Part 18 (2/2)
”Oh stop, I didn't fire you.”
”You said if that was sarcasm I might just as well forget I've ever been an editor. O.K., it was sarcasm. Honest it was.”
”Listen, don't you dare resign just before mailing-time! Not when circulation's just about to boom. I've got fifteen new people who've promised to subscribe-”
”I know, I just got their fifteen contributions.”
”Money?” said Enoch.
”Poems,” said McGovern.
”One of them is from Euphoria Karp,” my mother said admiringly.
”Who's that?”-Enoch.
”She publishes practically every other month in Harpers! You know. William suggested that she submit to us as a sort of, well, charity, wasn't that nice of him?”
”William?” I could not help wondering at this; for if William thought novels imprudent, then he must have found poetry positively immoral.
”Light verse,” McGovern explained. ”Light medical verse.”
”Ah, an invalid spinster,” Enoch ventured.
”Don't be silly, her husband's Professor of Copyright Law; but he was dropped from Who's Who, don't ask me why. He's one of William's closest friends-I mean William's cultivating him nowadays,” said my mother, ”for a particular reason. What's this about San Francisco?”
”The Golden West,” said McGovern.
”Yes, but what's there?”
”Fresh Horizons.”
”Look here,” she said, blowing out a long breath, ”do you want a raise?”
”I've got a Rat,” he persisted. ”What more could anyone want?”
”I'm perfectly sure they have rats in San Francisco too,” said my mother. ”Be reasonable. I'll give you five dollars more.”
”Per what?”
”What do you mean per what? Per month.”
”Per week.”
”Oh, all right,” she capitulated. ”Bring the proofs tomorrow. I want to look them over and take out all the sonnets.”
”Not tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm leaving for San Francisco. I need an advance on my salary, please. I need an advance on my new salary, please.”
”I told you there was a subterfuge! He simply came for money, Enoch. Hand me my pocketbook, will you?” she commanded me; and to McGovern said in a loud monotone-as though she were addressing an opposing volley-ball player across an immense gymnasium-”How do I know you'll come back?”
”Because you're the least boring woman I've ever known, Mme. Karenina; and because it's a tremendous opportunity to be editor of Bushelbasket and in charge of a staff of three part-time graduate students; and because I don't take my duties lightly.”
It was his longest speech so far. ”And because you're bound to run out of money,” I said stiffly, but my mother pretended not to hear me; or perhaps she did not really, for she was busy grimacing after what she must have supposed was a shrewdly leonine eye, lit with an elegant mistrust, to turn upon her editor.
But she succeeded only in looking teased and pleased. ”You see! He's impossible! Now I can't find my checkbook-oh, here it is. All right: get back here in one week, no longer, you hear? And don't spend it all on beer. William would be furious if he knew I was giving in like this.”
”No doubt it's intelligent editorial policy,” Enoch remarked. ”Besides, beer is art.”
”Well, sir, you can ridicule me if you like...”
”An Amba.s.sador can ridicule anybody, you're perfectly right,” my mother said hastily. ”I suppose you saw in the papers about Mr. Vand's being, appointed Amba.s.sador?”
”It so happens that this Rat I have eats newsprint; but I heard about it on the radio.”
”Don't be difficult. I'm letting you go, and that should satisfy you. Anyhow you're mistaken.”
”But he does eat print, honest he does. He ate right through my paperback Schopenhauer, if you want to know the truth.”
”It's a pessimistic beast, isn't it?” Enoch said.
”Have you tried poison?” said my mother.
”Or Kant? Perhaps a change in its diet-”
”Enoch, don't badger the boy.”
”You just said yourself he's mistaken.”
”I meant about going West. The point is there's no one who really counts in California.”
”Not past seventeen, anyway,” Enoch said mildly.
”Now what's that supposed to mean?”
”It means I'm as alert to Trends as the next man-they're all writing imitation j.a.panese poetry out there, aren't they? The kind that has exactly seventeen syllables.”
”Oh, haiku,” said my mother abruptly; but Ed McGovern glanced at my stepfather with a slight increase in respect. ”I don't care for that sort of formalism. It's like a straightjacket. As far as I'm concerned it might as well be a sonnet. Look here,” she said severely, ”don't go bringing back any haiku. I won't have that sort of thing in Bushelbasket. I don't care if it is the wave of the future.”
”The wave of the future,” said McGovern, solemnly killing his b.u.t.t in the bit of cold cream that lined the cover of the jar, ”is philistinism.”
”In that case,” Enoch said, ”if we're going to have a discussion about Literature, I'd better get poor old Tolstoy out of earshot.”
”Don't!” squealed my mother, but it was too late-he had aimed the thick green weight of Anna Karenina straight for her pillow, where it landed neatly beside her s.h.i.+ning shoulder. ”Ouch, you nearly knocked my head off.”
”That dear old hairless thing. Quick, hide it under the covers.”
”My head? Enoch, you're mean.”
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