{"id":241,"date":"2025-11-06T23:18:37","date_gmt":"2025-11-06T23:18:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/?page_id=241"},"modified":"2025-11-06T23:57:52","modified_gmt":"2025-11-06T23:57:52","slug":"mr-beder-meets-his-maker","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/fiction\/mr-beder-meets-his-maker\/","title":{"rendered":"Mr. Beder Meets His Maker"},"content":{"rendered":"

Cody Bennett<\/span><\/p>\n

(1)\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

On Tuesday morning, on print day, the doorbell clanged and clamored \u2014 a tinkling cymbal \u2014 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\u2019s paper.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Margaret! <\/i>he called out to his secretary. Yoo-hoo, Margaret! Come here!\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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 t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate, assumed an air of grand and magisterial significance.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Margaret knocked as she emerged from the foyer, torn foolscap in palsied hands.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Who is it? <\/i>asked Mr. Beder. And what does he want?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s a young man, <\/i>she said. Hugh Veraaker.<\/i> He wants to see you.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Vereker, <\/i>Mr. Beder corrected her. I\u2019ve no time today, though. Tell him to go. To be gone.\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Margaret returned. Mr. Beder, sir, that boy\u2019s still out there,<\/i> she said. He\u2019s got him a box.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder closed his notebook and fastened its elastic bands. He flung down his pen.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Margaret, please, I\u2019m working. It\u2019s Tuesday, it\u2019s print day, and the threads of this op-ed \u2014\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He wiped his glistening face, handkerchief to skin.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

OK, fine. Fine, whatever,<\/i> said Mr. Beder, and he marched to meet his fate. Let\u2019s talk.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u2019s brass skeleton key hung limply around the visitor\u2019s neck.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Well?<\/i> inquired Mr. Beder. What brings you here to the <\/i>Arcadian<\/i>? You may answer.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I think you know, <\/i>said the visitor. You know. You didn\u2019t run it.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Your letter, I\u2019m assuming? <\/i>answered Mr. Beder. Well, no, I did not. It was too long and too profane, too allegorical.<\/i> What was your name again?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Hugh Vereker. My name is \u2015<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, horse hockey!<\/i> said Mr. Beder. If that\u2019s your name, then I\u2019m no editor, writer, publisher, nothing. You might be able to deceive Margaret, boy, but you ain\u2019t lying to me.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The young man snorted contemptuously.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

One \u201cOde on a Grecian Urn\u201d is worth any number of old ladies, <\/i>he said. Name\u2019s Mac, Mac Jameson. Pleased to meet you.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He bowed. Astonished, Mr. Beder reciprocated.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Pleased to meet you. The name\u2019s Beder, Winterman Beder, sole staff writer, editor, and publisher of this historic periodical, the Semmesville<\/i> Arcadian<\/i>, Semmesville, Louisiana, 71241.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He clicked his heels as if concluding a performance.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

