The Novel Page 10

  Before the group sat down to the dinner, many women crowded up to congratulate Emma and ask me for autographs. Some asked if we had children, to which Emma replied with a gentle tap on one of my books. The highlight of the evening, however, came unexpectedly and was therefore doubly effective; the president of the university, a lively young woman, moved away from one table of diners and said with bubbling enthusiasm: ‘Your class of 1945 can be proud of yourselves. The treasurer informs me that you’ve made an anniversary contribution to our Alumnae Fund of $1,178,000.’

  Gasps greeted this astonishing information, but they became even more audible when she explained: ‘This was made possible because of a magnificent gift of Emma Stoltzfus, ’45, who sent me a registered letter this week containing this little goodie,’ and she held aloft a check on the Bank of Dresden. ‘It gives your college the nice round sum of one million dollars.’

  Among the reactions none was more astonished than mine. Later, during the applause, I whispered: ‘Where did you get that kind of money?’ and she said smugly: ‘I earned it. When you told me, “Take care of the money,” first thing I did was give myself a salary.’

  Late Saturday night as we drove back home with Emma at the wheel, she said: ‘It was as fine a reunion as one could have imagined. So good to see the girls again.’

  I said: ‘I thought you hammered it into me, never use the word girls for mature women,’ and she said dreamily: ‘To me they will always be nineteen.’ Silence. ‘And I think they were glad that I came back to be with them,’ and I said: ‘You bought your way back,’ and she said: ‘Yes. I did. But with money I helped earn. Forty-five years ago when I first started teaching in Souderton I laid plans for last night. Grandiose plans. I refused to come back empty-handed, nor did I.’

  There was no time for celebration of her triumphal return to Bryn Mawr because on the next Monday Emma received an urgent call from Ms. Marmelle: ‘Emma, there’s hell to pay. I’m not allowed to discuss it, but Mr. MacBain is flying down early tomorrow with two men who must talk to Lukas. They’ll rent a car at A.B.E. and I’ll draw them a diagram of how to reach your farm. Set the day aside. It could take that long.’

  ‘Tell me one thing. Are the men lawyers? Is this a plagiarism suit or something like that?’

  ‘On my word, it’s not. Lukas is not in trouble, we are,’ and with that she hung up, letting Emma stew through the rest of Monday.

  Our family had two strategies from which we never deviated: first, face a catastrophe head-on and grapple with it and, second, analyze situations in advance so that we’re never blindsided with a blow to the head. Nine years ago, at the first indication that Emma might have cancer she went into the hospital for extensive and expensive exploratory probing, which proved that she did have a growth. Fortunately, it was benign, but we had it removed anyway. On a less serious level, we tried to anticipate how we would react if a book did poorly, or if there was a considerable lag in production. We strove always to be in command of any situation where panic might be triggered so that hysteria could be avoided.

  At both dinner and supper we tried to guess the meaning of that cryptic last sentence: ‘Lukas is not in trouble, we are,’ and by the process of elimination we concluded that it could only involve those stories we’d been reading in The New York Times regarding the probable sale of Kinetic Press, possibly to a foreign buyer, and we spent a good deal of time pondering what reaction we would have to such a distasteful sale.

  Early Tuesday morning, much sooner than we had expected, Mr. MacBain drove his rented car into the farm entrance and waited for two men in blue suits to alight. Emma, watching the strangers approach her door, whispered: ‘They look like federal agents,’ and she was trembling when she let them in.

  The introductions were both stiff and tentative, as if the visitors did not really care to meet us: ‘This is Mr. Schulte of Inglenook in St. Louis, the biggest bookstore in many states out there. And this is Mr. Fregosi.’

  When the three were seated, MacBain wasted no time in introducing their problem: ‘We find ourselves in a most serious mess, I can describe it in no other way. Mr. Schulte, please show him the flier you mailed out.’ From his folder the bookman produced a well-designed enticement to the store’s customers, which said that Inglenook was fortunate in being able to offer its longtime patrons a rare opportunity, an autographed copy of Lukas Yoder’s final novel in his ‘Grenzler Octet,’ autographed and boxed, for a mere seventy-five dollars.

