Chapter Ten Caroline #2
“Donald and I were just talking about the judges of this year’s Beekman Prize,” Gwendolyn announced to the table. “All the authors on the fiction committee have previously won a major award of some sort.”
“Absolutely,” her seatmate agreed. “It’s a fabulously accomplished group this year. Our judges have won the Booker Prize, the PEN/Faulkner, the Pulitzer, and of course the Beekman.”
Caroline felt her body begin to tingle. This was exactly what her mother complained about. The elite literati closing ranks, celebrated for being celebrated, bestowing prizes upon one another.
“I do wonder about prize committees in general,” Gwendolyn mused with faux innocence.
“There really aren’t any rules governing how they make their decisions.
Sometimes they just divide up all the books alphabetically between the judges, so the vast majority of books considered are only read by one person.
What if your book just isn’t to that person’s particular taste?
Or, it being such a small community, what if the judge and the writer know one another?
It seems like a place where journalistic standards could be better applied. ”
“We would certainly ask judges to recuse themselves if they felt they had a conflict of interest,” said Donald tightly. “But by drawing together a fresh committee every year we’re bolstering the integrity of the prize.”
“You know, Stephen King has never won a Pulitzer or an NBCC,” Gwendolyn continued, undaunted. “But he has sold three hundred and fifty million books, and President Obama awarded him a National Medal of Arts.” Caroline and her father exchanged a worried glance. Mom was spiraling.
“I have no doubt you outsell both Stephen King and President Obama—possibly even Michelle,” interjected Ned Clark, proposing a toast. Everyone lifted their wineglasses and Caroline hoped that might be the end of her mother’s small fit.
The program began a moment later as the master of ceremonies, a late-night host known for roasting conservatives, made his way to stage.
Van quietly excused himself to take his phone to the men’s room and call Bailey.
The salads were served, and the late-night host spoke to the everlasting appeal of books, the importance of literacy.
Ned raised an eyebrow and Caroline pretended not to notice.
Half an hour later, as the servers quietly cleared the salad plates, Van slipped back into his seat, and the host began to talk about Gwendolyn.
“Now, this may be apocryphal, but there is a famous story about Dan Brown at the height of Da Vinci Code fever. This was 2003 and airport security was demanding a full cavity search, and he arrived at the airport in New Hampshire having forgotten his driver’s license.
As he lined up to check in, he was afraid he wouldn’t be allowed on, but he quickly scanned the crowd and saw another passenger reading his book, so he took the jacket flap with his author photo to the kiosk and used his book as proof of ID.
” The crowd roared. “Now Gwendolyn Lash has achieved that same level of ubiquity. In fact, a traveler could arrive at JFK airport and choose to buy her books from any of twelve different shops, could board the airplane and select among her four different movie adaptations from the in-flight entertainment, could enjoy a bottle of her Gwendolyn Lash merlot from a plastic cup while wearing one of the Gwendolyn Lash cashmere travel wraps sold at QVC. This is a writer so prolific and so successful her fans literally want to wear and drink her!” The audience responded warmly, clapping, and Caroline risked a look at her mother.
She was smiling widely, but Caroline knew her face well enough to see the gritted teeth, the pulsing of her jaw.
Gwendolyn Lash was pissed off. And yet, she was nothing if not professional.
Gwendolyn rose to the applause and fluttered to the stage, the layers of her black dress making her appear to glide like an enormous bird of prey.
She thanked the late-night comic, she thanked the board of the Beekman, she thanked her publisher, and then she delivered a speech Caroline had heard at three other awards dinners, about the importance of writing and truth-telling.
It was a gracious and winning performance, and when Van squeezed her hand under the table, she squeezed it back.
The entrées rolled out, salmon with almond slivers and rice, five green beans carefully arranged in a row, and Gwendolyn commanded the table’s attention by tapping her fork on her wineglass and proposing a “game.”
“It is such a pleasure to be around such deep and wide-ranging readers, and so I think we should all go around and recite our favorite poems from memory.” After being publicly shamed for her QVC travel wraps, Gwendolyn was eager to prove her literary credibility.
Gwendolyn suggested this game at every dinner party, and Caroline and her father each had a small mental roster of poetry for various occasions.
