The State of the Novel (6)

The Novel Takes It Back a Notch

My husband was passing Rachael the mashed potatoes when The Novel announced he was going on a diet, producing an awkward silence during which both my husband and Rachael held the bowl of potatoes, regarding it with guilt and suspicion.

I’m a little flabby, The Novel said.

Most of us are fond of you the way you are, Mrs. Long said.

Mrs. Long had arrived on the morning Toronto train and proven to be a lady of uncontainable opinions.

I need to trim up, The Novel said. I realize I’ll never be buff, that I’ll always be a sort of larger version of buff, but there’s no reason I can’t look good naked, as they say in the movies.

We had been concerned over the effect his several visits to the movie theater might have on him, and now we had evidence that at least they were causing him to steal lines from the scriptwriters.

My husband pulled the potatoes from Rachael’s grip and placed them on the table. He drained his wine glass and poured another. You can’t stop time, he said. Nor its merciless fruits.

Merciless fruits is an interesting phrase, the Novel said. I may have to use it.

We ate the rest of the meal in silence. Even Mrs. Long dared not speak. The bowl of mash potatoes remained between my husband and Rachael, like a boat of refugees anchored off port.