And this is Margaret, <\/i>he continued. My secretary \u2015 she worked for my father. Say hi.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Hi, <\/i>said Margaret. I\u2019ll be in the back.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She tottered to the copy room, and her joints creaked as she exited. She cracked the door.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Now, what\u2019s in the box? <\/i>asked Mr. Beder. Is it your fortune?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s a novel, <\/i>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.<\/i> He offered them to Mr. Beder.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Others? <\/i>said Mr. Beder. What others?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The other 22, <\/i>said Mac Jameson. It\u2019s the longest novel in existence. 14 thousand pages, two million words. Makes Marcel Proust into a sketch, and <\/i>War and Peace<\/i> into a mere skirmish.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I see,<\/i> said Mr. Beder, accepting the manuscript. Jemison Pearlgate: A Life as a Shadow<\/i>.\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He skimmed a paragraph, selected a sentence, and employed a critic\u2019s eye.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I tell you what,<\/i> 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\u2019ll read your book and tell you if it\u2019s any good. What do you say?<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Eh, no, thanks<\/i>, said Mac Jameson. It is good. I read it, I wrote it. I should know.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You should know?<\/i> said Mr. Beder. How? How do you know? Where did you study?<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Nowhere,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. No credentials. None. None to speak of.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He swayed and tugged his beard, shaking like an entrapped animal.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We want competence,<\/i> Mac Jameson muttered, lifting his fists, and yet competence alone is deadly. No! What is needed today . . . what is needed today . . . is vision!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He collapsed in the nearest chair \u2015 legs splayed, his breathing labored \u2015 and Margaret, overhearing the commotion, rushed from the copy room and assisted the young man to his feet.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, he\u2019s fine!<\/i> said Mr. Beder. He tidied the pages of the book, returned them to their box.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Are you OK?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Yes,<\/i> replied Mac Jameson. He rose. I want to run it in your paper. Serialize it, publish it.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, no! No. Not in the <\/i>Arcadian<\/i>. Short pieces only \u2015 no novels!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You don\u2019t understand, <\/i>said Mac Jameson. I need to publish it. Remember Gide? \u201cThe rejection of this book remains the most stinging and remorseful regret of my life.\u201d Think of that.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Think of that?<\/i> repeated Mr. Beder. Think of what? Is that a threat?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson locked the box with his key. He grinned and confronted his opponent.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I am the behemoth. The beast in the jungle, the figure in the carpet. I\u2019ll out-carpet, out-figure, out-beast you. Goodbye.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He absconded through the front door \u2015 brass bell jangling \u2015 and Mr. Beder, perturbed by the excitement, mumbled platitudes aloud so as to mask the unease in the room, the malaise.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Interesting young man. Somewhat odd.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Again, he heard the bell.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Give me a job?<\/i> asked Mac Jameson. A job?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You\u2019re hired!<\/i> said Mr. Beder, and he smiled, a conquistador on the shore.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

(2)\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In 15 minutes Mac Jameson had finished and saved his work to the desktop and printed it as instructed. He entered Mr. Beder\u2019s office \u2014 no knock \u2014 where the Arcadian\u2019s editor scrolled in his iPhone, reconnoitering the LinkedIn accounts of former college friends and acquaintances.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Here,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. Check this out.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He pitched him the page, and Mr. Beder breezed through it, rapidly laid it by.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s good, <\/i>he said. It\u2019s real good for a minor piece. It\u2019s impressive.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder resumed his duties: editing the church news, posting legal ads, arranging the help-wanteds, the for-sales.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

What about the op-ed?<\/i> he asked Mac Jameson. You finished it? I mean the main one?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Uh-huh,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. I finished it, too. Here it is.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder snatched it, eyes widening. He coughed and plunked the page with his thumb.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

But how did you?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

How did I what? <\/i>asked Mac Jameson. What are you asking me?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m asking you how you done it, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. Rural life, my ideas. You made \u2018em pop.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I don\u2019t understand, <\/i>said Mac Jameson. It\u2019s hackwork. It\u2019s hardly \u2015<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Hackwork!<\/i> exclaimed Mr. Beder. Are you kidding me? These are my thoughts on the page, Mac Jameson. It would\u2019ve taken me days. Nights! You say what has to be said. You say it!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

OK,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. So I say it. Is that all?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He slid loose from his suit coat, draped it over the door. Mr. Beder marveled at the work.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson,<\/i> it\u2019s the right words at the right time, and in the <\/i>Arcadian<\/i>, too, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. That\u2019s revenue, you understand? That\u2019s ads, that\u2019s acclaim. That\u2019s what we want.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He jerked the ends of his bowtie, savored the tension.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

