Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion (5 page)

Contempt of fame begets contempt of virtue.—Ben Jonson

Donna pushed Chase through the door of Borders. Chase was dressed in a white turtleneck under a tweed blazer and khaki Land’s End trousers with brown penny loafers. Her nightmare had come true. “I can’t do this.”

“You have to. It’s part of the package,” Donna said. She looked the picture perfect version of a personal assistant dressed in a nicely tailored gabardine business suit.

“But no one’s here and I’m going to feel stupid sitting at a table for two hours with a stack of books like an unwanted goldfish at the pet store,” Chase whined.

“I don’t think so.” She pointed. There was already a line of people queued up at the table, which was next to a life-size cutout of Chase pretending to be Shelby McCall dressed in a similar outfit and holding her latest book. This being two different people, the Chase Banter of reality and the persona of Shelby, was really starting to get on her nerves. No wonder she was such a mess—a bipolar writer with two personalities. Freud would have loved it.

The cutout had been Donna’s idea. “It makes a statement.” The choice of outfit was also Donna’s idea. “We want you to look kind of English-American, like a combo of Patricia Cornwell and a hip Agatha Christie.”

This made no sense as Chase had long blond hair, blue eyes and sculpted features. She looked more like one of the women in a Victoria’s Secret ad than a mystery writer. But that too had worked in her favor. People seemed comfortable with this look, according to the comments they left at the Shelby McCall website. They said things like “You look just like what I had pictured.”

Donna was pleased. Good god that woman was a marketing genius. Chase dreaded the day she would lose her, as some bigger fish would inevitably snatch her up, but then she remembered something from a John Donne poem about fish and netting all you can to have the pike give you something that sickened your soul. She hoped being a fish in this environment would not poison her soul.

The bookstore manager, whose name was Naomi, trotted up to them and vigorously shook Chase’s hand. “Ms. McCall, we’re so glad you’ve chosen our store. I just finished
Expiration Date
and I thought it was brilliant.”

Enthusiasm seemed to bubble straight from the woman’s close-cropped brown hair. She wore makeup but still looked like a sister. Straight women had short hair too, Chase told herself, but her gaydar was beeping away. At least she wouldn’t be asked about her husband and children. That was one arena Chase preferred to ignore, but it lurked. Ariana, her editor, had suggested she keep her sexuality under wraps, and Chase’s agent, Eliza, a buxom businesswoman of fifty-five, definitely saw the “sexuality liability” as a problem that had to be contained.

The first time Chase had been flown to New York to meet Eliza P. Newman the woman had seemed calculating. At the airport a limo driver had picked up Chase, who, thanks to her mother, was dressed to the nines in an Armani suit and five-hundred-dollar Italian leather shoes. Eliza’s office would have intimidated anyone. Chase gathered her wits and remembered everything Donna had taught her. They’d watched movies and television programs with power figures and glassy offices. They’d quizzed Stella on etiquette and Stella, who now had big clients, took Chase with her a few times to meet these people, referring to Chase as one of her junior assistants. Now the efforts of the dress rehearsal were about to be tested.

The minute she’d entered the office, Eliza had sized her up like she was a horse who might be purchased. Eliza adored horses, according to Ariana, and all metaphors pointed in this direction, including the woman’s office—a combo of chrome, glass and saddle-colored leather with horse-head bronzes. Chase half expected her to strap a set of pistols on her and demand a demonstration of Chase’s shooting ability. Instead, Eliza turned her around, stared her up and down and said, “You don’t look like a lesbian. In fact, your good looks are going to be an asset. Please take a seat.”

Chase resented that comment and barely refrained from saying. “And you look like Mr. Toad in
The Wind in the Willows
so you don’t have any room to talk.” She sat down and waited. One thing she’d discovered about these New York power types was that you didn’t have to talk much. They talked for you.

“Do you think I’m a lesbian?” Eliza asked.

