The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry

AUTHORS NEVER LOOK that much like their author photos, but the first thing A.J. thinks when he meets Leon Friedman is that he really doesn’t look like his author photo. Photo Leon Friedman is thinner, clean-shaven, and his nose looks longer. Actual Leon Friedman looks somewhere between old Ernest Hemingway and a department store Santa Claus: big red nose and belly, bushy white beard, twinkly eyes. Actual Leon Friedman looks about ten years younger than his author photo. A.J. decides maybe it’s just the excess weight and the beard. “Leon Friedman. Novelist extraordinaire,” Friedman introduces himself. He pulls A.J. into a bear hug. “Pleased to meet you. You must be A.J. The gal at Knightley says you love my book. Good taste on your part, if I do say so myself.”

“It’s interesting that you call the book a novel,” A.J. says. “Would you say it’s a novel or a memoir?”

“Ah, well, we’ll be debating that until the cows come home, won’t we? You wouldn’t happen to have a drink for me. A bit of the old vino always makes these kinds of events go better for me.”

Ismay has provided tea and finger sandwiches for the event but not alcohol. The event had been scheduled for 2 p.m. on a Sunday, and Ismay hadn’t thought liquor would be necessary or suit the mood of the party. A.J. goes upstairs for a bottle of wine.

When he gets back downstairs, Maya is sitting on Leon Friedman’s knee.

“I like The Late Bloomer,” Maya is saying, “but I’m not sure I’m the intended audience.”

“Oh ho ho, that is a very interesting observation, little girl,” Leon Friedman replies.

“I make many of them. The only other writer I know is Daniel Parish. Do you know him?”

“Not sure that I do.”

Maya sighs. “You are harder to talk to than Daniel Parish. What is your favorite book?”

“Don’t know that I have one. Why don’t you tell me what you’d like for Christmas instead?”

“Christmas?” Maya says. “Christmas isn’t for four months.”

A.J. claims his daughter from Friedman’s lap and gives him a glass of wine in exchange. “Thank you kindly,” Friedman says.

“Would you mind terribly signing some stock for the store before the reading?” A.J. leads Friedman to the back where he sets him up with a carton of paperback books and a pen. Friedman is about to sign his name on the cover of the book when A.J. stops him. “We usually have the authors sign on the title page if that’s fine with you.”

“Sorry,” Friedman replies, “I’m new to this.”

“Not at all,” A.J. says.

“Would you mind telling me what kind of show you’d like me to put on out there?”

“Right,” A.J. says. “I’ll say a couple of words about you and then I thought you could introduce the book, say what inspired you to write it and such, then you could maybe read a couple of pages and then perhaps a Q and A with the audience, if there’s time. Also, we’re having a hat contest in honor of the book, and we’d be honored if you’d pick the winner.”

“Sounds fantastico,” Friedman says. “Friedman. F-R-I-E-D-M-A-N,” he says as he signs. “Easy to forget that I.”

“Is it?” A.J. asks.

“Should be a second e there, no?”

Authors are eccentric people so A.J. decides to let this pass. “You seem comfortable with children,” A.J. says.

“Yeah . . . I often play Santa Claus at the local Macy’s at Christmas.”

“Really? That’s unusual.”

“I’ve got a knack for it, I suppose.”

“I mean—” A.J. pauses, trying to decide if what he is about to say will offend Friedman. “I only mean because you’re Jewish.”

“Right-o.”

“You make a big point of it in your book. Lapsed Jewish. Is that the correct way of saying it?”

“You can say it any way you want,” Friedman says. “Say, do you have anything harder than wine?”

FRIEDMAN HAS HAD a couple of drinks by the time the reading commences, and A.J. supposes this must be the reason the writer garbles several of the longer proper nouns and foreign phrases: Chappaqua, après moi le déluge, Hadassah, L’chaim, challah, and so on. Some writers aren’t comfortable reading aloud. During the Q&A, Friedman keeps his answers brief.

Q: What was it like when your wife died?

A: Sad. Damned sad.

Q: What’s your favorite book?

A: The Bible. Or Tuesdays with Morrie. Probably the Bible, though.

Q: You look younger than your picture.

A: Why, thank you!

