Some writers have great skill and determination. Some just have luck.

————

Being the daughter of a famous suicide is a valid career path. One bullet and no door has ever been closed to me.

On the last Tuesday of October in 1962, a jewel of a day with the kind of blue sky that makes you want to cry, my mother put her notebooks in order, chronologically, and sent a final draft of her last poetry collection to her agent. My sister and I were at our babysitter’s so the only one to hear the report of the pistol was our old dog, Grunt.

Can I write?

I can, but it doesn’t matter all that much. A powerhouse agency swooped in and poached me away from Mother’s perplexed agent, Uncle Bobby, the minute my second novel was optioned. Uncle Bobby knew when he was beaten and, besides, Mother had taken care of him in her meticulous will. He wished me well and retired to Costa Rica.

My sister went for the cliché of drugs and alcohol.

Her messy memoir is not selling. The market is saturated, true, but it’s just badly written. She’s still pissed that I declined to add a blurb to the jacket. I hope she’s getting to those meetings as I’d prefer she not drink herself to death but I also prefer not to be associated with crap.

I’ve got this book tour coming up. My second ex, the lazy s.o.b., won alimony in the divorce and I’m writing checks while my assistant packs. Pissed or not, my sister always cashes the monthly check I send. Mother may have hated her fame but she was happy enough to spread the money around and it’s been up to me to bring money back to the fame. I snap the checkbook shut and reach for my glass of chilled green tea.

“Excuse me, Miss Seagal, which laptop do you want to take?”

“What? Oh, I don’t know, the smallest one, the lightest.” Gianna is thorough but annoying and I’d appreciate more initiative on her part.

I pick up the itinerary again; Christ, why does that bastard Dilkin insist on a dartboard approach to booking? Chicago, Atlanta, Portland (Maine), Kansas City (Kansas), Santa Fe, Miami, Boise (Boise?), Dallas, Minneapolis, San Diego, Pittsburgh, Los Angeles and then, finally, New York. When did book tours become a form of punishment? I used to love being the rockstar, didn’t I?

“Excuse me, Miss Seagal, should I pack your fur?”

“What do you think, Gianna? It’s fucking September. Use your brain for something besides separating your ears.” She forgets that she’s standing behind me facing the mirror and I get the full blast of her silent fury for the second it takes for her to compose herself. I thought this one would work out, but I’m having my doubts. Nothing for it now. It’s too late to break in a new one.

And the telephone rings. It’s Dilkin. Let him talk to voice mail. Jesus, but he loves the sound of his own voice. I motion for Gianna to hand me my hairbrush, aiming my flashiest smile into the mirror. She smiles back and hands it to me. I shouldn’t, but cannot resist one tiny poke.

“Thanks, G. Call Anton, you need a trim and a threading before we go.” I touch my forefinger to the point between my own nicely separated eyebrows and wink.

The phone rings again. Jesus. I don’t even look at it, just hand it to Gianna. She’s not smiling now. I go back to brushing my hair, not really paying attention until the phone is suddenly thrust at me. Gianna’s face is tight.

“It’s Mr. Dilkin. Won’t take no for an answer.”

“Now what?” If nothing else, I can take someone else’s head off this morning. Dilkin’s grows back pretty quickly.

“Mindy’s disappeared. She left a letter.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’? She’s always off with some new man. She’ll be around to cash her check.”

“No, you need to read this letter. She’s about to pull some stunt.”

“Read it to me.”

“Nope, not me. I’m bringing it over.” Click. Drama queen. And just to heighten the soap opera, he texts: we may have to ditch tour.

That suits me, but my publisher isn’t going to ditch this tour. Dilkin’s gone off his meds or he’s been reading my mother’s poetry again. Can I add the caveat to my next contract for a publicist that they must have never heard of my mother? It’s not so unlikely. After all, it’s not as if she was Sylvia fucking Plath for Christ’s sake.

“Hide the vodka and put out something to eat. Dilkin’s on his way over.”

I have read Mindy’s letter three times and it’s crazier with each reading. But she’s not crazy and I need to come up with a plan. Fast. I’m due in Chicago tomorrow evening. Clearly, I’ve been underestimating my drug-addled little sister for some time now.

This really verges on genius.

“Ok, here’s what we’re going to do.” Gianna and Dilkin actually lean forward. This is the best I have to bring to this little war? I may be in real trouble here. “G., you leave right now and prepare the staff in Chicago. Don’t tell them too much, just make sure they know what may happen and what to ignore.” She sits there, all expectant and confused. “Go! Now! Go on, you know who to call at the airlines. I want you in Chicago in three hours. Get them ready.”

She hustles out and I turn to Dilkin. “You get to Atlanta and do the same. Get going. You know how to handle this.”

“We can’t leapfrog through the whole tour like this. She’ll have already talked to the people in Sante Fe and Boise before we even hit Chicago.”

“No, she won’t.” I know who I have to call now. “She’s got to be sure we’re playing our part in this before she can approach each next location.” I pause, then grab a piece of paper and pen. “Here, get this press release out.”

They’re gone and now I look at my phone like it’s rotted. I have to dial the number because I dumped it from the phone’s memory years ago. I doubt I’ll ever dump it from my memory, dammit. Two rings, what am I going to say if it goes to voice mail? Oh, let it go to voice mail. I’ll think of something.

“That took longer than I thought it would.” His voice still does that thing to me.

“Go ahead. Gloat. It gets better: I need your help.” I wait.

“Why would I help you?”

“Old time’s sake?”

“Not good enough.” He’s smiling. I can hear it.

“Because your ex-wife is about to wreck my life and my career.”

