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Blessing's Curse
by
Julie Failla Earhart
Damn him! He swore he'd never tell. Never! Not even if somebody
threatened to cut out
his tongue and feed it to him for lunch. Since Brad liked to talk as much as
anyone Blessing had ever known, she'd taken his solemn promise seriously.
Writing including telling. Didn't it? Well, so much for promises.
Blessing stood outside the bookstore's window, her feet rooted to the
concrete. Heavy
snow fell between her bundled body and tousled refection.
There was Brad's picture—with that cat-ate-the-canary look she hated so
much—on the
back of hundreds of dust jackets. Okay, maybe not hundreds but definitely
dozens of copies of Blessing's Curse.
It was bad enough he had written a book about it, and now Oprah had
selected it for her
winter book club. The gall of that woman! Eleventy zillion trillion people
were going to read
Brad's newly published, probably smugly told, definitely pretentious literary
(as were all his
short stories tended to be) tome all because the powerful Miss O said she
"a-b-s-o-l-u-t-e-l-y l-o-v-e-d-I-t.". Brad was going from struggling writer to
overnight gazillionaire with legions of
adoring fans. It wasn't fair!
She'd sue, that's what she's do. Buy a copy of the book, look for a
slanderous line, and
sue the pants off Bradley Edward Altors. That's what she'd do. And maybe O too!
Blessing checked her watch. 6 p.m. Another hour until the newly heralded
Mr. Altors
was due to read a selection from his controversial new book that was taking the
nation, and the world so she heard, by storm. Her legs wouldn't heed the
signals from her brain, and she
remained planted in place while the growing crowd annoyingly eyed her.
Brad's picture took up most of the top half of the back dust jacket. It
was new. At least
as far as she could tell. His black hair was shorter, almost militarily so.
There was graying at the temples that hadn't been there when they last met, but
that had been five, six years ago now. She snorted, thinking that he probably
dyed it to get it so perfectly even.
A woman, who had stopped next to her, sighed and with a breath of frozen
words said,
"Yeah, and he's a hottie."
Blessing looked at the woman's reflection who was gazing with adoring eyes
on Brad's
shiny countenance. She started to say something, something nasty, but shut her
mouth before it got the best of her. Again.
"I'm getting two copies," the stranger volunteered. "One to read and one
to put in the
safety deposit box. I bet it'll be worth a fortune some day. Who knows? Maybe
I'll be able to retire on a first-edition, mint-condition of Blessing's
Curse."
Blessing tilted her head causing the snow that had piled there to fall on
her shoulder.
"It's his first novel," she said to the stranger's reflection. "Well, not his
first, his only. He's
spent the last 10 years writing it, and you know what Ridley Pearson said about
spending more than a year on a book. I don't think I'd risk my 401K on a
one-book won---"
The woman took another sighed and floated toward the bookstore's double
doors.
‘That's all he is you know," Blessing said to the retreating figure. She
raised her voice.
"A one-book wonder. A real jerk, too." After a brief pause, she added, "and
he'll be at least a half hour late," but the glass doors had already shut.
From her place on the sidewalk, she watched first the woman, then several
more women,
pick up the 320-page novel. With glazed eyes, they paid the $27.95 price.
$27.95! Could you
believe it? And most buyers laid down hard, cold cash for at least two copies.
Blessing
witnessed one woman buy five copies. Why would anyone want five copies of one
book? So
much for hoarding signed copies of the book of the year. Blessing's Curse would
probably go by the way of Beanie Babies or The Da Vinci Code. Everybody
will have one and it won't be worth a dime, much less the retail price.
By 6:30, all the chairs (twenty-five by Blessing's quick count) were either
occupied or
saved. Most were middle-aged women, but there was a small scattering of young
men. Young as in as twentyish. Blessing shook her head in amazement. After the
Frey incident, how could anyone trust ow again?
Blessing had started calling Oprah "ow" the minute the Frey scandal ripped
through the
headlines. First the summer Faulkner selection had bombed, then the Frey
thingy, but now ow was the nation's golden-haired child. Once again. Readers
were buying whatever she said was worthy. And falling over themselves to do so.
Blessing had somehow snagged the last chair in the last row, sandwiched
between a post and the poetry section. She shrugged out of her heavy coat,
letting it fall backward and
unwound the three scarves from her neck, draping them over her knees.