  ‘Well presented,’ I said as I handed it back. ‘Price seems outrageously high,’ and to myself I added: Especially for a book that’s going to be a dud.

  ‘Not at all, as it turned out,’ MacBain said. ‘Now, the two operative words we’re here to discuss are mailed and autographed. Both Inglenook’s lawyers and Kinetic’s assure us that when you offer to sell something in a letter that you send through the mail, that becomes a binding contract if the acceptance by mail is accompanied by a check. Fix this in your mind, Mr. Yoder. If Inglenook accepts money from its customers and then fails to perform, even if Inglenook returns the money, they’ve committed a fraud.’

  Quietly I asked: ‘How could something like this happen? I was never consulted. So far as I can see, I’m not obligated in any way.’

  When everyone stared at MacBain, he was forced to make a humiliating confession: ‘In our attempt to offset the unfavorable publicity we spoke of in New York, we sent a flier to all our sales reps: “Do everything possible to help us see that Stone Walls is launched with a maximum shove.” Our man in the St. Louis region took this literally and told Mr. Schulte: “I’m sure Mr. Yoder would be delighted to autograph a tip sheet if you wanted to offer your customers a special edition.” Without any authorization from you or us, our man said that.’ In the silence we looked glumly at one another.

  Then MacBain continued: ‘We must understand the full legal complications. Mr. Schulte’s lawyers and mine agree on this. The Kinetic salesman who made this commitment became, at the time of doing it, an agent fully authorized to speak for his employer, Kinetic, so if lawsuits or criminal penalties are instituted, they will fall on Kinetic, not on Inglenook. Is that how you understand it, Theodore?’

  ‘Precisely. I can crawl out from under, not because I want to pin it all on you, MacBain, but because I have to. In this affair, I’m blameless.’

  ‘And now we get to the sticky part. No one knows exactly what the law is or what the courts might hold. But when our agent made this offer to Mr. Schulte, he not only obligated me as his employer, but might also be considered as having obligated you, Mr. Yoder. You may be legally bound to autograph the books that have been ordered through the mail and paid for by checks sent through the mail.’

  I gulped: ‘And all because one of your salesmen was loose-tongued?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you shot him?’ Emma asked and MacBain replied: ‘No, but next week I may.’

  Mr. Schulte broke in: ‘We all must keep the devastating facts in mind. We sent brochures by mail. Our clients returned their checks by mail. So we’re obligated to perform or else.’

  ‘And I’m dragged in by the tail?’ I asked, and when both MacBain and Schulte nodded, Emma broke in: ‘Nobody’s said how many customers ordered the books.’ In explanation Mr. Schulte said something that changed the color of this day, this year: ‘Because Ms. Marmelle had slipped us a Xerox of the manuscript, something she rarely does, I and our leading salesmen read your novel, Mr. Yoder, and we deemed it so sensational, so exactly what readers are going to want this year, such a leap forward for you, I might say, that we ran this follow-up,’ and he handed me a clipping that made bells ring in heaven: ‘Everyone on our staff who has had the honor of reading an advance copy of Stone Walls has said: “This is the best Yoder yet.” Order your special copy now. Only seventy-five dollars.’

  Tears did not come to my eyes but I did breathe deeply: ‘And how many responded?’

  ‘Nine thousand.’

  ‘I can’t b
elieve it.’

  ‘Mr. Yoder, readers treasure your books. And word has seeped out that this may be your last. Everyone will want a copy of the regular edition, and nine thousand not only want the special edition but have already paid for it.’

  ‘Signing that many sheets would take days, maybe weeks. My hand would drop off.’ I was gratified by the vote of confidence from my readers but appalled by the magnitude of the task that confronted me.

  The gloomy silence that followed was finally broken by Emma, who had a habit of wanting facts on which to chew: ‘What kind of figures are we talking about here?’ and from his portfolio Mr. Schulte produced numbers that stunned us: ‘Nine thousand copies at seventy-five dollars a copy, that’s $675,000. We’ve never had anything close to this.’

