On the evening of February 1, 1988, a man sat down for dinner in San Bernadino, CA. He ordered steak, the house special, and turned his face toward the book in his lap.

“The morning of September 29, 1781, dawned gray and overcast, with tendrils of damp mist swelling over the flat countryside surrounding the small Yorkshire market town of Milton Overblow.”

The first sentence of the first paragraph of the first chapter. So the book began. And so it would end. The page would never turn. The rest of “The Exiles” – that explosive first volume in the unforgettable series that continued with “The Settlers,” “The Traitors,” “The Explorers,” “The Adventurers,” “The Colonists,” and “The Gold Seekers,” – would always be unknown to Richard Price.

Pity. Eight years before, the book’s publishers, high up in their office towers at 1, Dag Hammarskjold Plaza, New York City, had pinned high hopes on “The Exiles.” At a mere $4.95 in Canada ($3.95 USA), it was a bargain.

And their hopes were rightly pinned. By 1985, when Mr. Price’s copy was produced, old 1, Dag Hammarskjold Plaza was rolling in dough, for that was the book’s fourteenth printing in five years. William Stuart Long, World War II veteran and Australian traveler, had spent countless hours researching the book in the quiet darkness of the New York Public Library (no doubt he worked beside many other aspiring authors), and was now reaping his reward.

Richard Price, however, would not reap much from Mr. Long’s toil. He got as far as the third sentence when a woman entered the suburban Sizzler and strode right to his booth.

“Hey,” she said, before sitting down. Her sunglasses were still dripping from the rain. “What are you having?”

“Same as you,” Price replied. “Same as always. You wearin’ sunglasses?”

She shook them off in a flurry of blonde. Even in this Sizzler she was mermaid-like, always drawing him to her.

“They’re new. Ray-Ban. Well … imitation. You like ‘em?”

She was sitting now, and the waitress came. Did they want beverages? Price’s companion wanted only steak-the-house-special, which she made clear in a condescending way to the knob-kneed teenager.

Unfazed, she turned toward the kitchen, only to be recalled by a gloved snap of the woman’s hand.
“How much’s the special?”

“Six-ninety-eight.”

“OK two specials then.”

Alone again. Price set the book beside the silverware. His shoes were wet, and he squished them against back of the booth. She thought he looked tired; his comb-over only partly combed over, his shirt dark and wrinkled.

She, on the other hand, looked like she’d just woken from a long nap. Her skin was bright and taut; ripe. Her blue suit-skirt, pleated and knee-length, was resplendent. Such shoulders, he thought. Even without the pads she had such shoulders.

“Listen, Ricky,” she started, leaning in. He leaned in too. “I don’t think-”

But then the salads came. They separated, saying nothing as the waitress distributed greens from an oversized wooden bowl.

“Fresh ground-pepper?”

No response. So she left. They huddled in again, as if discussing a trick play.

“Ricky I don’t think this is gonna work anymore.”

“What?” He asked, now leaning almost all the way across the table. He really hadn’t heard her.

“This,” she said. “Any of it. It isn’t working. I’m not happy, you’re not happy. Every week this place. And then what? Y’know? Then what? You gonna’ live this way another ten years? It’s a new decade, Ricky, everything’s different now…”

She trailed off, staring into the distance. Outside the storm was worse.

“I’m happy,” he said, looking down. “I never said I wasn’t happy.”

“Oh Ricky, come on. You haven’t been happy in three years. You don’t smile anymore … we don’t … do nothin’ no more.”

“That’s not true. That’s not true. We tried, last year we tried but then your mom got sick and–“

“Ricky don’t blame it on her. We coulda’ still done it. I was over there three nights a week, Ricky. That’s four nights with you. Every week. Don’t blame it on her.”

He said nothing, opting instead to pick at his salad. The food came, floating and bobbing on a huge round tray with skinny legs.

“Fresh ground-pepper?”

Nothing. She left, un-offended. Five dollars and fifteen cents an hour and she wasn’t going to get offended by anything. Pepper, no pepper. Fine.

“Do you love me, Ricky,” she said, drooping those beautiful shoulders. “I mean, are we still in love?”

“Of course,” he said, chewing. Little bits came out along graceless trajectories. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t think I love you anymore. I’m sorry, but I don’t. I swear I tried and it’s not another guy, but I’m pretty sure we aren’t supposed to be together.”

He stopped. Stopped chewing, stopped breathing, stopped blinking. This was it, he realized. She wanted a divorce. She wasn’t just talking, she was serious. And he didn’t want a divorce. He didn’t want a divorce.

“Baby. I can’t live without you,” he said. It was true, but in words and out loud it sounded rote and perfunctory.

“I know, honey, I can’t live without you either. But I got to.”

She flagged the waitress. Her plate was nearly empty. How had she eaten so much?

“Can we have the check, please?”

“Sure. Here you go.”

“Hold on, I’ll give you my card.” She dug through her purse. Things fell on the ground which she did not pick up, then or later. She found the credit card and held it up, like she was bidding for something expensive.

Meanwhile Richard was statuesque; frozen in body and mind. He knew there were things he could be saying but he didn’t know what they were. His insides were crumbling.

“We don’t take American Express,” said the freckly teen. She was sixteen, probably, Richard thought. More or less.

“Oh shit. Jesus … Richard can you cover this one? I’m out of cash. I’ve gotta go, baby, I’m sorry, I love you…OK? I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And she did. But not the next day. And seldom after that. And he was stuck there at the Sizzler in San Bernadino, a vast all-you-can eat buffet behind him, with a bill for $14.80.

He took out his wallet, produced his Visa card (which, along with MasterCard, the restaurant would not refuse), and finished his steak.

Two dinners, 84 cents in tax. No tip.

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