Q: What was it like working at a newspaper?

A: My hands were always dirty.

He’s more at home when picking the best hat and during the signing line. A.J.’s managed to get a respectable turnout, and the line extends out the door. “You should have set up corrals like we do at Macy’s,” Friedman suggests.

“Corrals are rarely necessary in my line of work,” A.J. says.

Amelia and her mother are the last to have their books signed.

“It’s really great to meet you,” Amelia says. “My boyfriend and I probably wouldn’t have gotten together if not for your book.”

A.J. feels for the engagement ring in his pocket. Is this the moment? No, too Jumbotron.

“Give me a hug,” Friedman tells Amelia. She leans over the table, and A.J. thinks he sees the old man look down Amelia’s blouse.

“That’s the power of fiction for you,” Friedman says.

Amelia studies him. “I suppose.” She pauses. “Only it isn’t fiction, right? It really happened.”

“Yes, sweetheart, of course,” Friedman says.

A.J. interrupts. “Perhaps, Mr. Friedman meant to say that that is the power of narrative.”

Amelia’s mother, who is the size of a grasshopper and has the personality of a praying mantis, says, “Perhaps Mr. Friedman is trying to say that a relationship based on loving a book is not likely to be much of a relationship.” Amelia’s mother, then, offers her hand to Mr. Friedman. “Margaret Loman. My spouse died a couple of years ago, too. Amelia, my daughter, made me read your book for my Widows of Charleston Book Club. Everyone thought it was marvelous.”

“Oh, how nice. How . . .” Friedman smiles brightly at Mrs. Loman. “How . . . ”

“Yes?” Mrs. Loman repeats.

Friedman clears his throat, then wipes sweat from his brow and nose. Flushed, he looks even more like Santa Claus. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then throws up all over the pile of just signed stock and Amelia’s mother’s beige Ferragamo pumps. “I seem to have had too much to drink,” Friedman says. He belches.

“Obviously,” says Mrs. Loman.

“Mom, A.J.’s apartment is up here.” Amelia points her mother toward the stairs.

“He lives above the store?” Mrs. Loman asks. “You never mentioned that delightful piece of—” At that moment, Mrs. Loman slips in the rapidly expanding vomit puddle. She rights herself, but her hat, which had taken honorable mention, is a lost cause.

Friedman turns to A.J. “Apologies, sir. I seem to have had too much to drink. A cigarette and some fresh air sometimes settles my stomach. If someone could point me outside . . .” A.J. leads Friedman out the back way.

“What happened?” Maya asks. Once the Friedman talk had turned out not to be to her interests, she had turned her attentions back to The Lightning Thief. She walks over to the signing table and, upon seeing the throw-up, vomits herself.

Amelia rushes to Maya’s side. “Are you all right?”

“I did not expect to see that there,” Maya says.

Meanwhile, in the alley to the side of the store, Leon Friedman is throwing up again.

“Do you think maybe you have food poisoning?” A.J. asks.

Friedman doesn’t answer.

“Maybe it was the ferry ride that did it? Or all the excitement? The heat?” A.J. doesn’t know why he feels the need to talk so much. “Mr. Friedman, perhaps I can get you something to eat?”

“You got a lighter?” Friedman says hoarsely. “I left mine in my bag inside.”

A.J. runs back in the store. He can’t find Friedman’s bag. “I NEED A LIGHTER!” he yells. He rarely raises his voice. “Seriously, does anyone work here who can get me a lighter?”

But everyone is gone, aside from a clerk, who’s occupied at the cash register, and a couple of stragglers from the Friedman signing. A smartly dressed woman of about Amelia’s age, opens her capacious leather handbag. “I might have one.”

A.J. stands there, seething while the woman searches through the purse, which is really more like luggage. He thinks that this is why one shouldn’t let authors into the stores. The woman comes up empty-handed. “Sorry,” she says. “I quit smoking after my father died of emphysema, but I thought I might still have the lighter.”

“No, it’s fine. I have one upstairs.”

“Is something wrong with the writer?” the woman asks.

“The usual,” A.J. says, heading up the stairs.

In his apartment, he finds Maya by herself. Her eyes look moist. “I threw up, Daddy.”