a youthful, female, furious voice said into the phone. I could not have been more startled if I had looked up into the blue Texas sky and seen a nuclear bomb on its way down. I was on my south patio, having breakfast with Godwin, watching the fine peachy light of an early summer morning spread over the prairies; I had assumed the call was from my agent, who was in Paris and would soon be swimming up the time zones, hoping to spawn a few deals. “I don’t think I stink,” I said politely. The remark caused Godwin to look up from his Cheerios. “Stinkin’s what I call it, never speaking to me in my whole life and leavin’ me down here with two babies, only gettin’ minimum wage,” the young voice said, even angrier. “I seen it in Parade that you’re the richest writer in the world. Is that the truth or is that a lie?” “I probably am among the richest but I’m not exactly a writer,” I said, even more politely. The profuse ambiguities of my career held no interest for the blazing young person on the other end of the phone.
