recognition

When I finally got my promotion, and the office and title that went with it—I couldn’t wait to tell my friends.

I was sitting in the Miller Tavern in uptown Toronto. “Well, you’re looking at the new Dean of Communications,” I announced.

Joanne smiled and offered congratulations—Jack slapped me on the back—and Rob lifted a celebratory glass. And that was that.

Next…

But what is next? I asked myself.

I felt like Daisy in Gatsby—What was I going to do tomorrow, or the day after, or the next thirty years of my life?

“Why do you have to do anything?” asked Claire as she cleared away the supper dishes.

Outside, the late October chill was frosting the windows

We were living in a maisonette in Scarborough—you know, one of those townhouses you enter through a hallway like an apartment, but it’s got a patio and a patch of green?

The rug was littered with toys, Sippy cups and cookie crumbs.

“Does this fulfill you?” I asked, sweeping my hand around the room.

“Sure—we’ve got the kids and a nice house—and we’re not rich, but we’ve got enough.”

I stepped backwards onto a squeaky toy. It made an annoying squeal, adding to the other squeals emanating from the family room.

I glared in frustration and wearily slumped down onto a dining room chair. “Maybe for me, enough isn’t enough.”

Claire smirked good-naturedly. “Are you running a temperature, dear?”

“Okay, maybe I’m venting,” I said hotly, “but I always figured if I didn’t make it by forty, I wasn’t going to make it.”

“What is “it”, Grant? —What more do you have to accomplish to feel fulfilled?”

“I don’t know—I need to earn some recognition.”

“You’re a Dean—what do you want to be—President?”

“Naw—nothing like that—I’m talking about real recognition.”

She put down the tea towel and sat down at the table beside me.

“You’ve never given up on the dream, have you?”

“Nope.”

My novel was sitting on a shelf in a buff cabinet in my office—three hundred sheets Claire typed five summers ago—when I was still green and believing.

I smiled cynically as I pictured my youthful enthusiasm. Time, the subtle thief of youth, I mused.

Claire read my expression.

“Look, if it means that much to you, why not try to get it published?”

I shrugged, feigning indifference.

“I told Harold Adams about it when I worked for Holt and he was very interested. He’s at some exclusive publishing house now. Give him a call.”

If it weren’t already dark and past six in the evening, I’d have probably picked up the phone.

“Maybe I will,” I said cockily, “who knows? I might have a best seller.”

“Whoa Nellie!” she laughed. Phone and meet with the guy first.”

I phoned the next day and Harold was in New York, but his editor agreed to meet me. We scheduled a meeting for Friday afternoon at two.

When I arrived at the publishing office, it looked like a quaint coach house. It was a white, colonial style building on a small side street near the university.

The walls of the reception area were adorned with portraits of various Canadian literati—famous poets and writers whose faces were instantly recognizable.

Hell, even McLuhan and Cohen were there.

I began experiencing my first twinges of self-doubt.

A beautiful young woman approached. She was dressed in a dark blue pin-stripe suit, with an ultra short skirt that telegraphed to the world—or at least to me, leggy blonde.

She showed me into an office furnished with antiques and overlooking a lovely back garden, filled with falling red leaves.

I expected to hear a nasal voice instruct me: Please be seated, Mr. Maxwell and Ms. Marin will be with you shortly.

But instead, the blonde smiled and then slipped behind a large oak desk.

“I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Grant. I spoke to Harold on the phone and he recalls hearing about your manuscript—he says we’ll give it a look.”

“Thank you, Ms. Marin—that’s wonderful.”

“If we can use it, it’ll be wonderful for both of us—and, by the way, my name’s Violet—no need to be so formal.”

“Thank you, Violet,” I smiled.

She took the manuscript and placed it in her in-tray. “You’ll be hearing back from us shortly.”

She shook my hand and escorted me out.

It can’t be that easy, I told myself.

On Monday afternoon, Nancy my secretary, buzzed me.

“You have a call on line three, Dean Maxwell—a Ms. Marin from Holt Publishing.”

I grabbed the phone. Violet’s voice on the other end was exuberant.

“Grant! I read your manuscript over the weekend and I absolutely love it. Can we meet for drinks at The Park Hotel this afternoon at five?”

“Sure, I’ll move a few appointments and be there—the main restaurant?”

“The Rooftop Terrace—Don’t be late!”

I hung up feeling dazed. I immediately phoned Claire with the good news and told her not to hold supper—I’d probably dine downtown.

“I’m so proud of you,” she enthused.

My promotion to Dean faded into the background. Soon, I’d be seeing my book on store shelves.

Life was good.

