Isabel's Bed by Elinor Lipman

Author:Elinor Lipman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Washington Square Press
Published: 1995-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

18

FERRIS

IT WASN’T A case of having no friends in New York; it was that 5:30 on a Friday night was impossibly short notice for dinner. I tried Maureen, who said she was attending law school nights and was on her way out the door. I tried Lucy from my last job, who would have loved to have seen me but had been ordered by her obstetrician to lie on her left side; I tried Ginny from my desktop publishing seminar and Athena from my Dukakis days; I tried Nayla from my sourdough workshop, whose answering machine thanked me for the good energy, then failed to beep.

So at 5:45, with my last quarter, as I was making peace with the notion that room service and a pay-per-view movie wasn’t the worst way to spend a rainy night, I called Ferris Porter, who answered out of breath on the tenth ring.

He said he was tickled. I said I knew it was short notice, but I had just arrived in the city today, a last-minute business trip—

“I’m free,” said Ferris. “And I’m simply astonished that you would choose today to call me.”

I asked what he meant and he said he’d rather tell me in person.

I sagged involuntarily. I had a history with that phrase. Even coming from a person with no power to jilt me, it sounded like bad news.

“I hate surprises,” I told him. “Couldn’t you tell me now?”

“One hint, but that’s all: A letter.”

“A rejection letter?”

“Not another word until I see you.”

“What’s good for you?” I asked. “And where?”

“What does someone who’s been living on New England’s blustering shore, communing with Neptune’s empire, want to do when she comes to this great hive?” he bubbled.

“Eat good Chinese,” I said.

So we did, in Chinatown, at a storefront restaurant where Ferris pointed to wall signs in Mandarin and asked the waiter if he might translate the specials. He opened a menu and pointed to Chef’s Delights. “Same thing,” he said.

We followed a pink mountain of lobster meat and jumbo shrimp on its way to an all-Chinese table.

“What was that?” I asked.

The waiter said, “Shrimp with black beans.”

“You sure?” I asked.

He pointed to the #12 Delight. “Same thing. Maybe they get extra seafood because it’s a big party. Special occasion.”

Ferris said solemnly, “This is a special occasion, too.”

From the inside pocket of his black watch plaid jacket he brought forth an envelope and handed it to me. The return address read in wedding-invitation script The Priscilla Miller Agency.

I withdrew the letter: one thin, nerve-wracking piece of stationery with Ferris’s future forecast in a single paragraph. “Dear Professor Porter,” it began. “I would be most interested in reading the remaining chapters of Malice Emeritus. I do not charge a reading fee, but I do require temporary exclusivity for as long as a manuscript is in my office for evaluation purposes. The novel should be submitted as loose, double-spaced typewritten pages placed in a manila folder. Please include return postage and I will get it back to you as soon as possible.

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