around his ankles and announced, âI did poo, come see,â Ken reacted like it was a miracle.
Hell, thought Travis, itâd be more of a miracle if he didnât do any.
He hated to admit it, but maybe he was just a little bit jealous.
He watched Ken answer the phone and try to talk with Christopher climbing up his back, hanging around his neck, yelling, âI will fall you down!â and laughing till Ken couldnât hear or make himself heard; Travis marveled at his patience. Heâd have pitched the kid across the room by nowâ¦
âItâs for you,â Ken repeated, holding out the phone, and Travis shook himself awake. Whoâd be calling him?
He took the phone, grateful that Ken was hauling Chris out of the room.
âHi, hon.â
It was Mom. He remembered how heâd called her Donna the Hon, even to her face, and he was suddenly ashamed.
âHi.â
âHow are you?â
âOkay.â
âHowâs Kenny?â
âOkay.â
âEverything fine?â
âYeah. Whatâs up?â
He couldnât bring himself to ask about Stan.
âI just wanted to make sure you were all right.â
âYeah.â Surely she knew Ken would call her if he got run over by the school bus or something.
âWell, hon, are you getting enough to eat?â
âSure,â he lied a little; it was spooky that sheâd ask that, thoughâ¦
âTravis, youâve got a letter here from a publishing houseâyou havenât been buying a lot of books or joined a book club?â
âNaw.â Travis thought for a minute. âNoâwait! Donât open it!â
âWhat is it?â
âI donât know.â He paced in a small circle, dragging the phone, tripping over the cord. âI donât know. Just send it to me, okay? Donât open it.â
âAll right, hon. Iâll get it in the mail tomorrow.â
âTonight.â
âWhat?â
âGet it in the mail tonight, okay?â
âWell, hon, by the time we get through with dinner I think the post office will be closed.â
Let the big slug skip dinner for once, Travis thought, but knew that was impossible. He couldnât think. He couldnât talk.
âHon? Iâve got to get off the phone now, I promised Stan I wouldnât talk too long.â
âPut it in the mail right now,â Travis said slowly.
âSay hi to Kenny for me. I wish I could see his little boy. Send me a picture, okay?â
âDonât open it.â
âBye, hon.â
Travis had trouble getting the phone back on the cradle, weird damn phone, shaped like a doughnut.
The book! The book! He was going to hear about the book heâd written! Heâd tried hard just to forget about it, knowing itâd be a long time before he heard anything, but it had nagged at him like a dull toothache.
That was probably why he hadnât been able to write lately, he thought suddenly, why he hadnât really written anything since heâd sent the manuscript off. It was like something unfinishedâ¦
He expected a rejection. All writers got lots of rejections. Hemingway had gotten about a million of them. He wasnât sure how many Stephen King got.
It was okay, getting a rejection. You wanted to write, you just had to get used to it, like if you wanted to fight you had to take getting punched. Heâd just send it to another publishing house, he had the next three places picked out already. What he was hoping for, really, that whoever read it this time would tell him something, anything, it was too long or too short or tooâwhatever. Why they didnât want itâthat was all he was hoping for, this time.
But maybe they did. Maybe they were saying, âWeâll publish it and hereâs a million dollars!â He had a strong desire to call Mom back, have her open it and read it to him. He wasnât going to be able to stand