Malachi and I

  Malachi and I

  J.J. McAvoy

  Copyright

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Malachi and I

  Copyright © 2017 by J.J. McAvoy

  Ebook ISBN: 9781943772940

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  NYLA Publishing

  350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  1. POISON APPLES

  MALACHI

  Apples.

  I hate apples.

  I hate them for no other reason than the symbolism they invoked. Throughout literature, apples have taken on the symbol of sin, the forbidden fruit, the start of chaos, the undoing of man. The most famous stories are that of Adam and Eve, a single apple cost them paradise and peace.

  Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs—an apple laced with poison that caused Snow White to fall into a coma until a random man awakened her with a kiss. A happy ending, unless you knew that Snow White was Margarete von Waldeck, a sixteenth-century German countess who was banished to Brussels by her step-mother. The poison came from the King of Spain, the father of her prince, and yes, with a damn apple. But she didn’t fall sleep, she died.

  Then in Greek Mythology, at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis, Eris, the Greek goddess of strife and discord, who understandably was not invited to the wedding but lacked the rational capacity to figure out why, decided to throw a golden apple onto the table at the feast to the most fairest one of all. One apple, dozens of vain goddesses, and just like that a wedding was destroyed and a war began.

  If I could take every bloody apple and shoot them to the moon, I would. Maybe if I’d thought about it earlier then I wouldn’t have been in my current situation—I wouldn’t have been covered in smoke, sweat, and blood. I wouldn’t have tried to save the old woman from her burning car. Burning because of a chain reaction of events that began with the younger woman who was crossing the crosswalk in front of my car, and the impatient fool who ran out of the store. As he barreled into her and knocked her over, her bag fell and sent a slew of apples rolling into the street. Apples her daughter then broke free of her grasp to chase after which caused the oncoming pick-up truck to swerve left and straight into the old woman’s car as she was pulling out of her parking space at Spencer’s Grocery Store.

  The sight and sound of the accident startled the teen driver who was pulling up behind me, causing him to step on the accelerator instead of the brakes. As his car slammed into mine, my head snapped forward and smashed into the steering wheel as my seatbelt dug its way into my shoulder.

  “Dude are you okay?!” The teen moron screamed as he rushed from his car to mine.

  “Help!”

  “Oh my god!”

  “It’s on fire!”

  Even though my vision was blurred I saw the car—a silver BMW—and the bloodied woman who lay unconscious inside of it, and without thinking I pulled off my seatbelt and ran towards the car. I felt nothing as I yanked on the door repeatedly while the smoke rose into my face. Even when she was in my arms and I was dragging her from the car I felt nothing. Nothing, until I looked around screaming for help, only to see, the now bruised, chipped and deformed but no longer rolling…bunch of fucking apples.

  2. RIVER OF VELVET

  ESTHER

  “And because he loved her…foolishly…selfishly…unreasonably, with no regard for anyone or anything else. He reached out, clenching the hilt of his own sword and drove it through her heart...until the blade pierced through her back and into his own chest, even then it was not enough. He tightened his grip and with the last of his strength, he forced the steel through both of their hearts. And with no final words, not even a final glance, they died. By Diyala River…the end.”

  I finished and no one said a word, allowing me to sit down and quietly wipe the tears from my eyes. Inhaling deeply, I stared at the manuscript in my hands.

  “Well?” my grandfather asked as he sat up in his chair at the head of the table. He brought his brown, wrinkled hands together and rested his gray-haired chin on them. It was something he always did when he was excited. His brown eyes looked us over as he pushed further. “Any thoughts?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I whispered, petting the paper as it were a child.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Howard grumbled as he took the red pen from behind his ear and tossed it onto the manuscript. “It’s the same as the last book, hell, all of his books are exactly the same.”

  “They are not.” I snapped back.

  “They kinda are,” Li-Mei added flipping her bleach-blonde hair over her shoulder. When I glared at her she placed her hand over her heart. “Don’t get me wrong! I love, I mean love his books, but they’re all kind of the same at this point. When I pick up a Malachi Lord novel I’m doing it because I want my feelings to be wretched and to have a good ugly cry. I’m not expecting something else.”

  “See—”

  “Let me clarify.” My grandfather cut Howard off before he dared to speak another blasphemous word. “Will this new novel outsell his last novel?”

  “No,” Howard said confidently. “Because he has devoted readers like you two, he’ll sell the same amount of copies.”

  “He picks up new readers each time he publishes a book!” I reminded him.

  Howard rolled his hazel eyes at me. “And loses readers with each new book…”

  “He—”

  “Correction.” He cut me off. “He doesn’t lose readers, it’s more that they’re slow to buy or even read his books now for the same reason Li-Mei said; they need to be in the mood for another heartbreak novel. They know how it will end so they put off reading. If we published…” He glanced down at the title page but there wasn’t one. It just said By Malachi Lord.

  “River of Velvet.” I titled it.

  “Oooh…nice! I like it,” Li-Mei whispered to herself with a smile.