  Emma asked: ‘Why would anyone be crazy enough to pay that for an ordinary book?’ and Mr. Schulte said: ‘It’s not an ordinary book. It’s probably the best novel your husband has written and possibly his last, and this may be news to you, but there are thousands of people out there who love your husband, the mannerly way he behaves, a reminder of the days when authors were authors and not exhibitionists.… I doubt if the orders will stop at nine thousand, because those readers interpret this as a gentleman’s farewell gesture.’

  ‘And your flier stressed that interpretation, didn’t it?’

  ‘The selling of books is difficult. We grasp at straws—honorable ones.’

  Emma did not care to have him explain what was included in his definition of honorable. Instead, she turned to MacBain and asked: ‘If we accept his figure of nine thousand, what would that mean to us?’ and the president of Kinetic said: ‘We’d better move into the other room, if we may. Such figures are trade secrets—their circulation could damage us.’

  When he was alone with us, he asked me: ‘You know, of course, what the terms of your contract state?’ and he was astonished when Emma said: ‘No. He never attends to such matters.’

  ‘But you signed our contracts. I have them in our safe.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, but Emma broke in: ‘He never bothers to read the figures. Wouldn’t remember them if he did.’

  ‘Where are the contracts?’ he asked and I said: ‘I don’t know. In a file somewhere.’

  Turning to Emma, he asked: ‘Do you keep them, Mrs. Yoder?’ and she said: ‘He won’t let me. Says no good comes of brooding over contracts, and I think he’s right.’

  ‘For your information, then, your contract is the same we’ve had for all your last books, ten percent for the first fifty thousand, fifteen percent after that. But this one does have a special kicker we give to no one else. After five hundred thousand, sixteen percent. So if this deal goes through you could earn $108,000.’

  ‘With that fatal start,’ Emma said, ‘this book will never reach five hundred thousand.’

  ‘From what we hear in the field, it will do better. Schulte’s reaction is what the other independent booksellers are telling us, and when the big chains get the word, they’ll come back in line. Your husband can do himself a lot of good by fulfilling this implied obligation.’

  ‘And go to jail if he doesn’t?’ she asked and MacBain replied reassuringly: ‘Our lawyers told us that while our agent might have become your agent when he made the promise, the likelihood is that since you were at one remove and knew nothing of the deal, you would very probably be exempt from culpability. But not for sure.’

  When we returned to the living room the time had come to bring Mr. Fregosi into the discussion. He was introduced as a wizard from Boston’s Route 128, the so-called Loop of Genius because of the bright young men from Harvard and M.I.T. who clustered there to realize their technological dreams. He was soft-spoken and gave an impression of credibility: ‘The picture is not pleasant—in fact, it’s quite ugly. But we do have one thing in our favor,’ and he handed me his copy of the Inglenook flier with the word autographed underlined in red: ‘It does say autographed, clear enough, but it does not say either personally autographed or autographed by hand, and I can assure you that that provides us with an out that is foolproof.’

  Taking from his briefcase a handful of papers, all different, he distributed them: canceled checks, diplomas, bond issues, hand-signed copies of ordinances and half a dozen other important forms. After we examined them he said: ‘We’ve known for some time that governors of states, C.E.O.’s of corporations and university presidents simply cannot sign all the documents placed before them, especially salary checks. Quite a while ago bright boys invented machines that would enable the C.E.O. to sign, with many pens acting as one, fifty documents at once. The papers you have there are examples of how well that old machine works. Now look at this improvement,’ and as we studied a different set of papers all apparently signed by T. Wellford Jackson, for the signatures were identical, he explained: ‘This time our geniuses took only one signature of the man but with their magic machine they can reproduce it as if by hand, a thousand times if necessary.’ And before we could express our wonder, he distributed a third set of papers, still signed by T. Wellford, but this time each of the signatures was visibly different from the others. The differentiating details were minute, to be true, but there they were, seventeen different signatures. ‘What our boys have been able to do is to take one basic signature written out in longhand by Mr. Jackson and vary it by lasers into about four hundred slightly different signatures. Look at them, how handsome they are on their documents.’