Chase hated this line of questioning and her patience was thinning. Watching her tone, she politely said, “Is this like that question where a woman asks her husband if she looks fat in this dress and no matter his response he’s screwed?”

Eliza burst out laughing. “You’re right. But your assumption is that I am a straight woman.”

“Are you saying you’re not?” Chase countered.

“What I am saying is that whether I am or not shouldn’t be a question that anyone would ask.”

“I get it. I will be a very private, almost a hermit-like-kind of author. That shouldn’t be difficult. I don’t particularly like people,” Chase informed her.

“But you will have to make yourself known if your books are to sell. Reviews, book signings and interviews—how will you handle that?”

“You’re going to tell me and with some coaching I will be successful,” Chase said tartly. She might as well capitulate to the whims of the publishing world because there wasn’t much choice. She’d already made up a vocation for Shelby McCall and tested it on an overly inquisitive rich woman who sat next to her in first class on the plane.

“Okay, here’s a question. What has Shelby McCall been doing for the last twenty years of her life? College, of course, will have taken up some of it. What about the rest? We can’t tell them you’ve been writing dyke fiction for the last fourteen years.”

“I’ve been an epistemologist working for the Illumination Institute,” Chase informed her.

Eliza narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. Chase wondered if this occupation would work as well on her as it had on the woman in plane. She’d pretended she knew what that was and then asked what kind of bugs Chase studied. “It’s about word origins and coming up with new ones when necessary.” The woman nodded and didn’t talk to Chase the rest of the ride.

“What’s the Illumination Institute?” Eliza inquired, as if this might be the hand that brushed away the house of cards.

“It’s a building in the middle of nowhere that has been vacant for years and no one knows who owns it,” Chase countered.

“That’ll do.”

And with that Chase was handed over to the woman who would coach her for the next five days on how to behave in a proper fashion so as not to create any debacles detrimental to her future success as a bestselling author. It had really been most tedious.

Now, she was doing her first-ever book signing. How hideous, she thought as she made her way to the table stacked with books. The first few customers were nice and she remembered to scrawl Shelby McCall on the title pages instead of Chase Banter. Then, as if she were back in Eliza’s office, with the swish of a hand the house of cards fell flat: The first error occurred.

“Whom should I address it to?” Chase calmly asked in her most polite voice. She tried not to glance at the line and wonder how much longer this would last.

“Sign it to Carol.”

And before Chase had gotten the “C” written, the woman said, “I really think there is a definite lesbian undertone, rather a bit too much, shall we say butchness in each of your protagonists. Where do you suppose that comes from?”

Chase bristled. She contemplated the well-coiffed, well-dressed snot and smiled sardonically. “I think my protagonists tend to be…” She got stuck.

Donna must have sensed something was awry and came over. “Is there a problem?”

“She thinks my protagonists are too butch,” Chase said, taking up the pen again. Donna glanced over her shoulder while Chase signed the book, “To Carol, the snotty homophobe. Happy reading, Chase Banter, lesbian extraordinaire.”

Donna smiled pleasantly at the woman while she snatched the book from Chase and substituted another. The woman looked at her puzzled. “That one has a tiny tear on the title page. I wouldn’t want you to have a defective product. I really think that Chase’s characters tend to be strong, very self-sufficient women who have set high goals for themselves. I don’t think those are necessarily lesbian tendencies, do you?”

“I suppose not,” the woman said, smiling curtly at Chase and taking the book.

Then there was the mishearing and subsequent misspelling of a name. Donna had remedied that by quickly supplying yet another book in its place and then the woman had the audacity to ask for the ruined book as well. Donna handed it over pleasantly enough, Chase thought. Maybe she knows that it only takes royalty money out of our pockets. Chase remembered as a moist mound writer that every book sale was precious. Shelby might be a hotshot with books to waste, however it didn’t make the insult go down any less easily in Chase’s world. She was beginning not to like Shelby.

