The Rabbit
binoculars I liberated from my bookstore—we carry them for readers who love their feathered friends, bundling them with the
Guide to North American Birds—I can just make out the front of William’s house through the trees. But he can’t see me. That’s one of the most important
things. The other is that he can’t come or go without my knowing it. Even if I’m asleep, the sound of his tires as he exits
the causeway onto the road always wakes me. I know. It’s happened many times.
Yesterday afternoon, for instance, I watched him depart for Portland, where he launched his latest novel, All the Lambent Souls. New books always come out on Tuesdays, I don’t know why, it’s just always been that way. But if you’re a big shot like William,
the publisher sometimes allows you to get the jump on your competitors and launch on Monday. That’s what happened with William
last night. He drove to Portland’s biggest indie bookseller, introduced his fifth novel to 250 of his closest friends in the
church the store uses for large events, ate cake frosted with his book cover—that’s a lot of green icing—and drove home.
My job was to make sure he was alone.
Or take note of who he was with, if he was not.
I was a little surprised he drove all the way back instead of setting off on his tour from Portland.
After all, it’s two and a half hours from here.
But maybe William wanted to sleep in his own bed one last time before all those hotel rooms. He’s pushing sixty, after all.
Well, he will be in three years. Although age doesn’t seem to have slowed him down much, at least in one crucial respect.
Or maybe a bit. Because he came home alone last night.
I was so relieved. I did stay up a few hours longer, just in case. Sometimes women arrive after he gets home. God knows how
he summons them. Via the internet. Or apps. Or it’s somebody he met IRL who prefers to drive herself.
Which is what William likes too. He doesn’t want to have to chauffeur anyone home, especially not from this remote locale.
He doesn’t want them to stay.
These are the throwaways, the ho-aways, women he meets at readings or art galleries and invites back for what he calls a saucy
time. I’m always worried he’ll find one of them worthy of more than a night.
But for a while now, they’ve all been discards.
Thank God.
Last night nobody came, and William is waking up this morning alone. I guess he’s conserving his energy for tour. Wise choice.
Gotta be fresh-faced and ultra-charming for the readers. William takes his author responsibilities very seriously, I’ll say
that for him. The writing life is his priority. It always was.
I hear the distant rumble of his garage door rising and see light flash off his windshield as he drives out and parks. I raise
the binoculars and watch him wheel his rollaway to his trunk and lift it in, along with a cardboard carton I know contains
packs of breakfast bars—do you think William Corwyn would leave his health to chance on the road by eating vending-machine
chips and snacks? No sir! No way. He brings his tour suits out next, two of them, both seersucker. One in case the other gets
dirty. These he hangs from the hooks in his car’s back seat. Do you know how many male authors I’ve welcomed to my store for
readings who are in jeans and T-shirts? All of them. Do you know how many have had food stains or ball caps or sneakers without
laces? Most. Who wears a seersucker suit on tour? Who even owns one north of the Mason-Dixon line?
William Corwyn, that’s who.
He locks his house and performs his final household chore, urinating into the bushes near his front door. Like a wolf keeping
other animals away. Then he goes to his car, sits in the driver’s seat, and puts on his sneakers. He’s been barefoot up till
now, I know without looking. He never wears shoes here until it snows. How well I remember his feet, pale and flexible and
spatulate as flippers. How he said, grinning, Here you go, you might want these, as he picked my panties up from the floor with his toes.
And here he comes down the causeway. Even though I’m camouflaged, I slide down in my seat out of habit. It’s more prudent
that way. Also painful. I slept in this car last night, and there’s a monster crick in my neck. I’m only in my early forties,
which is not that old. But I’m getting too old for this sh*t.
I see William’s profile as he pauses at the end of the drive, then turns onto the logging track and passes me. He’s in his
prescription sunglasses and travel clothes, khakis and a light blue button-down. I still remember how those shirts smelled,
how even in our program, when everyone else reeked of CK Obsession and cigarettes, William always smelled like a dry cleaner.
Like starch.
It has been a dry summer, and the dust plume his car raises hangs in the air after he disappears from view. I watch my watch,
counting the seconds, the minutes. I’ll wait till he’s a mile away before I get out, drag the branches back off to the side,
and follow. I know where he’s going, of course. His appearances are listed on his website. Still, I want to be on his tail
all the way. You never know who he might meet on the road. I have to be vigilant always.
Especially when he’s doing book events.
And the tour for All the Lambent Souls officially kicks off now.
Let the games begin.