The Guest Lecture


 
 
 
 
 The Guest
 Lecture
 
 
 
 Also by Martin Riker
 Samuel Johnson’s Eternal Return
 
 
 
 The Guest Lecture
 a novel
 Martin
 Riker
 
 Black Cat
 New York
 
 
 
 Copyright © 2023 by Martin Riker
 Cover art and design by Kelly Winton
 Quotation from “Ladies First”: Words and music by Shane Faber, Queen Latifah, and Mark James © 1989 Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp., Now & Then Music, WC Music Corp., Queen Latifah Music Inc., Forty Five King Music, Forked Tongue Music and Simone Johnson Pub. Designee. All Rights on Behalf of Itself and Now & Then Music Administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All Rights on Behalf of Itself, Queen Latifah Music Inc., Forty Five King Music, Forked Tongue Music and Simone Johnson Pub. Designee. Administered By WC Music Corp. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission of Alfred Music. 
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 FIRST EDITION
 Published simultaneously in Canada
 Printed in Canada
 First Grove Atlantic paperback edition: January 2023
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title. 
 ISBN 978-0-8021-6041-6
 eISBN 978-0-8021-6042-3
 Black Cat
 an imprint of Grove Atlantic
 154 West 14th Street
 New York, NY 10011
 Distributed by Publishers Group West
 groveatlantic.com
 
 
 
 There is no reason why we should not feel ourselves free to be bold, to be open, to experiment, to take action, to try the possibilities of things. And over against us, standing in the path, there is nothing but a few old gentlemen tightly buttoned-up in their frock coats, who only need to be treated with a little friendly disrespect and bowled over like ninepins. 
 John Maynard Keynes, 1929
 
 
 
 A dark hotel room somewhere in middle America. The furniture, which it’s too dark to see, includes chairs and small tables, a TV, probably a desk, and a single king-sized bed that currently holds three breathing bodies. On the left lies a man, in the middle a girl, both on their sides and sleeping. On the right: a woman on her back, awake. Her eyes are either open and staring at the ceiling, or else closed; at any given moment, it’s one or the other. She lies perfectly still, not making a sound, but inside her head, things are busy. A lecture is about to begin.
 
 
 I
 
 
 1
 Walk up to the house, which is my house, and therefore familiar and safe. A place to feel at ease, to the extent that I am ever at ease, to put my cares behind me as I face the front steps of my own house, mine and Ed’s and Ali’s, though they aren’t with me now, or waiting inside either—where should I put them? Someplace nice. Not here in the hotel. Out for ice cream? Why not. And I am alone feeling suddenly overwhelmed and underprepared as I climb the porch steps—one, two, three—having imagined all along I’d be swimming in confidence, but now full up with worry and nerves. Worried that worrying about nervousness will cause nervousness, all that stupid self-conscious stuff you let into your brain that takes over your mindspace and mucks up your mnemonic, derailing your already precariously teetering train of thought.
 But no, you will focus.
 Picture the porch.
 I’m up on it now and in fact I’m not alone because here waiting for me is a familiar face, the kind eyes, horsey features, white push-broom mustache: it’s Keynes. We haven’t officially met, but we’ve known each other all along, and he’s smiling, he’s happy to see me. “Abigail,” he says, “welcome home. I am Maynard. I was born in Cambridge in 1883 and died in Tilton in 1946. Between those dates I lived an extremely busy life filled with lots of interesting facts and anecdotes which you should feel free, my dear, to sprinkle around like pixie dust as we proceed through the rooms of your very nice house, assigning to each a portion of your speech, or talk, or whatever you’re calling it. But dust is a little dry”—he coughs—“even pixie dust is a little dry, and right off you won’t want to fill up the air with it. You need a simple introduction, I think.” He gives a worried grandpa look. “Have you considered where you might start?”
 I take his arm and together we push open the front door.
 “Why, of course!” he smiles. “We shall start in the living room.”
 Picture the living room.
 Big, airy, soft gray. Rectangular blue coffee table with the glossy finish that always reminds me of pudding, like its surface is coated with smooth blue pudding. Green couch, a little ratty with wear. Big plants on the floor, smaller plants on the bookshelves. Disheveled shelves, poorly organized, under the stained-glass windows. One of each—a window, a bookshelf—­on either side of the fireplace. Utterly derelict fireplace, cobwebs in the wire netting, why have we never cleaned the fireplace? Impressive mantel, though. Broad and white and shelfy, like a glacier. Like the edge of an ancient glacier inching its way into the living room. The mantel clutter-free except for that urn Robert gave us as a wedding gift, tucked back there on the right-hand side. Brown speckled urn, little Grecian handles, to