But how? <\/i>he asked him again. Tell me how!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Tap, tap, tap.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder, <\/i>interrupted Margaret. Robbie Dane\u2019s on the phone. He\u2019s wondering when you gonna come by today and pick up his temperatures. He says you\u2019s an hour later than usual, but I said you was coming.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, God, I am late,<\/i> said Mr. Beder. I thought we were moving to email with him. I thought \u2014\u00a0<\/i> \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, Mr. Beder, I highly doubt that, <\/i>said Margaret. You know he\u2019s special.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder clutched his keys.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You fancy a drive?<\/i> he asked Mac Jameson. A quick one?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

No, I\u2019d rather not,<\/i> responded Mac Jameson. I\u2019m writing a short story, and I need to work.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He held Mr. Beder\u2019s Moleskine, the pages dog-eared, a pen protruding.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Hey! <\/i>said Mr. Beder. Wait one second! Isn\u2019t that mine?\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

But Mac Jameson merely continued cradling the Moleskine and pursed his lips like a castigated child. He twined his fingers through its elastic bands.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Let me keep it, <\/i>he said. Please. I must work while I still can. I must. It\u2019s my purpose.\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Mr. Beder gritted his teeth, disarmed by the strangeness of it all.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

No, <\/i>he said. No, you\u2019re coming, understand? Your only purpose, your only job \u2014\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He reddened.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I tell you what, <\/i>Mr. Beder continued. If you join me, I\u2019ll make you a deal. I\u2019ll publish it.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You\u2019ll publish it? <\/i>said Mac Jameson, suddenly intrigued. You\u2019ll publish my short story?\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder reluctantly assented.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, then a deal it is, then,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. Yes, sir. We have us a deal.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Good, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. Then leave your novel, take the Moleskine. Don\u2019t forget your coat.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

They exited to the street, and the bell rang as Mr. Beder closed the door.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Goodbye! <\/i>called Margaret from inside. Thoughts and prayers to Robbie Dane! Have fun.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

(3)\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

They arrived at Robbie Dane\u2019s by noon, strolling past the gaudy colors of a children\u2019s playground and halting in the shade of an extravagant sycamore.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Winterman! <\/i>he said, sighting his visitors. Woo-hoo!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

We\u2019re here for the temperatures, <\/i>said Mr. Beder, and he talked into Mac Jameson\u2019s ear:\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

RD\u2019s a little off, <\/i>he said. He can\u2019t help it. He can\u2019t.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson wound his skeleton key necklace around his thumb, bent back the Moleskine\u2019s cover, uncapped his pen. Mr. Beder watched him as he began to write something.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Woo-golly! <\/i>interrupted Robbie Dane. Woo-whee!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Stop it! <\/i>said Mr. Beder. RD, stop! Now, get off!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He thrust the older, much bigger man away in an exaggerated pantomime of displeasure.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Email? <\/i>said Mr. Beder. Did you get my email, RD? Did you get what we sent you?\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Ooh, email. Email. Um, email\u2019s difficult.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Robbie Dane followed the wiggling of Mac Jameson\u2019s pen and observed the spellbound face of a craftsman at work. He felt a chilly, no-good thought, and spittle sprang from his mouth.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Dat kid, my Winterman, <\/i>said Robbie Dane to Mr. Beder. Dat . . . dat kid . . . .<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He moaned and shielded himself with his meaty hands. He stamped his sneakered feet.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

RD! <\/i>said Mr. Beder, and he flapped his own arms to divert the man\u2019s attention. Stay calm.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He smacked Robbie Dane gently, as would a coach.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson\u2019s a savant, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. And he\u2019s my assistant, too. Say hi to him.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Robbie Dane peeked from behind his fingers and glowered, red-faced, at the young man.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac . . . Jameson? <\/i>RD snarled. Mac . . . Jameson? Mac who?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Hugh Vereker, actually, <\/i>corrected the assistant. Author of the greatest work since Shakespeare, <\/i>Jemison Pearlgate: Life as a<\/i> \u2015<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Ooh! <\/i>said Robbie Dane. Ooh-whee! Ooh, dat reminds me!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He searched his overalls and snagged sheets of folded loose leaf. He saluted his boss.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Dem\u2019s my temperatures, <\/i>he said as he provided them to Mr. Beder. I got \u2018em!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