  While Emma inspected each one closely, Mr. Fregosi continued: ‘So now you see the position you’re in. If Mr. Yoder gives me ten samples of his handwriting, just ordinary samples with the natural differences that arise, a long Y here, a shorter one there, I can produce four thousand different signatures, all his, all original.’

  Before I could protest, Fregosi added: ‘There’s no deception. Court cases have established in the case of the older system that the signatures it produces are signatures. And thank heavens, Mr. Schulte, you didn’t say personally autographed.’ Speaking directly to me, he said: ‘The store’s lawyers, Kinetic’s lawyers and ours have given this a clean bill. If you go ahead with this we are legally safe, especially you, Mr. Yoder.’

  ‘It’s still a fraud,’ Emma blurted, ‘and I’ll not allow Lukas to be involved in it.’

  ‘The alternative,’ said MacBain coldly, ‘is sitting down and signing nine thousand copies, maybe ten by the time they’re through opening the mail.’

  To break the tension, Schulte said brightly: ‘Let’s all duck out and catch some lunch.’ MacBain said: ‘Ms. Marmelle told me there is an excellent inn in Dresden,’ and the five of us started for the rental car, but before I left the house I excused myself, then returned in a few minutes, without explaining my brief absence.

  The visitors were pleased by the Dresden China and spent much time inspecting the Meissen ware, but the lunch itself was a nervous affair, with everyone waiting for me to reveal my decision, and I could see that the men were distressed when I began: ‘This is palpably immoral. We’ll be delivering a shoddy product.’ The visitors looked furtively at one another, but were visibly relieved when I continued: ‘However, I see no option but to agree to your escape proposal and shall pray that it’s legal.’ When the men breathed audibly in relief, I took from my pocket an unsealed envelope: ‘But I could not in good conscience accept even a penny royalty on those contaminated books. Here’s a check, carefully dated as of today, and I want Mr. MacBain to mail it on his stationery dated tomorrow to the president of Mecklenberg College, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania 18016, with the notation: “For the college’s library fund.” I would not want the money ever to enter my account, and insist upon getting rid of it well beforehand.’

  The luncheon did not end on a happy note, and after dropping us off at our farm the visitors hurried back to the airport.

  When the better part of a week was lost in June, I began to wonder if I would ever again be allowed to correct galleys because I was taking an inordinate amount of time checkin
g the proofs for Stone Walls. But I worked diligently in such hours as were available and was sometimes surprised at how effective some of my corrections were but dismayed by how many required repeated efforts before I got them right. I worked with special care because I knew that this was my last chance to perfect the narrative, and I was sardonically amused at those who referred to writing as if it were an act of supreme inspiration. Writing is fiendishly hard work.

  The June interruption began when Ms. Marmelle called with the exciting news: ‘Things are beginning to break our way. Schulte in St. Louis now has eleven thousand acceptances of their seventy-five-dollar offer. Independent stores are ordering like mad. We’re going to lick this thing yet. And best of all, C.B.S. has heard about your hex paintings and has alerted publicity that they’d like to do a substantial segment about you on their Friday-morning At Home show.’

  ‘Is that a respectable show?’

  ‘Mr. Yoder, it’s a gem! Don’t you ever watch TV?’

  ‘Not till nine at night. The old movies, if we can find one.’

  ‘Publicity has worked their keisters off to arrange this, and we’ll be lucky if they go ahead. They come to your place—all shots in your own home—Emma to be featured prominently as your helpmate—and they do it with distinction, class. Do say you’ll agree and I’ll handle details.’

  C.B.S. in New York phoned to tell us that our portion of the show would air at eight-thirty Friday morning of this week, and I said: ‘Fine. I’ll work through Thursday noon, consult with your advance people for a few minutes in the afternoon and go to bed early so I’ll be fresh for the camera on Friday.’ Emma planned to do the same, bringing in her helper on Thursday afternoon to straighten things.