I was wrong. This is not low-stakes for Evelyn. Evelyn can speak casually about things of great importance. But right now, in this moment, when she is taking so much time to make such specific points, I’m realizing this is real. This is happening. She really intends to tell me her life story—a story that no doubt includes the gritty truths behind her career and her marriages and her image. That’s an incredibly vulnerable position she’s putting herself in. It’s a lot of power she’s giving me. I don’t know why she’s giving it to me. But that doesn’t negate the fact that she is giving it to me. And it’s my job, right now, to show her that I am worthy of it and that I will treat it as sacred.
I put my fork down. “That makes perfect sense, and I’m sorry if I was being glib.”
Evelyn waves this off. “The whole culture is glib now. That’s the new thing.”
“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions? Once I have the lay of the land, I promise to focus solely on what you’re saying and what you mean, so that you feel understood at such a level that you can think of no one better suited to the task of gatekeeping your secrets than me.”
My sincerity disarms her ever so briefly. “You may begin,” she says as she takes a bite of her salad.
“If I’m to publish this book after you have passed, what sort of financial gain do you envision?”
“For me or for you?”
“Let’s start with you.”
“None for me. Remember, I’ll be dead.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“Next question.”
I lean in conspiratorially. “I hate to pose something so vulgar, but what kind of timeline do you intend? Am I to hold on to this book for years until you . . .”
“Die?”
“Well . . . yes,” I say.
“Next question.”
“What?”
“Next question, please.”
“You didn’t answer that one.”
Evelyn is silent.
“All right, then, what kind of financial gain is there for me?”
“A much more interesting question, and I have been wondering why it took you so long to ask.”
“Well, I’ve asked it.”
“You and I will meet over the next however many days it takes, and I will tell you absolutely everything. And then our relationship will be over, and you will be free—or perhaps I should say bound—to write it into a book and sell it to the highest bidder. And I do mean highest. I insist that you be ruthless in your negotiating, Monique. Make them pay you what they would pay a white man. And then, once you’ve done that, every penny from it will be yours.”
“Mine?” I say, stunned.
“You should drink some water. You look ready to faint.”
“Evelyn, an authorized biography about your life, in which you talk about all seven of your marriages . . .”
“Yes?”
“A book like that stands to make millions of dollars, even if I didn’t negotiate.”
“But you will,” Evelyn says, taking a sip of her water and looking pleased.
The question has to be asked. We’ve been dancing around it for far too long. “Why on earth would you do that for me?”
