Potboiler

There was no obituary as such. A related article outlined the missing man’s life and described his many accomplishments, professional and personal. A third surveyed various people connected to him through the business of writing: his agent, editor, critics, and peers. All agreed that William de Vallée had been a master of his craft, a titan whose loss was the world’s. One interviewee submitted that the full extent of the tragedy would be felt only in due time, once the initial shock had worn off.

Disgusted, Pfefferkorn tossed the paper aside and resumed eating his breakfast cereal. Nobody had called to ask for his opinion, and it was this that upset him so dreadfully. He had known Bill longer than anyone, including Bill’s own wife. She was not quoted in any of the articles, either, having declined to comment. Poor Carlotta, he thought. He considered calling her. But it was impossible. He had failed to call even once since news of the disappearance had broken. Though the odds of finding Bill alive had never been good, Pfefferkorn had been reluctant to offer comfort preemptively, as though by doing so he would be confirming the worst. Now that the worst had come to pass, his silence, however well intentioned, seemed horribly callous. He had made a mistake and he felt embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time. Nor would it be the last.

2.

By the next morning, other stories claimed the front page. Pfefferkorn bypassed news of a celebrity divorce, an arrested athlete, and the discovery of a major gas field off the West Zlabian coast, finding what he wanted on page four. The memorial service for William de Vallée, noted author of more than thirty internationally best-selling thrillers, would be held in Los Angeles, at a cemetery catering primarily to celebrities. It was to be a closed ceremony, by invitation only. Pfefferkorn once again felt disgusted. It was typical of the press to feign respect for a person’s privacy while simultaneously destroying it. He left the kitchen and went to dress for work.

Pfefferkorn taught creative writing at a small college on the Eastern Seaboard. Years ago he had published a single novel. Called Shade of the Colossus, it concerned a young man’s bitter struggle to liberate himself from a domineering father who belittles his son’s attempts to find meaning in art. Pfefferkorn had modeled the father after his own father, an uneducated vacuum salesman now deceased. The book received mild acclaim but sold poorly, and Pfefferkorn had published nothing since.

Every so often he would call up his agent to describe something new he had written. The agent would always say the same thing: “It sounds simply fascinating. Get it on over to me, would you?” Dutifully Pfefferkorn would mail in the material and wait for a response. Eventually he would tire of waiting and pick up the phone.

“Well,” the agent would say, “it is fascinating. I’ll give you that. But to be perfectly honest, I don’t think I can sell it. I’m willing to try, of course.”

“You know what,” Pfefferkorn would say. “Never mind.”

“It’s not a good time for short stories.”

“I know.”

“How’s that novel coming?”

“Not bad.”

“Let me know when you’ve got something to show me, will you?”

“I will.”

What Pfefferkorn did not tell his agent was that the very pages the agent deemed unsellable were not in fact short stories but abortive attempts at a second novel. By his count, Pfefferkorn had started seventy-seven different novels, abandoning each after hearing his first five pages dismissed. Recently, on a lark, he had placed all seventy-seven five-page segments in a single stack and attempted to stitch them together into a coherent whole, an effort that cost him an entire summer but that ultimately yielded nothing. Upon realizing his failure, he kicked out a window in his bedroom. The police were summoned and Pfefferkorn let off with a warning.

3.

The invitation to the funeral arrived later that week. Pfefferkorn set down the rest of his mail to hold the heavy black envelope in both hands. It was made of beautiful paper, expensive paper, and he hesitated to break it open. He turned it over. The back flap was engraved in silver ink with the de Vallée family crest. Pfefferkorn snorted. Where had Bill dug up such nonsense? Pfefferkorn decided it must have been Carlotta’s idea. She did have a flair for the dramatic.

He opened the invitation and out leapt a six-inch pop-up cutout of Bill, showing him at his happiest: in his sailing getup, wearing a captain’s hat, about to take to the water, a broad smile splitting his broad, grizzled face. He resembled the older Hemingway. Pfefferkorn had not been to visit the de Vallées in a long time—it pained him to think just how long—but he remembered their yacht, of the kind most often found on the cover of a big, soft, glossy magazine. He assumed it had since been replaced by a more luxe model, one he lacked the wherewithal to envision.