I had never been to the Rooftop Terrace and when I stepped off the elevator, I was pleasantly surprised by the romantic ambience.

Candles glowed softly on the tables and the city was transitioning into what the French call l’heure bleue—those magical moments at twilight when the light alters and the skyline glimmers from the dying rays of the sun.

Violet was waiting, a bottle of Dom Perignon, already uncorked on the table.

When I approached, she surprised me by greeting me with a light kiss.

Having been raised in a working class family, I still found these social niceties mildly discomforting.

“I thought I’d have to drink alone,” she smiled coquettishly.

At that moment, the bells of a nearby church were just chiming five—the soft peals drifting up from the jumbled maze of shadowy streets below.

“Next time, I’ll remember to be early,” I quipped.

“I don’t like a man who’s too early,” she smiled seductively.

I sat and she poured us full glasses of the bubbly.

“That’s a generous glass,” I joked, as the fizzy liquid spilled over the edge of the champagne flute.

“I have a generous expense account,” she giggled, “ and I always max it to the limit.”

We clinked glasses and toasted. She immediately refilled our glasses.

Music began playing softly and I noticed the admiring glances of several men at nearby tables. One young exec actually tipped his glass toward me, as if telegraphing his envy.

“It rained all weekend while I read your manuscript—how appropriate—A Familiar Rain. It was so romantic—the rain drumming on the skylight—Alex falling in love with another woman.”

“You make it sound like infidelity,” I laughed nervously.

“Wasn’t it?”

“Hardly. His wife was dead. Sure, Abbey was her best friend—but he was trying to use his memory project to relive moments with his deceased wife—not cheat on her.”

She leaned in close and whispered, “but he did invite Abbey to assist with the project and they did spend all their time together—it was inevitable.”

“I suppose—I never looked at it that way.”

“Once a work of art is finished, Grant, it becomes the world’s property—the artist’s viewpoint becomes just another opinion.”

“So, you’re saying the novel’s about infidelity?”

“I’m saying the novel’s about secret desires.”

She looked at me intently. I never noticed how huge her eyes were.

“What did you say in the manuscript?” She struggled to recall, “—Oh, yes! Our ideas are the smokescreen for our wishes? Well, that’s how I see Alex—trying to reunite with his dead wife and fighting the desire he has for her best friend.”

She poured out the dregs of the bubbly and motioned for the waiter.

It went that way all evening—my views versus her interpretations. By the end of the evening, my head was spinning.

“Wow, I haven’t felt dizzy drunk in years.”

“You’re dizzy from success, Grant—you’re finally going to be recognized—do you know what that means?”

“Not really,” I mumbled.

“I know all the literati—you’ll meet them all—Cohen, Atwood. You’ll be right up there with all of them.”

“You think so?”

She leaned across the table and kissed me—this time, not a soft brush of her lips, but a sweet, deep, lingering kiss that inflamed every nerve in my body.

“We’ll have to collaborate closely over the next few months,” she confided. “Hopefully, Claire can spare you for New York and all the meets and greets.”

I looked at my wristwatch—it was past midnight.

“I’ve got to go,” I said.

“Are you sure you can drive? We’ve got a corporate suite downstairs—we can crash overnight—the room service is fabulous.”

I shook my head. “Gotta go.”

A flicker of disappointment dampened her smile.

“I’ll send you home in a cab.”

I don’t recall much of the cab ride home—just getting into bed beside Claire and passing out.

The worse part was the next day—not so much the hangover, as the guilt.

I wanted Violet. It was undeniable.

Like Alex in my novel, my best intentions were feeble when hearing a Siren’s call.

There were pink message sheets on my desk—Violet Marin phoned twice—Please call.

I ignored them.

At five, I got in my car and drove home to my Scarborough maisonette.

It was l’heure bleue—the red rays of the sun were dying in the west–my hopes of a literary career dying with them.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted Claire and the kids in the park. They had built a leaf pile and James and Grace were taking turns diving in and squealing with joy.

I got out, caught Claire from behind and swung her round gently.

She laughed and we both fell into the leaf pile, joined in quick order by first Grace and then James, shrieking with delight.

I looked at Claire in twilight—a red leaf caught in her hair—and felt complete.

“You know what I said about recognition?” I asked.

“Yeah, what about it?”

She lay back, smiling contentedly in the leaves, staring up at sky.

“I discovered I already have it.”

She nodded and squeezed my hand tightly. My eyes blurred. I swallowed a lump in my throat, and kissed her cheek lightly, snuggling in close to her side.

Grace and James lay beside us. We all stared up at the stars.

© 2016, John J Geddes. All rights reserved