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Waiting grimly for the connection, Lincoln stares at the keypad on his phone. Grime has built up around the numbers in a curious pattern. Heaviest on the “7,” “5,” and “3,” light on the “2” and “0.” Why? What does that say about the telephone numbers he dials? Then a click: “Mr. Lincoln?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think you understand. I’m offering you the opportunity to publish my poems.” The familiar voice is deep and resonant. Commanding. Since adulthood, Lincoln has been slightly disappointed in his own wobbly tenor.
“As I explained in my e-mail, Mr. Buford, we don’t publish poetry.”
“Of course you do.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pistakee is a publisher. Its business is publishing books. This is a book.”
“We are not a vanity press, Mr. Buford.” (Who is this guy to lecture on the nature of Lincoln’s job?) “We decide what we will publish.”
“You decide?”
“Yes.”
“You, personally?”
“I’m the executive editor here.”
“You, personally.” Buford has carefully moved from a question to a statement of fact, a crafty cross-examination ploy Lincoln recognizes from TV court dramas.
“Me, in consultation with my colleagues,” he says carefully.
“Oh.” Perkily. “And did you share my work with your colleagues?”
Be firm, Lincoln reminds himself. “No, I made the decision on my own.”
“So you handled my manuscript differently from others?”
A frightening thought: Could Buford be tape-recording this conversation? “Look, Mr. Buford, I’m terribly sorry you’re disappointed, but your book simply doesn’t fit with Pistakee’s plans. It may be fine for another publisher, but it’s not for us.”
The pause on the other end gives Lincoln a moment to hope his message has been accepted. Nope. “I really am surprised at you,” Buford continues. “Surprised and disappointed. My mother’s condition has not improved. If anything, it’s deteriorated, and one of the things that has brought her solace—that’s eased her pain better than the drugs, frankly—is the thought that she will see her son’s book of poetry published. Perhaps she and I should come down there and have a meeting with you and your colleagues.”
“That will not be necessary.”
“I assume your office is ADA approved. You can handle a wheelchair.”
The fragile psychological dam Lincoln has constructed to block his anger—the mental equivalence of twigs and mud—finally gives out. “Listen, Mr. Buford,” he shouts into the phone. “Enough! I’ve had it. If you are going to sue me over that stupid accident, then sue me. I don’t care. But I won’t be blackmailed.” Lincoln is vaguely aware that half of Pistakee Press can probably hear him through the flimsy walls, but he can’t help himself.
“My God, Mr. Lincoln, what’s this about blackmail?” The voice on the other end suddenly modulates. The baritone moves up several octaves.
“That’s what you’re up to.”
“Oh, I’m sure you misunderstood. Blackmail? My God, Mr. Lincoln, I’m an academic.”
“Well...”
“I’m simply a writer who believes in his work. You must know the type.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I got a little offended when I saw your curt e-mail. I’m sorry.”
“OK.” Lincoln feels whipsawed. He’s not sure he’s off the hook, but he wants to push for conciliation. “I’m sorry I raised my voice.”
