Shriver Read Online Free

‘To Delta,’ plus whatever you feel like.”
    Shriver wiped his brow and wrote, To Delta, she of row 9, seat B, on this day in May , then he signed his name with a flourish.
    â€œThank you so much!” She held the book aloft. “One of these days I’m going to finish it too. Hey—I can’t wait for your reading day after tomorrow!”
    â€œThat’s very nice of you to say.” Shriver had hoped that no one would show up to his reading. Now it turned out this Shriver fellow was quite famous and sought-after. A tiny moth of anxiety fluttered inside his chest. He closed the book and handed it back.
    â€œYou can hold on to my memoir,” she told him. “I have a bunch. My address is on the front.”
    â€œOh, thank you.” Shriver squeezed the thick manuscript into the seat pocket in front of him. “I’ll read it later, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œAre you staying at the Hotel 19? Most of the writers stay there during the conference. I take the same room every year. I reserve it months ahead of time. Room twenty. In case you need to find me,” she added, winking.
    â€œUh, I’m not sure where I’m staying.”
    She grinned. “I’d love to discuss those scenes with you.”
    â€œWhich scenes?”
    â€œYou know—the sex scenes in your novel. They were very . . . imaginative.”
    â€œOh,” he said. “Thank you.”
    After a moment, during which his neighbor settled backinto her seat with a series of contented sighs, Shriver turned his attention back to his story. He glanced quickly at the first page, then looked away. For that split second the words appeared to be arranged normally. He breathed a little easier. He had to get this situation under control. There might be a lot of people at the reading, if this lady was any indication. He looked back at the first page, this time for several seconds before turning away. Again, the lines of script were legible—poorly handwritten, perhaps, but legible. There was the title, “The Water Mark,” and, below that, the first line: “The water mark appeared on my ceiling on the rainy day my wife walked out on me.”
    Up to this point the flight had been quite smooth, but now, as the airplane skimmed just above the clouds, the fuselage began to shimmy and rattle like an old jalopy. To distract himself, Shriver turned once more to the pages in his hand. Immediately the words appeared to melt, as if the ink were wax over a flame, dripping down the page and onto his lap. He checked his watch. The numbers were as clear as the clouds outside his window. Less than forty-eight hours until his reading. As if it wasn’t going to be difficult enough to convince all those people he was a writer!
    While the plane bumped over air pockets, the flight attendant weaved down the aisle collecting empty bottles and cans.
    â€œMay I have another?” Shriver asked, holding out the empty mini-bottle of whiskey.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” the attendant said. “We’re going to be landing soon.”
    The airplane then descended right into the clouds, the window went white, and the cabin started to slide from side to side. Shriver gripped the armrests and concentrated on the VACANT sign outside the forward lavatory.
    Then, as it emerged beneath the clouds, the plane ceased its shuddering. The ground below lay as flat as a door on its side, from horizon to horizon, spotted with ponds that reflected clouds and patches of blue. Off in the distance Shriver could make out a small town, not much more than a cluster of low buildings and a water tower. The airplane tilted toward a large asphalt X in the middle of the prairie. Shriver’s ears ached from the pressure. He rubbed the tender spots where his jawbone attached to his skull and swallowed deeply. His throat burned as a whiskey belch made its way up his esophagus. Before he knew what was happening,