  “River of Velvet. Catchy. Good for next year’s Valentine's Day release.” Grandpa nodded to himself.

  “I guess we’re going forward…” Howard said and I could feel him getting ready to piss all over my cheerios. “Valentine's Day, where he’ll sell just about the same amount of copies, give or take a couple thousand, end up on all the usual lists, maybe another B-movie deal, then never read or spoken about again, with the exception of Esther.”

  “And the blog which has how many fans?” I questioned him.

  “Yes, fine. You and the other 1.5 million fans—”

  “Two million fans.” I cut in looking to my grandpa. “Every day I get dozens of messages from fans all over the world. If your question is ‘will he sell?’ The answer is yes because he always sells. Even if he wrote a dinner menu I’d buy it and read. We all know and have met authors and aspiring authors that would kill for his success.”

  “Howard.” Li-Mei coughed, unsubtly poking fun at Howard’s novel…the one he’s been writing apparently since the Stone Age. Howard glared and I smiled as she reached for Penohxi Publishing House mug. “Sorry, you were saying?”

  I loved her.

  “Then it’s settled.” Grandpa nodded as he leaned back and adjusted his ascot. Yes,
his I’m-sophisticated ascot, before giving us our marching orders. “Howard, have sales print two thousand less than normal.”

  “Two thousand?” I frowned.

  Howard grabbed his pen and nodded to himself. “That way if he doesn’t surpass the normal amount we aren’t stuck giving out less. And if he does for some strange reason we could use that as a marketing ploy…yeah okay. Any luck with getting him to do the signed copies?”

  “Keep dreaming.” Grandpa laughed before looking to his left. “Li-Mei, production is key for this. Everything from the front cover to the actual page headers should have that middle-eastern/Arabian nights feel to it. Esther, promotion, promotion, promotion. I want the hype for this book to be like the second coming.”

  Nodding, I tried not to cringe at the fact that my grandfather just used the word “hype”.

  “How soon should I start marketing? I actually think we should start a week before Valentine's Day.”

  “Hmm…why?” He stroked his beard as he watched me.

  “Half of the Valentine’s Day readers want something sweet to have that lovey-dovey feel. So they might buy it and read it later. A week after Valentine’s Day people are annoyed with anything pink or red and they rather ready a mystery or a thriller. But in the week before we get those who are excited for romance. They want that gut-wrenching love story, plus we’ll also get the Singles Appreciation Day crowd—”

  “The what?”

  “The single people unable to find another person to buy them chocolate and tell them how beautiful they are so they stay home drinking wine, listening to their old-school Chinese mother yell about how all other mothers are sending out wedding invites for their daughters but all you talk about is work….” Li-Mei rambled off and I kicked her foot.

  “Anyway, it’s just a better week, I think. What about your sales?” I looked to Howard.

  “Six months is pushing it but we can get it done,” he replied, his hazel eyes focused solely on me, a small smile on his lip. “But on the marketing and foreign distribution side, it will be tight. I know how meticulous you are with this author.”

  “I got it.” I nodded. “I’ll start today if that’s okay with you.”

  Grandpa pursed his lips to the side. “Fine but don’t step on Shannon’s toes, marketing is her department, not yours. Make sure to clear everything with her even though she’s away.”

  I wanted to remind him that since I was his granddaughter—aka the heir to the Penohxi Publishing House—I technically worked in all departments like he did. But I simply gave him a two-finger salute. “Yes, sir. I know.”

  “Good. Bring them in.” He tapped the glass right in front of him.

  Rising, we all put our manuscripts on the table and only then were we allowed to pick up our cellphones and tablets from the center of the table.

  The reason there were only four us, five if you counted Shannon Kelly who was currently on maternity leave, was because of what happened last year with Malachi Lord’s novel being leaked online. My grandfather, Alfred Benjamin Noëlle, was a calm and simple man. He liked fishing, listening to old records, reading by the lake, and in the twenty-two years I’d been alive, I’d never heard him curse once. But that day, if we were being recorded live in a studio the number of expletive bleeps that would have been needed would have put any rapper to shame. And because of that incident, he’d structured this new protocol whereby each major author got a certain group comprised of someone from each department who would read the paper copied manuscript in the conference room only once and never again unless they worked with editing or translation like I did.

  “Li-Mei Zhou!”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin and tripped over her chair when my grandfather called her name. Her brown eyes grew wider because no one ever called her full name outside of her parents and grandmother, let alone yell it like he did.

  “Sir…”

  He snickered to himself grinning like an old cat. “Do you enjoy working here?”

  “Yeah… I mean. Yes, sir. I do.” She stood straighter and spoke much more seriously.

  “Then don’t worry about your mother. Just keep reminding her you’re happy. I’m sure there’s some lucky person out there for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She must have fallen into default mode hearing her name called like that because she even gave him a respectful bow before moving to the door. Howard held the door for me, waiting, but I shook my head and he glanced between my grandfather and me and took the hint to leave.