“You’ll recall why she’s my ex, yes?”

“Don’t even. This is a conversation you do not want to start.”

“Sure I do. It’ll relieve the boredom.”

“You’re the one who checked yourself into that place, don’t whine now if it’s not to your liking.” I need to watch it, I really do need Ty’s help, but Jesus, he gets under my skin.

“This is fun. What kind of mess has my little Mindy unleashed this time?”

“She sent a letter to my publicist and says she’s going to commit suicide at one of my readings on this book tour.”

“You can’t believe she’s serious. The woman is so much of a wreck that she still hasn’t signed off on the divorce.” He goes quiet and I wait. “Since when have you gotten so easily spooked?”

“You didn’t read the letter.”

“Bring it to me.” It’s not a request.

“I don’t have time. I have to be in Chicago tomorrow. Look, just call her. Talk to her.”

“Oh, you are delusional, cupcake. I can’t think of a surer way to have her dangling in front of the Barnes & Noble at State and Elm.”

“You’re wrong. I seduced you, remember?” Call me cupcake?

“I’ll need to read the letter if I’m going to be of any use in this farce.”

“I’ll courier a copy.”

I can feel it happening; those old sticky tendrils of hope. “Thanks.” Click. Quick. Am I safe? No, and I never have been around this man. Not from the moment Mindy brought him to my first book release. I shake my head, like I can dislodge something stuck, and arrange a copy of this time bomb delivered to the man who may very well turn out to be the fuse.

I was so impressed with everything back then, including myself.

Especially myself.

That book release was like Christmas morning, the first warm day of spring and falling in love all at the same time. The night before, I couldn’t close my eyes and was still riding my adrenaline high through the day and into the next night. I wore my first ever couture outfit and when I walked into that room, I owned it.

The fact that half the luminaries in the room were there looking for a fault line, a soft place to pry open and poke around in, only increased my sense of power. They were looking for signs of suicide and I gave them a collective bitch slap. The novel has been proclaimed dead for decades, so it always surprises everyone when another novel takes off.

Mine was rocketing out of the stratosphere.

Moving with ease from circle to circle, I made my rounds of the room, sipping one glass of prosecco. Of course I’d had to invite Mindy but had decided that any boneheaded crap she might pull could not touch me. If the vultures wanted a good look at their future suicide Mindy would certainly provide it.

So, when she arrived, I was ready to welcome her with genuine ease. I heard her before I saw her, poor kid totally inherited Father’s ghastly titter when she was nervous. I was happy to finish with a certain powerful agent, leaving her to wonder if she’d hooked me or not, and turned to greet my sister.

The worst writers call it a lightning bolt, the better ones will toss a grenade in the general direction, but the best writers aim for that perfect throat shot before squeezing off their round. Every hackneyed cliché crackled and fell when the man standing next to Mindy looked at me. Christ, he wasn’t even all that, really. Ty isn’t tall, he’s not really great looking and he’s losing his hair. But what he’s got he knows how to use and when he looked at me he took me.

Mindy, being mildly toasted, noticed nothing. She was tricked out in some ridiculous stab at bohemian-cool and launched into her steady stream of consciousness the moment I got in earshot. I reminded myself that she couldn’t touch me tonight as heads turned, bent and whispered. Even so, I steered the two of them away from the drinks table.

“Nice turnout.” Ty inserted.

“Oh, right! Sorry, sorry,” and away she went, winding through an overlong introduction that began with where Ty’s parents honeymooned and how he was conceived.

I was not then, and am still not, easily duped.

The warning sirens were blasting and I was sort of paying attention to them. He was trouble. I hadn’t had enough trouble at that point to understand why the sirens were so loud. Trouble, in my still soft comprehension, was merely another source of material. My compromise was to go off with him for a second glass of wine, let his arm graze mine and then shuck him off for that still circling agent.

He didn’t call or email or make one move in my direction. I stood by an open door, waiting for nothing. I got to work on the next book. The first one got optioned for a movie with some real names signing on to push it to its second life. Time did not do what it’s supposed to do and, at least once a day, I checked for something that was not there.

If time wasn’t going to do it, I had to take drastic action: I got married.

“She was bluffing all along.” Dilkin was on his third scotch after the signing in Pittsburgh.

I hold out my glass. Gianna quit back in Boise, so it’s been Dilkin and I slogging across the country like some inane snake oil show. The readers, bless their bored, pointless little hearts, have been lining up. The publisher will be happy although my editor’s already been on my ass about the next book.

“We’re not home free yet, champ. Don’t go and fucking jinx us.”

“Oh, come on, you knew she was just messing with your head.” He drains the glass and makes to reach for the bottle.

“Enough.” I sweep the bottle out of his reach, topping off my own glass. “We still got LA and then New York to get through and, think about this, where would she make a bigger splash than by offing herself there?”

“I can’t believe you give her that much space in your head. You know what a ditz she is! Give me that bottle. Just one more.” He makes a grab for the bottle, but Dilkin never could hold his liquor and I easily keep it out of reach.

“Go to bed and don’t even think of whining about a hangover tomorrow. We’re up at eight, no matter what. Got that?”

He grumbles and I feel like I’m dealing with a drunken dog — one that’s only partially housebroken. He lurches off to bed and leaves me with the booze and my dirty secret.

At each next destination, each next signing, I’ve been adrenalized to the hilt, ready for my next big career boost. Now that I think of it, though, yeah, if she’s gonna do it, she’s gonna do it in LA or New York.

My money’s on New York.

By Remington Write

Website: https://anomalyworksnyc.blogspot.com/

Twitter: @RemingtonWrite