Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  I think of Arthur’s sign, the first time I saw it. I imagine driving by the sign now.

  Tears pool in my eyes.

  I think of him standing in the doorway of his house, greeting me, of him and his encouraging words, of him offering to edit my book for free.

  I cry. Pain. More Pain.

  * * *

  Arthur’s service is small, intended only for close friends and relatives. The sky is milky, the grass damp. I stand bleakly in the cemetery, Arthur’s sister at my side. Bleary-eyed, I look to the casket suspended over a hole in the earth. One of his friends gives the eulogy. I cry throughout the entire tribute.

  A breeze blows over the cemetery.

  I swear I hear Arthur’s voice float by. “There’s my ferociously ambitious protégé,” it says. Then I picture Brad in my face, smiling at my misery, and he says, How do you feel now? Your master is dead. You’re pain’s protégé now.

  * * *

  I read the Bible in my apartment to find comfort. I don’t find any. All I want to do is weep, so I do, everywhere I go, including work, in the bathroom stall, the custodian’s closet. I weep in my car, on my way to work, on my way to Leigh’s apartment after work, on my way back to my apartment after spending time with Leigh at hers, speaking fondly of Arthur, telling her about the times we had together, his kind and generous nature. I cry in bed, as I take a shower, as I make myself breakfast, lunch, dinner, all the while not eating much of any meal. Every time I look at my manuscript, I can’t help but think of him. He’s scattered within the pages. This is his story, as it is mine, and I miss him.

  I hate myself for not calling more often. Why couldn’t I have picked up the phone while I had the chance? I stare at my phone, pick it up, dial his number, unsure of this action. It rings and rings and rings. The answering machine picks up. I hear his outgoing message. I weep, hang up. I call again, listen to the message, cry.

  One evening, after work, Leigh and I travel to the cemetery in which he was buried. I drop to a knee, place flowers at his grave. I say, “It’s me, your ferociously ambitious protégé.” Leigh stands behind me, places a consoling hand on my shoulder. I talk to Arthur, my vision of him. I tell him I miss him, wish he were here, wish we could spend another day together. I tell him that writing won’t ever be the same without his helping hand. I tell him that I cry whenever I read my book because I know that a part of him exists within it.

  Leigh and I drive by his house. The sign is gone. It vanished as he did, without notice. I look to the front yard, and see its replacement—a FOR SALE sign. I cry and tremble. Leigh holds me, whispers into my ear, “It’ll be okay, James. It’ll be okay.”

  I walk to the front door, and knock, Leigh behind me. I think I hear footsteps from inside the house. I knock again. I want him to open this door, to stand in the doorway, to greet me, but he can’t. He’s gone. Leigh hugs me. We walk away from the house. I stop, turn around, give the abode one last look.

  Goodbye, Arthur.

  I’ll miss you.

  Goodbye.

  * * *

  Weeks pass.

  In my apartment, inside a cardboard box I threw in my closet after the move, I uncover an old friend, the Robert Frost letter. I place it on the wall above my bed. He can look over me this way. I tell him about the new things in my life—the move, Dad living in Boston, Arthur’s death, my new job at the office. I ask him to forgive me for waiting so long to put him on my wall; I’ve been busy. I imagine that he says it’s okay.

  Rejections number five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve show up. I ask God for his hands. I want to know where they are. I tell him that I’m tired of living in pain. Can’t he see that? I read the Bible, searching for answers, find none. The Bible doesn’t touch on publishing matters. It doesn’t let me know whether or not I should give up on writing, dive into work instead, increase the weekly hours to sixty, seventy, concentrate on that overtime pay, become a workaholic.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Leigh and I revisit Prescott Park in Portsmouth. We sit on one of the many benches facing the Piscataqua. The cool air smells of seaweed and fresh salt water. The amount of seagulls has lessened since our last visit. A few orange and red leaves are scattered at our feet.

  Leigh zips her jacket, staring out at a pier lined with fishing boats on one side. I hold her hand. Watching her, I can tell she wants to talk about something important because she keeps opening her mouth and closing it, and people don’t do that when they’re on the brink of discussing a painless topic. I think I might know what she wishes to talk about.

  I bury my free hand in my jacket pocket, expecting that Leigh will turn to me any second. When she doesn’t, I try to get her attention by playfully saying, “Hey, let me see that face of yours.”

  Leigh looks in my direction with somber brown eyes. “Better?”

  I nod and begin to caress her thumb with mine. “It’s your parents, isn’t it?”

  Her head bobs.

  “Your visit didn’t go well?” I ask, unsurprised.

  She shakes her head.

  I’m rubbing her palm with my thumb now. “What happened?”

  She opens her mouth, then closes it.

  I encourage her. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

  Leigh runs her fingers through her long, wavy hair. She opens her mouth, speaks, “I just wanted to spend some time with my family. Was that too much to ask for?”

  I provide a sympathetic smile. “No.”