And the <\/i>Arcadian<\/i> thanks you, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. Last week\u2019s, right? Last week\u2019s forecast?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Uh-huh,<\/i> said RD. Ain\u2019t no predictions there, no, sir. They\u2019re recordings.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Good job,<\/i> said Mr. Beder. Good job, RD. Keep it up.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Yessir, <\/i>said Robbie Dane sincerely. I\u2019m employed.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Again, he examined Mac Jameson and was alarmed by the assistant\u2019s strange disposition.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Excuse me!<\/i> He tapped Mac Jameson\u2019s elbow. My Winterman\u2019s a genius. You respect him.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He grinned at Mr. Beder and exposed more gum than teeth. Mac Jameson kept writing.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Dat\u2019s right, <\/i>continued Robbie Dane. Yessir, him\u2019s an Oxford man, Mississippi, but right here in Semmesville is his home. Couldn\u2019t shake that Semmesville <\/i>Arcadian<\/i>, naw. We loves him.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

RD, enough, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. Enough of all that. To the porch.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Robbie Dane twitched and clopped his feet like a bull.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Woo-whee! Dat girl cute! Dat girl cute!<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson was still writing.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

RD!<\/i> said Mr. Beder. RD, enough of that! That\u2019s enough!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Dem kids is cute. Dirt on dey behinds. Dey cute li\u2019l panties. Aww!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

What did I just say to you? <\/i>said Mr. Beder. What did I say? Now, get inside.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He joined RD on the porch, thanked him with exasperation, and shut him away.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Your Meals-on-Wheels is coming? <\/i>Mr. Beder asked. Ain\u2019t that right?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Yessir, <\/i>RD said through the screen door. Gonna eat \u2018em up. Gonna eat \u2018em.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He laughed heartily and waved goodbye as his two visitors returned to the sidewalk.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

At the car, Mr. Beder gripped his assistant by the lapels of his suit coat, interrogated him.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

What in the hell did you write?<\/i> Mr. Beder demanded. Now, what does it say?\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, nothing,<\/i> said Mac Jameson as he broke free. A few ideas is all. It\u2019s just a story.\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He pocketed his pen and swung the Moleskine under his arm.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, whatever you do, ignore what you just heard,<\/i> said Mr. Beder. It\u2019s not important.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson shrugged.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Important, or not important, <\/i>he said, his eyes glazed, his key like a pendulum swinging between the folds of his suit coat. That\u2019s the question, I suppose. That\u2019s a question. That\u2019s a \u2014\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He tripped as he walked, toppled over into the grass, quaked with inner force.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

That is the question! <\/i>Mac Jameson exclaimed. That\u2019s the damn question! That\u2019s the one!<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder frowned.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Of course, <\/i>he whispered, and he threw up his hands in frustration. Of course.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Somehow, even as he sprawled face-first in the grass, Mac Jameson still said it best.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

(4)\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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 \u2015 chicken, potatoes, slices of bread. Mr. Beder welcomed him.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Good of you to join me,<\/i> said Mr. Beder, as he unfolded his napkin. Here you go.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Wakey, wakey!\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson yawned.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Soup. Give me soup,<\/i> he said. Thick giblet, crust crumb, liver.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He shivered and sneezed as if wrenched from the depths.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Ain\u2019t got it, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. Have you some bread?\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson accepted a slice. Whose house is this?<\/i> he asked. Whose place?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s mine, <\/i>said Mr. Beder, but first it was my Daddy\u2019s. His aesthetic. It\u2019s a bachelor pad, and Margaret\u2019s up the street. She does the laundry, cleans, brings me food sometimes, like this \u2015<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

But how did I get here?<\/i> interrupted Mac Jameson. Tell me that.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You passed out, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. And then I dragged you.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

For how long? <\/i>asked Mac Jameson. For 20 minutes?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