  “Aww grandpa you’re so sweet.” I teased as I skipped over to him.

  “Either you want something or you did something.” He crossed his arms waiting. “Out with it.”

  “Why aren’t you sweet to me? You do realize it’s going to be me taking care of you when you’re old right?”

  “I’m already old.” He frowned at me as I leaned on the back of the seat.

  “Psshh…you don’t look a day over seventy-five.” I waved him off.

  “I shouldn’t! I’m seventy-three!”

  Seeing him snap at me so quickly made laugh which made him frown again before laughing too.

  “See don’t you just love me?” I leaned in with a grin.

  “What do you need, Esther?”

  I didn’t need anything but I wasn’t sure how to say it.

  “Whatever it is you can tell me…unless you’re thinking about moving in with that boy.”

  I froze, staring at him as he stuffed the manuscripts into his bag.

  “You know?”

  “The whole house knows, with the boy making goo-goo eyes at you all the time it’s so obvious I’m insulted you thought I was stupid enough to not notice.”

  “Accept my apologies then,” I said with a sigh.

  Howard and I were dating. That was supposed to be my big reveal and he just went and gutted it. We’d been dating for about a year since I’d started working here actually.

  “Accept my rejection then.”

  “What?”

  “If you want to date him that’s your business but no granddaughter of mine is shacking up with anyone!” he replied standing to his feet.

  “Grandpa!”

  “Esther!” He mocked and I should have learned not to do that by now.

  I sighed. “Grandpa, I’m twenty-two. I’m not asking for permission, I’m asking for—”

  “Help.” He cut in as he stood in front of me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Howard is twenty-eight, he’s pretty much settling down, ready to enclose you in his white picket fence, which would be okay if that was what you wanted. But if you wanted that, Esther, you would have told me about him, and if he was the right one he would have told me himself—”

  “I told him not to.”

  “It doesn’t matter, peanut. He still should have been man enough to do so. Lastly, if you really wanted this you would have started off with ‘Grandpa, I love him.’ Not ‘Grampa, I’m twenty-two.’”

  I opened my mouth to say the words but nothing came out. Why were three little words so hard to say? I wasn’t even looking at Howard and I still couldn’t say it.

  “I’ll be the bad guy alright?” He patted my shoulder. “You told me and I said no. Besides, who else is going to take care of me when I’m old if you moved out?”

  I snickered. “You’re already old.”

  He gasped letting go of my shoulders. “How dare you? I’ll have you know I don’t look a day over seventy-five.”

  I laughed and he flicked my nose. He didn’t say anything else about the matter, he simply walked towards the door and held it open for me.

  “Now get back out there and earn my money.”

  “Oh back to boss-mode. Sure, sure. I’m going,” I said as I grabbed my things and walked towards the door. “I’ll even walk you to your office, old man.”

  “I remember when your legs would wobble like a giraffe and you’d fall onto your bottom and sit there confused and crying.” He shook his knees outside the office
for everyone to see.

  “Grandpa!” I grabbed his arm.

  “Esther!” He mocked again.

  Tightening my grip on him I walked faster, pulling him along which caused him to snicker like he always did. Expect this time his snickering was interrupted by a cough. He coughed so badly we had to stop for a second and I broke apart a little just staring at him.

  “Don’t give me that look…ahuh!” He coughed once more as he rubbed his throat.

  “What look?”

  “That.” He pointed his long slim finger directly between my eyes. “Your big, brown, sad puppy dog eyes like I’m going somewhere. Come on, you’re walking me, ain’t you?”

  “We’re here,” I said and, like the hostess of Wheel of Fortune, I lifted my hands and directed his attention to the glass door with his name etched onto it. “I’ll get back to earning my paycheck now. Namaste, Rafi.” I nodded my head and clasped my hands together as my grandfather’s personal assistant, Rafi Patel, rushed to the door wearing his classic suspenders and bow tie, which upon first hearing it you’d think was kind of dorky, but the moment you saw his muscular build, hazel eyes, and his half-million Instagram followers, you’d want a pair of green and white striped suspenders too.

  “Namaste, Esther. Sir, your coffee…”

  “Coffee?” I looked to my grandfather. “Your doctor told you to cut caffeine.”

  “It’s decaf.” Rafi tried to save him. “Plus it’s actually more milk than coffee so no doctors were bribed while I got this.”

  “Shoo! Go, leave me, my coffee, and my assistant, in peace.”

  I put my hand up and backed away causing Rafi to laugh as they walked into his massive, glass corner office. Inside, every award he’d won from the Oscars to the Tonys hung on the wall. Not to mention the signed first copies of all his authors, and the photos; him marching for Civil Rights when he was young as well as his filming awards he had won all over the world. Every time I stepped inside that office my grandfather disappeared and the gravitas of who he was—Alfred Benjamin Noëlle, the famed writer, filmmaker, producer, director, activist, philanthropist, and icon—truly hit me.