Potboiler

Pfefferkorn shrugged. “It’s different when you’re my age.”

“You’re not that old.”

“All I’m saying is, at a certain point you realize that most of your life is behind you.”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“It’s depressing,” she said. “We’re supposed to be celebrating my engagement.”

Why had she chosen to bring up the subject of death, then? “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Pfefferkorn’s daughter sat back and crossed her arms.

“Sweetheart. Don’t cry, please.”

“I’m not,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” she said. She took his hand again. “So, you like Paul.”

“I love him,” Pfefferkorn lied.

She smiled.

“I don’t know what you’ve discussed between the two of you,” he said, “but I’d like to contribute in some way to the wedding.”

“Oh, Daddy. That’s very nice of you, but it’s not necessary. We’re all taken care of.”

“Please. You’re my daughter. I can’t pitch in?”

“Paul’s family has already offered to help out.”

“Well, I’m offering to help out, too.”

Pfefferkorn’s daughter looked pained. “But—it’s all taken care of, really.”

Pfefferkorn understood that he was being turned down out of pity. They both knew he had no money to spend on a wedding. He had no notion of what he’d meant by “pitch in.” What could he do? Park cars? He felt humiliated, both by her rejection and by his own impotence. He stared at his knotted fingers as silence settled across the table.

His daughter was correct: the desserts were not remotely sweet. The donuts Pfefferkorn ordered had the taste and texture of compressed sand. At conclusion of the meal, he tried to pay, but Paul had already given the waiter a credit card on his way back from the men’s room.

6.

The airport newsstands and bookstores all featured prominent displays of William de Vallée novels. Every ten yards or so Pfefferkorn passed another towering cardboard bin, its top crowned by an enlargement of Bill’s jacket photo, which had the famous author posing in a trench coat against a background of dark, bare trees. Pfefferkorn, an hour early for his flight, stopped to stare. William de Vallée indeed, he thought.

“Excuse me,” a man said.

Pfefferkorn stepped aside to allow him to take a book.

For thirty years, Bill had, unprompted and without fail, sent Pfefferkorn inscribed copies of his novels. Back in the early days, Pfefferkorn had been happy for his friend, gratified that Bill should single him out to celebrate his good fortune. Over time, however, as that fortune continued to grow, and Pfefferkorn’s stagnancy became more and more apparent, the gift began to feel like a cruel joke. Pfefferkorn had stopped reading the books long ago—thrillers were not his cup of tea—but in recent years he’d begun throwing the packages straight into the trash. By and by he had gotten rid of the old books as well. Today, first editions of the earliest novels, printed in small batches before William de Vallée became a household name, fetched substantial sums. Pfefferkorn refused to profiteer, donating the books to his local library or slipping them into strangers’ bags on the bus.

Standing before the gaudy display, Pfefferkorn decided he owed it to Bill to catch up a bit. He bought the hardcover, walked to his departure gate, and sat down to read.

7.