Read an excerpt from Jrbialosky's novel 'The Deceptions'
Photo-Illustration: The Cut; Photo: GettyI can’t write in there. With all his stuff. It’s his room. It’s not like he isn’t coming back home. The prodigal son, my husband says, and sighs. He misses him too. I move the gold heart on the chain of my necklace back and forth. It’s wobbling. Heavy. I hear him in the kitchen chopping vegetables. I come to join him. Let me help, I say. Once we delighted in making all-day pot roasts and splendid layers of potatoes au gratin, tomato pie.
I go back to the bedroom, to the ARC of my book on my dresser, and flip through it. All the years of tinkering that went into each sonnet. All the years of rejection before my first book was taken.was rejected by Plath’s poetry editor, until it rose from the ashes to become a sensation. Published only a month before she died. A poet who never knew the depth of how she was admired. It doesn’t seem fair. I roam back to the living room still holding the ARC.
This is my prince, my husband, with his dish towel tucked into his waist, his uncombed hair pushed back. He has beautiful hair, thick with little gray, and a cleft in his chin. He bears a scar on his left cheek that runs from the corner of his ear to his cheekbone. A tussle with his good-for-nothing father , when his mother asked him to fetch him for dinner from the bookie who lived in one of the neighboring apartments in their building.
If it’s bad, will the academy want to fire me? If they think my work betrays the high standards of our institution? Why are you going there? He shakes his head. There’s a touch of gray along his hairline. He’s still in his T-shirt and sweatpants. Veins of tension throb in his neck. What does he think?
What are you saying? Is it too much? It inspired the poem. That’s not what I’m saying. He takes a bite. It’s just a little strange, he says. That’s why I like it, I say defensively. It certainly makes a statement, he says, and gives me that look again. A covermake a statement, I say. I bite my lip. He cuts into a piece of sausage. Shakes his head. You sound like your mother. Always obsessing. Never standing behind your instincts. Always second-guessing.
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