For an hour,<\/i> said Mr. Beder. I knew you\u2019d wake up eventually. Seemed probable.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He spooned potatoes smothered in gravy, primly swallowed them, and cleaned his lips with a cloth. He ate his chicken with a fork.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I assumed it was your nerves. Dehydration or something. Was I right?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson didn\u2019t answer; he scanned the room.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Cats, <\/i>he said, cats, monkeys,<\/i> but Mr. Beder, impatient for something a little less cryptic, prodded him with his foot.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I asked you what happened,<\/i> he repeated. Was it a trance?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Maybe,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. Not seizures, not epilepsy. It\u2019s overstimulation, accumulation of detail, a visionary state . . . .<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I suppose it\u2019s medical, then, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. A condition?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, no,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. It\u2019s the art. The trances lead to the words. I had small mini-spells throughout the novel, but the big one \u2015 the best one \u2015 the best one\u2019s coming.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He simpered pleasantly, silenced himself, and prompted Mr. Beder to lean towards him.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Tell me about that best one, <\/i>he said. Tell me the story.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The bait bobbed between them, but Mac Jameson refused.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Can\u2019t. Nah. Nah, I would talk it away if I did. It\u2019s a secret.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He dropped his bread on the floor, swiftly picked it up, and twitched as he nibbled it.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Like my Daddy with the <\/i>Arcadian<\/i>, said Mr. Beder. Revealed nothing in advance. Unlucky.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He slid his plate aside and left untouched two pieces of chicken as he pontificated aloud:\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u2019s credentialed, somebody who \u2015<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Credentialed?<\/i> scoffed Mac Jameson. Credentialed? Mr. Beder, what is that? What is \u2018credentialed\u2019? What do you mean? What do they know, and what do you know? It\u2019s nothing.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u2019s chicken, and he devoured it.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Wait! Wait a minute, <\/i>said Mr. Beder, a stickler for etiquette. That was my \u2014\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, Mr. Beder, you had no say in the matter, <\/i>Mac Jameson said. But I am sorry!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He cackled as if possessed and was bathed in a maddening aura.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder, don\u2019t you understand? <\/i>said Mac Jameson, as he gnawed his stolen drumstick. You, the rest \u2015 you have nothing: it\u2019s an illusion, a dumbshow for your entertainment. Can\u2019t you see it\u2019s all being invented and composed as we speak? Nothing\u2019s tangible, nothing\u2019s true. La fin.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

For once, Mr. Beder could not conjure a response, not even the ghost of one.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Nice meal,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. Thank you, thank you. Sincerely.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

