A Novel Idea

      One day God decided he would visit the earth. Strolling down the road, God encountered a sobbing man. “Why are you crying, my son?”

      The man said, “God, I am blind.” So God touched him and the man could see and he was happy.

      As God walked farther he met another crying man and asked, “Why are you crying, my son?”

      The man said, “God, I am crippled.” So God touched him and the man could walk and he was happy.

      Farther down the road God met yet a third man crying and asked, “Why are you crying, my son?”

      The man said, “God, I’m a writer.” And God sat down and cried with him.

      —Gerald Ochs Davis, Sr.

      Fifty Years in Publishing

1

       Nobody ever committed suicide while reading a good book, but many have tried while trying to write one.

       —Robert Byrne

      Terry was looking down at the pilled cuff of her sweater when she saw Roberta approaching. Roberta had an even sadder look than usual on her plain face. Terry was not surprised. Business at The Bookstall had dropped off a lot over the summer, when any West Sider with disposable income uses it to get out of Manhattan on the weekends. But now, with Christmas coming, business had not picked up, probably because of the superstore that had planted itself on twenty thousand square feet just two downtown blocks away.

      Roberta was a little woman, small-boned and birdlike. Terry liked the way the older woman looked. Her skin had those tiny, even fine lines that fair-skinned brunettes are often saddled with, though Roberta’s hair had gone from brown to gray long ago. Now Roberta laid her hand on Terry’s ratty sleeve. Reluctant, Terry looked into Roberta’s sad brown eyes.

      “I have some bad news,” Roberta said, but Terry didn’t need to be told. She’d seen it coming. Still, Roberta was from the old school, the one where people took responsibility for their actions and felt they owed explanations. She lived up to her name: Roberta Fine. “I don’t think I have to tell you that it’s not your performance, and that it’s certainly not personal,” Roberta began. “You know how much I’ve enjoyed working with you the last year and a half.” Terry, a writer, heard the nuance. She didn’t need Roberta to continue, though she did. “But even on a part-time basis, I simply can’t afford …” Roberta paused, shook her head, and briskly licked her lips for a moment, as if moistening them would make the words come out more easily. “The only other option …” Roberta began, then stopped.

      Terry merely nodded her head. They both looked over at Margaret Bartholemew. Poor Margaret. Older even than Roberta, lumpy Margaret was hunched in the corner, awkwardly packing a box of returns. She lost her grip and half a dozen books fell to the floor, one of them tearing. No credit for the return. Roberta closed her eyes briefly and sighed. She lowered her already quiet voice.

      “I can’t let Margaret go,” Roberta almost whispered. “She only has this and Social Security. Without a place to come to each day, people to talk to, well … I’ve been over it a hundred times, Terry, but I just can’t—”

      Terry smiled and shook her head. “No problem,” she said. She tried to muster some humor. “I mean it. It’s not like you were paying me what I was worth.”

      “A price beyond rubies,” Roberta nodded, her face still serious. She patted Terry’s pilled cuff. Then she sighed again. “The truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep the store going. But that’s not your concern.” Roberta shook her head. “After twenty-seven years, you’d think that people would have some loyalty, that they would …” She paused. In all the time Terry had known Roberta, first as a customer at The Bookstall and later as an employee, she’d never heard Roberta bitter. Well, she didn’t hear any bitterness now, exactly. Just disappointment and, perhaps, a little hurt surprise. Terry knew all about both of these feelings.

      Roberta just shrugged her birdlike shoulders as if to end the conversation and reached up to pat Terry’s arm. “You’re young and talented. You’ll move on to other things soon. But I’m so sorry, dear.” And it was that, the word dear, that made the tear slip out.

      The tear had been Terry’s only surprise. She had seen the end coming—and not just the end of her little part-time job at The Bookstall. As she swung north up Columbus Avenue, Terry was numb. She carried her pilled sweater, a hairbrush, and a few