Barrett Fuller's Secret Page 2

  Even after he graduated with a double major in Economics and English, the plan was to get an MBA, but with every passing year at the investment firm that give him his first job, he did more writing and less advising clients until he found himself unemployed, in a coffee shop and down to his last thousand dollars. It was then, while flipping through a trade publishing paper in search of proofreading jobs that his eyes settled on an ad for a contest: a two thousand dollar first prize for the best submission of a children’s book manuscript. A thousand dollars for second place and five hundred for third. Barrett scoffed enough to spit some of his coffee.

  The journal where he had published his second short story paid him twenty-five dollars, and this contest was offering the potential of two grand for entertaining kids?

  He grabbed a napkin from the counter, borrowed a pen from the teen with heavily pocked cheeks manning the cash register and started writing. Ideas had never flowed so smooth. Simply by knowing that his audience read simple sentences, he felt like a god of storytelling, like the creator of the English language, so far above his audience that he understood what they wanted to know, who they wanted to hear about, and what combination of words would keep them wanting more. He wasn’t sure what audience a children’s book meant, but while he wrote he envisioned grade school kids more than kindergarten, so he rolled with his instincts. Six weeks later he won the two thousand dollar first prize.

  Book launches are different for Barrett than for most authors. Instead of spending weeks thinking of something clever to say, debating what part of the book to read, and enunciating in the mirror, Barrett simply finds an out-of-the-way spot and watches a guest reader read the book for him. This is one of the many advantages of writing under a pseudonym. There is no reputation to uphold other than mystique, and the more mystique the more intrigue. It’s bizarre, but he knows he sells far more books by never promoting himself and being the mysterious recluse than he ever would representing himself and his work in public.

  Tonight, he leans on a metal railing while Sidney stands beside him on a balcony far above a stage crowded by so many people that it looks like a celebrity should appear.

  “Who’s reading this time?”

  “Are you ready?”

  Barrett nods, his eyes still locked on the stage.

  “The minister of education.”

  This pries a smile from Barrett. “You’re a sick pup.”

  “I’ve got to admit, you pushed it on this one. Lineage, legacy, and growing up without a father? If I hadn’t known you so long, I’d think you’ve had a hard life.”

  Barrett raises his middle finger without making eye contact. He’s too busy watching the minister of education approach the microphone.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. It’s my pleasure to read from Russell Niles’ latest book, Mil Bennett and the Journey of Acceptance.”

  The crowd claps until the minister raises a hand.

  “A story of loss and perseverance, this may be Mr. Niles’ most important book yet.” The minister looks into a TV camera with his best political smile. “Now I know how you feel about public appearances, but I speak on behalf of all of your fans when I say, if you’re out there watching, thank you Mr. Niles, for giving us another one of your wonderful books to read.”

  An eruption of applause excites Sidney and he turns to Barrett. “What inspired this one exactly?”

  Barrett shrugs a shrug Sidney’s seen since they were teenagers. “Where does any of it come from?”

  The next stop is Sidney’s office. Barrett met Sidney Taylor back in the tenth grade, and being that Sidney was already a lawyer when the book offers first came in, it wasn’t hard to lure him into the agent game.

  Despite making more than his share of money, Sidney’s life isn’t easy. He has to be best friend, guard dog, and financial advisor every day, which is why despite being only thirty-seven, he pops antacid pills like they’re breath mints.

  This afternoon, Sidney’s challenge is to get Barrett to be nice to the head of a toy division that hawks the Russell Niles dolls.

  Sidney is the type of handsome that makes other men feel inferior, and he uses it regularly to get his way in the business world. And when Sidney gets his way, Barrett is happy, which means fewer antacids.

  Today, Sidney is introducing Barrett as one of Russell Niles’ advisors. Barrett shakes Mark Drake’s hand with a scowl. He hates go-getters like Mark, especially one that is still in his twenties. Mark is fit and well groomed, but Barrett can see that it stings the guy to see the power suit Barrett is wearing is worth twice as much as his.

  Sidney slides a folder open to a contract towards Mark. “Here’s our standard confidentiality agreement that we use whenever discussing Russell Niles products. Not many people get to meet with one of Russell’s personal advisors.”

  “No problem.”

  Mark hovers over the document without reading anything very closely and picks up a pen when Sidney holds up a finger.

  “Ah-ah-ah. Eyes on me for a minute before you sign anything.”

  Mark knows enough to take the demand seriously and looks up with his full attention.

  “Understand that by signing this, any information we give you will be used only to sell Russell Niles products. In terms of your personal life, you need to forget any details about this project or Mr. Niles’ advisor as soon as you walk out of that room.

  “If you ever mention anything about these projects to anyone in your personal life or heaven forbid, a competitor, your children’s children will be paying off a lawsuit the size of some country’s gross national product.”

  “Understood.”

  Sidney taps the table. “Good man.”

