Blind Submission by Debra Ginsberg

you know that? You’ve got to go tell her. Go now, quickly!” Nora waved her skinny arms around wildly. She looked like an infuriated mouse. I couldn’t tell how much of her hostility was pure bitchery and how much was self-protection, but I made a mental note to sort it out as soon as possible.
    I had fever sweats and a hammering heart as I knocked on the door to Lucy’s office. Craig opened the door a crack and leaned his face out. He looked flushed and disheveled, as if he’d been wrestling with something. “Don’t knock,” he said. “Use the intercom in the future.” There was that teen idol voice again. If you put a large bag over Craig’s head, I thought, he’d be utterly irresistible.
    â€œI have a message for Lucy,” I said, and Craig ushered me in. Lucy was sitting behind her desk, talking on the phone, and gave me a broad smile as I walked in. She was dressed in a blood-colored pantsuit with shoes to match. Her wild hair was restrained in a small knot at the back of her head. A large pendant, which looked very much like an amulet with a crimson stone in its center, hung from her neck. She gestured for me to come sit in a chair opposite her.
    â€œYes, my dear,” she was saying, “I understand how traumatic this surgery can be, but at least you’ll have one kidney left, won’t you? And think of it this way, for a couple of days you’ll have no kids to distract you. And you can take your laptop with you—get a little writing done. You are due to deliver your first draft, you know. What do you think?” She paused for the response, her mouth turning down as she heard it. “But the anesthesia is a small part of the process,” she went on. I could hear an indignant voice on the other end of the phone rise by several decibels and Lucy looked at me, rolling her eyes. She covered the mouthpiece with one hand and as the voice ranted on she said, “What is it, Angel? Why are you sitting here?”
    â€œGordon Hart called,” I whispered. Lucy’s expression changed abruptly to one of sharp concern.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me?” she hissed, and uncovered the mouthpiece. “Listen, Lorraine, I have to go now. We’ll speak later. No, Lorraine, I can’t, I’ve got one of the most important men in publishing waiting to talk to me. Bye.” She hung up and turned to me. “What line is he on?” she asked, scanning the lines, none of which were lit or blinking.
    â€œHe’s not on the line. He left a message.”
    â€œYou
let him off the phone
? Why? Do you know how important he is?” She stood up and held her considerable height over me. Flanked against all the white of her office, she looked like a large, open wound. She seemed so angry that for a paranoid second I thought she was going to slap me. “Get him on the phone. Now,” she said through clenched teeth.
    â€œHe said that he won’t be able to give you a decision today,” I said breathlessly.
    â€œJust get him on the phone,” she repeated. “We’ll talk about this later.”
    I felt myself skipping out of Lucy’s office as if the soles of my feet were burning. On my way out, I caught a glimpse of Craig’s expression. It was one of amused pity.
    I walked-ran over to my desk and picked up the receiver on my phone, only to realize that I was completely clueless as to where to find Gordon Hart’s phone number, or
any
phone number, for that matter. I searched my desk, looking for a Rolodex, and found nothing. I did, however, manage to sweep several piles of paper to the floor, spilling what I could only assume were vital documents. My intercom flashed and screamed.
    â€œAngel. Get Gordon Hart. On the line. Now.” Lucy’s angry voice penetrated my marrow. The useless and unwelcome thought that I was going to have to buy a better deodorant skipped across my brain.
    â€œUh, yes,