The Truth

Dorrie told the truth.

Never. I don’t want to publish it

The book meant more to the nuns than it did to Dorrie.

She knew three nuns, Irene, Lysa, and Rosary, who did not live behind a wall and shared an urban apartment. Dorrie saw them in a peculiar fashion. Caravans of black-skirted nuns with unwrinkled skin never exposed to the sun who served food at different sites in the city. Dorrie knew some of them from the shelter, where she occasionally lunched and often hung around afterwards helping with clean-up.

The nuns believed Dorrie should publish the book.

Dorrie said no. She didn’t think so. It wasn’t science fiction. She didn’t dislike science fiction. She had read some. She had checked some out from the library, Mervyn Peake and James Tiptree Jr. But Peake went mad and Tiptree was just a disillusioned CIA spy. It wasn’t what Dorrie did. Dorrie's book wasn't finished. It wasn't ready. It would never be ready.


I thought Peake was fantasy, one of the nuns said.

Dorrie explained, They’re in the same section in the library. Science fiction/fantasy.

The nuns called Ben.

The secretary came into the office and said, It’s a Dorrie problem.

Ben was exasperated. He had been writing legalese all morning and this afternoon had a meeting with a client. At night he had to play Clarence at rehearsal because Clarence had dropped out of the play. Clarence. In his spare time he was learning lines. Dorrie's book was getting on his nerves. Why the fuss? He had never heard anything so silly.

The very mention of his ex-’s name made him edgy. He saw her at rehearsals and she blended in with the others but she was bossier than he’d remembered. She refused to project. No, I see Queen Margaret as more realistic, more modern, she said. Like a CEO. What had happened? Dorrie had always been so meek. It was acting. Her father had been a soap opera actor. Dorrie had grown up in New York, acting in plays. Then her family had moved. No more acting.

And everybody seemed to know about Dorrie. They knew about the problem. They knew about the book. They discussed it at Rose’s office. Would Dorrie publish the book?

Ben had read the opening. “Blue willow china mouse on the floor, green CD. Fingernail clippers on coaster. Bill Clinton walked into a room and said, ‘I’m honored to be here.’”

Then the crazy action began. Clinton was kidnapped. He smoked cigars. Danielle, a lost soul, had a guidebook that eventually saved her and Clinton. She roamed the earth, grieving Psyche, not giving Clinton a thought, traveling from place to place, absent-mindedly reading articles about Clinton in different languages when she wasn’t looking for her own lost boyfriend. Then she found Clinton. She got him out of there. He went home to Hillary.

Part of the book was in Russian. With a translation. The editors didn’t like that.

Dorrie didn’t care.

Ben studied the contract. He had managed to negotiate for a little more money. If Dorrie would write two more books, books about anything, men in the moon, who cared, they would publish them and pay her. Then she could live in a better apartment and he could forget about her for two years.

Now Dorrie was saying she didn’t want to publish the thing.

The agent called Ben. What's wrong? Dorrie says no. But they’re very interested. They like the satire. They’re willing to offer her more money.

Somehow that irritated him. I’ll get back to you. I’m concerned, of course, but I’m busy at the moment.

Was he concerned? No. But his wife Rose told him to be concerned. Rose told him Dorrie mattered. Rose was his conscience.

At the end of the day Ben found Dorrie in the nuns’ kitchen. The nuns had taken her home. She had taken a shower at their apartment because she was going through a phase where she showered several times a day and changed her clothes constantly. She wore a nun’s baggy skirt and blouse. She was reading poetry while the nuns watched TV.

Dorrie, are you going to sell the book?

No. I showed it to the university writer on a whim.

They’ll pay more money.

Why?

They think they can sell it. Some idiot thinks you're Terry Pratchett.

Who's Terry Pratchett? Never mind. I don’t want to sell it.

You know what. You are seriously disturbed.

I might join the nunnery, Dorrie said. Or move in with you and Rose.

What?

Rose said I could have the basement. She likes my writing.