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“I thought you two were trying to work it out.”
Suddenly he understands: “You’re not about to be named a correspondent, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Fuck off,” says Amy, and she hangs up.
Lincoln lies down on his bed and concentrates on Flam’s little white container of Xanax.
Tony Buford calls the next day at work. “I thought I should check in and see how my editor is doing,” the poet says.
“OK,” Lincoln tells him. “The book’s in copy editing. I sent the manuscript over to our designer to get some ideas for the cover. And we need to think some more about that title.”
“I meant personally,” Buford corrects. “I was sorry to hear about you and your wife.”
Was there a story on the front page of the Tribune? Does all of Chicago know? “Who told you?” Lincoln asks bluntly.
“Matt Breeson mentioned it. I’ve been dealing with him on my contract.” Buford pauses, then continues, “Sorry—didn’t mean to be impertinent.”
“That’s OK. I’m just kind of sick of talking about it. And thinking about it.”
“Understood. So listen, I’ve come up with some ideas for the title of my collection. Want to hear?”
“Sure.”
“OK. Here’s the one I like best: Still Life with DustBuster.”
Lincoln says nothing.
“You know, because one of the poems is about a DustBuster,” Buford explains.
“I remember. What else have you got?”
“Well, I’ve got several. Shards of a Man. Building Blocks. Facets. Taking Stock...” Buford keeps rolling them out, and Lincoln listens, but he can’t hear. The words are white noise. His mind is drifting. Mary has left him for another man. A man with hemorrhoids. “Surroundings. How to Get By. Reflections—”
“OK!” Lincoln interrupts. “There’s a lot to think about there.”
“I’ve got more.”
“Listen, why don’t you just e-mail me the whole list, so I can chew it over.”
“Sure. I’ll put them in the order I like best, favorite on top.”
“OK. Now I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Sure, sure, you’re a busy guy. But have you got just one more second?”
Lincoln sighs silently. “Of course.”
Buford starts slowly, picking his words carefully. “I know it’s none of my business—we’ve got the editor-writer relationship, nothing more—but, well, in all the back-and-forth over my mom and my book, I’ve come to feel pretty close to you.”
“Yes?” Where in God’s name can this be going?
“And I really hate to see you get torn up over the marital situation.”
What has Matt Breeson told him? “I think I’m handling it pretty well,” Lincoln says.
“Of course you are, of course you are. But just bear with me here. I’ve started a new group, a new process, really. I’m calling it Poetry Therapy, and it combines poetry appreciation with yoga, but yoga without all the New Age, spiritual crap. You get the best of both worlds—yoga to relax your body and poetry to sharpen your mind. I’ve got ten or so people in my group. We meet on Thursday evenings in the DePaul student center. I really think it would do you good.”
“Ahhh.” Lincoln can’t find words to describe the horror of the image that has risen in his mind: ten rubbery nerds in body-baring Spandex, rolling around on smelly gym mats, sweating and sighing while someone in a pretentious voice reads aloud from Leaves of Grass. “Gee, I appreciate your concern,” Lincoln says. “But I’m trying to get through this on my own.”