  “When I pulled into the driveway, Dad was busy working outside, and he was his usual self. He just said hi as I got out of the car, and he didn’t hug me, of course, even though I wanted him to. . . . I lugged my suitcases into the house, which weighed a ton, and right away I spotted Mom in the kitchen . . .” Leigh’s voice turns bitter. “I put my suitcases down and went to give her a hug, but she wouldn’t hug me either, so I told her it was nice seeing her too really sarcastically, then I went into my bedroom to drop off the luggage. . . .”

  I can’t think of anything to say other than, “I’m sorry, Leigh.”

  She acknowledges my caring words with a nod, and continues, “At lunch, Mom and Dad barely spoke to me, but they were more than happy to concentrate on my brother, who still can’t make a right choice to save his life, by the way. They joked with him and chuckled and were being playful, and that disgusted me, James. They asked all sorts of questions about his life, and they refused to ask anything about my life.” She lets go of my hand. Her face takes on a red hue, and her breathing quickens. I can hear the resentment in her tone as she says, “Then Erick told them that Heather, his girlfriend, was coming over. Dad patted him on the back and was like, Oh, good, she’s a nice girl, but the thing is, James, she isn’t a nice girl at all. . . .”

  I’ve never seen her this angry. Her brown eyes are piercing me.

  She goes on, “Here I had traveled almost two hours to see my family and it was like I was invisible to them. I wanted them to ask me about my life and chuckle with me and be playful. I wanted them to smile as I mentioned your name in passing, but they glared at me instead.” I watch her jaw tighten. “My brother can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and they continue to treat him the same, but when I make a decision they don’t approve of, they treat me differently. Like this one time, about a month after I graduated from college, I got home late after spending time with a friend, and the outside lights were off and the doors were locked.” Anger flickers in her eyes. “That was their lovely way of telling me that they disapproved.” Sad eyes replace the angry ones. “The truth is, James, I can never please them. My brother makes all these bad decisions and they treat him like gold. I make all sorts of good ones and they treat me like crap. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  I tell Leigh to come here and let me hold her. She leans in, and I wrap my arms around her. I say, “A lot is wrong with that picture.”

  She pulls back so that I only have one arm around her. “I don’t understand it,” she sa
ys.

  I ponder the situation, and from out of nowhere, I remember Leigh’s words from ages ago: They want me to be with Tim so badly. They push me and push me and push me . . . I don’t want to be controlled. I want to make my own choices and live . . . I choose you, James!

  “I understand it.” I take a moment to gather my thoughts, then, “First, they’re overcompensating for the fact that they know your brother has made some really bad choices and they know they didn’t do the best job raising him. Second, they’re giving you the silent treatment for a reason.”

  “But why?” she asks desperately.

  “Because being vocal and pushing you doesn’t work anymore, and they’ve chosen to revert back to what they did to you with turning those lights off and locking the door.”

  “Which is?”

  “They’re showing you their disapproval.”

  “What should I do?” Leigh asks, wet-eyed. “I want my parents to love me.”

  “They do. Ever hear the expression tough love? Of course, I’m certainly not saying I condone that method . . .” Then I explain that she needs to take action, and that she can’t expect things to change if she doesn’t show them that their actions are unacceptable. I tell her that up until this point, she has allowed them to manipulate her, and she keeps going back to them regardless, which shows them that it’s okay to treat their daughter poorly.

  “What next?” Leigh’s lips quiver.

  “The next time you go to see your parents, if they treat you poorly, pack your things, tell them you’re leaving because the way they treat their daughter is unacceptable. Then leave.”

  * * *

  Mitch invites me to his two-story lake house. I drive almost two hours to see him. His house is gray, and his yard full of leaf piles. He appears at the door, bald head shining in the sun, waves me inside, away from the cold, tells me to come with him to his office. He takes my coat, hangs it in a closet. We enter his office, a room off of the kitchen, and he shows me one of his new inventions. He smiles and says, “It’s amazing what a little belief can do.”

  We leave the office and enter the living room. The walls are decorated with photos of he and his friends smiling, holding bass, trout, salmon; with he and his wife on their speedboat, their yacht; with magazine covers of he and his inventions. Shelves beside the couch contain signed baseballs of Ted Williams, Willie Mays, Carlton Fisk, Manny Ramirez, Ken Griffey Jr., Pete Rose, Pedro Martinez, Nomar Garciaparra. This place is a museum. The shelves hold numerous sports, fiction, and non-fiction books as well. This museum is also a library. Crackers and cheese and soda sit atop the coffee table. I smile, sit on the couch. He sits on the couch, smiles in return. We eat and talk, eat and talk. On his mantel, I notice a framed photograph of the Varsity baseball team Mitch coached; I’m included in the photo, as are my former teammates.

  “Those were the days,” he says.

  I nod, eyes remaining on the photo. “Good times,” I agree.

  “You were good. Really, really, really good.”

  I fidget in the seat. “Nah . . . I was all right.”

  He tells me, “Listen up, son. You were good. You could’ve gone far with baseball.”

  I’m silent.

  “Why’d you throw in the towel?” he asks.

  “I wasn’t good enough.”

  “But you were good enough . . . like your dad,” he says.

  My eyes are boring into him. I don’t understand why he’s bringing this up. “But I wasn’t, all right?”