  The business of using the pseudonym Russell Niles was the publisher’s demand. Within twenty-four hours of winning the children’s book manuscript contest, Barrett received three publishing offers. At the time, he looked at the opportunity as a stepping stone. A chance to get a publishing credit, meet some people in the industry, and earn a little money.

  The first publisher he met was Don Harris, a former sales rep who decided he would rather make the books that are read to children at nap time than sell them to the stores. He started the company on government grants, and twelve years and eight bestsellers later, he reigned as one of the most powerful publishers in the country. With a strong jaw, thick shoulders, a heavily wrinkled brow, and warm eyes, he looked more like someone you would find in a fire truck than a publisher, but everything about his tone proved he was all about business.

  “We love your idea, we’re expanding our print runs, and we’re ready to make you an offer to write the manuscript, but there are a few things we need to discuss.”

  Barrett rubbed at his eyes. He’d smoked a joint for a little levity an hour before the meeting, and the look on Don’s face suggested he knew Barrett wasn’t suffering from allergies.

  “This industry is so tight now that we need to invest in more than a good product. With the importance of print, TV, and radio interviews, we’re investing in you as much as your manuscript.”

  Barrett blinked twice, scolding himself for not using Visine.

  “And because of this there are some things we need to get very clear.”

  Both the tone and the term “things” reminded him of his father. Neither ever meant good news.

  “Forgive me for being so direct,” Don said with eyes that made Barrett feel like he was back in a grade school principal’s office. “But considering the audience for your story, this is the most important question.”

  He let the anticipation linger the way cheap cigar smoke wafts through a room before shifting his weight towards Barrett. “Have you ever been arrested?”

  Barrett blinked another sticky blink. Had he been arrested? There was the possession of marijuana charge his freshman year of university. He’d broken up with Cheryl Lang the day after the first time they had sex, and before dinner the police received a tip that Barrett’s apartment housed a dozen plan
ts. Fortunately, a mind bent on revenge tends to lean on hyperbole, so when three officers showed up at Barrett’s door all they found were two plants that supplied his personal use.

  Then there was the illegal gambling charge. In comparison to working at a bookstore or coffee shop, raking the pot of a weekly poker game was a breeze. Seven to eight hundred dollars a week, status and more than a few women along the way. The run lasted most of his second year at university until he left one too many phone messages promoting the game and the police showed up.

  He escaped year three of university without any drama, but after the homecoming game his senior year he was charged with public indecency. More specifically, he, Shawna Williams, and Katy Green were charged with public indecency.

  After all the teen movies he watched growing up, how was he to know it’s actually illegal to slide around the bleachers naked?

  He looked at Don the way he’d looked at each of the officers that arrested him. Eyes straight ahead without a single blink. The type of eyes that wanted contact, the type of eyes people believe.

  “No, I’ve never been arrested.”

  Don smiled politely and moved on with the meeting. Later that afternoon, he called Barrett and invited him to an organic juice bar. Don sipped on a smoothie while Barrett drank a cup of coffee from a place down the street, wishing he could get rid of the smell of orange rinds wafting through the air.

  “I know you lied about not being arrested,” Don said, looking pleased with himself. “I had a police friend run a unified search.”

  A part of Barrett wanted to toss the smoothie in his face and tell him that all the juice in the world wouldn’t change that dried prune of a forehead, but that required more energy than he was willing to expend.

  “Then I guess we’re done here.”

  “Not even close. Your story is testing so well with our people that we’ve decided we still want to work with you.”

  “Really?”

  “On the condition that you write under a pseudonym and put as much distance between your lifestyle and the product as possible.”

  Barrett nodded, and the need for a pseudonym was born.

  And here he is years later pretending to be one of Russell Niles’ advisors while a toy company rep signs a confidentiality agreement. After the document is signed, Sidney leads them into the conference room, where Barrett takes a seat at the head of a horseshoe table.

  Barrett grimaces while Mark removes a laptop from his briefcase. The man begins his pitch while he’s setting up.

  “Our goal is to increase sales by thirty percent. Which is doable considering our overseas numbers. The figures outsell the books in most places over there.”

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  “It’s a reality. And in order to maximize our profits, one that we need to pay attention to.” He spins the computer towards Barrett. “Here are the five colours we’ve narrowed down this year for our hero, Mil Bennett. We’d like you to choose what you think would be his favourite three.”

  Before Barrett can focus on the screen’s images, Mark pulls two action figures from his briefcase. These are the last things Barrett wants to see. His face flushes and his forearms pulsate as if it’s possible he might tip his section of the desk over.

  “As you can see,” Mark says, pausing to adjust an action figure’s neck, “this year’s figures are the most life-like yet.”

  “Life-like?”

  Mark nods. This is the Super Bowl of pitches, and Barrett knows from the look on the man’s face that he promised himself when he woke up that if he didn’t close the deal it wouldn’t be from a lack of effort.

