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After a while, he said that he was ordering Chinese, which he called Chinois, and what did I want?

I said a librarian's "Sh."

He called and ordered—he knew what I liked, anyway—and when our dinner arrived and we set the dining-room table, we both made a joke of not talking and became our own little silent movie. We exaggerated our gestures and expressions; he held up the chopsticks in bafflement—What can these be?—and mimed conducting an orchestra.

Over dinner, he asked how I'd gotten so far behind on submissions.

I hadn't wondered how—it just seemed to happen—but now I tried to think. I told him that I wasn't liking anything I read, which made me think it was me and not the manuscripts. "So I reread everything," I said. "And I can't reject anything." It was the truth, and a relief to know it.

"Did this start after you found out about your dad?" he asked.

I shrugged; it seemed wrong to blame it on that, especially since my father had never used his illness as an excuse.

He said, "It's perfectly natural to doubt your judgment about doubting your judgment."

Back in his den, he said, "Let's see what you're reading."

I handed him Deep South. "I don't even know what this is about, except bugs," I said. "I keep rereading the first chapter."

He looked at the first page. "It's about a writer who wants to be the next Faulkner."

"I got that much," I said. "But what if he is the next Faulkner?"

"He ain't," Archie said, turning a page.

"But I can't just say that," I told him. "I think Mimi wants me to write readers reports."

"These are for Mimi?" he said.

I nodded.

"All of them?"

I nodded.

He looked at me, and I could see that he understood what I hadn't wanted to tell him.

"Write: 'This guy wants to be the next Faulkner, and maybe he is, but I can't get past the first chapter.' "

"That's all I have to say?" I asked. "And I can stop reading it?"

"Yes, dear," he said, handing the manuscript to me. "Let's see the rest."

He read the first chapter of all the manuscripts I'd brought, and said, "Nothing wrong with your judgment." Then he asked why I didn't like each one and, using my words, dictated the note I should write to Mimi.

Without a word about my demotion, he explained nuances of my position in the new H—— hierarchy, describing office politics I'd been oblivious to.

"I should know this already," I said.

"No," he said. "How does anyone learn anything?"

I said, "I feel like I'm Helen Keller and you're Annie Sullivan."

"Helen," he said fondly.

I pretended to sign and mouthed, "You taught me how to read."

He had a barky laugh and I laughed just hearing it.

Then I admitted what a terrible time I was having with Mimi. I told him that she looked at me like she couldn't tell if I was smart or not, and that I actually became stupid around her.

He said, "You have no idea how smart you really are."

I said, "Did you sleep with her?"

He said, "No, honey."

—•—

"These notes are great," Mimi said the next afternoon.

"Thanks," I said.

"But the reader's reports you wrote before were a lot more thorough," she said.

I was about to say, I'll write reports if you want me to, but then I pictured having to read the bug novel all the way through. Instead, I repeated something Archie had said: "It doesn't seem like an efficient use of my time."

She looked at me as though I'd spoken without moving my mouth. Then she said, "I guess notes are okay." She dismissed me from her office by saying, "Thanks."

I heard myself say, "No problem," which I'd noticed nonnative English speakers sometimes said instead of You're welcome.

—•—

Archie had to go to a dinner party, but he suggested I work in his den. He said, "If you want me to, I'll look over your work when I get home."

I didn't want to go back to Ritaville, and my office was fluorescent desolation. I said, "Are you sure you don't mind?"

He said, "Why would I mind?" He told me that the key was where it always was (in the gargoyle's mouth) and to make myself at home.

I did. I read in the leather armchair, with