Providence by Chris Coppernoll

they belonged. I’m not big on changes, and my least favorite are the sudden kind. However, the conversation was a turning point. From that moment forward, I approached the writing with less groaning and more intent. I knew it would be painful at times, tearing open those strongboxes and not knowing if the contents would be bitter or sweet, or would jump out and cut me at the end of a taunt spring. But I clearly felt God’s hand in this. I would step where He blew leaves from my path, even if the path He cleared pointed me into a haunted wood. Something good would come of it all.

    “Hi, Jack. It’s Howard Cameron once more. If you’re in, please pick up.… Oh, all right. I guess we’re two for two [laughter]. Hey, I hope you got our earlier message … we still haven’t heard back from you. It looks like we’ll roll into Providence on Friday. Wanted to see if you might be available for lunch on Saturday. When you get a chance, will you call us? Angela and I are up in Bean Town at the moment, staying with very good friends, Pat and Terry Oslander … But leave us a message …”
    There were four messages from Arthur in addition to the one from the Camerons. Hearing Howard’s voice for a second time that week wasn’t any less surreal than the first time. Yes, Saturday would be fine. I dialed the number Howard had left for the Oslanders, a nervousness fluttering underneath my skin. I’d never met the Oslanders, and when their answering machine clicked on, I realized I wouldn’t be meeting them today either. I waited for the beep.
    “Hello, this is Jack Clayton,” I said, getting it on record that I was, in fact, alive. “Howard Cameron said I could reach him here. Howard, I’m sorry I haven’t gotten in touch with you sooner; it’s been quite a week. I’m available Saturday for lunch and recall your fondness for the Schneider Haus in Germantown. Unless you have another place in mind, I’ll meet you and Angela there around twelve.”
    The weekend promised to be eventful. As I sat the phone down, it rang. I picked up with a rush of nervous glee. It wasn’t Howard but Arthur’s top-notch editor, Judith Raines.
    “Hi, Jack; it’s Judith. I wanted to give you a call and see how things are coming with the new book.”
    “It’s coming along fine,” I said, switching gears between two worlds.
    “I also wanted to congratulate you on being named Time ’s Person of the Year. That’s extraordinary. Are you pinching yourself yet?”
    “Only when I fall asleep writing,” I said.
    She laughed. Judith is an extremely intelligent thirty-something woman, six years married, no children. Professionally, there’s no literary problem Judith can’t solve. It was no wonder Arthur relied on her the way he did. She could have gone off to work at Simon and Schuster if she’d wanted to live in New York. She didn’t, and Arthur was able to keep his all-star on the ARP team.
    “Are you getting my faxes?” I asked.
    “Yes. That’s why I called. I like what I’m seeing, Jack. This is excellent. You’re lifting up the veil and letting us peer inside. It makes for a compelling read.”
    I listened to her feedback. I needed it. I wasn’t sure about the stories I’d written the past few nights.
    “Arthur’s probably mentioned to you the tight deadline. We’re already behind the eight ball on this one. We could get a big jump on editing if you would e-mail your pages to me instead of faxing them.”
    “Sure, Judith. That’s not a problem. I’ll resend what I’ve already faxed.”
    “That’s all I need for now,” she said.
    “So, is Arthur pushing you as hard as he’s pushing me?” I asked, searching for a little esprit de corps .
    “Oh, you know Arthur. These have been the best two years of his life. You can’t blame him for wanting to get the next chapter started.”
    “I guess not. Is he still in the office?”
    “No. We haven’t seen him since Monday. I think the office is forwarding calls to his