didn’t they contact us?”
My boss began to laugh. “I don’t even know. Some small press in Virginia. Orchid Press? Something like that. Tiny. I mean, tiny. Like I said, it might just be one man, it seems like.”
“Orchises Press?” I asked hesitantly. Orchises published some poets I liked. But I knew nothing about it. I wasn’t even sure how to pronounce its name.
“That’s it!” my boss cried. She narrowed her brows in surprise. “You’ve actually heard of them?”
“They publish poetry,” I told her. “Contemporary poetry. I like a few of their poets.”
“A small press,” said Hugh, unbelieving. “A small press in
Virginia
. A one-man press? For J. D. Salinger? How could this guy even meet the demand? Does he know what he’s getting into? Salinger is pretty different from publishing poetry.”
“You can say that again,” said my boss, with a low chortle. Slowly, she pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it with the tiny lighter she always kept on her person, hidden in some pleat or fold. She took a long draw and smiled. She was enjoying this. “We have a lot to find out. For starters, whether this Orchises Press fellow”—she looked at a Post-it in her hand and read a name aloud—“Roger Lathbury. We need to find out whether this Roger Lathbury fellow still even wants to do this. It’s been eight years. He’s going to think I’m crazy whenI call him.” Her face compressed in contemplation. “We need to go very slowly on this one. Very slowly and very carefully. I need to think for a minute.”
When she was safely ensconced in her office, murmuring into the phone, I asked Hugh, in a low voice, “What’s ‘Hapworth’?” It sounded mysterious. Like a secret agent’s code name.
“Salinger’s last published story,” Hugh told me, brushing imaginary flecks of dust off his sweater. “It ran in
The New Yorker
in 1965. It took up almost the whole magazine.”
“Really,” I said. “The
whole
magazine?” I could not imagine this.
“It wasn’t that strange then,” explained Hugh. “You know
Esquire
once serialized a whole Mailer novel?” I shook my head no, though I had actually known this. Don was a huge Mailer fan. “Every magazine ran stories. All the women’s magazines. Salinger published stories in all of them.
Cosmo
ran a novella of his. A real novella.”
“
Cosmopolitan
?” I asked, incredulous.
“I think
Mademoiselle
, too. And one other.
Ladies’ Home Journal
?
Good Housekeeping
? One of those …” His voice faded to nothing and his hand moved in a circle, seemingly of its own accord, signifying I knew not what.
I’d known, of course, that glossy magazines had once run stories, largely because I’d written my master’s thesis on Sylvia Plath, who had been obsessed with selling stories to what she called “the slicks.” But somehow the idea of J. D. Salinger letting
Good Housekeeping
run one of his stories—or
Cosmo
, with its advisories on multiple orgasms—was absurd to the point of hilarity.
“You know that’s what your boss did, right?” he asked, his voice suddenly growing sharper.
I shook my head in confusion.
“First serial.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself.“She was hired as the first serial agent. To sell stories to magazines. So she sold stories for all the Agency’s clients. For years. She worked at a magazine before she came here, as the assistant to the fiction editor.”
“What magazine?” I asked.
Hugh raised his eyebrows and smiled. “
Playboy.”
“
Playboy
?” I whispered. I was sure he was joking. My boss, in her turtlenecks and slacks, at a girlie magazine?
But he nodded solemnly. “They ran serious fiction. Still do.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “People always say ‘I read it for the articles,’ and you think it’s a joke. But they pay well, so they get good writers.”
“Did my boss sell ‘Hapworth’?” I asked. For some reason my heart raced a little at the thought of
My boss began to laugh. “I don’t even know. Some small press in Virginia. Orchid Press? Something like that. Tiny. I mean, tiny. Like I said, it might just be one man, it seems like.”
“Orchises Press?” I asked hesitantly. Orchises published some poets I liked. But I knew nothing about it. I wasn’t even sure how to pronounce its name.
“That’s it!” my boss cried. She narrowed her brows in surprise. “You’ve actually heard of them?”
“They publish poetry,” I told her. “Contemporary poetry. I like a few of their poets.”
“A small press,” said Hugh, unbelieving. “A small press in
Virginia
. A one-man press? For J. D. Salinger? How could this guy even meet the demand? Does he know what he’s getting into? Salinger is pretty different from publishing poetry.”
“You can say that again,” said my boss, with a low chortle. Slowly, she pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it with the tiny lighter she always kept on her person, hidden in some pleat or fold. She took a long draw and smiled. She was enjoying this. “We have a lot to find out. For starters, whether this Orchises Press fellow”—she looked at a Post-it in her hand and read a name aloud—“Roger Lathbury. We need to find out whether this Roger Lathbury fellow still even wants to do this. It’s been eight years. He’s going to think I’m crazy whenI call him.” Her face compressed in contemplation. “We need to go very slowly on this one. Very slowly and very carefully. I need to think for a minute.”
When she was safely ensconced in her office, murmuring into the phone, I asked Hugh, in a low voice, “What’s ‘Hapworth’?” It sounded mysterious. Like a secret agent’s code name.
“Salinger’s last published story,” Hugh told me, brushing imaginary flecks of dust off his sweater. “It ran in
The New Yorker
in 1965. It took up almost the whole magazine.”
“Really,” I said. “The
whole
magazine?” I could not imagine this.
“It wasn’t that strange then,” explained Hugh. “You know
Esquire
once serialized a whole Mailer novel?” I shook my head no, though I had actually known this. Don was a huge Mailer fan. “Every magazine ran stories. All the women’s magazines. Salinger published stories in all of them.
Cosmo
ran a novella of his. A real novella.”
“
Cosmopolitan
?” I asked, incredulous.
“I think
Mademoiselle
, too. And one other.
Ladies’ Home Journal
?
Good Housekeeping
? One of those …” His voice faded to nothing and his hand moved in a circle, seemingly of its own accord, signifying I knew not what.
I’d known, of course, that glossy magazines had once run stories, largely because I’d written my master’s thesis on Sylvia Plath, who had been obsessed with selling stories to what she called “the slicks.” But somehow the idea of J. D. Salinger letting
Good Housekeeping
run one of his stories—or
Cosmo
, with its advisories on multiple orgasms—was absurd to the point of hilarity.
“You know that’s what your boss did, right?” he asked, his voice suddenly growing sharper.
I shook my head in confusion.
“First serial.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself.“She was hired as the first serial agent. To sell stories to magazines. So she sold stories for all the Agency’s clients. For years. She worked at a magazine before she came here, as the assistant to the fiction editor.”
“What magazine?” I asked.
Hugh raised his eyebrows and smiled. “
Playboy.”
“
Playboy
?” I whispered. I was sure he was joking. My boss, in her turtlenecks and slacks, at a girlie magazine?
But he nodded solemnly. “They ran serious fiction. Still do.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “People always say ‘I read it for the articles,’ and you think it’s a joke. But they pay well, so they get good writers.”
“Did my boss sell ‘Hapworth’?” I asked. For some reason my heart raced a little at the thought of
Similar Books
