Straight Man

expense of theCEO. Of course,
not
laughing could be unwise as well. “We’re on the third floor,” he reminds June. “We’re looking down on him.”
    As I said, the serious competition in an English department is for the role of straight man.
    “I look down on him no matter what floor I’m on,” June responds, giving it a whack, since it’s all teed up.
    Rachel hands me a fistful of message slips and mouths, “We need to talk?”
    “Why don’t you two go someplace else,” I suggest. “I need some quality time with my secretary.”
    “Our offices face the wrong way,” June explains. Neither moves from the window. There are many advantages to being the chair of an English department, but giving orders isn’t one of them. Actually, you can give all the orders you want, as long as you don’t mind them being ignored.
    “Let’s go in here,” I suggest, and Rachel follows me to my inner office, closing the door behind her. I riffle quickly through my messages. One from the dean, apparently back from his job interview, who would appreciate an audience. So would Finny. Herbert Schonberg wonders if I would return his call at my earliest convenience. My mother would like me to call her at
her
earliest convenience. “You must be holding back all the ones with the good news,” I tell Rachel.
    When I look up, I see that Rachel is in genuine distress. “I think I’m going to puke?” she says, surprising me with the word. I’ve learned a good deal about Rachel from reading her stories. I know about her lower-class roots, how hard she’s worked to learn manners, polite behavior. Her diction will still betray her, but only rarely. Her clothes, her posture, her gestures—all learned and practiced—are flawlessly mimicked middle class.
    “Sit,” I tell her. “If I had a window, I’d open it.”
    She sits, leans forward, her head between her knees, trying not to hyperventilate. Seeing her in this intimate posture inspires in me a set of complex emotional responses, foremost among them, irrationally, guilt. I lock the door so we won’t be interrupted. Whatever this is about, it can’t be good, I conclude.
    Finally, swallowing hard, she looks up and breathes deeply. When she speaks, though, her voice is a barely audible whisper. “Wendy called me this morning? Your agent?”
    Now the guilt I feel is no longer irrational. Seeing Rachel’s distress makes me understand how wrong I’ve been to send her stories to someone without her permission. Wendy is not a cruel woman, just busy and tactless and honest. She believes, not unreasonably, that any writer who can be discouraged should be discouraged. I’ve failed to imagine the effect such a woman would have on Rachel.
    “Look—” I begin.
    “She wants to represent me?” Rachel blurts, bug-eyed with horror. “What should I do?”
    “Rachel,” I say. “This is wonderful. What’s wrong with you?”
    “I’m … scared?” she says, like she’s not sure this is an emotion she’s entitled to.
    “What did she say?”
    If anything, this question induces even greater fright. “She said the stories were … terrific?”
    Wendy has said a lot more than this, I can tell. She’s praised Rachel just this side of catatonia.
    “Hell,
I
told you they were terrific. I’ve been telling you that for over a year.”
    “Yes, but …”
    I can’t help grinning at her. What I’m recalling is our previous conversation on this same subject. “What makes
her
the final arbiter?” I ask again.
    “Who is?”
    “I am. I keep telling you, but you won’t pay attention.”
    “She said some of the stories are rough? What does that mean?”
    “That they need work.”
    “Is that bad?”
    “Only if you don’t want to do the work.”
    “I
do
want to do the work?”
    I can’t help wondering if, after publishing a book of stories, Rachel’s personality will become more declarative, whether she’ll learn to let her voice drop. “Rachel,” I tell her. “Enjoy this. Brag about it. Call up that jerk you were married to. Say I told you so. They’re the four most satisfyingwords in the English language. You could rupture something trying to keep them inside you.”
    There’s a commotion in the hall, and someone tries the inner door I’ve locked. I go over to the other door, the one that opens onto the hall, open it a crack, and peek out. The camera crew has arrived and they’re setting up lights and a couple umbrellas.
    “They called earlier?” Rachel