Relentless

long letters. He had written novels that I much admired.
    More than three years ago, he told his publisher he wished to cancel the remaining book on his contract. He intended never to write again. In publishing circles, the assumption was made that he had a terminal disease and wished to keep his struggle private. I wrote him again, but he did not reply. I’d heard that he and his family—his wife, Margaret, and two children—had moved somewhere in Europe.
    “I shouldn’t be talking to you on your land line,” he said. “Too dangerous for me, maybe for you, too. Do you have a cell phone?”
    I picked up my cell from the desk. “Yes.”
    “If you’ll give me the number, I’ll ring you back. That’ll be safer for both of us. No matter who he is, what he is, he can’t listen in as easily to a cellular call.” When I hesitated, he said, “Your metaphors are damned well
not
ponderous.”
    That reference surely had to be to the Waxx review of
One O’Clock Jump
.
    I gave him the cell-phone number, and after he repeated it, he said,“I’ll call you shortly. I just need to change locations. Give me ten minutes.”
    He hung up, and so did I.
    After staring at the computer for a moment, hardly recognizing the words that I had so recently written to my British editor, I got up and closed the shades at all three windows.

   As I finished lowering the last window shade, my third line rang. According to the caller ID, my agent, Hud Jacklight, wished to speak to me.
    Because of the timing, I assumed this call and Clitherow’s were related, and I picked up.
    “One word,” Hud said. “Short stories.”
    “Those are two words.”
    “Best American. You know it?”
    Disoriented, I said, “Know what?”
    “Short stories. Best American. Of the year.”
    “Sure.
The Best American Short Stories
. It’s an annual anthology.”
    “Every year. Different guest editor. Next year—you.”
    “I don’t write short stories.”
    “Don’t have to. You select. The contents.”
    “Hud, I don’t have time to read a thousand short stories to find twenty good ones.”
    “Hire someone. To read. Everyone does. Winnow it down for you.”
    “That doesn’t sound ethical.”
    “It’s ethical. If nobody knows.”
    “Besides,” I argued, “the guest editor is always someone who writes short stories.”
    “The publisher and me. We’re pals. Trust me. Very prestigious.”
    “I don’t want to do it, Hud.”
    “It’s a literary thing. You’re a Waxx author. Got to do literary things. Be part of the ‘in’ crowd.”
    “No. That’s not me.”
    “It’s you.”
    “It’s
not
me.”
    “It’s you. Trust me. I know you.”
    “Don’t try to arrange it,” I warned him. “I won’t do it.”
    “You’re up there now. One of the elite.”
    “No.”
    “You can be in the pantheon.”
    “I’m going to hang up now, Hud.”
    “The American literary pantheon.”
    “Good-bye, Hud.”
    “Wait, wait. So forget short stories. Think—the great one.”
    No matter how much you want to terminate a Hud Jacklight call, astonishment and horror and curiosity often compel you to keep listening.
    “What great one?” I asked.
    “Think
The Great Gatsby.”
    “What about it?”
    “Who was the guy? The author?”
    “F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
    “Wasn’t it Hemingway?”
    “No. Fitzgerald.”
    “I guess you would know.”
    “Since I’m one of the elite.”
    “Exactly. I’ll talk to them.”
    “Who?”
    “His estate. You’ll write it. The sequel.”
    “That’s ridiculous.”
    “You can do it, Cubster. You’re pure talent.” I could not believe that I heard myself bothering to say, “
The Great Gatsby
doesn’t need a sequel.”
    “Everybody wants to know.”
    “Know what?”
    “What happened next. To Gatsby.”
    “He’s dead at the end of the book.”
    “Bring him back. Think of a way.”
    “I can’t bring him back if he’s dead.”
    “They’re always bringing Dracula back.”
    “Dracula’s a
vampire
.” “There’s your twist. Gatsby’s a vampire.”
    “Don’t you dare call Fitzgerald’s estate.”
    “You’re at a golden moment, Cubbo.”
    “I hate
The Great Gatsby,”
I lied. “The pantheon. If you’ll just go for it.”
    “I have to hang up now, Hud.”
    “We gotta exploit the moment.”
    “Maybe we don’t have to.”
    “I’ll keep thinking. About opportunities.”
    “I’m in pain here, Hud. I have to go.”
    “Pain? What pain? What’s wrong?”
    “I have to go. It’s a