning magnificently and siring a luminous progeny as if neither time, strength, nor recognition mattered at all. Eight minutes, Mr. Beder recalled: eight minutes of light once the sun’s snuffed out. It could be here, now, the next second, and we wouldn’t know until we’d all been devoured.     

Mac Jameson! said Mr. Beder. Hugh Vereker! 

He sat up in his seat. In the room, no one remained to answer his call, but Mac Jameson’s box persisted on the desk, and its key dangled from a filing cabinet drawer. Mr. Beder untied the key, searched the office. He found no traces of its owner, and, outside, Mac Jameson’s car was nowhere to be seen. At last, he examined the box and discovered a note attached to its padlock. 

He peeled it off. He read it: Go on. Open me now if you dare. You know you want it.   

Inside, he found the pages of a story, a rough beast that blinked at him curiously.   

He browsed the text greedily and flipped its pages. He saw it all: Robbie Dane, his Daddy and the Judge, Margaret, Ole Miss, New York, the Arcadian, on and on and on. What he did not see, though, among the paragraphs and the lines, was any semblance of himself. Instead, he saw only an absence, a great gulf which loomed in his mind, and which he knew he’d never forget. 

It’s beautiful, said Mr. Beder. It’s so beautiful. But my goodness. 

He heard the bell from the foyer, and then a knock. 

Mr. Beder? said Margaret. Mr. Beder, good morning! Are you in there? 

He did not open the door. Instead, Mr. Beder flung himself down and waited for Margaret to leave and for her voice to dissipate. He rolled on the floor and hid his face and closed his eyes.  

Nice to meet you at last, he said. So nice. 

He heard the bell ringing in the foyer and tolling in his ears. He relaxed for once, rested. 

It’s fleeting, he admitted. It’s so fast. Oh, well. 

He smiled and slept like the dead and readied his ascent.