Pub Day — Page 49

#01

The Box of Books

The box arrives Monday at 10:14 AM.

Twenty copies — the author's twenty. Open it at the kitchen table. Tucked between the cover and the first page of the top copy is a note from Daria: "Hi Jan — here are the first twenty. Many more in the world by Wednesday. Take care of these. — Daria." The book is cream. One word on the cover: Sunday. The dedication page says for the lamp. I let out a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob. Hands shaking. The book is terrifyingly real.

#02

The First Signed Copy

Signed twelve books Monday afternoon.

August's was first. Signed it J. — for August. I'd practiced the signature seven times on a scrap of paper before doing it for real. August walks in at 2:14 PM mid-signing, watches silently from the kitchen window for forty minutes, says nothing until the last one is done. Then: "that's a good signature." Laughed. I think it is.

#03

The Bookstore, Day Before

Went to the Greenpoint bookstore Wednesday to drop off the door-table books.

Forty-five chairs. The chalkboard was already out front: JAN — Sunday at Four — book launch — THU 7 PM. My name on the chalkboard the way it had been in 2028 — one syllable, no qualification. The same wooden lectern from the first reading, the same scuff on the left side. The first reading here had been twenty people. Thursday would be forty-five. Stood at the back for a long minute. The chairs were the chairs. The room had been holding this moment for three years, patient as rooms are. I turned the lights off when I left. The room could wait one more night.

#04

Mira Arrives, Again

Mira arrives from Toronto Wednesday at 6:14 PM.

Six weeks earlier I'd emailed her the launch date; she replies within two hours: "of course I'm coming. Bring me back to the dumpling shop." This time the hug is the first thing — we'd reset the default. She hugs me. Says "are you ready?" I say I think so. She says "you'll be fine." Then: "I read it twice on the plane." I say and? She says "better the second time." That is, in Mira's way of doing things, the highest compliment available.

#05

The Morning-Of

Launch day.

Thursday. Lamp on at 6:58 — the same time it came on the morning of the first reading, which I did not plan but which August noticed, later, when I told him. Espresso, tea, the chipped cup (three chips now), the chair, the fifth notebook for the morning page. Three sentences: the book ships today. the lamp is on. the day is a day. Closed the notebook. The only difference in the room was the small new thing on the side table: the book. The morning was a Thursday morning. The lamp was on. The book was the book. That was enough.

#06

The Walk Over

Walked to the bookstore at 6:34 PM.

August beside me. Mira just behind in the camel coat, already having opinions about the February cold. We'd eaten soup at 5:45 — Mom's recipe, no cilantro for Mira, who is Toronto-grown and wrong about cilantro. The streetlights were just-on. The bodega guy nodded as we passed. The dumpling shop was open and warm-lit; the son nodded through the window. Eleven blocks. The three of us hadn't talked for the last two of them — not because anything was wrong, because nothing was wrong. Arrived at 6:51. People already inside — Priya in front, Ana, Marcus, Sloane. Lana at the door, in from Maine. Took a small breath. Walked in.

#07

The Launch Event

Expression on Jan (at lectern): softly-braced, present, calm — soft direct eyes (down at the page, slightly raised at the moment of the room), neutral brows, the small set mouth of reading-aloud. Read at 7:14 PM.

Voice shook on the first sentence. Cleared my throat and read it again: "I have, for four years, sat in a chair I dragged in off the curb." The audience laughed at the right places. Lost my place on page 42. Paused ten seconds — felt like a year. Looked at Mom on the screen. Looked, twice, at August at the back. Finished. Four seconds of silence. Then the clap — forty-seven seconds, by August's later count. In audiences, forty-seven seconds is a long time. Said thank you. Read the seven names. The list ended with the lamp. The room laughed. The room would, later, find out why.

#08

The Walk Back

The walk home.

Same eleven blocks. Ten forty-two PM. Didn't talk for the first six. At the seventh, August says: "that went well." I say yes. He says "the forty-seven-second clap was the most-restrained ovation I've ever heard." I say the not-clapping at the first reading was deeper. He says yes. He says "this one was the right kind of loud." I say what's the difference. He says: "the first reading was: we received this. The launch event was: we will keep this." I say oh. The distinction hadn't landed until he said it. Walked the last four blocks not talking. We went home. Mim was at the door. August, behind me, carrying the cake.

#09

The Lamp, Late

Sat in the chair at 11:42 PM.

The dedication page open in my lap: for the lamp. The lamp was on. Five years. On for the night of the snap. On for the grandfather call. On for the funeral-return. On for every Sunday at four. On now. Five thousand copies of the book exist in the world. August comes back with a fresh cup of tea. Sets it on the side table. Sees the dedication page. Reads it. Looks at the lamp. Looks at me. He says: "of course it's for the lamp." I say yes.