for sure or is he just guessing? Either way, I can’t refute it.
“But I’m just a nobody. I’ve never written a book. Get someone from the New York Times or something. They’ll jump at the chance. Why would anyone want me?”
“Look, people already want this. I’ve got editors calling me all over the place, especially this one fellow, practically waving a contract at me.”
“Contract?”
“Book contract, darling Eleanor. The fact that you’re young and Milo Short’s granddaughter is a bonus, not a problem. Trust me.”
I’ve been staring at my lap for all this conversation, twisting my father’s watch on my wrist. I keep looking down as I ask, “How can I do this without… When Grampa can’t talk?”
“I think he’ll come around, what with that therapy, right? Joel says there’s nothing medically wrong that should stop him. I think he’s just shocked or something, like writer’s block. Maybe we’ll mash up some Prozac in his oatmeal.”
“Uncle Paul!”
“I kid! Look at you, you’re white as a ghost. I would never drug your grandfather, please. And if he doesn’t…. Ellie, he’s eighty-eight. He might not wake up tomorrow.”
I wince at the bald correctness of that statement.
“What I’m saying is that we should do this while he’s still around to see it all. Yeah, I know he hasn’t been so wild about a book before, but that’s another reason it’s perfect that you do it. You’re his favorite, and you’d never write up something tacky. You’re probably the only person on the planet he’d trust to write about him.” Paul pauses and stares hard at me, his large hand frozen in the act of tapping a pencil restlessly on the desk. I sense he has more to say, and so I wait. He tosses the pencil down and continues. “And actually, there is one other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“Look, Naomi’s been busy lately, since this book idea came up. She loves it, you know. The revival tie-in, the whole deal. But she’s got this reporter fella she wants to do it, and she wants him to do it right now, without waiting for Dad to get better. She wants him to start interviewing all his old friends and such, and then come in here with flashcards and whatever, whether he can talk or not. And in fact it sounds like they’d milk the hell out of the ‘sad old stroke victim’ angle.” Paul cringes, shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with the writer, somebody-Bernstein is his name I think. But can you imagine what Dad would think of that? A stranger coming in here to quiz him? In his condition?”
“Just tell her no. You’re her uncle. Or tell her Grampa won’t go along with it.”
“When was the last time you tried telling Naomi ‘No’ about anything? I may be her uncle, but she’s also a grown-up, and if I don’t have a writer picked out for this book idea, she’ll stick in her own guy. But you’ll do it right, I know you would. You’d be sensitive to him, you’d treat him gently. You’d make it a classy project. Naomi, she thinks big, see? She thinks, ‘What do the people want, so we can give it to them?’ and she’d get her writer to dig up whatever kind of gossip she can find, hand over some family pictures so it looks authoritative and real. Or worse, if we refuse to help at all, maybe she’ll nudge him to do an ‘unauthorized’ book. That’s got its own appeal, you know, but it would be a hack job.”
“Would she do that?”
“She’s not a bad person, El. She’s looking out for the company, and the company needs help. Publicity, revenue, excitement.”
“Does Naomi know you’re asking me?”
“Sure. I told her.”
I can well imagine the ticker tape parade she wanted to throw, complete with bandleader and baton twirlers.
“Can I think about it? Does the offer expire?” The daytime whiskey is making me feel both tired and jumpy.
“I wouldn’t wait forever, what with Naomi and her writer pacing at the starting line. But sure, think it
“But I’m just a nobody. I’ve never written a book. Get someone from the New York Times or something. They’ll jump at the chance. Why would anyone want me?”
“Look, people already want this. I’ve got editors calling me all over the place, especially this one fellow, practically waving a contract at me.”
“Contract?”
“Book contract, darling Eleanor. The fact that you’re young and Milo Short’s granddaughter is a bonus, not a problem. Trust me.”
I’ve been staring at my lap for all this conversation, twisting my father’s watch on my wrist. I keep looking down as I ask, “How can I do this without… When Grampa can’t talk?”
“I think he’ll come around, what with that therapy, right? Joel says there’s nothing medically wrong that should stop him. I think he’s just shocked or something, like writer’s block. Maybe we’ll mash up some Prozac in his oatmeal.”
“Uncle Paul!”
“I kid! Look at you, you’re white as a ghost. I would never drug your grandfather, please. And if he doesn’t…. Ellie, he’s eighty-eight. He might not wake up tomorrow.”
I wince at the bald correctness of that statement.
“What I’m saying is that we should do this while he’s still around to see it all. Yeah, I know he hasn’t been so wild about a book before, but that’s another reason it’s perfect that you do it. You’re his favorite, and you’d never write up something tacky. You’re probably the only person on the planet he’d trust to write about him.” Paul pauses and stares hard at me, his large hand frozen in the act of tapping a pencil restlessly on the desk. I sense he has more to say, and so I wait. He tosses the pencil down and continues. “And actually, there is one other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“Look, Naomi’s been busy lately, since this book idea came up. She loves it, you know. The revival tie-in, the whole deal. But she’s got this reporter fella she wants to do it, and she wants him to do it right now, without waiting for Dad to get better. She wants him to start interviewing all his old friends and such, and then come in here with flashcards and whatever, whether he can talk or not. And in fact it sounds like they’d milk the hell out of the ‘sad old stroke victim’ angle.” Paul cringes, shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with the writer, somebody-Bernstein is his name I think. But can you imagine what Dad would think of that? A stranger coming in here to quiz him? In his condition?”
“Just tell her no. You’re her uncle. Or tell her Grampa won’t go along with it.”
“When was the last time you tried telling Naomi ‘No’ about anything? I may be her uncle, but she’s also a grown-up, and if I don’t have a writer picked out for this book idea, she’ll stick in her own guy. But you’ll do it right, I know you would. You’d be sensitive to him, you’d treat him gently. You’d make it a classy project. Naomi, she thinks big, see? She thinks, ‘What do the people want, so we can give it to them?’ and she’d get her writer to dig up whatever kind of gossip she can find, hand over some family pictures so it looks authoritative and real. Or worse, if we refuse to help at all, maybe she’ll nudge him to do an ‘unauthorized’ book. That’s got its own appeal, you know, but it would be a hack job.”
“Would she do that?”
“She’s not a bad person, El. She’s looking out for the company, and the company needs help. Publicity, revenue, excitement.”
“Does Naomi know you’re asking me?”
“Sure. I told her.”
I can well imagine the ticker tape parade she wanted to throw, complete with bandleader and baton twirlers.
“Can I think about it? Does the offer expire?” The daytime whiskey is making me feel both tired and jumpy.
“I wouldn’t wait forever, what with Naomi and her writer pacing at the starting line. But sure, think it
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