Me and Orson Welles (25 page)

I sat there, quietly thunderstruck, when the security guard broke his pose and ran on, leaving standing behind him the figure of a pale young woman in a floral-print vest, dark hair in a George Washington. She stepped into the pool of sunlight before me, and the sun glinted off her wire-rim glasses. “So you want to go back to that roast chicken place?” she asked, and she touched her fingers to the small of her neck.

I blinked.

“Gretta?”

“Listen, how on earth you're here today I don't know,” she was saying. “I came here the last couple of days hoping to find you. But, look, I'm standing here like nothing's happened, and I'm about to go through the roof. Look at this. God, I was praying you'd be here.” She handed me a business-sized envelope with the
New Yorker
's return address. Inside was a letter . . .
Dear Miss Adler: We are pleased to inform you that we have read your short story, “Hungry Generations,” and it is very much a story we would like to publish. It's funny and true and touching. We think that with a little work it will truly be—

I looked up. “A little work?”

“Nothing!”
she said. “I called yesterday. A word in; a word out; move a paragraph; nothing major. Of course, if it
was
anything major, I'd do that, too.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

She was prettier than I remembered.

“Can you believe this?” She took back the letter and read it again. “God, can you believe it? The
New Yorker?
Do you know what this means to me? This is the first real thing I've
ever
had published. And it's all because of you.”

“No, it isn't, Gretta.”

“You gave it to that girl you knew. Do you honestly think they ever even would have
read
the thing if it just came in over the transom? You did it, Richard. You helped me. I owe you one. God, I don't know how on earth you came here today. I came to thank you and the Greek vase. Remember? You rubbed the story on the vase!” She laughed.

“Maybe the vase really is lucky.”

“Maybe?” Her cheeks were turning rose-colored with excitement. “Everything I write for the rest of my
life
I'm coming here to rub on that vase. Listen, I want to take you to lunch or dinner or whatever the hell time it is now. O.K.?”

“O.K.,” I said.

“You know, the last time we were here we had that chicken in the park, and I left and I was thinking to myself: Gretta, here's this guy who loves music like you do, who loves theatre like you do, who loves the radio like you do. Why are you being so damn aloof? You know, not giving you my telephone number and everything. What was I trying to prove? I've been living in the city for half a year, trying to write, trying to meet somebody. My parents are half-crazy I'm not going to college.
A girl with your brains!
I go home—that's all I hear.
A girl with your brains! You're as smart as two colleges on one block! Writing fiction she wants; a big nothing she'll make writing fiction.
And here I meet somebody who's funny and shares the interests I do—and I'm not trying to scare you, don't worry; I'm just talking about friends— but I don't even
say
anything, you know? As if I didn't care. God, what's the
matter
with me?”

I listened while she went on—enjoying her voice, her passion. I thought: Well, Sonja got this girl's story published. Maybe that was the point of it all. Who knew? That was the intriguing part. No one knew.

Maybe the whole point of it all was to bring Gretta and me together.

“Look, I'm talking a mile a minute,” she said. “Tell me about you. Wait, you want to go to that roast chicken place? I'm forcing you, aren't I? You don't really want to.”

“I would love to go to that roast chicken place,” I said.

“How's the acting?”

“I've given up acting,” I said. “Now I'm going to be a writer.”

“A writer!” she laughed.
“A guy with your brains!”

“I'm writing a book about Orson Welles.”

“Yeah?”

“I've got this great title:
Talent Only.
”

She considered it a second. “I don't get it. But, hey, now I can help get
you
published!”

“That's an interesting proposition.”

“I mean, I
know
somebody at the
New Yorker
now. A real editor. And she's
wonderful.
So you wouldn't have to send a story to just ‘the editor' anymore. In fact, I could submit it for you! You know, I could even
recommend
you.”

“Recommend me? And you've never read a word I've written?”

“Why the hell not?” she said. “You look pretty talented to me.”

“You're not too bad looking yourself.”

We were heading out the main door when a voice came shouting down the hall.
“Hold the doors! Hold the doors!”
Gretta held open the inner door; I held open the outer. There was a clatter of footsteps, and the three guards holding brooms aloft came tearing across the floor chasing the bluebird.

The bird made a beeline for the sunlight ahead and soared over us—out into the day and the open sky.

“Hooray for the bird!” cried Gretta.

“I'm glad it didn't hurt itself,” said the guard.

Gretta and I and the guards stood on the steps of the museum, and we watched the bird disappear into that late afternoon light. I looked around and saw we were all smiling.

“Wouldn't this make a great ending to a novel?” she asked.

She looked beautiful.

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