(5)\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Outside they heard a voice, a stentorian wheeze like the sharp, punctuated exclamations of a crow: Winterman Beder! Winterman!\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Aw, durn, it\u2019s the Judge, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. Ugh.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The Judge?<\/i> asked Mac Jameson. Well, who is that?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Judge Calhoun, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. 26th District Court, retired. My neighbor, and the reason I can never work from home. You\u2019ll see.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Pop! Pop! Pop!<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A cane hit the glass, the side door.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, Beder, the Younger! Winterman Beder! Winterman!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Hold on!<\/i> said Mr. Beder. I\u2019m coming! But you have to wait.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Judge, I\u2019m just consumed with work, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. I\u2019ve no time now, I swear. None.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder hooked his wrist around the Judge\u2019s 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\u2019s flaws and perfecting his words into something much more subtle, more vigorous, too.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder debated whether to disturb Mac Jameson at his work.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A chair,<\/i> he said to the Judge. You may take a seat.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Thanks<\/i>, said the Judge. Good man, Winterman. You are. You took up the <\/i>Arcadian<\/i>, you owned it. Your Daddy would be so proud.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Uh-huh,<\/i> said Mr. Beder, directing the Judge\u2019s attention to the Arcadian\u2019s newest member.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Meet my assistant,<\/i> 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.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Young man!<\/i> shouted the Judge. I said, good day!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson smirked, but remained focused on the page, and didn\u2019t look up.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Don\u2019t you see he\u2019s greeting you?<\/i> said Mr. Beder. At least say hi.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Hi,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. And how do you do?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Just great!<\/i> said the Judge. Life is grand.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He drummed his fingers upon the lid of his medicine box.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Pills,<\/i> he said. Pills. I\u2019ve gotta sort them. Could you help me?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder emptied the box, removed the plastic bottles and a pill organizer, and distributed the old man\u2019s 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.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Clytie ain\u2019t come this week,<\/i> said the Judge. Shows up whenever she wants. I pay her, and yet she ain\u2019t here. I hated to ask you, Winterman, and you didn\u2019t have to have done it. But thanks.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s fine,<\/i> said Mr. Beder. That\u2019ll be fine.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Hey, there!<\/i> said the Judge. And what are you writing? What is that?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson lowered the Moleskine and smoothed the collar of his suit coat.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A short story,<\/i> he said. I\u2019m seeking the best: I\u2019ve done the greatest novel, op-ed, letter to the editor, you name it. A short story, though \u2015 now, that is a challenge. But I shall achieve it.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The old man blinked with tragic wonder.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Ha! Confident, you are! And so young! But I\u2019m proof that that will fade. Unfortunately.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He rubbed his jowls with his wrinkled hands. He sniffed.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Now, what was that name again, son? I said, your name?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Vereker,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. Hugh Vereker.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Vereker,<\/i> repeated the Judge. I know that name. I said, Vereker. Vereker . . . .\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

What\u2019s that?<\/i> asked Mr. Beder. Is that a \u2015<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

An editorial,<\/i> said the Judge. A long letter to the editor by one, H. Vereker, Reprobate Symposiast, and entitled, \u201cThe World Out There.\u201d It\u2019s good, actually, quite impressive. I loved it.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Thank you,<\/i> said Mac Jameson, and he stared at Mr. Beder. Now, do you see?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

But I rejected that!<\/i> said Mr. Beder. It was too long and too allegorical and too\u2015<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Perhaps too profane?<\/i> asked the Judge. I thought it was funny.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, how did you get it published?<\/i> demanded Mr. Beder. Tell me how! And where!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In the <\/i>Iliad<\/i>,<\/i> said the Judge. The Homer<\/i> Iliad<\/i>. Little rag out in Homer. Claiborne parish.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder glared at Mac Jameson.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In our competition? <\/i>Mr. Beder exclaimed. You published it there? Are you serious?\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Art\u2019s amoral,<\/i> said Mac Jameson with a glittering smile. Thieves, beggars, horse swipes.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The old man held the clipping aloft and read the final line to the group.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Vera incessu patuit dea \u2015 Goddess, indubitable, revealed in her step \u2015 it\u2019s the best, it\u2019s like Dante, Mr. Vereker, or a modern <\/i>Canterbury Tales<\/i>, beyond Semmesville, beyond Homer \u2014\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

OK, Judge, we get the picture,<\/i> said Mr. Beder. We got deadlines, gotta publish. Let\u2019s go.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

They helped the Judge outside, and Mr. Beder locked up the house.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You wanna know its cost?<\/i> asked the Judge, waving the newsprint at his younger friend. $1.25, Winterman. You charge me 75\u00a2. Raise your prices, young man, and raise your standards.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Maybe I should,<\/i> said Mr. Beder. Maybe. Perhaps you\u2019re right.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Was worth every penny,<\/i> said the Judge. Certainly was.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

(6)\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A few hours later, in his office, after having just completed the Arcadian\u2019s 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.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder, <\/i>she said, I know you done sent it.<\/i> He\u2019s still writing, though. Gonna tell him?\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Not yet, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. And it\u2019s none of your business.<\/i> Time for you to head out. Go on.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

