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Amy considers for a moment. “No wonder she gave me a funny look,” she says.
By Saturday night, they have completed all but the last three chapters, which Amy will finish in Chicago. That night, their last in Wisconsin, they go out for a celebratory dinner at the Fireside Inn. Lincoln is feeling buoyant about the book, and he plans to thank Amy over dinner for her hard work and her forbearance of his occasional insensitivity. But they’ve barely finished ordering two steaks, and the hovering waitress has just disappeared, when Amy beats him to it. “No matter what happens to the book, John, you’ve been incredibly helpful,” she says. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done.” She locks her eyes on his and keeps her voice soft and low.
Her sincerity unsettles Lincoln: in his mind, his motives have been selfish, even crass. “Well, let’s see if Duddleston goes for it,” Lincoln responds. “That will be the test of my help.”
Though the Fireside Inn has put away the teeming buffet, the restaurant again bustles with diners, many tables filled with what Lincoln assumes are three or even four generations of a family. Over one bottle of wine, then another, he and Amy natter on about the book, the office, the U of C, Amy’s family. By dessert, Lincoln even allows himself to reflect a bit on what went wrong in his marriage. (“It was as if we were still dating, without the newness or anticipation.”) Sitting at their two-person table in a corner of the busy restaurant, Lincoln feels cushioned by the hordes of hefty, cordial Wisconsinites, by the huge steaks and mounds of mashed potatoes, the overheated air, the low, ambient murmur of conversation. By the vision of Amy’s soft breasts behind her tan sweater. Afterward, they return to the motel and enjoy one last night in bed together. Early that morning, Amy whispers to him, “I’m glad we don’t
call it Geiselbrecht sex.”
They drive back to the city separately. In the office on Monday morning, Lincoln finds that work has piled up. Professor Morgenthau’s manuscript has returned from the copy editor, whose corrections must now be checked. Meantime, Gregor’s idea for a cover design needs rethinking (why use a photo of a modern battleship on a book about the management theories of the Founding Fathers?). Lincoln has missed the deadline for writing jacket flap copy for Walking Tours of the Windy City, and Pistakee’s distributor has left a message: he desperately needs advice for his sales reps on how to pitch bookstores on Antonio Buford’s collection of poetry.
Lincoln hunkers down, and by midafternoon he’s polished off the flap copy (“To appreciate the greatness of a glorious city, you need to walk its streets with a master of its history, its people, and its hidden treasures. No one knows Chicago like the University of Chicago’s Norman Fleace...”); he’s mothballed Gregor’s battleship; and he’s lobbied the baffled distributor on behalf of Buford’s poetry (“Think of it as the newest literary extension of rap...”). Lincoln is working his way through Revolutionizing Business when Duddleston walks in.
As the boss sits gingerly and asks about Lincoln’s vacation, a yellow alert goes off in Lincoln’s head: Duddleston is being tentative—that usually means trouble. After a minute or so, speaking in the deliberate, rehearsed tone that confirms the danger, he gets to the point: “Over the holiday, I took some time going over the numbers. And we had an OK year. Up a little from last year, actually—not much, but up.”
“That’s good, given the climate,” says Lincoln. Duddleston has always closely guarded Pistakee’s financials, speaking of them only in generalities.
“Good, yes.” The owner pauses. “But not a growth pattern that’s healthy. Recession or no, that’s not a trajectory that takes us where we want to go. If we were a publicly traded company, I wouldn’t buy our stock.”
“I see.”
“Pistakee is seven years old, and we continue to tread water.”
Lincoln nods gravely. Where is this going?
“I know publishing is a tough business—I knew that coming in. And the economy hasn’t helped lately. But, frankly, I expected more.”
“As you should.” Lincoln nods, his anxiety rising. Is this the end of Pistakee? What happens to me?
“So I spent an afternoon with Jerome Geelhood, the consultant. You remember him?”
“Of course.” How could Lincoln forget? Jerome Geelhood turned twenty-five years of failure in assorted publishing ventures into a business that offered hackneyed and obvious advice for high fees.
“And after a lot of thought and running the numbers various ways, we came to the conclusion that Pistakee needs to grow its list. We need more volume—in print and in digital, when it comes to that.”
“Grow?” repeats Lincoln witlessly, whipsawed by the change of direction. He was already formulating questions about severance pay and temporary health insurance.
“We currently publish twenty books a year,” Duddleston explains. “We need to ramp up to thirty. That will help get the attention of the distributor and the bookstores, and it will speed the building of our backlist. And as you know, the more books you publish, the greater the odds that one will break through and turn into a hit.”
“Right,” says Lincoln.
Duddleston leans forward and puts his hands on his knees. “The difficult thing,” he says, looking grim, “is that for this to work, we can’t add head count. We’re going to have to handle the additional books with our current staff. That means the editors—you, Hazel, and Warren—are going to have to take on a bigger load.”
“I see.” Though hugely relieved that he still has a job, Lincoln works his face into a frown.
“And as the executive editor, obviously, the biggest burden will fall on you.”
“Right.” Lincoln strokes his chin; meanwhile, his mind races: an opening for The Ultimate Position! After a moment he says carefully, “You know, just off the top of my head, one thing we might consider is buying a few more polished manuscripts from real writers. Not that, say, Professor Fleace and Professor Morgenthau can’t write, but their books need more massaging to get them up to publishing speed. That’s what eats up the editors’ time. We might look for books that are close to being ready to go.”
Duddleston sits back, pleased that his key employee is on board. “Good idea. Excellent. I’m sure those books are out there. Let’s talk about it at the next editorial meeting.”
“Will do,” Lincoln promises.
The two smile and nod at each other, and the moment lingers a bit too long. For all his fluctuating anxiety about staying in his boss’s good graces, Lincoln has slowly come to understand that Duddleston—self-conscious about his lack of publishing credentials—is reciprocally wary of his executive editor. Finally, Duddleston says, “I realize you already carry a big load, Abe, and now I’m adding to it. So here’s what I propose. I’ve asked Matt to draw up a profit-sharing plan for you. I’m not offering it to either of the other editors, so please consider it confidential. But if we can bump up that margin by a few points by the end of the year, there’ll be a bonus in it for you.”
“That’s very generous.”
“It’s only fair. Matt will talk to you about the terms when we get them worked out.” The owner rises. “And welcome back. I think it’s going to be a great year.”
