Chapter Four #3
He looked like he was watching a video replay in front of him, maybe trying to piece the memory of these events back together.
“Why do you need the book?” Merritt asked after a moment.
“Oh, I don’t think I do anymore, not if no one’s read it. But I’m . . . well, I’m writing the book for her. For Helen. The
last book in the series. And I saw this Post-it note in her office the last time I was in there that said something like ‘giant
baby story important question mark,’ and I could only just remember that she had written another thing about a giant—anyway, I suppose it’s not important, so that’s good.”
This was a lot to process, but Merritt just nodded and tried to make her face more neutral than her brain. The series wasn’t already finished? The press releases had made it sound like Helen’s husband was merely editing a pristine, preexisting manuscript,
but this question about the baby giant, and that statement—“I’m writing the book for her”—these things did not sound like the words of a man putting the finishing touches on an extant masterpiece.
Merritt forced herself to say something.
“Well then, I guess no heist. Which is a shame.”
“A real shame,” he agreed. “You seem like you’re good in high-pressure scenarios. Anyway, thank you for your help.”
She looked at him, standing there in the sweater and pants that matched her own, and she thought he did look sad, and yes,
tired, but there was something else there, too. He seemed thoughtful and observant and determined. But, she wondered, did
he seem like a man who could successfully land this literary plane he’d been tasked with piloting?
“You’re welcome.” She smiled softly. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
He nodded at her. “I will. Truly, I might have more questions, and you seem like you might know the answers. Thanks again.”
The bell tinkled a second time, but the door didn’t close.
“Oh, and . . .” Whit said, turning back to look at her with one hand on the frame.
“Yes?” she called from across the store.
“What’s your name?”
The question caught her off guard, so much so that she paused, giving Whit room to explain himself. “I can’t keep calling
you ‘Ms. Pryor’ in my head.”
She laughed at that. “Please don’t. It’s Merritt.”
He nodded once, his mouth in another almost-smile. “Well. Goodbye, Merritt.”
“Goodbye.”
The door closed, and from somewhere in personal growth, Huong let out a long hmm.
“Don’t start,” Merritt said as she watched Whit walk down the windy street.
One of the things Merritt missed about Texas was all the driving. She made it through so many audiobooks and podcasts just
commuting back and forth between her apartment and campus, and she became one of those people who could guess different NPR
newscasters before they’d said their names. Lakshmi Singh! she would recite to herself in her beat-up Nissan Versa. Korva Coleman!
So on days like this, when she found herself missing, if not the commute itself, the sounds of the commute, she’d put her earbuds in and pull up the local public radio station, which, she admitted only to herself, was not as good as the one she’d grown to love back in Texas.
As she walked, indigo coat pulled tight around her, cool wind blowing her hair back, Merritt listened to a woman describe
recent depressing arguments before the Supreme Court.
“Nina Totenberg!” Merritt said aloud to herself.
The streetlights were just coming on as the autumn twilight stretched itself thin, and the white wooden buildings on either
side of the road glowed like jack-o’-lanterns. Someone somewhere was burning leaves, perfuming the breeze with that familiar
toastiness. She definitely did not miss the Texas commute.
The Supreme Court story ended—it was Nina Totenberg—and a new one started, with someone reading what sounded like a piece of fiction. The writing was crisp, somehow
both direct and expressive, and its simpleness felt powerfully raw and compelling. It was an uncut diamond of prose, and its
description of a woman—a bespectacled graduate student—caused her pulse to quicken.
“Those are the first words spoken by the narrator, known only as ‘the Professor,’ in Graydon Lyons’s highly anticipated new
novel, Serious Games.”
Merritt froze. It felt like someone had pulled the emergency brake on her body. The wind was suddenly icy, and a sick feeling
leapt from the soles of her feet up to her shoulders. The tips of her fingers buzzed, and her earbuds were megaphones, too
loud, too loud, too much pressure in her skull. She wanted to yank them out, and she wanted to throw up, but instead, she
listened because she had to listen. There was no other option.
“The campus novel marks a departure for the author and is the first time Lyons, a creative writing professor himself, has
waded into a contemporary setting: this time, that of higher education. Its subject matter—an affair gone wrong between a
married professor and his student—is raising some eyebrows. But this is no surprise to Lyons.”
And then there it was, crystal clear, his voice in her ears, all the way up here on this New England street.
“Of course, every book I’ve written holds up a mirror to myself. This one is set in a world with which I am intimately familiar,
and I always expected that readers would try to draw connections to my personal life. Odd as it may seem, there’s less of
myself in this story than in my works of historical fiction. But ambiance and tone, the sense of place—well, it would be impossible
to avoid commentary on modern academic life in a story like this one, and I’m not going to shy away from that.”
Merritt realized she was walking again only because she was now stopping, lowering herself to a bench. She yanked the earbuds
out and shoved them into her bag, their case forgotten.
Oh my God. Oh my God, oh my God.
Oh my God.
He had actually done it.