Gregory recited “For the Anniversary of My Death” by W.
S. Merwin, casting his eyes fondly on Gwendolyn with the line “And the love of one woman.” Ned Clark went next, reciting “Fire and Ice” by Robert Frost, and Caroline bit her lip with private amusement.
The poem was one of his very shortest, a nine-line rhyming poem that just repeated “ice” and “twice” and “suffice” and Caroline pictured him delivering it in high school to meet the bare minimum of some memorization assignment.
They continued around the table in order, guests reciting from Rita Dove and Louise Gluck, and Caroline noticed with rising alarm that everyone seemed to have a poem on the tips of their tongues.
Van would go before her and she tapped his knee and gave him a small frown, trying to figure out if he would want to escape to the men’s room or just take a pass.
Van was looking at his phone under the table, his screen a hideous photo gallery of childhood rashes.
But when the table turned to him Van did fine, clearing his throat and reciting a poem about love and seasons of change.
“If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?” he asked.
Caroline was surprised to feel a pang of melancholy, a longing for Van even though he was right next to her.
As dessert and coffee were ferried out from the kitchen, guests stood and darted from table to table for last-minute hobnobbing and cheek kisses.
Van ducked into the cloakroom so that he could FaceTime with Bailey and see Dylan’s rash more closely.
Caroline excused herself to visit the ladies’ room only to discover a line forty people deep, publishing executives wearing statement necklaces, a flock of tipsy ravens in lipstick.
She turned to give up and nearly ran smack into Ned Clark.
“Ned.” Caroline took half a step back. Instead of a tux Ned was wearing a slim navy suit that revealed a glimpse of his shirt cuffs.
His hair looked freshly cut and somehow even after a long and wine-fueled dinner his eyes were bright and sharp.
“Nice poem,” Caroline said. “I think we did Robert Frost in ninth-grade English.”
Ned cocked his head and smiled wryly. “Weren’t you precocious?”
“Just literate.”
“And your boyfriend? Did he learn his poem at a keg party?”
“He actually went to school for environmental science and sustainability. So.” She set her mouth in a thin line.
“Ah, well, that explains the long hair,” Ned replied.
“I saw Mom’s real agent, Marcy Pringle, is here tonight. Did you say hello, or is it awkward now that you stole her client?”
“Who? ‘The Stale Chip?’ Nah. With all the royalties she got you’d think she could afford a better facelift. Yikes.”
Caroline felt hot with irritation. She opened her mouth and then closed it.
“You’re doing the Palmer Preston Fellowship up in Greenhead, aren’t you?” Ned asked.
“Are you stalking me?”
“I’ve been there before. Megavoice represents Preston’s estate, and I go up occasionally to meet with the trustees.”
Caroline felt the floor drop out from under her.
Ned Clark was involved with Preston’s estate?
Had he told them to give her the fellowship as some kind of gesture of pity?
Or to get her out of New York? “I didn’t realize your star-fucking extended all the way to New England.
Good for you,” she muttered sarcastically.
“Anyway, wish I had time to talk, but this is a work event for me.” Ned gave her an enormous fake smile. “Glad your parents let you come.”
Caroline silently steamed in the car on the way back to the apartment, Van and Gregory chatting about the speeches, Gwendolyn tapping away at her phone. Caroline was lost in her own disgruntled thoughts when she realized her father was talking to her.
“Did you feel that way, Caroline?”
“What?”
“When you wrote your New Yorker story about what happened in Portugal?”
“What about it?”
“Did you feel like you had to write it quickly before you forgot the experience?”
“Oh, I guess so,” Caroline said.
“I didn’t realize you were mugged in Portugal,” Van said, surprised.
“It wasn’t a big deal. I got a scrape on my elbow,” Caroline explained.
“I just thought your New Yorker story was made up.”
“Oh, the story wasn’t exactly what happened, I just sort of took something real and then ran with it.” Caroline smiled.
“You were always creative.” Gregory nodded. “I had this great idea for a novel once, but then when I sat down to write, I realized it was the plot of Shawshank Redemption. I think I even gave the characters the same names.” He laughed but Van looked pensive.
Back at the Lash apartment Caroline changed into her pajamas and Van stripped off his tux, flopping down beside her on the bed in his undershirt and boxers.