After getting as comfortable as possible, Blessing scanned the shelf of
slim volumes and
complete collections. Some were fixtures like Whitman, Longfellow, and Angelou;
others were by people she had never heard of, like Bates, Campbell, Irwin, and
Sweet. Once she had read a great poem about Robert E. Lee and nobility by a guy
she'd went to grad school with but couldn't remember his last name. Steve
somethingorother. She'd heard that he was teaching at UCLA or some California
place But then again, Blessing wasn't much into poetry. Literary fiction was
more her style. Or mystery. A memoir here and there.
She scratched her scalp, then ran her hand through the tangled red
tresses. 6:45. Her rear was already numb.
By seven, people were lined up four deep in the aisles, snaking through the
history and
reference sections. Blessing smiled. She realized that Brad was stuck in the
back of the store. Not the front, like they usually did for most celebrity
authors; ow authors anyway. That alone made the trek into the city worth the
train fare.
By 7:15, Blessing wasn't the only one squirming on the pink plastic. A few
minutes
later, the store's owners came to the mic, apologizing profusely, explaining
that Mr. Altors'
flight was a little late in arriving.
Blessing rolled her eyes. Brad never flew commercial; those months he
couldn't pay his
rent, he never consider flying with the masses. Even with a chartered plane, he
still couldn't
make it on time. Probably sitting on the tarmac, lounging against the padded
seat and sipping champagne. Lateness was Brad's trademark. He wasn't trying
to be chic. He was rude and uncaring about anyone else's time but his.
Looking around, Blessing locked eyes with the woman from the sidewalk.
HAH! Told
ya so! but the woman turned away before Blessing could declare victory.
By 7:30, most of the standers were sitting on the floor, flipping through
books they
pulled off the shelves.
At 8 p.m., a cold gust filtered through the nearly-doubled crowd. As the
bookstore's
owner began clearing a path through the A-D reference aisle, a smattering of
applause followed in her wake.
The crowd rose, seemingly as one. Blessing refused to stand, refused to
acknowledge
Brad's success. The ladies in Blessing's row began climbing onto their chairs,
using each other for balance. Unintelligible whispers swarmed above her head. A
long wolf whistle came from the stacks.
The shifting crowd parted momentarily and suddenly, there he was. Standing
at the
podium. Blessing got a short look at the man who had betrayed her before
shoulders blocked her view. Of course his face was deeply tanned, making his
green eyes glimmer, his perfectly even teeth, which she had paid for, sparkle,
against a dark blue shirt.
The crowd sat one-by-one but continued its whispering. Brad waved and
nodded, waved
and nodded, waved and nodded. He tapped the microphone. "Hey, this thing on?"
He was
wearing his public, very jocular, facade. No one could work a room like Brad
Altors. Glad-handing came as natural to him as breathing. A loud squelch came from the
speakers, garbling Brad's bass. The audience twittered. The bookstore owner
scrambled through the crowd to make the necessary adjustments.
"Well," Brad said. "While our host is fixing this, how about I read you my
intro. It's lying right here."
Blessing smirked. Brad hadn't even bothered to remember the bookstore
owner's name.
Typical. It wasn't like it was hard to forget. Kristen Barry. How hard could
that be to
remember for a couple of hours?
A voice shouted, "I love you!"
Brad placed a smooth hand over his heart, leaned into the mic, and
whispered, "I love
you too."
Another loud squeal.
Oh good grief! The only thing Brad Altors ever loved, besides himself, was
his mother
and a cat named Hell. Not one word of apology about being late! Rude, rude,
rude. Blessing shrugged as if to say Brad never changed.
The crowd had all but gone silent. Brad leaned on the podium, hands folded
neatly, feet
spread slightly apart, leering at five-copy woman. "One not enough?"
The dumpy woman blushed. She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
"That's---" The rest of Brad's comments were lost as another high pitch
arced through
the room. The back-row women flinched. The speaker was right above their
heads. "—later"
rang clear as a bell. "Testing, testing," he said. No squeaks, squawks,
screeches.
"Well, now that that seems taken care of." Brad let his gaze linger over
the crowd.
"Who wants to hear about a curse?"
The crowd murmured, then settled down.
He nodded at Kristen, all smiles and sidestepped her away from the mic.
"They know
who I am, so let's get started." Brad opened the book. "I'm going to read the
first chapter.
After all, it does set up the entire rest of the book."
The crowd settled back and Brad began to read. "Blessing Gramacy didn't
believe in
curses."
He read well. His voice modulated as needed. Before he flipped the first
page, the
crowd had settled in. It was a long chapter, taking almost thirty-five minutes
to read. Of course it didn't help that Brad had paused innumerable times,
taking tiny sips of water from the bottle provided.