OK, <\/i>said Margaret. OK,<\/i> but I just thought \u2015<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Nope, <\/i>said Mr. Beder. Nope, you go on and skedaddle now. You go on. I\u2019ll walk you out.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He opened the front door, and the bell erupted in pealing laughter, in clangorous mirth.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Good night, <\/i>he said to Margaret. Good night. I\u2019ll see you tomorrow.<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He shut the door, locked it behind her.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson, <\/i>Mr. Beder said. Mac Jameson, I\u2019m sorry, but I\u2019ve something to tell you.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You\u2019re not sorry, <\/i>Mac Jameson said, as he continued writing in his Moleskine. Don\u2019t you understand this is exactly what I expected? No story, no story in your paper, is that right? Huh?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, yes, <\/i>said Mr. Beder, a bit taken aback. That is right. Art\u2019s amoral, remember? Yeah.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson nodded with obvious sympathy and fondled the key around his neck.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

At least you\u2019re honest, <\/i>he said. But it doesn\u2019t matter. I\u2019ll be in New York next week. Look.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He dipped into his pocket and retrieved from it a crumpled envelope.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

What is that?<\/i> asked Mr. Beder, immediately suspicious. May I see it? Give it here.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Careful now,<\/i> cautioned Mac Jameson, as he handed it over to his editor. It\u2019s history.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder discarded the envelope and unfolded a coffee-stained letter.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, my God!<\/i> said Mr. Beder, as he examined the signature. You mean, it\u2019s from \u2015<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, yes, <\/i>said Mac Jameson. Yes, indeed. It\u2019s from Gwendolyn Corvick, editor, writer, Professor of Practice, NYU, only the greatest novelist in this country since 1916. You know her?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Know her? <\/i>said Mr. Beder. Well, I . . . .\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He recalled the many books that Ms. Corvick had written \u2015 the four bestselling tomes that lined the shelves of the Shreveport Barnes & Noble \u2015 and he pictured again their flashy titles and their cover art, the About the Author flaps, and the lengthy endorsements, their blurbs.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It appears, <\/i>said Mr. Beder, that she\u2019s offered you a job. Her assistant? You wrote to her?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Sure did,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. Weeks ago, absolutely. Whatever it takes. Whatever the cost.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Weeks ago?<\/i> said Mr. Beder. Then this was all . . . it was all . . . it was . . .\u00a0 what was it?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, Mac Jameson, you\u2019re a weasel, <\/i>Mr. Beder said at last. A weasel! A fiend! It\u2019s unfair.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson laughed.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You must forgive me,<\/i> he said. It\u2019s a disease, a beauty born from madness. Cruel demons, wielding the whip, and slave drivers spurring me. I can\u2019t fight it, you understand? Never could.\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He tucked away his letter and closed the Moleskine.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

New York is far,<\/i> he continued. A long, hard drive. I\u2019ll finish this later. Where\u2019s my box?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

But Mr. Beder had already blocked the door.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

No, never, I can\u2019t let you,<\/i> he said. You must take me with you, Mac Jameson. It\u2019s penance.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Penance? <\/i>said Mac Jameson. I\u2019ll give you your penance!<\/i> and he pushed him.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, you are a beast!<\/i> exclaimed Mr. Beder. You\u2019re a monster!\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He raised his fists and struck Mac Jameson in the chest and continued to pummel him.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Fool!<\/i> replied a winded Mac Jameson. I\u2019m the leviathan, the cockatrice, the fiery serpent!\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

My God, that sound!<\/i> said Mr. Beder. That sound, that sound! It consumes me.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

See, it\u2019s the big one,<\/i> said Mac Jameson. The big one, the best one. The best one\u2019s here.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He flinched and faded into one of his trances.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Help me, Mr. Beder! Help me! Please help!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I am helping!<\/i> said Mr. Beder. I\u2019m helping as best as I can! I am helping! I am!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He hefted Mac Jameson and whisked him into his office. He laid him down. He waited.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson?<\/i> he whispered. Mac Jameson, are you still there? Hugh Vereker?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Yes,<\/i> came a voice from the beyond. Yes, yes, yes. I\u2019m right here.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

