“Fourteen years?” I try to recall her résumé from our first meeting. Jackie pulls a silver letter opener from a pencil cup and gives each cocktail a good stir.
“That’s right,” she says. “Back then, no one—and I mean no one—knew how they were supposed to behave in my presence. If I got into the elevator, people would get out. If I walked down the hallway, people would turn around and scramble in the opposite direction. If I went to the breakroom to pour a cup of coffee, people would panic and hand me theirs.”
“That sounds …” I grasp for the right word. “Lonely.”
Satisfied that each cocktail is well mixed, Jackie gently taps the letter opener on the rim of one glass and it makes the most perfect chime. She picks up the tray and holds it out for me as if she’s the most overqualified spokesmodel ever to be hired on a game show.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting a drink. I hold it firmly in both hands by my lap, even though the ice makes it uncomfortably cold to the touch.
“It was. Devastatingly lonely. It was like I had the plague. After several weeks of this nonsense, I decided to head down to the cafeteria for lunch. Of course, everyone put their trays down and got out of line in front of me and disappeared from sight. It was horribly embarrassing, because the last thing I wanted was anyone thinking that I felt entitled to go to the front of the line. But it’s not like I could tell them to hop back in line—they had evaporated! Anyhow, this one lunch lady, a rather robust woman, urged me to the counter with an exaggerated wave and bellowed, ‘WHAT’LL IT BE, JACKIE?’”
My easy laughter catches me off guard. “So, what was it?”
“Tuna fish salad, if I recall.” We both laugh. “I don’t suppose everyone was fond of my being here. But after that, things were different. Better.” Jackie leans in to the memory, taking a full beat before coming back. “In case that story didn’t do it for you, consider this your lunch lady.”
I hold up my drink and we clink glasses with good cheer, this long story a toast of sorts to our new relationship and the work we hope to accomplish together. “To Ithaca.”
“To Ithaca,” she echoes.
I take a sip, and the drink is … tart, citrusy. Only a little pulpy. A few of these would be downright dangerous.
“How does it taste?”
“It’s … sly.”
“You’re lucky you’re here this week. Last week I was keen on acquiring a book of cold blended soups. Lila and I tried a few of the recipes. As it turns out, after gazpacho there aren’t many cold soups worth a damn. Have you ever had cream-of-cashew soup? Cold?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Believe me, there’s no pleasure to be had. Unless you like wallpaper glue.”
I grimace, then gesture toward the Cavafy book, and she gives me permission to take it. I open to the marked page. “Ithaka referred to in the feminine, like she is mother herself. You must have always known what Ithakas mean.”
Jackie makes a rich sound like an exquisite piece of chocolate is melting on her tongue. “And those are just the last few lines. Beautiful, isn’t it? Take that book home with you and read the rest.”
“It’s remarkably … apropos.” But have I always known? Is my book some sort of misadventure to understand something that, deep down, I already know?
“Inspired by Homer, if I’m not mistaken.” Of course she’s not mistaken.
“The return of Odysseus home,” I say, grateful this time for something more intelligent to say. “Homer, I’ve read.”
“The maturity of the soul as we all travel home is, I think, all the traveler can hope for. I want you to think of that, especially in the context of your manuscript’s ending. I think that’s where the bulk of your work lies.”
“The ending.”
“The last third of the book. I have a clear picture of who your characters are at the start of the quarantine, but I don’t know exactly who they are at the end. To each other, to themselves.”
“I keep thinking of our first conversation. How you said books are journeys.”
“That’s right.”
“But …”
Jackie rests her chin on the back of her hand. “What is it?”
I hesitate, not sure how I can say this. “I’m sorry. I haven’t worked with an editor before. I don’t want to overstep.”
“I tell my writers our conversations are privileged. Like doctor and patient.”
“Lawyer and client?”
“Priest and parishioner. Confession only if you want.” Jackie raises her glass.
“I was just thinking if my book is in part about motherhood, that’s a journey you have taken.”
“One that has given me some of my most sublime moments. But your book. Yes, it’s about motherhood, but through the eyes of a son. And I haven’t been one of those.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I concede.
Jackie takes a long, slow sip from her glass. “I want to see real growth on the page, how the events have changed them, particularly the son. You have a remarkably fresh voice, so I know you have it in you.”
My drink is going down too easily, and I can feel the rum rushing to my face, coloring my cheeks, creating a blessed hollowness between my ears, allowing me not to pass out. “I can taste the molasses.”
Jackie narrows her eyes, scrutinizing me. “It’s hard for you to hear a compliment.”
“I don’t suppose I’ve received enough compliments to know.”
“That was wonderful deflection. The molasses.”
“Another compliment?”
“Another deflection?” She takes one more sip, then sets her glass down on a coaster. “You can taste it, though, I’ll give you that. Especially when you know that it’s there.”
I place the Cavafy book on the corner of her desk and inspect what’s left of my drink.
Jackie refocuses. “Before we get to the ending, tell me more about your mother.”
I burst out laughing and am immediately embarrassed, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Oh, heavens. I sounded like your analyst.”
I’m fascinated to know if she’s familiar with the language of therapy. It wouldn’t surprise me, and yet it’s hard to imagine her vulnerable enough to seek help. But as much as our conversations may be privileged, I’m sure the privilege of probing conversation flows only one way. “What would you like to know?”
“Was she always sad?”
“No” is my first answer. But then I have to think—Is she sad? “I don’t think so. Perhaps. Are we talking about Ruth? I’m afraid I’m a little confused.”
“There’s confusion in the character.” She leans forward to retrieve the glass from my hand, and I barely loosen my grip enough for her to take it. If it weren’t for the condensation from the ice, it might not have wiggled out of my hand at all. “There are several moments where you get close to expressing something real, and I think you pad your observations with what I guess are fictional details and it keeps you from hitting some of the harder truths.”
She pours more rum into my glass. “Not too much,” I say. But as she refills my drink I think, To hell with it. You know?