  “The hands grip and every muscle is represented. The design was made with motion-sensor techniques, which means that they twist and turn the way a human does.

  “And look at this.” He steps closer to Barrett to give him a better look at the figure. “It’s a widow’s peak. It’s a small detail, but it’s a priority for us to do justice to his characters.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Barrett’s tone is usually reserved for telemarketers that call during dinner or salespeople that buzz his gates. “You don’t care about doing justice to his characters, you care about selling dolls, and so do I. Then you get your bonus cheque, he gets his percentage points, and we all get paid. So why don’t you save all of our time, stop bullshitting, and pick whatever colour you think is going to sell the most.”

  Thirty minutes later, Barrett lies on a chaise lounge on the deck of his one-hundred-and-twenty-foot luxury yacht. Sidney approaches with a blender in one hand and plastic cups in the other. Barrett gestures to Sidney’s feet.

  “Hey. Back it up, superagent. Even supermodels take their shoes off on my baby.”

  Sidney smiles, steps back, and removes his shoes on a mat that Barrett changes once a week. Barrett points his cup at him.

  “I don’t care how long we’ve known each other, if you make me sit through another meeting about dolls, you’re fired.”

  Sidney opens a laptop. “People bought as many of those figures as your books the past three years.”

  “I fucking hate dolls.”

  Sidney’s eyes are now locked on his, not staring, but engaging the way only an agent’s can. “How do you feel about the money they bring in?”

  White sand, Italian wine, and Brazilian woman streak past Barrett’s mind until his lips form a smug smile that compels him to raise his cup.

  Sidney taps the laptop and extends his own cup until Barrett pours him a new drink from the blender. “You’re not going to stiff Don on his party, are you?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “He is your publisher.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “And we are negotiating a new contract, a contract we’ve been waiting years to have this leverage on.”

  Barrett swats at a wasp. “Spoken like a true agent.”

  Sidney gestures to the laptop. “Speaking of which, you agreed to three print interviews a year.”

  “Get an intern to do it.”

  Sidney reads off a list of questions. “What celebrity will Mil grow up to look like?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Your publisher’s holding me responsible for this.”

  “Sucks to be you.”

  “I’ll take you to Vegas for the long weekend.”

  “Monte Carlo.”

  “Done.” Another glance at the questions. “Why do you think Mil Bennett and the Journey of Acceptance is on pace to be your best seller yet?”

  “Because parents are brainwashed into buying anything that’s synonymous with being a good parent, and my publisher has successfully associated my books with coaxing predominantly seven- to ten-year-olds to read.”

  Sidney’s on his feet now. “Keep it up, and you’ll be lucky if I take you to Atlantic City.”

  “Okay.…” Barrett lights a cigarette, takes a thoughtful drag, and sits up. “There are a lot of single-parent families, so even if a kid’s not from one, they can relate to the idea of a father leaving a family through friends.”

  The words get Sidney to stop pacing. “So there is a method to the vodka.” He scribbles for a moment. “Almost done. What was the inspiration for the latest book?”

  “Other than the house in St. Tropez?”

  “I love the house in St. Tropez.”

  “I know a kid whose dad abandoned his family.”

  “Yeah?”

  Barrett nods as he looks into the sky.

  “Method, huh? I knew there was something to this one. Who was the kid?”

  “There were a few. I wanted to get a taste for what it’s like for these kids. But nobody specific.”

  Sidney tosses the notebook onto the table. “Done. They want you to make up the last question, but that I can get an intern to do.”

  “No, no, no. That’s the fun part.”

  Sidney raises his eyebrows and Barrett gestures to the notepad wit
h his cup. “Who would win in a death match between Mil Bennett and Harry Potter?”

  Four

  Richard steps into the first floor washroom at school and stares at graffiti as he urinates. GERALD JONES IS GAY. Written in gold permanent marker, the colour pops on the faded white tiles, and as he re-reads the words, he wonders if his father qualifies as gay.

  Back at home, he removes a pad of paper from under a box of old books in his closet and takes it with him to the computer station in the living room. The computer is positioned there so his mother can monitor his computer time, and while she is still at work and leaves him with a few private hours every day, he understands that she still checks the Internet history, so he has to delete the search history every time he conducts research. Her persistence means he has to write down the sites he visits to keep her from asking questions she doesn’t want the answers to.

  The day after his father left he started searching for any information he could find about gays and lesbians, and eleven months later he has one hundred and seventy gay-related sites in his notepad. Once he worked through the porn sites, he found titles with more depth including: Being Gay or Lesbian; Living With Two Moms; and How to Tell Your Family. The content usually surpasses his understanding and he rarely reads more than a paragraph or two, but the search always proves satisfying enough to continue. And his research transcends the Internet. He has taken out every book that his two neighbourhood libraries have on the topic, he watches any TV show or movie he can with gay characters, and three months ago he added a modest but graphic gay sex magazine collection when he found a discarded box full of them in the park across from his school.