(7)\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Daylight dwindled and a ponderous nightfall emerged, cloaking within darkness the town of Semmesville, stroking with adumbral fingers the Arcadian\u2019s office, and closing its long, stippled curtain upon a day of sweat and toil, upon the work of human hands, upon its pleasures.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Here, Vereker<\/i>, he said. You must finish it.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Soon,<\/i> the voice replied, inscrutably gruff. Quite soon.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson scratched out lines and scrawled his pen across the page, struggling for a faultless performance and for the fulfillment of his imagination\u2019s ends, for its transcription.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Water,<\/i> he pleaded. Give me some water.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Not yet,<\/i> said Mr. Beder. No, not yet. Are you done, Mac Jameson? Are you finished?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Almost,<\/i> came the articulated reply, but in a peculiar accent, more guttural. Perhaps.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder wrung his hands and rocked on his heels. He clicked his tongue nervously.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

This is all too weird<\/i>, Mr. Beder said. It\u2019s too much.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He heard a snicker, a howl of merriment from below.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Too weird? Too much?<\/i> came the slavering voice. Too much for you, Mr. Beder? Hahaha!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder returned to his chair, to his laptop, and to Mac Jameson\u2019s box.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Vereker, I know you\u2019re laughing at me. You\u2019re laughing at me, aren\u2019t you? Aren\u2019t you?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Ooh-hoo!<\/i> came the voice\u2019s response. Ooh!\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder reclined in his chair and strove with haughty effort to adopt a critic\u2019s demeanor, to attire himself in the habiliments of the learned. He folded his hands in his lap.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Oh, and I know what you are writing about, too, <\/i>he said. It\u2019s the only reason you would come to this podunk town, it\u2019s the only thing that makes sense when you think about it. To be published in the <\/i>Arcadian<\/i> \u2015 are you kidding? I\u2019ve known it from the beginning, Vereker: I knew!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Hahaha!<\/i> replied the unwavering voice. Hahaha!<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder contorted his face as if in torment. He appeared mad, his mind unraveling.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A grand joke, it all was,<\/i> he sputtered. A joke, you see? And at my expense!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He sank lower in his chair and pulled his legs into his seat and curled into a ball.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I need sleep, sleep. New York is so far, so far, and the <\/i>Arcadian<\/i>\u2019s done. Goodnight.\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u2019s snuffed out. It could be here, now, the next second, and we wouldn\u2019t know until we\u2019d all been devoured.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mac Jameson!<\/i> said Mr. Beder. Hugh Vereker!<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He sat up in his seat. In the room, no one remained to answer his call, but Mac Jameson\u2019s 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\u2019s car was nowhere to be seen. At last, he examined the box and discovered a note attached to its padlock.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He peeled it off. He read it: Go on. Open me now if you dare. You know you want it.\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Inside, he found the pages of a story, a rough beast that blinked at him curiously.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u2019d never forget.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s beautiful,<\/i> said Mr. Beder. It\u2019s so beautiful. But my goodness.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He heard the bell from the foyer, and then a knock.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Beder?<\/i> said Margaret. Mr. Beder, good morning! Are you in there?<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

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.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Nice to meet you at last, <\/i>he said. So nice.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He heard the bell ringing in the foyer and tolling in his ears. He relaxed for once, rested.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s fleeting,<\/i> he admitted. It\u2019s so fast. Oh, well.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He smiled and slept like the dead and readied his ascent.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\nCody Bennett (1)\u00a0 On Tuesday morning, on print day, the doorbell clanged and clamored \u2014 a tinkling cymbal \u2014 and…\n<\/div>\n
Continue reading “Mr. Beder Meets His Maker”<\/span>…<\/a><\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":81,"featured_media":0,"parent":14,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-241","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/241","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/81"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=241"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/241\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":252,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/241\/revisions\/252"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/14"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=241"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}