When he finished, he gently shut the book, closed his eyes and waited. A
full five
seconds of silence descended before the crowd burst into applause. Many jumped
to their feet, giving Brad a standing ovation.
It was only a reading for heaven's sake! It's not like he performed any
selfless act of
heroism.
Brad raised his arms to stop the clapping. "Thank you," he said softly,
"thank you."
Kristen leaped to the platform and grabbed the mic. "Mr. Altors will take
a few
questions. Now if any of you have finished it, like I have. She turned and
smiled at Brad.
"Please don't spoil it for everyone else."
At least a dozen hands shot up.
Brad's eyes slowly swept the crowd.
The woman next to Blessing jumped up and down.
Brad's eyes briefly rested on Blessing, then move to the jumper, then
darted back to
Blessing. He raised his arms as if he were a preacher calling for silence. He
put his lips as close to the mic as possible without touching it. "Ladies," he
said. He lowered his arms. "We are obviously not cursed tonight. You'll never
guess who is in the audience."
The crowd twisted and turned, straining to follow Brad's eyes.
Brad flashed his recently famous smile. "Ladies, meet the lady behind the
lady, Miss
Blessing Fletcher."
The crowd gasped, turning in unison.
Blessing tried to slump in her seat, but Brad wouldn't have it. "There she
is, ladies, the
inspiration behind my heroine."
The crowd started to clap.
"Come on up here, Blessing. The ladies want to meet you."
The jumper pulled on Blessing's arm to get her to stand.
A voice from the rear screamed, "yes!"
Not seeing anyway to avoid it, Blessing slouched to her feet and began the
climb over the
back-row ladies. As she passed, each one reached out to touch her, however
slightly. When she reached the end of the row, the crowd propelled her toward
Brad. When she was in arm's length, Brad reached out and took her hand.
Blessing flinched. Visibly.
Brad brushed her cheek with his lips. "So nice to see you, my dear," he
whispered so
that only she could hear.
Blessing gave a half smile. Summoning her courage, she leaned toward the
mic. "It's all
a lie." From the corner of her eye, Blessing could see a flush rise beneath
Brad's tan. "It's all lies." Encouraged by the shock on Brad's face, Blessing
said it once again, this time with a much stronger voice.
Brad's smile hardened into place and Blessing felt her heart leap.
"Why of course it is," he countered. "It's a novel."
"No, I mean it. Nothing like this ever happened."
The crowd began to shift.
Still feeling brave, Blessing picked up the book and held it above her
head. "It's all lies."
Brad tried to reach for the book swaying in the air, but Blessing stepped
away from him.
Kristen tried to step between them, but Brad gently sidestepped her.
"There is no curse. There was no"
Brad put his hand over the microphone, drowning Blessing's final word. He
took the
book still clutched in Blessing's raised hand. "Well, well," he said, his smile
back in place. He took Blessing by the elbow and gently pushed her behind him
and off the stage. "Seems like my old friend didn't like my story."
"You can say that again," Blessing shot back. She stood on her toes,
claiming, "And I'm
not your friend."
The crowd began to pull into itself like Blessing had a contagious disease.
Brad commandeered control of the microphone. His smile had vanished.
"It's getting
late," he said. "Let's just call it a night."
The crowd groaned. A voice in the back called out, "but what about our
autographs?"
Brad searched the space around him looking for Kristen. He finally located
her standing
in front of five-copy lady. He leaned over to whisper to her, "give me ten
minutes and I'll have
this straightened out. Then I'll sign the damn books."
Kristen took charge of the crowd while Brad hustled Blessing to the front
of the store.
There was a long line at the register, so he guided her toward the empty and
darkening café.
When Brad let go of her elbow, Blessing whipped around to face him. "How could
you!? You
swore." Blessing seemed to falter, her face wrinkling in tears. "And on our
son's head, too."
Brad wrapped his arms around Blessing and pulled her close, shushing her
with small
clucks.
Blessing pushed him away. "Don't try that caring stuff on me. I know who
you are and
what you are." She hissed. "A royal bastard."
Brad turned her so that his back was to their audience. "I agree."
His acknowledgment stunned her.
"I know it was a cheap trick, but why not?"
Blessing's mouth literally dropped open.
"I've changed, Blessing. I did this for a reason."
Blessing balled her fists and pushed them against his chest. "How could
you possibly
have thought that this"
"I know you have no reason to believe me."
"You're damned straight I don't believe you. Acting all Mr. Charming and
sophisticated."
You can contact Julie Earhart at
JEarh13191
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louturn@aol.com