With half an hour to go, two of Chase Banter’s avid fans made a beeline for the table after seeing her. While Chase Banter never did book signings, her publisher made sure there was always a comely photo of Chase on the back cover. Had Donna not fended the women off with the offer of a complete set of Chase’s lesbian works signed by the author and mailed out immediately God-only-knows what could have happened.

There were a few other missteps, but they were minor in comparison. The coup de grace occurred when one young woman, a writer herself, asked about Chase’s characters, how she came up with them, etc., and Chase made the mistake of saying that they talked to her in her head and she wrote it all down. Afterward, she realized that she sounded like a schizophrenic.

The interminable afternoon ended at last. The bookstore manager gushed over her sales performance. “I’m going to tell regional and I’m sure we can get some other sessions.”

Chase glanced warily over at Donna, who nodded.

“That would be great,” Donna said. They shook hands and left.

Donna drove her home after they stopped at the convenience store—where Chase bought two bottles of Dasani and a five-pack of Mentos, which she stuffed in her blazer jacket. She slumped down in the front seat of Donna’s ’57 primer gray Volvo. Donna was in the process of securing a lease on a shiny black Volvo coupe that they would write off on the business account. “Why can’t I just drive the Hummer? It’s a nice-looking car,” Chase had said.

“Because the Hummer, despite being a biodiesel, is not politically correct and has the potential to create an unpleasant scene with your green readers, and the Mini Cooper is too recognizable,” Donna had replied. Chase lapsed into a disgruntled silence.

“It wasn’t that bad. We just need to work on some skills,” Donna said, as she entered the freeway. Chase sipped her water and looked dully out the window as the Sandia Mountains turned the watermelon color they were named for. “Like what kind of skills?” She could only imagine—a stint with Toastmasters, a debate class through Continuing Ed at the university or a holistic tongue practitioner who specialized in foot-in-mouth syndrome.

“No, I think you’ll really like this,” Donna said, as if she’d read Chase’s mind.

“What is it?”

“It’s a group I checked into because I thought it might be necessary,” Donna said as the Volvo wheezed its way up the canyon. The mountain sides were still covered in corn silk-colored grasses—the result of winter dormancy.

Chase glared at her. “So you anticipated that I’d fail.”

“Not exactly, but there was a possibility and I wanted a contingency plan. Remember
The
Black Swan.”
It was a book they’d both read about the impossibility of predictions. “‘Invest in preparedness—not in prediction.’ I did not predict you’d fail, but I prepared in case you did.”

It figured that she would wind up with a philosophical private assistant, Chase thought glumly. “So what hoop of fire do you have planned?”

“According to my research you suffer from SUP.”

“What does the weather have to do with anything? I like all the seasons in their manifestations of time and growth.” That was almost John Donnean, Chase thought.

“That’s SAD. SUP means Socially Unacceptable Proclivities,” Donna said as she honked the horn to prevent a tractor trailer from running them off the road. She rolled down the window and yelled, “You stupid cake sniffer!” using a term used in the Lemony Snicket series. They’d all decided this was more appropriate than using the F-word in Bud’s presence. Chase wasn’t certain how it would go over in school if Bud called someone that, but it wasn’t truly offensive. Sniffing cakes wasn’t a crime after all.

“Oh, great, more sessions with Dr. Robicheck,” Chase muttered, even though she still saw Dr. Robicheck biweekly. Adjusting to her new life as Shelby McCall was proving to be a difficult transition. As Chase Banter, life was neurotic but at least it was real. Shelby’s life was nothing but one huge sordid lie.

“No, there’s another way—a more helpful way. SUP can be the result of genetics, biological makeup and environmental experiences.”

“So I can blame this on Stella?” She had been getting on better with her mother; still, it was always a good idea to have ammunition in the arsenal, just in case.

“I think in your case it’s a product of your bipolar disorder and environmental experiences. Stella is well-adjusted.”