collarbone and her décolletage.
“Very effective,” said Ruth.
Next came the blurbs. “Ricia Spottiswoode,” Howard Richards had written, “has undertaken the fabulous journey from poetry to memoir. She has survived the trek—survived it, I might add, triumphantly. She returns to us bearing messages from the underworld of childhood trauma—messages that we ignore at our peril.”
“Oh please,” said Ruth.
Ben scrolled down past the book's Amazon ranking number, a respectable 1,067 three years after its publication. He moved on to the newspaper reviews, a long parade of ellipsis-studded raves—”… coruscatingly brilliant …,” “… courageous and poignant …,” “… heartbreaking …”—and from there to the seventy-nine reader reviews. A quick survey of these found that roughly two-thirds were positive (“I cried!”), one-third negative (“Gag me!”).
Ricia Spottiswoode's most recent book,
The Divining Rod: Feeling Your Way Through Writers’ Block
, was number 178 on Amazon. Once again, Ricia appeared on the cover. This time shesat on a wooden stool in a short black skirt and a violet sweater set. Her legs were fetchingly crossed, her arms folded under her breasts. Her hair had been pulled away from her face, one bouncy lock left free to follow the line of her cheekbone. She was smiling a conventional lipsticked smile. She looked friendly, and undeniably pretty.
“It's the
sane
Ricia,” said Ruth. “It's Ricia the role model.” On to Google: 220,000 hits for Ricia, 230 for Charles Johns. On closer examination nearly all of these were for other Charles Johnses—a Charles Johns recorded as present at the raising of the colors at the VFW lodge in Schoharie, New York, on Veterans Day in 1999, for example, or a Charles Johns rounded up for vagrancy in Spokane. There were only a few hits that clearly applied to the Charles Johns whom Ben had met that afternoon, and they all involved Ricia Spottiswoode.
One of these was a
Poets and Writers
interview that followed the publication of
The Divining Rod
, featuring a spread of photographs of the Providence, Rhode Island, loft she shared with Charles Johns. He was shown in the kitchen in a chef's apron, peering at the photographer over half-glasses as be boned a fish. Ricia appeared in profile in front of a Victorian stained-glass window at the head of a staircase, her hair a cloud of fire. In another photograph she reclined on an antique love seat, a cat draped along her hip, her head leaning against Charles's shoulder. The rest of him had been cropped out of the picture.
“Ricia Spottiswoode,” said the Pe&W interviewer, “what has changed in your life since
I'm Nobody?
What has made the difference?”
“Well, I married Charles.”
“And that's made the difference?”
“Charles is my muse. Did you know that there's such a thing as a male muse? Charles's love for me is unconditional. He makes me feel safe, for the first time in my life. I feel taken care of. I feel treasured.”
I am not being unfriendly,” said Ruth. They were lying on their sides in bed, Ben facing Ruth's back, Ruth facing the wall.
“It's Ricia Spottiswoode, right?”
A silence followed, and then a violent stirring of bedclothes and knees and elbows. Ruth was hauling herself up into a sitting position, jamming a pillow behind her back. “Yes it
is
Ricia Spottiswoode,” she said, “but not the way you think.”
“What way do I think?”
“You think it's conventional … sexual jealousy. It's not. Don't bother trying to tell me you're not attracted to her, by the way, because I know you are.”
“I am not attracted to her,” said Ben.
“Not even a little?”
“Not even a little.” Not quite true, but close enough. The attraction he felt for Ricia Spottiswoode was only the baseline erotic interest he took in any nubile female, augmented slightly by the titillation of her fame.
“That's not the problem anyway.”
“What is the
“Very effective,” said Ruth.
Next came the blurbs. “Ricia Spottiswoode,” Howard Richards had written, “has undertaken the fabulous journey from poetry to memoir. She has survived the trek—survived it, I might add, triumphantly. She returns to us bearing messages from the underworld of childhood trauma—messages that we ignore at our peril.”
“Oh please,” said Ruth.
Ben scrolled down past the book's Amazon ranking number, a respectable 1,067 three years after its publication. He moved on to the newspaper reviews, a long parade of ellipsis-studded raves—”… coruscatingly brilliant …,” “… courageous and poignant …,” “… heartbreaking …”—and from there to the seventy-nine reader reviews. A quick survey of these found that roughly two-thirds were positive (“I cried!”), one-third negative (“Gag me!”).
Ricia Spottiswoode's most recent book,
The Divining Rod: Feeling Your Way Through Writers’ Block
, was number 178 on Amazon. Once again, Ricia appeared on the cover. This time shesat on a wooden stool in a short black skirt and a violet sweater set. Her legs were fetchingly crossed, her arms folded under her breasts. Her hair had been pulled away from her face, one bouncy lock left free to follow the line of her cheekbone. She was smiling a conventional lipsticked smile. She looked friendly, and undeniably pretty.
“It's the
sane
Ricia,” said Ruth. “It's Ricia the role model.” On to Google: 220,000 hits for Ricia, 230 for Charles Johns. On closer examination nearly all of these were for other Charles Johnses—a Charles Johns recorded as present at the raising of the colors at the VFW lodge in Schoharie, New York, on Veterans Day in 1999, for example, or a Charles Johns rounded up for vagrancy in Spokane. There were only a few hits that clearly applied to the Charles Johns whom Ben had met that afternoon, and they all involved Ricia Spottiswoode.
One of these was a
Poets and Writers
interview that followed the publication of
The Divining Rod
, featuring a spread of photographs of the Providence, Rhode Island, loft she shared with Charles Johns. He was shown in the kitchen in a chef's apron, peering at the photographer over half-glasses as be boned a fish. Ricia appeared in profile in front of a Victorian stained-glass window at the head of a staircase, her hair a cloud of fire. In another photograph she reclined on an antique love seat, a cat draped along her hip, her head leaning against Charles's shoulder. The rest of him had been cropped out of the picture.
“Ricia Spottiswoode,” said the Pe&W interviewer, “what has changed in your life since
I'm Nobody?
What has made the difference?”
“Well, I married Charles.”
“And that's made the difference?”
“Charles is my muse. Did you know that there's such a thing as a male muse? Charles's love for me is unconditional. He makes me feel safe, for the first time in my life. I feel taken care of. I feel treasured.”
I am not being unfriendly,” said Ruth. They were lying on their sides in bed, Ben facing Ruth's back, Ruth facing the wall.
“It's Ricia Spottiswoode, right?”
A silence followed, and then a violent stirring of bedclothes and knees and elbows. Ruth was hauling herself up into a sitting position, jamming a pillow behind her back. “Yes it
is
Ricia Spottiswoode,” she said, “but not the way you think.”
“What way do I think?”
“You think it's conventional … sexual jealousy. It's not. Don't bother trying to tell me you're not attracted to her, by the way, because I know you are.”
“I am not attracted to her,” said Ben.
“Not even a little?”
“Not even a little.” Not quite true, but close enough. The attraction he felt for Ricia Spottiswoode was only the baseline erotic interest he took in any nubile female, augmented slightly by the titillation of her fame.
“That's not the problem anyway.”
“What is the
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