  “In your mind, yes, you’re absolutely right; you weren’t good enough.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You had no self-worth. You didn’t feel you deserved success.”

  I can’t speak. A grandfather clock chimes from the dining room.

  “Write those agent and editor letters until your hands bleed,” he says. “You are deserving of success. You’re worth it, all right? You’re worth success, son.” His eyes smile behind his glasses.

  * * *

  Rejections thirteen through fifteen turn up. I read them, yell into them, cry into them. Brad won’t leave me alone. Over and over again, I tell him to shut up. Just shut up. Please, just shut up.

  He doesn’t listen. Can you hear that? he asks. It’s Arthur from beyond the grave, laughing at his stupid protégé . . .

  * * *

  At work, alone, vacuuming around the cubicles, I think of Arthur. I can’t give up on my novel; he lives within the pages. Then Mitch’s encouraging words come to mind: Write those agent and editor letters until your hands bleed, son. You are deserving of success. Mitch is right. I am deserving! I’ve worked so hard, for so long. I need success.

  I’m so tired. I want to put this vacuum down and lie on the floor and not think about any of this, sleeping until all my problems disappear. Then I can get up, only I won’t be here in this office; I’ll be at a book signing, surrounded by fans. I’ll have a pile of my books stacked before me on a table, like Meranda at the Luncheon, and I’ll take comfort in that because it is my payment for all of my writing and hurting. Fans will greet me, smiling, and they’ll ask how I did it. My answer will be that I finally realized I deserved something good in my life, finally admitted to myself that I’m worthy of success.

  Finally became a self-help guru.

  After work, I sit on my bed, the laptop on my lap, Robert looking over me, and I compile a new list of agents and editors from the Internet that are actively seeking fresh talent. I think of Arthur and cry. I think of Mitch and smile. I open a Word document, spend hours upon hours writing a new synopsis for The Forsaken World. I pray to God, ask him to guide my fingers on the keyboard, help me to find the correct words. I find some comfort in this. I finish the synopsis, read it ten, twenty times, revel in its excellence.

  * * *

  The next night, after visiting with Leigh, I form a query letter around the synopsis. I’m pleased with it. In my mind, I see Arthur at his front door. I stand before him and he tells me to keep going, to send those query letters out, to be the ferociously ambitious protégé he’s come to love. He puts a hand on my shoulder and says that he’s sorry he had to die. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live forever. I cry and tell him that he will live forever . . . within the pages of my book. Everyone who reads it will unknowingly catch a glimpse of him. His presence will fill each room, each beach, everywhere The Forsaken World is read.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I mail the letters. Brad says, You don’t stand a chance. I try not to listen to him. Meranda calls, slurring her words. She says that The Sweet Widowed One is now The Nasty Widowed One.

  “Are you drinking?” I’m the concerned parent figure, raising his voice.

  “I couldn’t take it any longer.” She mumbles. “I couldn’t take all this.”

  I tell her to put that whiskey down and to step away! I inform her that I’m coming over and I’m going to talk some sense into her. She’s cruisin’ for a bruisin’. I hear her swallow, then she says that she wants to get trashed and be numb again. I say, “Put. The. Whiskey. Down. And. Walk. Away.”

  She gulps again, taunting my efforts. “Ahh, this feels so good, Jimmy.”

  “I’m hanging up the phone now, and I’m gonna get in my car and come over. Right now,” I say, putting my foot down, parental.

  She says, “Forget The Nasty Widowed One. Forget him. I love this stuff. I need this stuff. I am this stuff.” She is one with the Alcohol.

  I hang up the phone, grab my keys. I throw on a pair of jeans, a sweater, boots, and a thick jacket. I travel about an hour and a half to her house. Flurries fall. Wind gusts knock the car around on the road.

  I pound on her door. She doesn’t answer. I knock again. No answer. I open the door, walk through. The first thing I notice is my manuscript open to page one hundred twenty-one on the kitchen counter. From the sight, I gather that she hasn’t been reading my novel very much. I turn a corner into the living room, see her lying on the carpet by the coffe
e table, eyes open, a bottle of whiskey in her right hand. She looks up at me as I stand over her.

  “Give it here,” I say, holding out my hand.

  She shakes her head, eyes glazed. “No. It’s mine. Forget The Nasty Widowed One.”

  “Give it here!” I shout.

  “No!”

  I grab the bottle from her hand. She tries to stand but staggers and falls to her knees. Her forehead creases. She curses and curses at me, trying to stand. “Give it to me. Just give it back!” she yells.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  I leave the arguing behind and walk briskly to the kitchen, perform my famous pour-the-whiskey-down-the-sink-drain routine. I toss the bottle in the garbage, hear it smash, walk back over to her, look down at her. She is sleeping. I leave her there, sit on the couch, then lie on the couch. I wait for one hour, two hours, three hours. Her eyes open. She sits up, puts a hand over her forehead, and says, “I feel horrible.”

  I stand. “It’s understandable that you would.”

  She hangs her head. I sit next to her on the floor. She says that she couldn’t control herself, that The Nasty Widowed One breaking up with her brought up those past relentless feelings of loss.